#instead of the gas chamber

[ohkate]

Just so you know, I shall hold you all to this standard tagging minimum going forward.

@iangallagherisadeadman, you crazy bitch, i fucking love ya.

[lorynna]

In World War II, Nazi Germany established brothels in the concentration camps (Lagerbordell, Sonderbauten or Freudenabteilungen "Joy Divisions") to increase productivity among male inmates.

In the end, the camp brothels did not produce any noticeable increase in the prisoners' productivity levels, but instead, created a market for coupons among the camp VIPs.

Here's a few of the locations where this happened:

Mauthausen/Gusen, Auschwitz, Buchenwald, Neuengamme, Dachau, Dora-Mittelbau, Sachsenhausen, Flossenbürg and others

The women forced into these brothels came mainly from the women-only Ravensbrück concentration camp, except for Auschwitz, which "employed" its own prisoners.

In combination with the German military brothels in World War II, it is estimated that at least 34,140 female inmates were forced into sexual slavery during the Third Reich.

The brothels form the subject of "Das KZ Bordell" (The Concentration Camp Brothel) by Robert Sommer, a book that has been hailed as the first comprehensive account of a little known chapter of Nazi oppression in World War Two.

It explores the origins, structure and impact of the "Sonderbauten" (special buildings) run by Heinrich Himmler's SS in Germany and Nazi-occupied Europe.

"In the collective memory and written history of World War Two, the camp brothels were for a long time taboo," the 35-year-old Berliner told Reuters. "The former prisoners didn't want to talk about it: it was a difficult subject to handle."

"It didn't fit so easily into the postwar image of the concentration camps as monuments to suffering."

According to concentration camp survivors the women in those brothels were replaced every 6 months and the women who got replaced were killed in gas chambers.

It is important to note that we distinctively speak of sexual slavery here and of rape.

I wanted to point this out especially because I have been seeing liberal feminists talking about this topic, calling it "forced sex-work", "forced sex-labour" etc.

It is beyond disrespectful to call these female victims "sex-workers" or "employees" when their sexuality was brutally exploited, their diginities taken, their health was sacrificed, they were raped repeatedly and then executed after 6 months, even though they were promised to be released after those months. But those promises of course were never honored.

Liberal feminism and radical feminism differ a lot when it comes to views on the topic of prostitution but this does NOT excuse labeling victims of abuse and rape as "sex-workers" or calling their suffering "forced sex-labour."

[respect-the-locals]

🐙 Daily Cephalopod Fact: 🐙

Flamboyant Cuttlefish: Cuttlefish have a specialized, hollow feature called a cuttlebone that helps the animal maintain buoyancy by adjusting the levels of gas and liquid in its chambers.1 Because the flamboyant cuttlefish’s cuttlebone is relatively small, this species can only float and swim for short amounts of time. Instead of swimming, flamboyant cuttlefish “walk” along the ocean floor using their arms. They also have a highly developed sensory system that helps them respond and adjust to their surroundings.

[etz-ashashiyot]

Quotes from "Executed Jews" I want to especially highlight:

Two distinct patterns of antisemitism can be identified by the Jewish holidays that celebrate triumphs over them: Purim and Hanukkah. In the Purim version of antisemitism, exemplified by the Persian genocidal decrees in the biblical Book of Esther, the goal is openly stated and unambiguous: Kill all the Jews. In the Hanukkah version of antisemitism, whose appearances range from the Spanish Inquisition to the Soviet regime, the goal is still to eliminate Jewish civilization. But in the Hanukkah version, this goal could theoretically be accomplished simply by destroying Jewish civilization, while leaving the warm, de-Jewed bodies of its former practitioners intact.

For this reason, the Hanukkah version of antisemitism often employs Jews as its agents. It requires not dead Jews but cool Jews: those willing to give up whatever specific aspect of Jewish civilization is currently uncool. Of course, Judaism has always been uncool, going back to its origins as the planet's only monotheism, featuring a bossy and unsexy invisible God. Uncoolness is pretty much Judaism's brand, which is why cool people find it so threatening — and why Jews who are willing to become cool are absolutely necessary to Hanukkah antisemitism's success. These "converted" Jews are used to demonstrate the good intentions of the regime — which of course isn't antisemitic but merely requires that its Jews publicly flush thousands of years of Jewish civilization down the toilet in exchange for the worthy prize of not being treated like dirt, or not being murdered. For a few years. Maybe.

I wish I could tell the story of Ala's father concisely, compellingly, the way everyone prefers to hear about dead Jews. I regret to say that Benjamin Zuskin wasn't minding his own business and then randomly stuffed into a gas chamber, that his thirteen-year-old daughter did not sit in a closet writing an uplifting diary about the inherent goodness of humanity, that he did not leave behind sad-but-beautiful aphorisms pondering the absence of God while conveniently letting his fellow humans off the hook. He didn't even get crucified for his beliefs. Instead, he and his fellow Soviet Jewish artists — extraordinarily intelligent, creative, talented, and empathetic adults — were played for fools, falling into a slow-motion psychological horror story brimming with suspense and twisted self-blame. They were lured into a long game of appeasing and accommodating, giving up one inch after another of who they were in order to win that grand prize of being allowed to live.

Spoiler alert: they lost.

[...]

But Soviet support for Jewish culture was part of a larger plan to brainwash and coerce national minorities into submitting to the Soviet regime — and for Jews, it came at a very specific price. From the beginning, the regime eliminated anything that celebrated Jewish "nationality" that didn't suit its needs. Jews were awesome, provided they weren't practicing Jewish religion, studying traditional Jewish texts, using Hebrew, or supporting Zionism. The Soviet Union thus pioneered a versatile gaslighting slogan, which it later spread through its client states in the developing world and which remains popular today: it was not antisemitic, merely anti-Zionist. (In the process of not being antisemitic and merely being anti-Zionist, the regime managed to persecute, imprison, torture, and murder thousands of Jews.) What's left of Jewish culture once you surgically remove religious practice, traditional texts, Hebrew, and Zionism? In the Soviet Empire, one answer was Yiddish, but Yiddish was also suspect for its supposedly backwards elements. Nearly 15 percent of its words came directly from biblical and rabbinic Hebrew, so Soviet Yiddish schools and publishers, under the guise of "simplifying" spelling, implemented a new and quite literally antisemitic spelling system that eliminated those words' Near Eastern roots. Another answer was "folklore" — music, visual art, theater, and other creative work reflecting Jewish life — but of course most of that cultural material was also deeply rooted in biblical and rabbinic sources, or reflected common religious practices like Jewish holidays and customs, so that was treacherous too.

No, what the regime required were Yiddish stories that showed how horrible traditional Jewish practice was, stories in which happy, enlightened Yiddish-speaking heroes rejected both religion and Zionism (which, aside from its modern political form, is also a fundamental feature of ancient Jewish texts and prayers traditionally recited at least three times daily). This de-Jewing process is clear from the repertoire of the government-sponsored Moscow State Yiddish Theater, which could only present or adapt Yiddish plays that denounced traditional Judaism as backward, bourgeois, corrupt, or even more explicitly — as in the many productions involving ghosts or graveyard scenes — as dead. As its actors would be, soon enough.

The Soviet Union's destruction of Jewish culture commenced, in a calculated move, with Jews positioned as the destroyers. It began with the Yevsektsiya, committees of Jewish Bolsheviks whose paid government jobs from 1918 through 1930 were to persecute, imprison, and occasionally murder Jews who participated in religious or Zionist institutions — categories that included everything from synagogues to sports clubs, all of which were shut down and their leaders either exiled or "purged." This went on, of course, until the regime purged the Yevsektsiya members themselves.

The pattern repeated in the 1940s. As sordid as the Yeveksiya chapter was, I found myself more intrigued by the undoing of the Jewish Antifascist Committee, a board of prominent Soviet Jewish artists and intellectuals established by Joseph Stalin in 1942 to drum up financial support from Jews overseas for the Soviet war effort. Two of the more prominent names on the JAC's roster of talent were Solomon Mikhoels, the director of the Moscow State Yiddish Theater, and Ala's father Benjamin Zuskin, the theater's leading actor. After promoting these people during the war, Stalin decided these loyal Soviet Jews were no longer useful, and charged them all with treason. He had decided that this committee he himself created was in fact a secret Zionist cabal, designed to bring down the Soviet state. Mikhoels was murdered first, in a 1948 hit staged to look like a traffic accident. Nearly all the others — Zuskin and twelve more Jewish luminaries, including the novelist Dovid Bergelson, who had proclaimed Moscow as the center of the Yiddish future — were executed by firing squad on August 1952.

Just as the regime accused these Jewish artists and intellectuals of being too "nationalist" (read: Jewish), today's long hindsight makes it strangely tempting to read this history and accuse them of not being "nationalist" enough — that is, of being so foolishly committed to the Soviet regime that they were unable to see the writing on the wall. Many works on this subject have said as much. In Stalin's Secret Pogrom, the indispensable English translation of transcripts from the JAC "trial," Russia scholar Joshua Rubenstein concludes his lengthy introduction with the following:

As for the defendants at the trial, it is not clear what they believed about the system they each served. Their lives darkly embodied the tragedy of Soviet Jewry. A combination of revolutionary commitment and naive idealism had tied them to a system they could not renounce. Whatever doubts or misgivings they had, they kept to themselves, and served the Kremlin with the required enthusiasm. They were not dissidents. They were Jewish martyrs. They were also Soviet patriots. Stalin repaid their loyalty by destroying them.

This is completely true, and also completely unfair. The tragedy — even the term seems unjust, with its implied blaming of the victim — was not that these Soviet Jews sold their souls to the devil, though many clearly did. The tragedy was that integrity was never an option in the first place.

[...]

In Jerusalem that morning, Ala told me, in a sudden private moment of anger and candor, that the Soviet Union's treatment of the Jews was worse than Nazi Germany's. I tried to argue, but she shut me up. Obviously the Nazi atrocities against Jews were incomparable, a fact Ala later acknowledged in a calmer mood. But over four generations, the Soviet regime forced Jews to participate in and internalize their own humiliation - and in that way, Ala suggested, they destroyed far more souls. And they never, ever, paid for it.

"They never had a Nuremberg," Ala told me that day, with a quiet fury. "They never acknowledged the evil of what they did. The Nazis were open about what they were doing, but the Soviets pretended. They lured the Jews in, they baited them with support and recognition, they used them, they tricked them, and then they killed them. It was a trap. And no one knows about it, even now. People know about the Holocaust, but not this. Even here in Israel, people don't know. How did you know?"

— Excerpted from "Executed Jews," Chapter 4 of People Love Dead Jews by Dara Horn

(All emphasis mine)

Read the full chapter here.

[littlefireball]

can a yeosang x reader be requested? Where she's been active long before meeting Yeosang but she's never been eaten out or had someone the size of Yeosang so she asks about what each feels like to him and offers to show her instead. After he eats her out he starts to f**k her and makes her squirter. Which she didn't even know what it was or what happened etc

I combined yours with another request as i think they can be merged as a one shot (but i changed the setting a little bit)

Another request: yeosang being obsessed with breeding reader especially the sight of him cum oozing out of her hole.

ʏꜱ|ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ (ᴍ)

ᴅᴏʙᴇʀᴍᴀɴ ʜʏʙʀɪᴅ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ ʏᴇᴏꜱᴀɴɢ x ᴘᴜᴘᴘʏ ʜʏʙʀɪᴅ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ꜱᴍᴜᴛ|ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴇx|ᴏʀᴀʟ|ʙʀᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ ᴋɪɴᴋ|ᴏᴠᴇʀꜱᴛɪᴍᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2.3ᴋ

Masterlist

Yeosang and his companion took refuge against the formidable outer wall of the stronghold, their weapons poised in perfect synchrony, anticipating commands. Just yesterday, they had been informed of the human trafficking syndicate's stronghold nestled in the distant west, prompting their swift arrival at the scene. This nefarious organization had been abducting adult female Hybrids, ruthlessly exploiting them for illicit reproductive endeavors. 

The captain signaled with his hands, expertly guiding his team into their designated positions. Despite the gas mask obscuring Yeosang's face, he could still detect a subtle, lingering fragrance in the air. 

Because the stronghold was now teeming with hybrids in heat. 

The criminals had administered powerful substances engineered to trigger estrus, paving the way for effortless conception. This operation was perilously risky; should they inadvertently enter a state of heat, the repercussions would be catastrophic.

The mission teams were distinctly categorized into those composed of women and those of men. The women's teams were tasked with rescuing victims, while the men focused on apprehending the nefarious criminals. 

Everything was meticulously prepared. With a decisive motion, the captain raised his left hand, executing a downward slash, and the entire unit surged into the stronghold in perfect synchrony, igniting a fierce gunfight with the gangsters. The tide quickly turned against the criminals, who fell one by one, leaving behind a grim tableau of lifeless bodies strewn across the hall.

"Find the victims!" The captain's commands were heeded without question as each member dispersed throughout the stronghold in search of their targets. Intense gunfire erupted, yet the gangsters were swiftly overpowered. 

Yeosang ascended to the pinnacle of the stronghold, proceeding with utmost caution. The only sound that pierced the silence was the soft rhythm of moaning emanating from a nearby chamber. A wave of embarrassment washed over him, yet he maintained his composure as he approached the room slowly.

As the door slowly creaked ajar, Yeosang's eyes fell upon the sight of you, bare upon the bed, breathless and alluring. Instinctively, he averted his gaze, scanning the room for any signs of danger. In an instant, a werewolf lunged at him from the shadows, its claws raking fiercely. The unexpected assault left Yeosang no time to evade, and the gas mask he wore was violently shattered in the chaos.

"Fuck!" The intoxicating aroma poured into him, shattering his composure in an instant. Your fragrance was far more potent than that of ordinary hybrids. Perhaps the werewolf's drug had intensified your scent. Yeosang battled fiercely against the werewolf, likely driven by the fervor of his own instincts, as their strikes were directed with lethal intent. Yet, it was clear that the werewolf stood no chance against Yeosang's prowess.

"Go back to hell." With a strong punch on the werewolf's face, Yeosang sent him flying to the wooden table which was broken because of the huge impact. He died, with no doubts. But, it was not over. Yeosang's sanity has faded away since this battle for spouse. And now, it's time to claim you as his. 

He knew he couldn't but there was no way to stop. 

"Goodness, you're beautiful." He discarded his weapon before bending toward you, his face burying itself in the curve of your neck, tasting your skin as if he were a famished man. You found yourself utterly powerless to resist, your body succumbing to a delicious weakness. Any attempt to resist only served to stoke the fire of his insatiable longing. 

He let out a deep, wild growl as his lips moved down to your breast, sucking your left nipple while caressing the other. The struggle no longer existed and you found yourself enjoying the pleasure he brought you. You whimpered when he gave you a hard press on your nipple, making him suck harder. Clear red marks were left on every part of your skin as his lips trailed down from your chest to your stomach, making you hiss when your nipples were exposed to the cold air. 

You couldn't help but tremble when he dropped a kiss on your clit. The sensation was amazing even though that was only a simple kiss. You have never felt this before. You needed more, not just a kiss, but his tongue, his lips, just everything. 

"Please, please. Kiss me one more time." Yeosang lifted up his gaze to meet yours, feeling confused. "You want this?" He once again kissed and licked your clit, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips when you threw your head against the pillow. "Please, ahh, fuck!" "As you wish, girl." 

His face dived into your thighs, his hot breath landed on your clit making your hands fly to his hair to pull him closer. "Be patient, girl." Before he finished his words, his tongue met your fold, licking from the bottom to the top. "God!" "How sweet you are." Shutting your eyes, you gripped the sheet tightly when he sucked hard on your bud. Everything was overwhelming and your chest tightened, leaving you breathless. You could feel something was about to burst out but not sure what that was. 

He pushed your thighs to either side for better licking and sucking, totally lost in your sweetness. "Hm…I'm gonna…" You cried because it was uncomfortable that needed to be released. "Cum, girl. I want to taste you." "Fuck!" You tried to push him away but he gripped your thighs to pull you closer, his tongue was deep inside you. Sucking hard, you couldn't help but cum on his face, dripping onto the sheet. 

"That's the sweetest I ever tasted." A smirk played on his lips as he stood up straight, removing his armor and pants just enough to pull out his cock. You have never seen that size before, making you curious how it felt when he entered you. This erotic fantasy raced your heartbeat, blush creeping up your cheek. "Haven't take this size before?" You shook your head. "Wanna try?Huh?Tell me, little girl." "I want to feel that, please." "Oh gosh, your voice is beautiful. Beg me again, I love it." Yeosang climbed over you while guiding his member to your soaked hole. 

Had he regained his clarity, he would find it utterly inconceivable that he could utter such words or act in this manner towards you. Yet, in that moment, he was powerless to restrain himself. The instant your intoxicating scent reached him, all rational thought vanished, leaving only the untamed and primal yearnings that lay dormant within his soul.

"Please, I want you deep inside me." You too, couldn't believe you begging a stranger to satisfy you. Yet, the substances coursing through your veins continually ignite your longing, plunging you into despair. You crave his presence, yearning for him to satiate the void within you.

Your begging soon died out as he rubbed his tip against you, moving up and down on your clit before eased into you. His size was overwhelming, causing you to throw your head at the pillow and your mouth to form a perfect 'O' shape. "Take it so well, honey." Your cunt squeezed his member from time to time to better adjust. He rolled his hips against you slowly, trying to find out where your sensitive spot was. 

"I may not last long, shit!" Intertwining with your fingers, he tightened the grip and thrusted at a faster pace. His cock rubbed against your velvet wall deliciously, hitting your sweet spot. "Gosh!" You moaned out, the numbness he gave you caused a pleasure to run through your body. 

"You like it?" Again, he collided with your g spot dead on. "Oh, please." He aimed at the same spot and hit it over and over again, the skin slapping sound echoed in the room, combined with your soft whimpers and moans, just like a beautiful melody rang in Yeosang's ears. 

Pushing your thighs to either side once again, he pinned your ankles against the sheet, thrusting so deep and so fast. You have never felt such pleasure during sex, no one could satisfy you but only the man above you—even though you didn't know his name. "You're so deep."  A flush crept across your cheeks, as if an unseen force had seized your throat, rendering you momentarily breathless. 

He lowered himself, guiding your hands to your head, moving in a deliberate rhythm that was both steady and exquisite. Nestling his face into the curve of your neck, he savored your intoxicating fragrance with an insatiable hunger. He could hardly believe how he could lose himself in your scent for an eternity while fucking you. "I'm so close…" he gasped, his breath hitching as his movements grew erratic, a symphony of moans and curses escaping his lips. 

"That feeling…again…" You sobbed, your stomach tightened again but it was stronger than last time. There was something that burst out. Shutting your eyes, your nail dug into his skin and the pain brought him to the peak. "Fuck!!" He hissed at the pain and the pleasure, thrusting so fast without caring about your begging. "Stop…stop!!Ah!" You squirted with a loud, high-pitched moan, wetting his thighs and cock. The warmth and the wetness broke his limit and he came all in your cunt. 

"Goodnes…" He was  supposed to calm down from the heat after withdrawing from you…No, he couldn't. His cum filled you literally, even oozing from your hole. The way of your lower core squeezed for nothing but to suck his cum drove him insane. The most primitive desires in his body once again dominated his thoughts. "You need more, honey. Your pussy is made for breeding, you know?" He left a kiss on your clit, causing you to whine at overstimulation. 

"No…no…I can't take it anymore." Tears welled up in your eyes, head spinned. "You can, just one more time. Take all my cum and breed for me, girl." He slammed back into you again, making you sit up straight and wrap your arms around his neck. "Let my cum be the only thing in your cunt, puppy." Pressing his lips against yours, he pushed upward to make your body move up and down from his movement. 

"Be mine, puppy." 

—----

He came twice more before he calmed down and drifted to a quick nap. After some time, he stirred from a haze of pain, only to find himself and you entwined in a state of undress upon the bed. You had succumbed to slumber long ago, your exhaustion evident.

"What..." Confusion washed over him, but as memories surged forth like a torrential wave, his astonishment rendered him speechless. A profound guilt enveloped his heart, leaving him to ponder how he could be any different from those he despised. His hands trembled, regret gnawing at him for the choices he had made. Yet, he resolved to take responsibility for you. Should you desire him to face the law or meet a more dire fate, he would embrace it without hesitation.

"hehemon…over….Can you hear us?" In that moment, the urgent calls of his comrades echoed from the pager resting on the ground, shattering Yeosang's contemplations and rousing you from your slumber. "Over," he responded, his tone laced with a hint of remorse. "Where have you disappeared to? We are unable to locate you." His gaze fell upon the splintered remnants of the door that obstructed their path. Perhaps this was the reason for their inability to find him. "I am in the attic. I sustained injuries during a confrontation with the enemy moments ago, but I have now regained my mobility..." "That's good to hear. Please come back to the team." "Yes,sir." 

As the last remnants of the calls faded into the ether, he turned to confront you. "Are…are you here to save me?" you asked, your voice tinged with a fragile hope. "I…" he stammered, caught in the web of his own guilt. Yes, he was meant to be your protector, yet the shadows of his actions haunted him. He had indulged in his desires at your expense. 

"I deeply regret my actions. I did something terrible to you, and I know that an apology cannot suffice. I am prepared to do anything you wish, even if it means laying down my life for you." He insisted. Upon absorbing his words, your mind became a tempest of confusion, a cacophony of opposing thoughts swirling within. You ought to despise him, akin to the disdain you hold for those thugs; yet, curiously, you find no animosity towards him at all. Maybe it's because he knot you… Wait…he knot you? 

"Do you want to be irresponsible?" You met his confused gaze and you continued. "You know you knot me…" He took a deep breath, wearing a serious look. "No, I'll take responsibility. I can do anything for you to make up, no matter what. I'm truly sorry." "Then can you bring me to leave this place?" "Of course." He grabbed a blanket to cover your body and dressed himself up. 

"Can you walk?" He asked you softly and you shook your head slightly. Your limbs were still weak, let alone to stand up and walk out yourself. 

"Come." He turned around and knelt down, facing you with his back, posturing his hand to let you climb on him. "It's okay. I promise I won't hurt you." 

You were a little hesitant at first, but you climbed on top of him after a while so he could carry you down the stairs. After all, he was the only man here. 

"All the criminals died. Don't worry." He comforted you, his voice softened. You nodded and whispered in his ears. "What's your name anyway? "Yeosang." "I'm Y/N." "Y/N…" He murmured your name under his breath but you could hear it clearly. To be honest, you liked how he called you so softly. 

"Yeosang." 

Hm?" 

"Would you do anything for me?" 

"Yes, I will." 

"Then can you stay with me after we go back to your camp? I'm scared…" You buried your face in his neck, murmuring. 

"Sure. I'm here for you." 

"No regret?" 

"No regret." 

[lemon-russ]

Sometimes I just want to take care of Mortarion, cook for him, give him a nice bath, with a massage and take care of his skin with soft lotions, so I can get my hands all over him. And then wrap him in a soft fuzzy bathrobe and tuck him into a freshly made bed. That boy needs someone to take care of him, and he sure as fuck isn't going to do it himself

I got carried away, partially because @moodymisty won't stop talking about the stinky nasty man and I NEEDED to wash him.

Get cleaned, idiot.

Tags: @sleepyfan-blog @undeaddream @scriberye @lisikk,

and thank you for dividers @squishyowl

Mortarion x F!Reader

(Actually i dont think there's any reference to the reader actually being fem?)

CW: kinda gross Mortarion stuff, vague suggestiveness

Word count: ~2000

Mortarion trudges through the threshold to your shared chambers. You gasp and shoot up from your seat where you had been reading. He'd been gone for months on a mission, and you weren't expecting him home for a month still.

“Mortarion!” you say, rushing to his side. He blinks slowly, turning his tired gaze onto you. He takes a moment to fulky process you're there.

“I… return.” He rasps through his mask.

You frown, seeing the grey circles gathered under his eyes, his gaunt cheeks. He always looked ill, but today he looked a foot in the grave.

“You look exhausted, my love.” You say gently, leading him to a chair. He sits with a soft groan, slumping back and letting his head roll back. His robes are dirty and stiff from being worn so long, and you wrinkle your nose. You're glas the serfs brought fresh laundry today.

“It was a long, long ordeal…” he rasps again. You sit on the arm of the chair and push back his hood from his face. His grey hair, greasy and dust caked, falls around his face to his shoulders. You ran a hand along his cheek and he looked up at you tiredly with his cloudy green eyes.

“Here-” you say softly, standing, “you must have not had a decent meal in weeks, let me get you something-”

He blinks, scrunching his brow and raising a pallid hand a bit as you scurry away from the chair.

“You don't have- come, we have serfs for that-” he weakly protests, but you're already out the door.

You return quickly with a spread of cheeses, fruits, meats, and some wine. Mortarion couldn't get drunk, but he sometimes enjoyed the taste. You place it on the sidetable nearby, hopping back next to him. This time he places an arm around your side, but carefully as not to touch you.

His pale eyes soften at the plate. “…thank you. That is… very kind.” He says, reaching for his respirator.

You watch him take the gas infusing mask off, and wince when he starts gasping rattling sounds. You hand him a cloth to cough into, and rub his wide back as he hacks and wheezes while his lungs struggle to rebuild themselves enough to breathe unaltered air. When he's able to breath mostly uninhibited, he swallows a few times and looks up at you again, a thin sweat on his brow.

“You don't have to… always stay with me, when I take off the mask…” he croaks weakly. You smile and give a soft sigh.

“It's alright. I can handle it.” You say gently. You bring him over the tray, and he scrunches his nose and coughs when a tart fruit hits his tongue. He instead gulps some wine, then sighs.

“Tastes… awful, at first.” He mumbles in his hoarse voice.

“I know, my love.” You soothe, rubbing his shoulder and ignoring the dust and blood caked robes. “But your taste will kick back in soon like always.”

You slide off the chair again, and his dry, paled lips give a small frown. You smile back. “I'm going to run you a bath while you snack.” You say, flittering over to some cabinets. You start gathering scented herbs and oils and soaps.

Mortarion gives a resignated sigh. “Very well, then… I have… learned better than to fight with you on this. Go make your soup.” He gruffs, halfheartedly waving a hand your way.

You giggle. He may give you attitude about it, but you suspect some part of him liked the comfort and attention, as antithetical to his personality as it was. But he had to keep up appearances.

You leave him to his food, hearing him occasionally cough over a bite, and head to your bathroom. You asked Mortarion to build a spacious bathroom when he asked how you wanted your chambers. He delivered, a large heated bath pool set into the floor, big enough that he could sit fully submerged. You turn on the water and throw in the oils and herbs.

Ginger, because he looked like his muscles were sore, and it helps his throat and cough. Lavender and chamomile, to help with the stress you could see in his tense shoulders. And some jasmine scented epsom salt for- well, everything else going on with his cracking, healing skin. Plus, you like the smell.

When the pool was sufficiently full, you return to him, now resting with his head back and an empty tray. You smile, content that he has real food in him, and gently take one of his hands in both of yours. You purse your lips at how bony his knuckles feel.

He cracks a red rimmed eye at you. “Is there something you'd like?” He asks, voice sounding a tad clearer.

You pout. “Come, before the water cools.”

He lets out a deep, rattling sigh, but seems too tired to argue. He rises with a groan, and dredges after you as you lead him to the bathroom.

His clothes are… well. They're going in the burn pile. Mortarion doesn't do laundry, so much as replace clothes. The serfs enjoy the lack of washing, but the tailors don't love the constant sewing of huge outfits.

He watches you, expression unreadable as you start undoing his various belts and ties. You free his hooded robe, and he helps you slide it off his shoulders, leaving him bare armed in a loose, sleeveless tunic. You undo the belt to that, fumbling with the knot around his hips, and glance up at him when you notice he's staring.

His face looks taught, and your brow knits. “My love…?”

He squeezes his tired eyes shut, making a small noise. “Its- nothing.” He hisses, turning his head away.

You frown, but shrug and go back to fiddling with the tied fabric. The dirt seems to have made the knot hard to loosen, but you manage to free it, and toss it aside and start tugging at his soiled tunic. He groans a little, but leans to help you tug it off. He kicks off his boots himself, and when you reach for his pants, he gently grabs your wrist, dwarfing it in his hands.

“I can manage the rest.” He says, voice strained. You smile and step back, watching as he peels the pants off. He gives you a look, before sighing and peeling his loincloth off as well. You don't know why he makes a spectacle of getting undressed. You've seen it all before. And more.

You giggle, but move a stool over for him. He sits, and lets you take buckets from the bath to rinse off the more offensive dust and grime. You'd prefer his bath not immediately turn black when he touches it.

When he's rinsed, he trudges tiredly over to the pool and lowers himself in. He hisses through his teeth as the water hits his cracked skin, but lowers in anyway, leaning so only his head is unsubmerged. His grey hair- brighter now without so much filth- splays across the tiles. You smile and sit behind him cross-legged on the floor.

You drizzle some flowery scented shampoo on his hair, and start massaging your fingers into his scalp as it lathers. He sighs a deep breath, sinking into the pool a little more. It takes a few rinses and lathers before you're confident his hair is actually clean, but his dull gray hair is now shiny silver once again.

You undress yourself next, and he tilts his head up to peek at you as you do. You giggle. Again, he acts like you aren't getting in the bath lole this. You slip in with him, his eyes never leaving you.

“What?” You chuckle softly.

His eyes roam your body, and he almost smiles the tiniest bit. “Nothing. Please, continue with the frivolities.” He replies, settling back again.

You do just that, using a loufa to gentley exfoliate the skin that was cracking and shedding as his body recovered from the gas.

He makes a small groan now and then, moving every so slightly to give you better access to him as you scrub sweet soaps into his skin. You make him roll over, and he does so, propping arms on the side of the pool as you nearly climb his back to scrub and exfoliate.

He looks half asleep by the time you're done, and his shoulders are slouched in a much less tense way. The red around his eyes is now pink, and his pallid skin is starting to look less translucent and waxy as the heat and healing slowly brings a hint of blood to his face. And, apparently, other places as well, you chuckle to yourself.

You run a comb through his hair, detangling it with scneted oils. He watches with half lidded eyes as you sit in his lap, gently tugging out knots.

“Why….?” He mumbles, letting one of his hands splay across your small back.

You smile up at his tired, soft face. “Why what, my love?”

He sighs and rubs his thumb over your spine. “Why… this? Me…?” he murmurs.

Your face softens, and you set the comb aside so you can cradle his face between your hands.

“Because you're you.” You say gently.

He sighs and lets his cheek rest in your small palm, eyes fluttering closed. You stay like that a moment, stroking his cheek and cuddling in the warm waters.

When the water starts to chill, he sighs and pulls you up with him as he stands.

“You'll catch a cough if we stay.” He says quietly.

He places you carefully on the tile floor, and you're quick to scurry over and fetch towels- one to wrap around you, and a massive one for him. You hold it up to him with a grin, and he cuckles a rattling sound, coughing slightly from the exertion.

He kneels so you can toss the fluffy towel over his head and dry his hair, then the work it down his shoulders and back.

When you've given him a once over, he plucks off your own towel, making you squeek, and plops ot over your head. You giggle and towel off your own dripping hair, and when you pull it off, you see Mortarion holding your robe out for you.

“Last time you caught a cough,” he says, “you couldn't get up for days. Don't walk around cold and wet, you're too… frail.” He grumbled.

You smile and chuckle as you slip into the robe. “I get sick one time, while you're always sick, and I get lectured…” you huff softly.

He makes a small grunt. “It's different.”

You roll your eyes, but tug him to the bed, and he doesn't protest when you urge him to lay on his front, crawling up to the plush pillows and letting his face flop into them. You smile at the sight, the pale king, face first on a bed, hair fanned over the pillow, looking like a kitten that was fighting off falling asleep right there.

You scoot to the bedside table and take the oatmeal and honey lotion you have made just for him. His only response when you start working it over his broad shoulder muscles is a resigned, tired groan. You follow the contours of his back, working your hands over his fair skin, kneading away at his muscles, down his arms, over his fingers.

You make him roll to repeat the process over his chest, sruggling to push into the firm muscle. You take a break to shake out your tiring hands, and notice mortarions eyes are shut, and his breathing is slow and rythmic.

You smile, returning to massaging the sleeping primarch down his thighs and calves. When you are content that youve worked out at least some of his muscle knots, and lotioned all of him you could reach, you sit back and smile.

Clean, fair but slightly pink toned skin, silvery hair slightly disheveled over his face, the dark circles of his eyes fading already as he slept. The peacefulness of his sleeping face, silvery lashes fluttering as he dreams, lifts a worried weight off your shoulders.

You pull a few covers up over him, slipping in beside him. He automatically hooks an arm around you, holding you to his chest like a stuffed animal without stirring his sleep.

With a heavy, worn and contented sigh, you rest your head on his shoulder, taking in the smell of lavender and honey, and let your own eys fall shut in sleep.

[drafthorsemath]

Waking Up and Coming Home

A/N: I wanted to explore what might happen if CX-2 really was Tech, what it's like when he wakes up after being impaled, how he survives, and what it might be like for him to get home and find his own happiness. Includes TechPhee and a reason Omega keeps Tech's goggles.

Warnings: Tech wakes up and realizes he has cybernetic implants, drug withdraw, nausea, being impaled, PTSD, cybernetic surgery, Tech finds Crosshair's hand

Word Count: 5.568k

Tech took a sharp breath. He was vertically pinned to something. He tried breathing through the mask, but something was different. The usual smell and taste that accompanied the mask was gone although it was still on. The fog that plagued him was lifting. He instinctively reached down and found an electrospear just below his sternum, only he felt no pain. He blinked several times and removed the helmet. He had no memory of being given this armor. There was no blood and the electrospear was out of power. He felt a series of wires and tubes around the spear and absent-mindedly kept looking around for someone. All he saw were other bodies of those in armor similar to his own and some regs in what he could only assume was prison garb. One of the tubes in his abdomen appeared to be leaking. Was that oil? It didn’t smell or look like blood. He didn’t have time to think about it. Instead, he grabbed the spear and pulled as hard as he could. It was no good. He decided to observe and allow himself to wake up further from his trance. Was he really going to die hanging in the middle of… this was Tantiss wasn’t it? He remembered fighting someone. He remembered flying a ship. He remembered trying to fight his own mind, but he was so far away from his actions. His mind was still not completely his own, but he noticed the gas around the CX chambers had dissipated. Those prisons. That disgusting concoction. Tears came to his eyes as he shook. His breath caught in his throat when he remembered the smirk on Hemlock’s face as he described how Crosshair suffered. Hemlock had perfected his methods since that failure and Tech worried his brother had perished. It didn’t help that he was still stuck in place. Trapped. Just as he had been when he woke up in the containment chamber with a series of cybernetic implants. Arrogant as always, Hemlock enjoyed explaining how this chamber would shape his mind and how it was an advanced form of the same technology that was used to enhance Crosshair’s chip on that fateful day on Kamino.

Tech took another breath and tried moving. He felt a piece of metal on the floor just high enough he could pull it closer with his foot. He tried using that for a little leverage since his own weight made it harder to remove the metal rod stuck in his torso. As he wiggled around, pulled on the spear, and took some deep breaths, the object dislodged from its location behind him and he was able to carefully remove himself and it. He took more deep breaths and looked around. He checked on the other clones whose bodies lay around the room. CX or prisoner, it didn’t matter. They’d all been prisoners. Each time he felt for a pulse and found none he lost a little more hope. He was the only one alive. How long had he been alone in this room? Judging by the condition of the bodies, it hadn’t been too long. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet, so less than eight hours.

He sat down briefly and reminded himself to continue to breathe. He kept trying to tell himself that the air was safe now. He had resisted inhaling Hemlock’s toxins, but when constrained, there was no choice. Now, Tech’s mind hadn’t been this clear since Plan 99. Not only did each CX chamber include a gaseous drug the clones continually inhaled, but Hemlock ensured they received a steady dose of the same electric torture that started the process. Tech tugged at the hole the spear created in his armor and looked at his cybernetic abdomen. Tubes that allowed for blood flow were thankfully working. There was a contraption that served as a diaphragm. He hypothesized that it seized up when the electrospear hit him, but started working again not long after, spurred on by his living body’s own neurons. Other tubes seemed to be used for digestion, but those were empty and at least one appeared torn. He reached for the comm badge on his arm near his shoulder, but it was gone. Why did he think there was a comm badge there? Tech didn’t have that. The CX did. He started putting more pieces together. Hemlock had taken it. Tears came to his eyes again when he realized that he helped bring Omega in. It must have been him. He remembered glimpses, but that was all.

He wandered around the room and picked up a blaster in case he wasn’t alone in the facility. Although it was so quiet he could only hear some hounds howling outside, he didn’t want to take chances. As he made his way through the room and wider facility, he found a hand on the floor. Oh no. He knew that hand and its armor. Crosshair. He dared not touch it. At this point even if Crosshair was there, reattaching the hand wouldn’t work after this amount of time. Had he done that? He searched for the bodies of any of his siblings, but they were nowhere to be found and he felt a little relief even though he wasn’t sure where they were.

Tears came to his eyes as he suddenly thought about the CX chambers. What it meant to be a CX. How they weren’t sent out for long, or the conditioning would surely wear off. Their masks had a small supply of the chemical, but it wouldn’t last forever. It drove each man forward when they were released. It kept him obedient.

He wandered the halls some more before returning to the spot where he woke up earlier and examined the inner workings of his discarded helmet now that his mind was a bit clearer. There was some trapped gas in a small chamber, but it appeared the wiring meant to steadily release the toxin had short-circuited. Tech gasped at the revelation and gingerly held the helmet. In a fit of anger, he threw it as far as he could. The sound of it hitting a distant wall echoed through the facility.

Tech swallowed, closed his eyes, and breathed in the stale but clean air. He pictured the sunset on Pabu with Phee. Where was Phee? Where was he now? He was certain this was Tantiss, but exactly where was Tantiss? And how long would his cybernetics last without some help? He headed down another hallway and searched for some tools but wasn’t quite able to see straight or think straight. Echo could help. Could Echo find him?  Did his family know where Tantiss was yet? Wait. Yes because Crosshair’s hand was wearing his old armor, although Tech noted it was stripped. Or was his mind playing tricks on him? Tears came to his eyes and he reminded himself that he hadn’t found the rest of his brother yet. Or the rest of their squad. He hoped they were long gone. Had they been successful in his absence? He wandered the facility and eventually found a communications array. At this point he was sure the Empire had abandoned this place, but he couldn’t quite punch in the code to get a signal out. What if it was tracked? He cursed his slow mind and lack of clear decision-making ability. He didn’t want to take risks with this.

He found solace in walking. He had a better idea of the layout of the facility and as he kept breathing and moving, his mind cleared further. He wasn’t sure what else to do. He found what must have been living quarters for some TK troopers and pocketed a few small items that were left behind including a piece of jewelry he hoped would be worth something. Anything to buy him passage to a safe location.  That was the plan now. Surely someone else lived on this planet or would visit. His search yielded some clean prison clothes and he decided those would do. He carefully took off his belt and stepped out of the wretched armor. He would rather walk out of this facility naked than wear it any longer. Putting on the new clothes was a bit of a task, but he was in minimal pain compared to how he looked. The belt with pockets was the only part of the armor he put back on. Those would come in handy even if there were fewer pouches than he preferred. Now was not the time to be picky.

Tech wandered down yet another hallway, picked up an abandoned datapad, and scrolled through the downloaded files. They were scientific records of some sort. His mind still foggy, he couldn’t quiet comprehend everything it said, but stuffed it between his body and his belt for later analysis. He noticed there was a broken ship in the hangar, and while his investigation proved it could fly, he didn’t trust that it wouldn’t be tracked. He somehow knew that he had caused more pain than he could remember and didn’t want to risk anything else by leading the enemy to Pabu. He was startled from his thoughts by the sound of another ship landing in the next hangar bay. It wasn’t the Empire. Pirates? It surely seemed so. If they were pirates, then they might give him a ride to a safer location if he had something to trade. The jewelry he pocketed might be enough, but he had a hunch pirates might be more interested in something a little sharper. He wasted no time heading back to the CX chambers. He picked up the unique sniper rifle and all the CX weapons. He sighed as he looked at the other clones. His other brothers. He didn’t even know them, but it didn’t change his feeling toward them. They had all been through some form of hell together yet isolated.

Tech headed back toward the hangar and startled what turned out to be a lone pirate. He found the man lazily looking through crates in the hangar before he spotted Tech.

“I was told this place was abandoned,” the weequay said as he pointed a blaster in Tech’s direction.

“It is,” Tech answered. “I was left for dead.”

“You are not bleeding?” he asked.

“I suppose not,” Tech answered, “although I am unsure of the details. It appears I was drugged and have some sort of cybernetic enhancements.”

The pirate huffed.

“And what do you plan on doing with those interesting looking weapons?” he asked with a grin.

“An exchange,” Tech responded flatly. “I need a ride away from here and you’re my safest bet.”

He tried to think more clearly and took some more breaths while the pirate considered his offer.

“Out of curiosity, how did you find this place?” Tech asked.

The man grinned again and responded, “Lower-level imperials quickly figured out that they will be paid well for information. Abandoned facilities are gold mines. I can sell those blades for a good price. I assume those are one of a kind.”

“To my knowledge, yes,” Tech replied.

The pirate nodded and examined the weapons without moving closer, although he was sure this man had no intention of hurting him.

“I’m afraid time is of the essence,” Tech said, feeling fresh pain in his torso where mechanics now lived.

“If I leave now, I may miss out on something more profitable before the scavengers show up.”

“I’ll give you every weapon here but the blaster on my belt,” Tech said. He was already planning on doing this but framing it as a bonus had an impact on the pirate.

“Very well. How far do you need to go?”

Tech didn’t want to give away his ultimate destination of Pabu, but knew if he could get to Ord Mantell, he could potentially contact one of his brothers or Phee. Cid had left them high and dry last he remembered, so he would be sure to avoid her. The pirate agreed and had Tech shuffle onto the ship with a blaster to his back. This guy was not going to risk Tech turning on him and taking his ship. The pirate put his prize away and Tech sat down. The trip was quick enough, and Tech was sure the weequay would turn around for Tantiss again as soon as he was off the ship.

“You’ve reached your destination,” the pirate said as soon as he landed. “Now, off my ship.”

Tech got up to leave but reached into one of the pouches that remained on his person. He pulled out the necklace he found earlier and stated, “I’ll give you this for a working comm device.”

The man bit his lip and huffed. He should have driven a harder bargain sooner, but he was so enraptured with the vibroblades he got distracted.

“Fine,” he said, snatching the jewelry and hanging Tech a small comm.

Tech nodded and shuffled off the ship. He was met with the smell of mantell mix but stopped himself. He had no money, and he wasn’t sure he could even digest food normally at this point. Instead, he found a quiet location on the outskirts of town and comm’d Echo. It seemed the safest bet and Echo has the most experience with cybernetics should he have an emergency before reaching Pabu.

“Havoc 4? Echo, I need your help.”

Echo picked up immediately upon recognizing the voice.

“Tech?!”

“Affirmative.”

“Where are you? What happened?”

“Ord Mantell. I will send you coordinates to my location via this comm, but I cannot promise it will be perfectly accurate.”

“Do you need medical attention?” came another voice. It was Gregor.

“I may, but it appears I now have cybernetic implants. I was on Tantiss and woke up in a daze. At least I’m fairly certain that’s where I was.” Echo and Gregor heard him sigh in a way they’d never heard before. “I am certain I’ve done things I regret, although my memory is not great, and I don’t know the extent of my injuries, although I appear stable.”

Echo understood.

“We’re on our way,” replied Echo. “Leaving Pantora. The others are on Pabu. Just keep away from Cid.”

“I have no intention of finding her,” Tech said.

“Good,” Gregor said. “She only got worse.”

Tech didn’t inquire about that right now. He was sure he’d get the full story soon enough. He waited some time and at one point was worried something happened. He tried not to think about it too much. His mind was still blurry and he felt like he was going to be sick. What he didn’t know was that Echo had quickly left Pantora to head back to Pabu and pick up Crosshair. Wrecker, Hunter, and Omega wanted to come too, but Crosshair suggested he go alone with Echo and Gregor. Based on Tech’s message relayed from Echo, he knew at least part of what his brother had been through, and it seemed a good idea to take a little extra time getting to Tech and have Crosshair’s help.

Gregor landed the ship and prepared the one bunk with all the blankets they had. Crosshair insisted they would need it. Echo comm’d Tech again. They were only about one klick from the ship. Despite the intense stress of the last few days, Crosshair and Echo summoned their strength to run. They found Tech sitting with his back to a wall, seemingly dozing but very much alive, and both crouched down in front of him.

“Tech?” Crosshair asked.

Tech opened his eyes and saw his brother for the first time since Kamino. His eyes tracked down to where Crosshair’s hand had been and he froze.

“I did that, didn’t I?” Tech asked. The blood drained out of his face and he started retching.

“It’s not your fault,” Crosshair said as he reached for his brother. He and Echo helped Tech up and the three headed to the ship.

Crosshair sat with him on the bunk. Gregor took off for Pabu while Tech peeled back his clothing to allow Echo to help assess the cybernetic device.

“It looks like two of these tubes were pulled apart,” Echo said. “I can try reattaching them and it looks like then you should be able to eat small amounts until we can replace them.”

“Very well,” Tech replied.

Crosshair helped him lay back and assisted Echo with the procedure. Despite only having two working hands between them, it was more than adequate. The tubes were torn from the impact of the electrospear, but the torn ends were cut and the tubes new flat ends reattached. Tech could feel a tug from the shortened pieces, but it was nothing compared to how bad it could have been. Most of the wiring had simply been pushed aside by the spear.

“Not sure how we can close all this up,” Echo said, referring to the abdominal panel covering the cybernetic.

“That is a problem for another time, I think,” Tech replied. “It’s not affecting life support.”

Crosshair nodded in agreement and Echo returned to the co-pilot’s seat at the front of the ship.

“Here,” Crosshair said, lifting a thermos of warm liquid.

Tech nodded when he smelled the broth. He hadn’t been this hungry in a long time and tried to gulp down any calories he could.

“Take it easy,” Crosshair said. “Don’t make yourself sick. I know what’s coming.”

Tech looked at him and nodded. He slowed his pace and took a deep breath as the vegetable broth settled his belly.

“I believe I am experiencing drug withdraws, Crosshair.”

“Mm.”

“It will get worse, yes?”

Crosshair nodded.

“How long?”

“It was weeks for me. Worse for others. The fastest recovery I saw was ten rotations.” His eyes darted before he added, “Hemlock said he improved the conditioning process. It might be longer for you.”

Tech nodded. He finished the broth and laid back down. Crosshair laid down with him. Tech hadn’t realized just how cold and shaky he was until Crosshair held him. His brother pulled a thick blanket over both of them and did his best to help Tech feel comfortable.

By the time they were on Pabu, Tech felt like his body was full of daggers and fever. He kept calling out for help even though his brothers were helping to the best of their ability. Phee, Hunter, Wrecker, and Omega had prepared the bed that was his prior to Eriadu. Crosshair stayed there after Tech’s fall, but now Wrecker had rearranged the bed situation so there was room for Tech and someone to be at his side the whole time. More than a few tears were shed as Crosshair helped Tech stumble off the ship and into the home. Gregor checked in with Rex and took the ship to rendezvous with the boys, leaving Echo behind for now.

They tried to get Tech in bed so he could rest, but he fought against any blankets put on him, seemingly frightened he was back in Hemlock’s lab and being restrained. While it was upsetting to watch, Crosshair calmly reminded him that he was safe and gently helped his brother take in what was familiar. The sheets felt like Pabu. The air smelled clean. He could hear the ocean. The voices and faces of those around him were real. Tech started to calm just enough to lay in bed. He shook violently and his mind seemed to be in two places.

“Sedative,” Tech managed to get out, looking into his brother’s eyes. Crosshair nodded.

“Are you sure,” Hunter asked.

“It’s what I would want too,” Crosshair replied.

Hunter nodded and got the med kit. Phee had already made sure to stockpile what medication she could find on the island and was already making a list of other things they might need for a supply run. She watched in uncertainty as Hunter gave Tech the injection and it immediately took effect.

“Phee,” Tech managed as his body gave in to the medication.

“Hey Brown Eyes,” she answered softly.

He reached his hand out and she took it as she kneeled next to his bed.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, Tech.” That was all she could say before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he fell asleep.

While he was out, Echo and Hunter had a look at his cybernetics as best they could while the others looked on. The person most qualified to work on these was Tech himself, but he wasn’t in any shape to do so. There was a lot of back and forth about what should be done. His heart was beating. He was breathing. He could eat and digest. There was just some tubing that needed replacing and a giant hole through the front and back of his torso. They decided to wait on any internal fixes for now but weren’t sure how to address the hole through the front and back metal panels in his middle.

“We should cover it up,” Wrecker suggested.

“With what?” Echo asked.

“I dunno,” came the response.

“Can we bend the pieces so they lay flatter against him?” Omega asked.

“I could try that,” Wrecker said. “But I don’t want to break something and hurt him either.”

“Why don’t we cut off the parts that are sticking out, and screw on a panel to each side to at least keep him covered up and protected?” Phee asked.

“Probably our best option,” Hunter replied.

Wrecker picked up his brother and carried him to his workbench. It was the safest spot for removing pieces of metal. Tech was completely out. Echo removed the sharp edges and Phee and Crosshair found some scrap metal in the right size. Echo managed to connect the front piece before Wrecker rolled Tech over and made sure he was as comfortable as could be. Once they were sure every component inside his abdomen was secure, Echo attached the back panel. The largest clone then lifted his brother and carried him back to bed.

The rest of the night was a cycle of Tech sleeping, waking with a start, shaking, and fighting invisible monsters. Crosshair spent the first night sleeping next to him. Whenever Tech would shake or lash out, he would hold him until they both fell asleep again. Crosshair’s heart was heavy. He knew none of this was Tech’s fault. If anything, he felt pangs of guilt for staying in the Empire so long. He took a deep breath as he held his shaking brother. It took work, but he was starting to accept that it wasn’t all his fault, thanks in no small part to his sister constantly reminding him. The Empire kept him prisoner. Hemlock experimented on him and tortured him. He tried escaping multiple times before he and Omega were successful. A yawn hit him and he relaxed further. Tech’s soft snores made him smile. He would do whatever it took to make sure this family was okay.

In the morning, the sedative had worked its way through Tech’s system and he’d slept through the remaining exhaustion. He woke up next to Crosshair and felt the warm sun greet him. His eyes tried to adjust, but he realized that some of his dizziness was the result of the fall damaging his eyes. His pupils kept trying to adjust to take in as much information as possible and he couldn’t find his goggles.

“What is it?” Crosshair asked.

“My goggles,” he said.

“They’re in the Archium,” Phee answered as she appeared in the doorway with some breakfast.

Tech looked up at her and tried to smile. Phee sat next to the bed while the two men ate. Tech continued to have bouts of shakiness, but greedily ate the meal in front of him.

“Take it easy Brown Eyes.”

Tech felt heat creep on his face at hearing the nickname with a clearer mind.

“I don’t remember when I ate last, aside from the broth yesterday.”

“How do you feel?” she asked.

Tech looked down at the mended hole over his torso and moved his limbs a little.

“My eyes are struggling to focus and the shakiness is returning.” Tech swallowed some hot tea and looked at his hands. “I keep having flashbacks.”

“It will get better,” Crosshair reassured him. Tech felt comfort knowing his brother had overcome this conditioning and while Hemlock’s methods on Tech were worse, he was confident he could work through this.

“If I got you some tools and supplies, do you want to try making some new goggles?” Phee asked.

Tech nodded. “I should scan my eyes first to determine the type of lenses, but then yes.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she replied.

Omega and Wrecker overheard the conversation and ran to retrieve the beloved item from the Archium. Tech was shaking and sweating again with Crosshair still by his side and Hunter joining them. Omega silently held out the goggles to Tech. They talked about how they obtained them and how precious they’d become. Tech held them in his hands and stared back at them like looking at a former version of himself.

“Better to start from scratch,” he said, holding the googles out to Omega. “Feel free to throw them out.”

“I’d rather keep them” Omega replied.

“Why?” Tech asked.

“You were wearing them when you taught me to fly,” she answered. “They’re special to me. To us.”

“Very well,” Tech replied with a smile. He tried taking some steadying breaths, but continued to shake. To take his mind off things, he looked at the spot where Crosshair’s hand once was.

“I could make you a cybernetic hand if you are interested.”

“I know you can,” Crosshair replied. “For now, let’s focus on you.”

Tech nodded. He was in no shape to build something as his body continued experiencing withdraws, but he could think about what he wanted to make. He could visualize his new goggles and Crosshair’s new hand. He could picture a life here. He could picture himself being a bit more forward with Phee. He could picture flying with Omega again. Sitting on the beach with Hunter while Wrecker fished. Sitting with Crosshair and talking about something he was researching while Crosshair sat and listened. Now that he thought about it, his often-silent brother hadn’t been this affectionate since they were cadets. War changed them. The Empire changed them. Change was part of life. This was a good change, though.

As the days went on, his withdraw symptoms became easier to handle. He had ups and downs but they were, as he put it, damped oscillations. Batcher also made herself known and curled up with him at least once a day. She had a calming presence just like his siblings. Even when his insides felt like they were vibrating and overheating, every calming presence helped.

Hunter sat with him and when he was ready, got him up to speed on things. He was the one who drew the short straw and had to tell Tech that the Marauder not only blew up, but who blew it up.

“Is Gonky alright?” was the next question out of Tech’s mouth.

“He is,” Hunter assured. “Wrecker got him away just in time.”

“Good.”

Somehow, despite it all, the family made it out of the Empire’s clutches.

Several weeks into his recovery, Tech finished his new goggles and started working on Crosshair’s hand. He was not as efficient as he normally was, but he was still recovering. With each little project he started to feel more like himself.

When he finally felt well enough, he asked Phee and Omega for help to better fix his cybernetic.

“I will do everything in the front, but I need you two to help with the back,” he said.

“What about the others?” Omega asked. “They could help too.”

“Our brothers are busy today helping some new residents move in,” Tech replied. “I am ready, and you are both more than qualified to help, if you would like.”

Phee and Omega shared a look. It was clear that Tech was done waiting now that his withdraw symptoms were finally gone and he had an idea of how he wanted to approach this. They discussed the plan and so ten weeks to the day after he came home, Tech took his shirt off, and sat backwards in a chair next to his workbench so the surgery could begin.

“You sure this won’t hurt?” Omega asked.

“I will inform you if it does, but none of the cybernetics have hurt yet,” he replied. “The only pain occurred in my living tissue.”

Phee looked at Omega and took a breath.

“Alright,” Phee said. “Here we go.”

She removed the plate Echo had hastily applied to Tech’s back all those weeks ago. Most of the work involved better flattening the pierced edges where the spear had torn through. Echo and Hunter had done a good job getting the bulk of the metal frame removed around the hole, but it was still uneven. Phee took her time and Omega wasn’t sure she’d ever seen her work with that level of gentleness and care. Phee was always thorough and precise, but there was something different about this. Omega handed her tools as needed and then took a picture for Tech to see what it looked like before they closed up his back cybernetic plate.

“Well done,” was all he could say about it.

Phee sealed the back plate closed and they helped Tech sit up. It felt much more solid, even without addressing the larger hole in his front. Tech itched to get to work on himself. He sat up and decided that it would be easier to work if he was laying along the workbench at an incline. Phee got him a series of supportive pillows and cushions so he could lay back without being flat. This allowed the cybernetic tubing to relax and give him a bit more room to work. Omega positioned a mirror in front of him so he could watch himself work without straining his neck. Tech didn’t waste any time. He removed the temporary plate, inspected the internal wiring, and secured one piece that was not as well attached as he would like. Phee handed him tools so he could focus on his work. He removed the tube that acted as the bottom of his esophagus and removed it carefully. He secured a slightly longer and wider tube in its place. Once he was pleased with the position, he sat up and moved around to be sure it wasn’t tight like the original had been. Satisfied, he laid back down and widened the hole in his abdomen plate.

“Tech?” Omega asked. “What are you doing?”

“Creating a rectangular opening,” he replied.

Phee smiled. She had a feeling he was going to try something like this. Tech shared a warm look with her before picking up the pieces of plating that had protected him since his return and trying to rearrange them.

“Wait a minute,” Phee said.

Tech and Omega watched her hurry onto her ship, and she quickly returned with a square piece of metal painted in a familiar shade of blue with a bit of orange along the edge.

“I had to replace this piece on my ship. Looks like it might be the right size.”

Tech gladly examined the piece and silently noted the paint job before sharing another smile with her. With a small adjustment, it perfectly fit the rectangular hole in his stomach. Phee retrieved some hinges and watched him determine how to fit it all together. It wasn’t enough for Tech to fix his own cybernetic. He had to enhance it by giving it a door.

“Secure, but easier access in case of an emergency,” he explained.

Omega put his tools back where he liked them while Phee helped him sit up. He twisted his upper body around and looked pleased.

“Comfortable?” Phee asked.

Tech nodded. “I am still getting used to it, but this is an improvement.”

Omega watched a little awkwardly, but decided it was time to make her exit given how Phee looked at her brother while helping him put his shirt back on.

“I’ll see you around!” Omega said before skipping back home.

“Walk with me?” Phee asked.

Tech nodded and they headed down the path meandering through town and down to the water. Tech felt a little unsure, but paused and held out his hand toward her just a little. Phee took it in her own and leaned into him before they continued their jaunt.

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up and you’ll still be gone,” she admitted.

“That is merely your brain trying to process the situation,” he explained. After pausing a moment and considering what he knew of her he added, “I will do my best to remind you that I’m back until you are certain.”

Phee squeezed his hand a little and nodded.

“You want to get some dinner?” she asked.

“I suspect my family is already partially through their meal,” he replied, noting the time.

“I mean just with me, Tech. Would you like to have dinner with me?”

His eyes widened before a smile pulled on the corners of his mouth.

“That sounds wonderful, Phee.”

[fantasy-anatomy-analyst]

I hope I'm not asking too many questions... but I really love the skywhale trope and wanted to hear your thoughts on them?

i think we need more variety of whales in the sky! seems like more people go for a blue whale or humpback whale design on their sky whales, which is fine because they are very iconic whales and i love the way they look. but how about some beaked or toothed whales? flying orcas? a bowhead? i think a sky whale that looked like a bowhead whale would be just wonderful, look at this thing.

(image description: first is an underwater photo of a bowhead whale's face. the top of its mouth is very narrow while the bottom of it is enormous, like a pelican. there is a white patch at the front of its lower jaw with black spots in a line across it. the second image is a detailed illustration of the whale's whole body, comparing it to the size of an elephant and showing the shape of its fins and tail. the elephant is roughly the size of the whale's lower jaw. end description.)

i love this thing. look at that face. the humpback whale may have longer and prettier fins for that sky whale aesthetic, but the bowhead's face shape is delightful. more diversity in sky whale designs!

but of course, the more interesting thought is how exactly to make such an enormous vertebrate work as a flying animal. where is it going? what does it eat? what happens when it dies?

it would be more realistic for sky whales to be smaller, but when people think of sky whales, they want the huge size! it's a fantasy, we want the epic huge flying creatures with their strange singing calls swimming through the clouds. so i'm not going to talk about the more logical small flying whales that go around in flocks to hunt birds (though the idea of smaller flying dolphins is also delightful!) I'm going to just talk about big slow baleen sky whales, the most iconic and desired of all sky whales.

step one: how the heck are these things in the air. it's easier to explain how a dragon can fly, they have big powerful wings. how do whales fly? I think the clearest answer is that they have some form of massive internal air sac full of lifting gas. real life oceanic whales are full of blubber, but maybe sky whales don't have as much blubber and get a lot of their size from their big air sacs instead.

lifting gas is just an umbrella term for any gases that are lighter than the standard atmospheric air. this includes heated atmospheric air, hydrogen, helium, coal gas, ammonia, and methane. (according to wikipedia) and with that list I think we've found our answer. whales are actually even-toed ungulates like cows. they could easily produce a lot of methane with the right diet. they'd just keep it in their air sacs instead of releasing it as a waste material! and for the best production of methane, these sky whales should have multi-chambered stomachs.

This does mean they're probably going to eat a lot of plant matter! so imagine them swooping low to take huge mouthfuls of tree tops! terrifying! maybe their baleen is structured to scrape the leaves off the branches. Maybe they swoop down to kelp forests in the ocean and take huge mouthfuls of that as well. any critters they happen to consume in the process are just bonus snacks full of protein. they likely also consume large flocks of small birds on the go, and probably clouds of flying insects too! locust swarms, for example. watch out for the low flying whales! I think they'd be slow like blimps and mostly use their tails and fins to steer and swoop down for food. they probably also rub themselves on tree branches or mountain sides to scratch their itches. I bet they'd have a symbiosis with many bird species that pick off their parasites.

like cow manure, sky whale dung could be a great source of fertilizer. best to avoid the usual paths of migrating sky whales so you don't end up dead by having giant poop clumps fall on you, but once it's hit the ground, that's free whale manure for every farmer in the area. the lands along the paths of migrating sky whales are probably very fertile, which also serves the whales, since they'll be eating the leafy tree tops! and when a whale dies, falling to the ground, the resulting small earthquake would certainly be startling, and both the impact and the rot process would cause a lot of damage to the surrounding land.

things are not immediately fertilized when a corpse rots. it takes a while! the rot causes more harm at first and then starts to nourish the ground later.

and dead bodies tend to bloat with gases and i have already established that these whales are full of methane. a lot of it would be released at death anyway, and i don't think the whale would drop immediately. or perhaps they fly lower in their old age and just crash land and die slowly. either way, these things are huge and full of methane and then they bloat. which means they might also explode spontaneously as part of the decay process. the air for miles around is going to be so nasty. but i think if you live in sky whale territory, you're just going to have to get used to the stink, because the manure that falls on a more regular basis is also going to be so so stinky.

like real world whale falls, sky whale falls will attract absolutely every carnivorous creature in the area. anything that eats meat will follow that awful stench right to the source and start gnawing away at the thick skin. people will have the easiest time, since they have tools for this beyond just their teeth and claws. the faster the whale is cut open, the less likely there will be an explosive bloat stage, so I'm sure the culture of the region would have some superstitions about leaving a dead whale lying too long. if you don't go harvest that bounty, it will explode and you never know where those chunks will land.

and then when there's only bones, people use em for building all sorts of things! the societies that exist in the paths of sky whales would be very cool to see.

that turned into a ramble and I haven't even designed a sky whale lol. lemme doodle one real quick.

(image description: a sketch of a sky whale, which resembles the aforementioned bow whale, swooping down to munch on trees in a forest. end description.)

[bethanythebogwitch]

If you asked me as a kid what my favorite animal was, there's a good chance I'd respond "chambered nautilus", though I probably would mispronounce it. I don't know if it's still my favorite but it's definitely up there in the pantheon of weird critters. For this Wet Beast Wednesday, I'll discuss my childhood favorite.

(image: a nautilus)

The nautilus is a cephalopod that lives in a curved shell and looks similar to (but is not closely related to) the extinct ammonites. There are 6 living species in two genera, but 90% of the time when someone is discussing nautiluses they are referring to the most well-known species: Nautilus pompilius or the chambered nautilus. Nautiloids are ancient, going back to at least the late triassic with their more primitive ancestors going back as far as the ordovician period, a time when only invertebrates and primitive plants occupied the land and true fish had not yet appeared. Because of their ancient history, nautiluses are sometimes considered living fossils. I have ranted before on how misleading the term "living fossil" is so I'll spare you that for now. Nautiloids are considered a sister group to the celoids, which contains all the squid, octopus, cuttlefish, and everything else we thinks of as cephalopods. Nautiluses should not be confused with paper nautiluses. Also called argonauts, paper nautiluses are a group of octopi that make an egg case which looks like a shell.

(image: a nautilus)

The most noticeable feature of a nautilus is its shell. The shell is smooth and finely curving, naturally growing in the shape of a logarithmic spiral (though not, as is commonly stated, a golden ratio spiral). The shell has a stripy outer layer and an inner layer coated with nacre. Internally, the shell is divided into camarae (chambers) separated from each other by walls called septa. Each septum has a small hole in it through which a strand of tissue called the siphuncle passes. Most of the nautilus's body is in the foremost and largest chamber. The shell grows new septa as the animal grows, with the nautilus's body moving to a new chamber as it becomes too large for previous ones. Juveniles are typically born with 4 septa, with adults having as many as 30. In addition to providing protection from predators, the shell is also key for regulating buoyancy. The septa can contain pressurized gas or water and the siphuncle regulates their contents by either adding or removing water to increase or decrease buoyancy. Because of its pressurized contents, the shell can only withstand pressure at depths up to 800 M (2,400 ft) before imploding. Oddly enough, nautiluses can be safely brought up from deep waters where most animals would be killed by the pressure changes. To move, the nautilus pulls water into the first chamber of the shell using its hyponome (siphon) and shoots it back out. The chambered nautilus is the largest species, with a maximum shell diameter of 25 cm (10 in), though most get no larger than 20 cm (8 in).

(image: a diagram of nautilus anatomy. source)

Where celoid cephalopods have tentacles, nautiluses instead have numerous cirri. Unlike tentacles, cirri are less muscular, are not elastic, and have no suckers. They are used to grab objects using their ridged surfaces and can hold in so hard that trying to take an object away from a nautilus can rip off its cirri, which will remain firmly attached. In addition, the nautilus has modified cirri that serve as olfactory receptors and a pair that serve to open and close the shell when the nautilus needs to retract into it or emerge. Nestled within the cirri is the beak, which is used to consume the nautilus's primary prey of invertebrates, though they have also been seen scavenging fish. Their eyes are less developed than most cephalopods, lacking a lens and consisting of a small pinhole that only allows the nautilus to see simple imagery. Their brains are differently structured than most cephalopods and studies have found them to have considerably shorter long-term memories.

(image: a chambered nautilus (upper left) next to a rare Allonautilus scrobiculatus. source)

Cephalopod reproduction is quite different than that of other cephalopods. While most cephalopods are short-lived and semelparous (reproducing only once), nautiluses can live over 20 years and reproduce multiple times (iteroparity). They do not reach sexual maturity until around 15 years old, with females laying eggs once per year. Eggs are attached to rocks and take 8 to 12 months to hatch. Males have a structure called the spadix composed of 4 fused cirri that they use to transfer sperm to females. Females lose their gonads after laying their eggs and will regenerate them for the next year's mating season. Interestingly, male nautiluses seem to vastly outnumber the females. EDIT: @bri-the-nautilus in the replies found an alternate explanation for the disparity in male and female numbers you should check out. TLDR; the females are asocial.

(image: nautiluses mating)

Nautiluses are found in the Indo-Pacific reagion of the ocean and can be found on the steep slopes of coral reefs. They prefer to inhabit waters several hundred meters down. It was once believed that they would rise to shallow waters at night to feed, lay eggs, and mate, but their vertical migration behavior has since been shown to be more complex than that. They have noon been fished by humans for their shells, which have become popular subjects in art and can be made into a number of decorative pieces. The nacre of the shell can be polished into osmeña pearl, which can be quite valuable. Demand for the shells combined with the late sexual maturity and low fecundity is threatening all the species. As of 2016, nautiluses have been added to the CITES Appendix II, making them protected by limiting international trade of their shells. Despite this, they are still threatened and require further protection

(image: a carved and painted nautilus shell from the Poldi Pezzoli Museum, Milan)

[tatlitte-lian]

Ok, ok this will be a lot of text so I'll use a translator because I'm tired (⁠｡⁠・⁠/⁠/⁠ε⁠/⁠/⁠・⁠｡⁠)

I have been making sketches and ideas for several days about an AU that is about Shiho never being part of the black Org and Shinichi for his part being an active member of it.

In the AU Shiho would be a girl passionate about science just like her parents, famous pharmacists, she lives alone but in the care of Agasa, her neighbor.

Shinichi is a boy who grew up in the Organization, his parents were tricked into joining and they tried to escape, failing, and they took Shinichi hostage so that they would continue working for them, but they began to notice Shinichi's potential from an early age and joined as a member.

Shinichi's parents found out about this and complained since it was not part of the deal and killed them, while Shinichi was tricked into telling him that his parents were locked up in a far away place and if I continued working with them His parents would be safe if they found out at 17 about the deception, rebelling against the organization.

Ending in Shinichi being captured and locked in a gas chamber, not giving the organization the satisfaction of killing him, he would do so by taking the ATPX 4869 that he had hidden and instead of killing him he shrunk him and decided that life gave him another chance and he remembered that his parents always talked about a trusted friend named Agasa so he found out his location.

Arriving there, Shinichi couldn't take it anymore due to physical and mental exhaustion, he fainted and Shiho was going out to see Agasa and sees Shinichi lying there helping him and taking him with her to Dr. Agasa's house.

And that would be like the scoop, but what do you think, most of the Sketckes I had were traditional so I made some quick ones in digital And I already have other things in mind, but I'm not used to sharing personal Au's or Headcanons, it's the first time I've done it, and sorry if there's something wrong, it's all full Google Translate (⁠(⁠(⁠;⁠ꏿ⁠_⁠ꏿ⁠;⁠)⁠)⁠)

[eccentricgrace]

the one who left behind his name || BatFamily

summary: dick gets hit with fear toxin. this experience reveals a lot of surprising conversations he needs to have with his brothers.

tags: dick grayson’s eldest daughter syndrome, bruce wayne’s c+ parenting, fear toxin, lots of hugs, hurt/comfort, found family feels

wc: 12,100

⚠️tw: canon-typical violence, blood, injury

cross-posted on ao3 under the same name!

The irony was, Dick didn’t see the green mist settle in until it was on his tongue. An acrid, medicinal film, seizing his lungs in a chokehold while he buckled over, hands clutching at his knees for a sense of stability.

In a second, his mind sparked back on like a match lit in a gas chamber. His hand shot up to his mouth, it clamped around his nose, he held his breath; all attempts in vain to undo what he knew would begin soon.

He made an ‘abort’ gesture, stumbling back into the shadows. “Robin,” he rasped out. “Code Fern. I’ve been hit, we’re heading out. I need Agent A to—“

“I’ve got it,” Damian snapped. “I’ve collected a sample for Agent A to analyze as we sit here wasting time. What’s your status?”

Dick grimaced as he tried to think of a way to soften the blow, to ease the fears edging from his baby brother’s voice. It was hard to think when he could feel his heart start to pound, when he knew the beginning of something terrific was stirring, except ‘terrific’ meant—

“Nightwing, status,” Damian repeated, his voice strung tight. “Do we need to call an assist?”

“No,” Dick said quickly, even though his legs shook and there’s a stutter in his heartbeat. He ignored it and pulled himself down the dark street.

In a moment, the world twisted on its axis, and in the second that Dick paused to blink, Damian was at his side. He shoved his small frame under Dick’s arm, trying to support his weight.

“Liar,” Damian hissed. “You can’t even stand straight, Grayson—“

“Names,” he chided lightly.

Damian ignored him and pressed forward with determination. “We need to get you to the cave before Crane’s delusions kick in.”

Dick half-heartedly agreed, and tried not to acknowledge the growing twitchiness of his mind. He felt eyes at the back of his neck, something lurking in the dark, watching them.

“Stay alert, Robin,” Dick directed, turning his head to get a view of his peripherals. “We’re still on the ground, baby bat.”

Damian made a frustrated sound and continued ignoring him.

“Nightwing,” a voice filtered in through his comms. Low, gruff, stern. Shit. “Status.”

Dick exhaled stiffly through his nose and brought a hand up to his earpiece. “I got hit. Low grade gang, I wasn’t expecting them to have toxin. I think they stole it, but still— I should have known Scarecrow’s long silence was a red flag.”

“You should’ve,” Bruce cut in. His tone was clear, made up of all his no-nonsense inflections that always made him feel like he was eight years old again, with all of the false confidence and none of the worthwhile experience. “That’s disappointing, Nightwing. I trained you better than this.”

The words sent a rush of anxiety through him, like he’d been mentally knocked back. His throat went tight as he tried to form an argument. “I—“

Dick paused. His hand hesitated on the comms, and he pulled away. He looked to Damian, who was watching him with a not-so-subtle side eye. “Isn’t B off tonight? I thought he had a gala.”

“Father isn’t online,” Damian confirmed, his eyes narrowing through the domino. “Are you hearing him now?”

Dick sighed in agitation and let his hand drop from the earpiece. He avoided Damian’s exact question, instead saying: “We need to move faster.”

Damian nodded, schooling his expression into determination. His face faded in and out of view as they marched through the dark alleyway, his hand retaining its tight grip on Dick’s elbow.

“I failed you tonight,” Damian said. He was sure. Certain.

He’s never certain of himself, not really, not unless he believed he had made a mistake. It’s one of the many things that Dick had learned the hard way, one that still broke his heart when he caught it.

“I should have noticed the toxin before you got hit. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” Damian ducked his head once.

“It will,” Bruce said, his voice ringing metallic through comms. “He’ll disappoint you again, and again, and you’ll have to watch until you can’t do it any longer. Not even I could stand you for too long. The cycle won’t break.”

(“You’re firing me?” Dick guffawed, his arm still in its sling, fresh blood still on his bandages. “Bruce—“

“This isn’t for discussion. You’re done,” Bruce said. He turned around. He won’t look at him. Why won’t he look at him? “You aren’t being safe, you’re taking too many risks.”

“Necessary risks!” Dick cut in, the forced smile slipping from his face. His eyebrows are pulled tight in a stressed glower. “You can’t just take Robin away from me, Bruce. Robin is mine, I am Robin.”

“Not anymore,” Bruce snapped. He stalked toward the door, still hiding his face, the damned coward. “You were fatally injured, Dick. You were reckless. You failed the mission. You don’t deserve—”)

Dick’s exhaled sharply. He forced himself down to his knees and gripped Damian’s shoulders. His head hurt. He swallowed thickly. “You’ve never failed me.”

Bruce made a low, disapproving sound. “That’s not what I said, Robin. I’m in your head, I know you haven’t forgotten what really happened.”

Dick flinched, his shoulders hiking up to his ears. He shut his eyes tightly. “We’ll talk more about this later, but the serum, it’s getting worse.”

“You can’t listen to it,” Damian reminded him, his face pulled into a determined scowl. “It isn’t real. None of it is real.”

“It was real, though,” Bruce scoffed. “Wasn’t it?”

(Bruce’s mouth snapped shut before he finished the sentence, his teeth audibly clicking together.

“I don’t deserve what?” Dick asked quietly. His face was hot, the air rushing out from his nose like a dragon, like some beastly inhuman thing.

Bruce said nothing. He said nothing, and wouldn’t look at him, and Dick felt more alone now than he had since…)

“Nightwing!” Damian shook him off. “Focus!”

Dick groaned and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, his head spinning. His heart was beating out of his chest, he felt sick. He couldn’t move, not even if he wanted to— he just felt paralyzed.

“It’s not real,” Damian said, grabbing his wrist. “Damn it, Nightwing. Snap out of it!”

(“You made me this, Bruce, I don’t have anything else,” Dick said, and as he said it the words bubble into a manic laugh, like he’s just realizing it for the first time.

For so long he’d seen it as the only good thing in his life, that Bruce had been able to save him from himself. That Bruce had scooped him up from the bloodied floors of the Circus, cold floors of the Gotham City orphanage— but now the floors of the cave are just as bloody, just as cold.

A gilded cage is still a cage.

The only good thing in his life has now just become the only thing. He’s a bird without wings.

Bruce didn’t say goodbye to him before he left.)

“I was busy,” Bruce said lamely. “You were acting like a child.”

“I was a child,” Dick rasped, the words keening from his throat. His vision tunneled, going dark around the edges, and he bit back a swear. “Robin, call backup.”

If Damian replied, he couldn’t hear. There’s another hand pulling at his wrist, to which he knocked away in his panicked instincts. A following clatter on the ground echoed through the darkness, then a muffled sound of pain.

“Shit,” Dick said. “Shit, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you—“

Bruce sighed with resignation. “Always reckless. Always endangering the people you claim to love. You won’t ever learn, will you, Robin?”

A blinding light hit his eyes, and he hissed, his arms shielding his face from the spotlight. Wind whipped around him, and there was so much sound that started at him in waves. Cheers and whistles, the steady tin dribbling of a timpani, a symphony of thunderous applause.

Dick weakly dropped his arms, squinting out at the lights, all white beams that strobe past him, that move in and out of view. In the light, little bits of paper fell: cheap, thin squares in colours of faded red, yellow, green—

He’s been here before.

A million times, more, he’s been here. He breathed in, was hit with the scent of hay, of chalk, of sweat, of blood. On his tongue he could taste it, the metallic tang of sheer horror and a scream so deep it could only be felt.

“Richard!”

Dick’s head shot up. Crouched on the edge of a platform an entire tent’s length away, he could catch the blurry figure of Damian. He was injured, blood dripping from his nose.

A spotlight dropped on Damian, and the boy winced, ducking his head to cover his eyes. Dick’s mind stalled. He couldn’t tell what was real or not.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN… BOYS AND GIRLS… HALEY’S CIRCUS IS PROUD TO ANNOUNCE…”

A trapeze dropped from nowhere, the bar dull with chalk. The timpani sped up, drumming impossibly in tandem with his heartbeat.

“…FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY…”

In all his nightmares, Dick could see where the rope was fraught, could see what he missed the time that it counted. This wasn’t an outlier. He could see the singed edges, he could see them.

“…THE FLYING GRAYSONS!”

(He was four when he learned to fly. He was never nervous. He never felt safer than he did holding onto his Tată’s warm hands, and he never felt more free than when he was swinging through the air with a laugh in his chest.

“I want to do this forever,” he insisted after his first day of practice, standing on his toes. “Can I, Mamă? Please?”

“My little Robin,” Mamă laughed sweetly, combing his hair back between her fingers. “You were just born to fly, hm?”)

The band was playing loud, circus music that twisted in all the wrong ways, in all the wrong shapes. Dick hazarded an alarmed look towards Damian.

“Dami,” he called out frantically, stepping up. “Damian, hang on. Don’t move, okay?”

Damian’s eyes look back at him, all wide, unsteady. He looked so young now that he had removed his domino— Dick can’t remember when he’d done that.

“Richard!” He called out. “Do you have a plan?”

(He’s eight years old and it’s the end of this summer’s tour. His Mamă did his hair, gelled the short waves down nice so they wouldn’t fall in his eyes when he hung upside down, because he’d fretted when they started practicing their big act.

He’s got his perfect show-stopping smile on, one of his front teeth missing, but bright and cheery all the same. His outfit had been pressed last night, glittery red and green with stripes of yellow dashed along the chest to look like a bird.

His knees locked around a trapeze bar, and he swung back and forth, grinning at Mamă because she’s always so beautiful when she soars through the air. She winked at him, and to his glee, he caught a quick glimpse of her sparkly eyeshadow.

The crowds cheered. He felt like he was on top of the world.)

The platform Damian stood on wavered, and he gritted his teeth, holding out his arms to keep some semblance of balance. He looked back up, barely-concealed panic in his eyes. “Richard, we’re running out of time. I should— I have to jump.”

“No!” Dick shouted, a sudden bark of a word. He made himself sound as stern as he could, the panic ramping up in his chest. “Damian, do not jump. Stay there.”

Damian was going to fall. There wasn’t a question about it. Dick looked at the bar dangling in front of them, and he made a choice.

“I’m—“ Dick took a steadying breath, and forced his shoulders to relax. “I’m coming to you. Just stay there.”

Bruce had trained him for moments like these. Times if his cable broke, if some accident occurred to his grapnel while he was still in the air. He knew, theoretically, the least-damaging way to land from a potentially lethal height.

That was with one person. Not two.

He pictured the steps in his mind. Grabbing Damian, tucking him to his chest, turning over before the inevitable impact. Injury would be the best case scenario.

Dick’s ready to take that chance.

(Dick’s swinging back and forth, the blood rushing to his head, and something about the rope—

Mamă was swinging towards him, and something wasn’t right. The rope thinned, and before Dick could even process what the problem was— it happened.

SNAP.

His Tată gasped, his Mamă’s eyes went wide, her hand still stretched out to take his.

Dick’s arm lunged as far as he could without falling, his small fingers strung out as if the centimeters would make a difference.

It didn’t.

He screamed, and he kept screaming, and sometimes it felt like he never truly stopped.)

“Damian.” Dick smiled, attempting to pacify him before the damage. “You’ll be okay.”

Damian furrowed his eyebrows, his eyes wildly darting from the trapeze bar to Dick. “What? Richard, don’t do anything stupid! What are you—“

He took a few steps back, shook out his limbs, and swallowed his fear.

He leaped towards the bar. The rope strained under his weight, he could hear the way it pulled. Damian yelled a swear, seemingly having connected the dots. It didn’t matter now. He needed to build more momentum.

He swung his legs back and kicked them forward, and a loud round of applause shook the stadium. The platform Damian stood on wavered, and he nearly toppled over the side of the uneasy ground.

Dick swore, and he kicked harder, using every bit of his weight to get the trapeze moving.

“Damian!” He shouted. “Jump on three! Okay? I’ll catch you!”

Backwards, forwards. Dick’s hands were sweaty through the gloves of his suit. Damian was mouthing to himself: One.

Backwards, forwards. The rope pulled taut. It creaked. It was almost over. Two.

Backwards, forwards. He launched off, the rope pulling apart with an echoing snap. His eyes locked on Damian, who had jumped towards him just as the platform crumbled. Three.

Dick reached out his hands.

(Mamă reached out her hands.)

He’s falling.

(She’s falling.)

Damian’s fingers brushed against his, just barely, just enough for Dick to pull him closer. The two of them tumbled through the air, birds without wings. The world spun, and Dick turned Damian away from the impact as it grew closer—

It took two seconds for the world to explode in a menagerie of bright, painful colours. Two moves. His spine, the ground. The wind knocked out of him.

Under the sound of the audience, still clapping, still cheering, oblivious to the blood, he could hear them— the circus clowns laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

In his arms, a crumpled bundle shifted and cried out. Dick hissed weakly as the movement jostled his back. A spark of fear gave him the energy to lift his chin, just enough to look down.

“Damian?” He wheezed. “Dami, you okay?”

Damian climbed off of his chest, and held a hand to his head. It came back blood-soaked, crimson running down his wrist. He looked back at Dick with dazed eyes. He made a small, confused sound at the back of his throat.

“Fuck,” Dick sat up, ignoring the white hot pain shooting through his entire body. He stumbled close to Damian to investigate the wound.

Somewhere during the fall, he’d hit his head. There was a lot of blood. Inevitable– head injuries were always the bloodiest because the brain needed a lot of blood; there were a lot of vessels to be broken up there. He definitely had a concussion.

He pressed pressure onto the wound, sinking a terrible warmth into the fabric of his suit.

“Okay,” Dick said quickly, cradling Damian’s head in his hands. “You’re okay.”

(He was always more tired after a mission.

Usually the farther it was, the more free he felt— an effect of his nomadic early years. He learned pretty fast that the rule didn’t apply to extraterrestrial travel. He preferred his feet on the ground he knew best, and the long space missions the Titans had to go out on lately were really good at draining him of all his energy.

That’s why he spent the entire trip home soothing the bone-deep exhaustion by imagining himself walking through the door. He’d collapse on the couch, sprawl all his limbs out and laugh at the way Jason would trail in after him with a scowl.

Jason would stumble over his explanation that the first living room’s TV had the best audio quality, to shove over so he could watch The Princess Bride, and Dick would move over just to kick his feet back over Jason’s legs.

They’d wrestle over the remote and then Jason would glare at him and say “welcome back, by the way,” and then Dick would finally feel like he was home.)

Someone dropped behind him. The fall of heavy boots. A familiar sound. Dick turned around and faced a red helmet and full weaponry.

“You called for an assist,” Hood said bluntly.

“Damian,” Dick rattled off quickly, keeping his hand clamped on the bleeding wound. “I mean Robin, he’s injured. TBI, external bleeding head injury, I haven’t had time to properly triage.”

(He’s walking up the hill, the winding road up to the foyer, and he’s thinking about Alfred’s hot cocoa. He’s thinking of Bruce, and mimicking his facial expressions everytime he turned away until Jason cracked and let out one of his kiddie high-pitched laughs.

He got to the door, and something felt wrong, like the rope, like the—)

Hood stalked forward. He clicked his helmet off and tossed it to the side, the metal clanging on concrete. He leaned down beside Damian and looked over the wound.

“Definitely a concussion,” Hood sighed heavily. He said something mumbled to himself, then tried snapping his fingers in front of Damian’s face.

Damian was wildly out of it, drifting in and out of consciousness. His fingers twitched from where they were held in one of Dick’s hands, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth curling in an annoyed sneer— he was scared, disoriented, and he was trying to fight it off. Oh, Dami.

(Maybe he was paranoid. Recent events had definitely made him noticeably more twitchy, but he couldn’t imagine why it would make him feel like this.

Not even paranoia could cause this, he wanted to think— this feeling of something so deeply off center, a molecular-level change that he couldn’t place.

He took a breath, shook off his shoulders, and put on a smile— perfect, show stopping, just like Mamă taught him — before he knocked on the door.

The door opened promptly. Alfred had been waiting for him.

Alfred’s hand shook lightly on the door handle. His handkerchief was tucked messily into his suit pocket, wrinkled and well-used. His hair was thinner, his eyes were sunken in, red-rimmed, his lips were pulled together primly. Grief emanated from every tired line of his body.

Dick’s smile was whisked away and paranoia was replaced with dread, shuddering over him faster than he could breathe, from his hair’s split-ends to the soles of his feet.

He swallowed, his gaze going steely. “Who was it?”)

Dick shuddered, everything was hurting so badly— the world was blurring, he’s messing everything up, and Damian was injured in his lap and he needed help.

“We have to get him to the cave, or Leslie’s,” Dick pleaded, looking up to Jason. “Whichever’s faster.”

“The cave. Leslie’s on the other side of town, and Agent A is already prepared for a shit show,” Jason said. After a moment, he sighed. “I got here on my motorcycle, though. Not enough room for three, even if Demon Brat is a shrimp.”

“Take him,” Dick said immediately. He lifted Damian up, his entire spine screaming with pain. He winced, and pressed on. “Take him to the cave, I’ll find my way back.”

“Whatever.” Jason reached down and took him in his arms. “What happened, anyway?”

(“Bruce. Tell me you’re lying,” Dick said, barely getting the words out with the way he shook. “Tell me you didn’t bury my…”

Bruce didn’t speak. He was looking at him, finally, after all the time, but his gaze was empty. His eyes were grey, devoid of feeling, of focus.

“Bruce!” Dick shouted, slamming his fist on the desk. He needed Bruce to flinch, to blink, to breathe. Anything would be better than this.

Bruce just stared.

“God damn it, answer me!” Dick punched the table again, his eyes scanning furiously over Bruce’s void of energy.)

“Dickface,” Jason snapped, sounding mildly alarmed. He shifted uncomfortably, the unconscious kid groaning in his arms. “Hey, what the fuck. It wasn’t that serious, why’re you crying?”

Dick blinked rapidly, his hands coming up to his face. Tears made his cheeks wet and cold. “I don’t know,” he said, wiping them away. “I don’t know, I— he fell. That’s what happened. We—“

“Did you fucking drop him?” Jason spat out, looking at Dick with disgust.

“I didn’t drop him,” Dick bit down, his teeth clicking together painfully. His stomach turned with waves of nausea. “We fell together, I tried to—“

“You did,” Jason scoffed. “You did drop him. Nice fucking going, Dickie. Do you know what a fall from that height does to someone as small as him? You may be able to take it, but chances are he fucking won’t.”

(Bruce swallowed. “I’m sorry, Dick,” he mumbled drunkenly. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Dick’s vision was beginning to blur, a familiar rage burning its way back into his veins, back to the circus, back to screams and police sirens, back to Zucco.

An empty whisky glass from Bruce’s desk found its way into Dick’s hand, and was thrown across the room with a brilliant amount of force. Dick didn't look while it shattered and fell to the carpet in a million shining pieces.

“Sorry is something you say when you break a fucking glass,” Dick gritted out. “Not when you kill somebody’s fucking little brother.”

He couldn’t breathe. He’s taking in air faster than his lungs could register it. “What did you do, Bruce? What the hell did you do?!”)

“You’d think the first one would be enough for the lesson to stick,” Jason spat bitterly. “But no, somehow, you just keep collecting dead birds, huh?”

“No,” Dick scraped out. He bowed his head, pressing into the gravely pavement. A gasp forced out from his lungs as the tears made him heave. “No, no, no.”

The boots trailed around him in a lazy circle. “Another baby brother lost. Stop fucking crying, Dickie, I know you don’t actually care. You gonna miss his funeral, too?”

“I’m so sorry.” Dick made fists, he grasped uselessly at the concrete, catching and ripping at the fabric of his gloves. “He didn’t tell me. Jason, please. Please, I’m so sorry.”

“Sure. Sure, he didn’t tell you, so it wasn’t your fault.” Jason gripped his hair and yanked his head up. “Which is it, then? It isn’t your fault, or you’re sorry? Which is it?”

He’s pissed. His eyes a manic green, the way animals carried vibrant patterns so predators knew to steer clear. It’d been so long since his last bout of pit madness, he’d already fought this battle before, it was supposed to be over.

“Everything you are, was what I wanted to be,” Jason said slowly, his eyes dark and gleaming, tilted and dangerous. “Now I can’t even look at you without feeling sick.”

“I know,” Dick croaked.

“When we finally kick the bucket, I pray we go to different hells.”

Jason released his grip, and Dick’s skull slammed against the floor in a blinding white flash.

(“Nightwing. We’ve gotten a code red from Titan Tower.”

Dick paused, his movements lilting in confusion. “Tim’s the only one there this weekend.”

A sharp inhale through the nose, B’s telltale giveaway of panic. “The Red Hood has been seen at the location.”

Something heavy fell in Dick’s stomach. His eyes darkened. “…Leaving now.”)

Rather than waking up in one of Gotham’s infamous back alleys, Dick lifted his head in an indoor grey hallway, industrial, stretching a long way before an inevitable turn.

His heart was still pounding, his breath still stuttered with every inhale and exhale. Two brothers gone, two fathers lost, one mother dead. He wanted to curl up and stay there shaking until it was all over, let the misery wash over him until the bubbles stopped.

“I didn’t train you to give up,” Bruce said, his voice cracking through his skull. “If you’re going to die, you’re going to make it useful.”

Someone was calling his name. Somewhere else, as it echoed and rebounded through the ominous hallway. He lifted his head again to look.

At the far end of the hallway, just before the turn, a dash of red smeared on the wall. Dick knew like the back of his hand what was meant to follow, every horrible moment that awaited him.

“Don’t just lay there,” Bruce commanded. “Run, Robin.”

(Dick’s voice was hoarse from how loudly he’s bellowing as he sprinted through the tower’s floors. He barely heard Tim at all, a cry, weak and frail as a baby bird’s, and then he was running again towards the sound.)

He was running through the hallways. He couldn’t remember getting up, all he could remember was—

(—blood on the wall. Blood on the floor. It was everywhere.

Good god, it was everywhere, and in the center of it all there was—)

“Tim!” Dick fell to his knees, gathering up the teen and pressing his hand to his bleeding neck.

Tim keened, tears and spilling crimson on his cheeks, his chin, his nose. He grasped helplessly at Dick’s arms, his feet pushing against the floor in a squirming mess as he tried to deal with the pain.

“It’s okay,” Dick repeated feverishly. He’s moving like a ghost, like a possessed man, like a puppet. “I’ve got you. Come on, we’re going to the med bay. Come on.”

He scooped Tim up and half-dragged him to the medical bay, and he’s digging through the drawers with one hand and—

(— he’s holding Tim’s bleeding throat with the other, and Tim kept trying to speak. He was gasping and floundering like his life depending on choking the words out, rather than actually living.

Dick kept shushing him. He’s razor-focused, he’s scatter-brained, his hands are doing a million things at once, he’s not moving fast enough. He packed the hemostatic gauze and—)

— he wrapped the injury with more cloth, and—

(—it’s hiding the red, it’s working, his little brother will be okay, Dick will make it okay and—)

—there’s so much blood, it was soaking through, and nothing was working. It wasn’t supposed to be this. This wasn’t supposed to happen. These weren’t the way the words were written. This wasn’t how the story was supposed to go.

“You’re—“ Tim gasped, the sound wretched and wet. “A murderer. A fraud. You…”

Dick made a panicked noise as he pressed more gauze, more cloth, more pressure, and the shock was starting to settle into Tim’s body. His eyes were going glassy. His face was so pale underneath the bruises and drying blood.

Tim gurgled, his hands going limp and falling to the side.

“Not another,” Dick shook. “Not— Not again.”

He reached out—

(—to take his mother’s hand—)

(—to call Bruce—)

(—to ruffle his brother’s hair—)

(—to keep pressure on the wound—)

—and his hand is caught by someone else’s.

It was akin to the exact moment a storm cleared, or taking a proper breath after a marathon. Atlas with a sudden bout of freedom, shoulders free of the world for one clear, distinct moment.

He exhaled, squeezing the hand in his in a strange desperation. He needed this to be real.

The hand squeezed back. Someone’s speaking to him in low, soothing tones.

The scene in front of him faded away into nothing, a cloak of darkness falling over his view. He felt tired enough to sink into the dark, enough to breathe now like it wouldn’t be his last breath.

Distantly he thought maybe his heart had finally given up, that this was the peace before his consciousness gave into oblivion. A pang sat in his throat, a heaviness at the thought that he would be leaving his family in need of him, but — but this couldn’t be stopped. Not anymore.

“Shh…” a callused hand gently graced his face. It’s warm and it’s safe, and he was so tired. His eyes shut, his body went lax at the abrupt crash of adrenaline. “It’s all better now. Just rest.”

In the end, it hardly felt like a choice at all.

He went to sleep.

Waking up properly was a slow, miserable process.

He kept getting flashes of awareness, fragments of scents, of sights, of sounds. Sometimes he panicked, and then there was that voice again, gruff and steady, telling him everything was going to be fine.

All the while, he dreamt.

In dreams, everything was just as fuzzy, so much so that it was hard to distinguish from reality until he would jerk back awake.

He was nine, carrying his things in a big black grocery bag he got from a social worker up the front steps of the manor. He’s thirteen and he’s broken his ankle on patrol. B won’t stop fretting and Dick won’t stop rolling his eyes.

He’s fifteen and he hated the world and he loved his dad. He’s seventeen and he wanted to come home now, really, he did.

He’s eighteen and he loved to sit next to his little brother and listen while he read books with words so big he couldn’t pronounce them out loud. He’s twenty-two and his little brother was dead and every morning he made two bowls of cereal for himself and a ghost.

He’s twenty-four and there’s a scrawny boy with messy dark hair and determined blue eyes on his doorstep and his brother’s voice was in ear telling him about “the importance of remembering history, Dickface.”

He’s twenty-five and Robin kept looking up to him with such hesitancy, and Dick hated himself because he couldn’t remember how to be who he needed to be. His smiles became more bright, the unfortunate but necessary byproduct of an artificial sun.

He’s twenty-six and everything was upside down. Damian was so angry, Tim was too confident, Jason wasn’t himself. For a moment Dick knew how Bruce felt. Maybe they were never cut out for loving people. He didn’t think it was supposed to hurt this much.

Now, Dick lazily blinked the sleep away from his eyes and swallowed the stagnant saliva in his mouth. He felt warm from what he assumed to be an IV drip, and dizzy from whatever drugs he had to be on.

“Dick.”

Dick glanced over to the chair beside him, where Bruce was still sitting. He had a neutral expression on his face, but his shoulders were tight, and he knew exhaustion when he saw it. He knew Bruce.

“Are you with me?” Bruce asked.

Dick exhaled carefully through his nose. Chances are that this wasn’t another hallucination— especially because he felt like an actual human being and not anxiety personified. “Depends. I thought you had a gala tonight.”

“I had a gala two nights ago.”

Dick sighed. He used his strength to push himself up into a sitting position. Bruce’s eyes never leave, tracking along each movement with quiet calculation. “I was out that long?”

Bruce grunted an affirmative.

This was the part of the mission where Dick would give his report, try and point out all his mistakes, inevitably fail, and listen to Bruce’s lecture about the most important thing he missed.

No reason to mess with tradition, he figured, so he let his head fall back on the pillow and went back to where it all went wrong.

“Damian and I were on patrol. I got dosed with toxin,” Dick recounted, closing his eyes. “I gave the order to get out of there. I told Damian to call backup after the hallucinations started feeling more real.”

A flying trapeze. The Red Hood. Tim. Dick sighed again, his cheeks going hot. “The hallucinations were unrealistic, I should have been more logical with my approach. It was the flashbacks that screwed me over, I think. It made everything… feel real.”

Bruce wasn’t saying anything, only watched him carefully. All this time and Dick still hated when he did that. He looked back at him and waited for the reproach, the promised lecture.

Bruce finally cleared his throat. “Fear toxin alters the mind,” he said. “Often the first thing to go is rationality and logic. I don’t blame you, Dick— you were strong, you and Damian made it out alive. Today, that’s what counts.”

Dick hesitated, watched the way Bruce’s eyes flickered, the way his jaw tensed minutely between certain words.

“Something happened when I was out,” he surmised. Bruce looked away, effectively confirming that he was right on the money. “What was it?”

“It proved… challenging,” Bruce struggled, “to get you en route to the cave. The footage is available, but I would avoid it this time. It was a close call.”

“Was I the only one hurt?” Dick asked, swallowing the lump in his throat. His mind flashed him pictures of Damian in his arms, of Tim on the ground. He hated fear toxin.

Bruce nodded once. “Nobody else sustained injuries.”

Dick sighed with instant relief. He let himself relax back into the cot. “Where is everyone, then? I figured at least Damian would be here.”

“I sent him to bed,” Bruce crossed his arms, a very tired amusement passing his face. “I stopped letting him argue back at hour forty-four. He hadn’t even changed out of his suit.”

Dick smiled. “How long ago?”

Bruce flicked his wrist out and glanced at his watch. “Six hours ago. It’s two in the morning.”

Not enough sleep for Dick to justify waking him up. He’ll wait for a few more hours, or until Damian wakes up to find him. Whichever came first.

“You should go to sleep,” Dick told him, because he could see the dark circles and knew Bruce probably had been too busy working on an antidote with Tim to rest. At Bruce’s visible hesitation, he rolled his eyes. “I’ll be alright here. I know you have me hooked up to monitors anyway. Seriously, get out of here.”

Bruce took a moment, and then relented with a heavy sigh. “If something comes up, you know what to do. Goodnight, Dick.”

Dick found the footage on the lenses of Robin’s mask.

He didn’t like watching himself on fear toxin, not that anybody did. The vulnerability is unsettling, sure, but watching himself behave like a wild animal never sat with him the right way. He couldn’t be like Bruce, who would watch his patrol footage and pick it apart mercilessly just to improve his technique.

Furthermore, it was weird to see himself from Damian’s eyes. Himself, crouched down so they’re eye-to-eye. In the footage, Dick was trembling. He flinched at nothing.

“The serum,” he had said, but his voice sounded distant, like his head wasn’t fully there. “It’s getting worse.”

Then, Damian. Sure-fire and defiant. “You can’t listen to it. It isn’t real. None of it is real.”

With Damian’s eyes, he watched himself look around the alleyway like a hunted dog. His chest stalling every few seconds and then his breath increasing in speed.

“Nightwing!” Damian reached for his arm and shook violently. “Focus!”

He made a wounded noise and didn’t move, hiding his face in his hands— he remembered this. He remembered this happening. This was when the first flashbacks kept catching him off guard.

“It’s not real,” Damian had tried. “Nightwing, snap out of it!”

This was where memory started to trail off from reality.

In reality, Damian was on his comms, his eyes locked on target to whatever Dick was doing, ready to catch him if he flew off. He was calling a code— Oracle sent everyone to pick up collateral. Hood, Red Robin, Spoiler, and Orphan. They went in teams.

Damian doesn’t leave his side. The footage clipped to a later timestamp.

He watched himself flounder in terror, looking around with choked gasps and half-mumbled words like he was caught in a nightmare.

“Damian. Dami.” Dick caught Damian’s arm, his eyes distant, his pupils shrunk small. He was whispering. “Damian. You’ll be okay.”

Damian froze. He quickly turned away as a motorcycle was heard behind.

Dick watched as Jason came into view, much like he did in the hallucinations, although here he moved forward more like he was approaching a feral animal.

“You called for an assist?” He tried to joke, his usual deadpan failing with the undercurrent of worry that pulsed through. (Neither of them did well with fear toxin. They hated it both equally.)

Dick watched himself react to the words like he’d just taken a bullet. The way he lurched away, the immediate hurt that followed on Jason’s face.

“It’s not you,” Damian said immediately, echoing the thoughts Dick had. “You know that, Todd.”

“I know,” Jason shrugged. He inched forward tentatively anyways.

“No,” Dick scraped out, gasping. He started to scrape at the ground with his hands, leaving them bloody. “No, no, no.”

“Fuck,” Jason said quickly, as both him and Damian rushed to stop him from shredding any more skin. Jason flinched as Dick let out another keening cry.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his head lulling uselessly forward. His body shuddered violently. “He didn’t… tell me… Jason, please. Please, I’m so sorry...”

Jason made a frustrated sound, strangled at the back of his throat. “Fuck. I’m making it worse. Why didn’t you call Tim? He likes Tim.”

“You’re not making it worse,” Damian snapped. “Stay focused.”

“I’m focused,” Jason snapped back. “Let’s get him to the cave. You think you can keep up with me with your grapple?”

Damian marched forward, taking the hook from his belt. He exhaled stiffly through his nose. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Hood. We’re wasting time. I’ll see you there.”

The footage jumped again, rerouting to the security feed in the cave. It showed the medical bay at the forefront, the cot he was lying in, and the computer in the back. It was chaos.

Jason and Bruce argued loudly as they held down Dick’s arms and kept him pinned to the cot, as he seized and gasped. Alfred stood to the side holding an oxygen mask to Dick’s face, trying to get the two to stop shouting. Damian stood still at the foot of the bed, scowling while he overlooked vitals. His hands shook.

“His BPM is too high,” Damian growled over the noise. He spun around to where Tim had been pacing in the back. “Drake, his heart is going to inevitably fail if you don’t work faster.”

Tim, muttering to himself, moving around computers and flasks like a mad scientist, didn’t meet him with even a look. “I’m working as fast as I can,” he spat back. “Yelling at me won’t make a cure magically exist.”

“I’m just saying,” Jason insisted, “he got worse a hell of a lot faster after I showed up, and now with you here, he’s about to fucking die!”

“I didn’t ask you to just say,” Bruce cut sharply. “You know just as well as anybody else that the effects of Crane’s toxins are unpredictable, and–”

Dick managed to land a stray hit in all his panic, shoving Bruce away and sitting up from the cot. His eyes wild, his chest heaving; he pushed out of Jason and Alfred’s hands and tried to stumble off the cot.

“Fuck,” Jason swore. “Now look what you fucking did–”

Damian clenched his teeth. “You idiots– can’t you do one job correctly?!”

Tim swung around. He marched over, pushing Damian to the side, shoving past Jason and Bruce, and ignoring them all as they turned their attention. He leaned down beside Dick, who had fallen to his knees. He held a syringe in his hand.

“Tim,” Dick stammered, reaching forward. “You’re bleeding, you’re…”

Tim grabbed his arm and stuck the syringe into a vein, his jaw set in a firm line. Dick made a panicked noise and seemed to flounder back, but he had already finished injecting the antidote. It was done.

“It’ll set in an hour,” Tim said, looking around the stunned room of people. “He’ll probably sleep a lot, so someone should sit with him. And all of you should apologize to Alfred for the headache.”

After a beat of silence, it was Damian who spoke first.

“I’ll take the first shift.” He paused. “...Hopefully you did a considerable job, Drake.”

The footage ended.

Dick turned the device off with a shaking hand and closed his eyes for a long, long time. He breathed in. He breathed out. He did it again, and again, and again, until it didn’t feel like he was living it anymore.

He had barely been drifting when the door to the medical bay creaked open. When there was no following noise, Dick knew it was Damian. His footsteps were always too quiet to hear unless he wanted someone to hear them.

He opened his eyes, and Damian was scowling at him.

Dick smiled easily. “Hi, there.”

Damian scowled harder.

Dick’s smile faded, and he swallowed, letting himself go solemn. “I’m sorry, Dami. I know, I shouldn’t have let myself get hit. I endangered you, I could have hurt you, or worse—“

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Damian scoffed. He marched into the room, sitting down in the nearest chair with a huff.

His hair stuck up in all directions, he was still wearing his pyjamas. Dick noted with unrestrained glee that it was the joke Nightwing pair he bought last Christmas. He just looked like any normal kid who had been woken up too early, and Dick loved him more than words could express.

“Do you want to talk about anything?” Dick asked instead, tilting his head. “I know whenever B got hit with a fear toxin, I would get pretty freaked out.”

Damian watched him quietly for a long moment, his eyebrows furrowed as if he were considering this. He knew sometimes it took a moment for Damian to decide whether or not he was safe to engage in a particular conversation, and he respected that— so he went quiet and patiently waited.

“You spoke a lot,” Damian said finally, his expression easing. “Much of it was incoherent, but there were times where you would say something clear. I believe you were convinced I was in danger.”

Dick nodded. He kept his hands folded on his lap to prevent himself from fidgeting too much.

Damian then looked down. “I believe you lied to me. You told me it would be okay. Or, tried to.”

“I did,” Dick said slowly.

Damian’s jaw clenched, his eyes very focused on the floor. “You nearly died several times before Drake synthesized a working antidote. The fear was making your heart dangerously fast— anybody else not used to the stress would have died.”

Dick frowned, but remained quiet.

Damian looked back up, the scowl returning, albeit weak. It couldn’t hide his watery eyes. “It would not have been okay, Grayson.”

The youngest of all of them. Underneath all the violence and sharp words, it was hard to forget that Damian was still just a kid — a kid who had lost everything just like the rest of them.

“I’m sorry,” Dick said quietly. He hesitated. “You’re right, Damian. I’m sorry.”

“I do not wish to grieve you,” Damian warned, an imperceptible waver in his voice. “It would be inconvenient. Your life is–”

The words broke, and he quickly looked away, glaring harder at the floor.

He sniffled and his hand quickly swiped over his cheeks. He kept his shoulders tight, his body language full of fire and brimstone, spiked and thorned just like he’d been when he first arrived.

“If you die,” he said coldly, baring his teeth, “I’ll hate you forever.”

There are few things on this earth that meant as much to Dick as his family. After everything he’d lost, the things he gained only meant that much more. His little brothers; they all came from grief, born and bred.

Jason had crept through after Dick thought he had nothing left to fight for, when he instead fought everything as if it would repair the loss.

Robin replaced Robin. Dick learned to grow around the loss and gave it new life instead.

Tim was the one nobody thought to worry about, the anomaly, the one who bypassed the firewalls in the midst of the crisis. Broke down faulty systems, repaired them, forced his way through the cracks that Dick couldn’t find it in himself to caulk.

Robin replaced Robin. Dick learned to grieve the present and appreciate it at the same time.

But nobody had expected Damian. When he crash-landed in like a jet on fire, it was like the ground underneath them went uneven, and he continued to break their expectations with every step he took.

Robin replaced Robin. This time, Dick learned a lot of things. He learned what it was like to have a Robin.

He learned the weight of holding a sleeping kid on his chest, how he would do anything to keep him looking that peaceful. He learned to keep an ear out at night, to keep his door unlocked in case there was a nightmare, in case he was needed.

He learned how it felt to have a piece of his heart living outside of his body— and, like anybody, Dick didn’t like it when his heart was broken.

“Everybody dies, Damian,” Dick said carefully. “I really hope you won't hate me, when I do go.”

He exhaled, watching as Damian wiped away more of his angry tears.

“But,” he continued. “I’m not dying today, or hopefully anytime soon. I’m here, just like I said I’d be, and… I’d rather not spend the rest of my long life with someone that I love so much being angry at me.”

Damian shifted in his chair, like he was ready to bolt at any moment. Despite his best efforts, his bottom lip quivered and his scowl was starting to falter.

“I hope you can forgive me,” Dick said quietly, the words cracking at the end. He cleared his throat, ignoring the burning at his eyes. “I’m sorry that I scared you. Next time, I’ll—“

Damian stood up promptly and marched forward, his face properly scrunched up to avoid tears. He crossed the room in three steps, and by the third step his resolve had fully broken.

Watching Damian cry was like watching the world tear itself apart. He’s twelve years old and had the same rocky edges of the mountains he’d been forced to climb, had the same ferocity as the currents he’d been forced to swim against, had the same chill as the tundras he’d survived.

He held onto so much, so much; all before he’d barely started to carve out a spot in life big enough for him to stand in. It was hard work. It only ever got harder.

Dick would reshape the earth in his own hands if it meant the land would soothe the old aches and reset the broken bones. He’d take every hurt and every pain and he would do it smiling if it meant his little brothers never saw an inch of it.

But he couldn’t do that. Instead he had to be content with letting his arms open, and trusting that Damian would crawl up into them. That would be their peace.

Damian wept, broken little sounds choking their way through his tears. He buried his head into Dick’s abdomen and kept his arms curled up to his sides.

“Oh, Damian. Băiatul meu dulce,” Dick soothed, hushing his voice to a murmur. His heart was bleeding, a messy thing in the cage of his chest, and he quieted it down, too. “You’ve got me, Dami. I’m okay now. I’m okay.”

He pressed a kiss to his baby brother’s head and tried not to let himself lose the last semblance of emotional control he had as Damian’s cries racked through his small frame.

“This is your fault,” Damian stuttered through tears. “I’m still mad at you. Just... don’t leave.”

“I know.” He kept his hands busy by drawing circles over Damian’s back. He took deliberately slow breaths and rocked gently back and forth. “I’m right here, honey. You can be as mad as you want, I’m not going anywhere.”

And then words dwindled into nothing, because sometimes the silence was better. He pressed his nose into Damian’s hair, kept himself close. His hands worked their soft rhythm on his back, continuing even as Damian’s breathing slowed to a calmer pace.

His chest and upper stomach was soaked in salt and he didn’t give a damn about it.

After a few minutes of quiet sniffling and the sound of a hand smoothing down the wrinkles of a fleece shirt, Damian huffed. He kept his face hidden as he spoke.

“Emotions,” he said tentatively, drained of energy, “are exhausting, and embarrassing.”

Dick smiled shortly. A rush of relief passed over him, because talking was good. Talking meant he hadn’t truly ruined everything.

He passed his fingers past Damian’s forehead, carefully folding loose strands of hair away from his eyes. “Get some sleep then. It’s early, nobody will be up for a while.”

Damian was quiet for a few moments, considering. He exhaled. “You’ll wake me if—“

“You know I will,” Dick assured him softly. “Just your eyes, baby bat.”

Damian made an aggrieved noise, but made himself small while he settled into the cot.

His baby brother fell asleep in two short minutes— and a piece of Dick’s soul clicked back where it belonged.

Getting out of the medical bay was always a victory. His consistent visitors had been Damian and Alfred— while Batman and Red Robin had picked up slack on patrol, which was reasonable. Dick watched from cameras and would give occasional commentary through the comms with O.

(Jason, he hadn’t seen anywhere.)

Since the toxin, Dick had been trying to get himself back to normal. He wanted to let the memories wash away to the back of his mind where they usually were, instead of lingering on the forefront like a bad breakup.

For him, getting back to normal meant doing normal things— or, as normal as it could get. He sat on communications and bothered Bruce with his puns. He helped Alfred collect laundry. He watched animal documentaries with Damian. He practiced defense in the training room. He bothered Bruce some more.

He finally caught Tim in the kitchen, falling asleep into a bowl of cereal— bits of soggy cheerios stuck to his cheek and his hair saturated in almond milk.

Dick smiled to himself and then knocked his knuckles on the counter.

Tim lifted his head and looked up with an amount of unconcern that was almost impressive for someone who had almost drowned in their (12pm) breakfast.

“Dick,” he said, blinking a few times. “You’re out of the medbay?”

“Second day out,” Dick informed, giving a sympathetic smile. He yanked off a paper towel from the roll and wiped the milk and cereal off of Tim’s face.

“Oh.” Tim’s eyebrows furrowed, frowning imperceptibly. “…Nobody told me.”

Dick made a noise of disapproval and grabbed his own bowl from the cabinets. He sat down beside Tim and poured the cereal in. “I would have been in there a lot longer if you hadn’t figured out the antidote. So, thank you.”

“You would’ve been dead, actually,” Tim corrected, stirring soggy cereal around with his spoon. “And it’s fine. It’s what I’m here for.”

Dick frowned into his own bowl and poured in the milk. “Right. I actually wanted to talk to you about that, when you had a second. That must have been pretty stressful for you, I wanted to see if you were doing okay.”

“I see you’re at the getting-to-normal stage,” Tim observed, glancing over. “I know you probably already talked to B. Definitely talked to Demon Brat, because he’s less Demon than a few days ago. Jason’s next, right?”

Dick looked up to reply, and then paused.

Tim’s face was of its usual paleness, the normal dark purple shadows painted under his eyes. He knew about Tim’s bad working habits, his insomnia, but seriously— when was the last time this boy got any sleep?

“Why can’t you be next?” Dick asked instead.

Tim scoffed, his lip lifting up in a half-smile like something was amusing to him. He shook his head. “I think you could probably find Jason in—“

“I’m serious,” Dick interrupted. He set his spoon down in the bowl, letting it clink. “You’re my brother too, Tim.”

“Sure,” Tim said with a nod. “It’s just, you know. You have to add a ‘too’, don’t you? Implying there’s an original to be added to. Which is fine, seriously. I don’t know. I’m not offended or anything— you don’t have to lie to make me feel better about something that doesn’t affect me anymore.”

Dick stared, his jaw loosely hung open as he tried to fumble together the pieces of what Tim just splayed out.

“Tim, I—“ He shook his head, feeling slightly hysterical. “Explain that again?”

Tim huffed a laugh. He pushed his bowl away from him. “We don’t have to do this, Dick. Seriously. Whatever it is, I forgive you, we don’t have to make it this big thing.”

“Tim,” Dick said sharply. Tim straightened, his tired smile gone in an instant, his eyes alert, and Dick felt a wave of regret hit him. He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I shouldn’t have. I just— I need you to explain. Please.”

Tim frowned and pushed his hair out of his face. “I don’t know how to explain this without you getting pissed at me. Or you.”

“Start from the beginning,” Dick said tightly, his eyes still shut. Images of blood on tile and a little boy at his doorstep kept fading in and out of view.

“My beginning, or yours?” Tim asked, a lilt of a joke on his tongue.

“When we met,” Dick answered, not understanding the question. When was the beginning not just the beginning?

“We met at—“ Tim paused. He looked over Dick with something calculative in his eyes, and his lips twitched before his entire body went still, eerily calm. “We met at your apartment. You remember. I knocked on your door until you let me in. My hands hurt.”

“And?” Dick asked painfully.

“And what? And you hated me,” Tim said, laughing grimly. “You hated that I asked you to come back to Gotham, and then you hated when I became a Robin.”

Both true, but the reasoning of it was all wrong. Dick’s face must have contorted in a truly horrifying way, because Tim quickly put his hands up.

“Hold on, I’m not saying you hate me now,” Tim explained. “I know that’s not true. Don’t worry. But I also know that we don’t have any kind of bond, right? You and Jason were special. You were the blueprint, Jason was the one to make the pattern… And I mean, he’s right, isn’t he? I was the replacement. You were even the one to decide when I wasn’t needed anymore, because then you gave the role to Damian, and he was your Robin.”

Tim finished, and slumped back in his chair with a shrug. “So, it’s fine. I know I’m important to you. I’m just not at the top of the list. I made my peace with that a long time ago, it’s not a big deal.”

He felt sick.

Dick got up from the counter and walked to the other side of the kitchen, bending over the sink, and just standing there. His hands gripped onto the porcelain edges. He kept his eyes trained on the water that dripped from the faucet.

“Dick?” Tim called out from behind him. “Shit. I’m sorry, I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. None of this is your fault, really—“

There were a lot of questions running through his head, and he felt dizzy from the guilt racking over him in waves. He turned the faucet on to its coldest setting and splashed the water on his face.

He turned around and Tim was behind him, his eyes intense with concern, his eyebrows furrowed, his shoulders up to his ears like he was ready for a war.

“Should I get Bruce? Alfred?” Tim asked carefully. “If you don’t answer, I’m getting them both, so choose wisely.”

Dick shook his head. He kept shaking his head. There was so much he needed to fix, he wasn’t sure where to even start.

“Can I hug you?”

Tim blinked. He looked him over quickly, like he was scanning for injuries. Seemingly satisfied, he gave him a very confused: “Yes?”

Dick pulled him in by the shoulders and hugged him as if it were the first time.

The more he thought about it, he actually couldn’t remember the last time that he hugged Tim. Tim always seemed to shy away from physical affection, seemed to stiffen up, so Dick had always tried to respect that.

But in the few seconds that Dick didn’t pull away, something different happened. The stiffness of Tim’s shoulders slowly eased away. He exhaled softly, and seemed to melt into touch. Hesitantly, his arms lifted to hug him back.

Dick tightened his hold and grieved every time he hadn’t been more patient, every time he hadn’t given Tim just a few seconds.

“You’re my little brother,” Dick said firmly. “No ‘too.’ I’ll make it up to you. All of it.”

“Why?” Tim mumbled.

“Because,” Dick laughed brokenly. “You thinking that you don’t mean everything to me, just like Jason and Damian do, kills me. I don’t know how I let it go on this long— but it’s done. It’s getting fixed.”

Tim was quiet for a long moment. “But I don’t know how to fix it,” he said anxiously. He pulled away, staring at Dick with those blue eyes.

The same blue eyes as before, the ones peering at him from across a dingy living room, the ones staring blearily from a blood-smeared hallway, both saying: I’m trying to pick up the pieces. There’s too many for me to hold.

His little brother: and it’s about time Dick acted like it.

“Tim.” Dick looked back at him seriously, his hands on Tim’s shoulders. “This one isn’t for you to fix, baby bird. This is my screw-up. And it looks like we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Tim stared at him, nodded surely, and ducked back in for another hug. He’d never done that before.

Another piece of his soul moved. It wasn’t fixed, but it was healing from something he hadn’t known was broken— and he thought it would be okay.

A week, and he still couldn’t find Jason.

As it turned out, nobody had really looked. He’d been entirely radio silent since Dick’s encounter with fear toxin had been resolved with a synthesized antidote, and nobody had thought to bother him since.

Dick had been texting Babs consistently with questions of whether Jason was alright, and she’d always just sent him a simple message describing that he was safe and checking in with her on his patrol routes. Which meant he’d only been avoiding the family comms. Which meant something was wrong.

In the end, it was Alfred who had finally given him a tip. Polishing dishes with a fresh cloth, his lips pursed, he seemed to be contemplating a variety of decisions and their determined effects.

“I know he needs his space,” Dick explained, taking each plate as Alfred dried them to stack them away in the proper cabinet. “But I just have this terrible gut feeling that he’s overthinking something and that it’s my fault. Arguing is the last thing I want to do, I’m just…”

“Worried,” Alfred finished for him after a few helpless seconds. He sighed softly, setting the cloth down on the counter. “Yes. I figured as much. My hesitancy is not with your capacity to handle these things with care, Master Dick. I know you care for your brother a great deal.”

Dick frowned, leaning backwards. “What’s your hesitancy?”

Alfred met him with solemn eyes, effectively pinning him where he stood “My hesitancy is your unwavering willingness to fix things before you’re ready to fix them. You’ve been through a great deal this week, and I’m very familiar with how these particular experiences take a toll on you. Do you think you’re ready to speak with him?”

Whatever Dick had expected, this had been the last on the list. He floundered, taking in the words, and then looked down thoughtfully at his hands.

“I think,” he said after a moment, “letting this linger is hurting me more than talking about it will. I need to talk to him, Alfred. I need him to know how much this matters.”

It was apparently the right answer.

When Jason didn’t want to be found, there wasn’t much to be done about it. Crime Alley was only a small part of Gotham, but also the most dense in shadow– and if there was anything a bat could do, it would be to disappear where the light wasn’t.

With Alfred’s tip though, he found Jason in thirty minutes. The roof of a mom and pop ice-cream parlor, tucked into a city street corner between a laundromat and a piercing place. He’s a looming shadow against an air conditioning unit, and there’s a flickering glow of light coming from the cigarette between his fingertips.

Dick landed behind him, his feet soft on the asphalt. “Didn’t you quit?”

The shadow didn’t respond at first, exhaling a slow plume of smoke. “Only on good days.”

Dick walked up, standing beside his brother so they were shoulder to shoulder. Jason offered the box, and Dick silently shook his head. He put the box back in his pocket without so much as a shrug.

“The hell are you doing here, Dickface?” Jason asked. He sounded tired. “Figured the big man wouldn’t have let you leave the house in costume for another week.”

“Well, what B doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Jason grunted noncommittally.

Dick glanced at him through his peripheral, his mouth twisting in thoughtful complication. He thought up different ways to start a conversation. He discarded each one.

It didn’t use to be like this. Dick remembered. He remembered nudging his little brother to get him to talk, taking him out of the house– seeing his little brother’s stomping grounds, taking him to old restaurants and parks that Jason never wanted to ask Bruce about– as often as he could. Not often enough.

It used to be so easy, like it was part of him– and maybe it had been part of him. It just happened to be the part that had died with Jason.

Dick laughed bitterly, running a hand through his hair. “Shit, Jay. I used to be better at this, didn’t I?”

“If that’s what you want to believe,” Jason said bluntly.

Dick shoved their shoulders together. “Come on, I’m being serious. This wasn’t always so bad, was it?”

Maybe his voice was strained. Maybe his pleading was too obvious. Maybe he shouldn’t even be asking Jason this at all— it wasn’t his fault that Dick was so miserable at being the big brother. Jason shouldn’t have to comfort him about his failures.

It was just—

He just—

“No,” Jason said after a moment. “It wasn’t.”

The relief was painful. It was hard knowing, truly knowing, that there was something so important to improve upon. That somewhere along the way, he had fallen so far from his standard.

Dick rubbed a hand over his chest, right over his heart. He pressed deep into the muscle, hard enough to feel the bone underneath. His throat felt heavy. He opened his mouth to let out an apology, but—

“Sorry,” Jason said first, his voice gruff. He kept his eyes trained on the street. His fingers fiddled around the cigarette as it burned and cinders flicked to his boots.

Dick quickly looked up at him. “Sorry?”

“Yes,” Jason gritted out. “I know that’s not what you expected to hear because you don’t give a shit about yourself, but I’m sorry. I’ll stay in my own lane from now on, you don’t need to fake it anymore.”

Dick leaned back, furrowing his eyebrows as sudden bouts of defensiveness coursed through his head. Jason leaving was the last thing he wanted, for the rest of time.

“Jason, what the hell are you talking about?” Dick strangled himself for words. He started pacing across the rooftop, tugging at his hair again. “Fuck, do all of my baby brothers think I just want them gone?”

“That’s the thing, Dick,” Jason said back, his words sharper than his knives. “I don’t even think you realize it. I think you’re just so good at ignoring your own bullshit that you don’t see how much you’re still fucking terrified of me.”

Dick stalled. He slowly turned around, his hands falling from his hair.

“Is that what this is?” Dick asked, pressing forward. “You think I’m scared of you?”

“No need to get theatrical. I’m not blaming you,” Jason rolled his eyes, finally flicking the cigarette to the floor. “I’m violent, I don’t play nice. I nearly fucking killed Tim, that alone is enough to cement a piss-poor relationship. I’m not the little kid you used to take out for fuckin’ milkshakes anymore.”

Dick bit down on his tongue, watching the way Jason stumbled over his next few words. He crushed the cigarette under his boot and pulled out a new one from his pack, holding it unlit in his hands.

“I thought we’d resolved it,” Jason admitted finally. He looked up at Dick with his lips pulled into a tight smile. “Or that, at least, you didn’t totally fucking abhor me anymore? I don’t know. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I fucked up. I’m still fucking up. I’m still atoning. I know that now. So, I say again, genuinely. I’m sorry.”

Dick stared at him for a long moment, feeling fire in his blood. An uncomfortable heat in his head that made him sick from pressure, a volcano that didn’t know where to burst from. He took a steadying breath and shut his eyes.

“Sit down,” he said.

Jason scoffed. “What?”

“Sit down,” Dick said again, and slumped next to him on the floor. He extended his legs out and leaned back on his palms. “Please.”

Jason slowly crouched down to join him. He leaned his back against the air conditioning unit again. There was a tenseness to him, his jaw set in a firm line. He wouldn't hesitate to start fighting again, if the conversation called for it.

They sat quietly while Dick put his thoughts in order, Jason fidgeting in an obvious discomfort.

“When I got hit with the toxin, I saw the circus,” Dick said. “Damian and I were on the trapeze.”

Dick had told him once, about the circus. Had showed him the pictures of his parents, had told him why Bruce really adopted him. Told him about Zucco. About Robin. About all of it. Jason knew what it all meant to him. He knew.

Jason’s gaze dropped to the floor, and he sighed heavily. “Shit. You don’t have to—“

“Damian fell. I caught him, but it wasn’t enough,” Dick continued, growing louder over Jason’s interruptions. “He was bleeding, he had a concussion, it was bad. That was when you showed up to help. And you took him, you asked what happened. You figured out I hadn’t saved him, and you said that—“

His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, determined to continue. “You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. That’s why it hurt so much.”

“You weren’t hurt. You were terrified, Dickie,” Jason said lowly, looking at him with haunted eyes. “What the hell could I have said to make you so fucking scared?”

Dick hesitated, letting a shiver run over him as he thought back to the hallucination. He made a complicated sound. “That's not the point, though, is it? You don’t really want to know that.”

“No,” Jason decided quietly. “No, I guess I don’t.”

“The point is,” Dick leaned forward, looking right at him. Making himself as clear as he could be. “I was never afraid of you.”

“You should be,” Jason croaked weakly. “I’m no good. I always have been.”

“No, Jay,” Dick shook his head vehemently and lightly nudged his side. “You’ve always been good. Always. More than good, even. Magic.”

Jason barked out a wet laugh, covering his eyes with his hand. “I said it one time. You’re such an asshole.”

“But it’s true,” Dick smiled, his eyes bleary. “From way back when you were all bony elbows and small enough for me to haul over my shoulder, you’ve been magic. You made me who I am, Jason. We have quite the big crew now, but you’ll always be the one who made me a big brother. Once upon a time it was just the two of us. That means something.”

“I ruined you,” Jason argued roughly, his voice cracking up faster than he can repair it. He swallowed. “You said it yourself, all this shit used to be easier before. I fucked it all up.”

Dick put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “You didn’t fuck it up. I can prove it too: we’re both still here, and against all odds, you’re by my side. That tells me more than anything that we can still salvage this.”

“Do you really want that?” Jason asked dryly.

“Jason, the years I didn’t have you next to me were the worst ones of my life,” Dick said, the humor leaving him completely. “I didn’t know what to do with myself. It felt like I was always a day away from giving up. Now that I have you back again…”

He trailed off, and they both fell into a silence. Words intoned. Words left unsaid. Jason nudged him with the toe of his boot, a nonverbal sign of acknowledgement. A physical sign that he was still there. Dick nodded once, and Jason looked away.

“You know,” Dick said after a moment. “I actually think I have something that can fix this.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” Jason sniffed, cocking his head to the side. His eyes red-rimmed, but focused. “D’you got emotional superglue in that fucking utility belt?”

“Close,” Dick said, and wiped his face of all tears. He pulled out his wallet, and held up a twenty dollar bill. “I have it on good authority that milkshakes fix everything.”

Jason let out a heavy sigh, staring at the money in hand. “Well, shit. When you put it like that…”

Dick wiggled his eyebrows, and Jason cracked an indulgent smile.

Just like that, it became easy again. A familiar song played on rusty strings. Their eyes still red, their voices still raw— they hauled themselves up by eachother’s arms and started again.

As they bump shoulders on their way through the front door, the last piece of his soul jostled into its rightful place.

"Little Wing, you know I love you, right?" Dick asked, stirring his milkshake aimlessly with a frosted metal straw.

Jason looked up the crummy diner table and stared for a long moment, before relenting.

"Yeah," he said easily. He had chocolate on the corners of his mouth, just like a little kid, like nothing had ever changed at all. "I know, Dickie."

Dick smiled and nodded to himself.

Yes, every piece of his soul where it should be. Even if cracked and dented in odd places, they were all there. Finally, he felt like the world was righted.

[theothebogwitch]

My Thoughts on the 2024 Election Results…

How? How could he win again?!

A putrid, vile, decrepit man with no right to wield the power he has been given. A man so lacking in intelligence that he can barely form coherent sentences. A man who would see our democracy fall to ash and ruin instead of conceding to defeat. A man who insighted violence upon our nation's capital so that he might cling to his fleeting power.

How does such a man take the seat at the head of our nation once more, over an impeccably intelligent, well-spoken woman?

How?!

The outcome of this election feels like the punchline to a bad comedy. The looming fact that it is now not a matter of if my rights to live, and love freely and openly will be taken from me, but a matter of when. Rights that have been so vehemently fought for throughout decades of activism and protest, now will be dissolved before I have ever had the chance to exercise them. Where my heart not so blackened by despair, I could almost laugh at the cruel comedy of it all.

It doesn't feel real. It feels like a horrible dream. A terrible reoccurring dream that I cannot wake from. It doesn't make sense. How did he so handily win when he was so widely disliked? How did he win the popular vote? How did he win, when it was almost a universal sentiment that we needed someone younger in the Oval Office? Was I truly in such an air-tight leftist echo chamber that I couldn't fathom this outcome? Was I truly this blind to how far right our country had fallen? I am not one to fall for conspiracy easily, but it feels like there was some sort of outside influence or some underhanded business. How do we have a record-breaking voter turnout and voting lines longer than we have seen in decades... and yet nearly 18 million fewer total votes than in 2020?

Do men truly so vehemently hate women that they would rather sign the death warrant on our democracy than see a woman take the office of President?

Was the economy truly such a grand issue? Was his "concept of a plan" really so convincing? If you think a man, with 34 felony convictions, and at least 6 corporate bankruptcies, is going to fix our economy you are irreparably stupid. Was the false promise of lower gas prices so enticing that you would sign our country over to tyranny? All these economic promises are naught but illusions, and deceptions, lies told by a vile man who will do anything to maintain his chokehold on power.

And spare me the empty, condescending platitudes that masquerade as hope, for they offer no solace. The unbearable anger and despair that has come to bear upon my shoulders feels as if it could crush me under its weight. Each moment that drags on feels like an eternity, and the thought of waking to see the dawn of another day feels like an improbable miracle. Should I find the strength to draw breath as the sun rises tomorrow, it would be a testament to resilience against these shades that haunt this waking nightmare that has become our reality.

[mistresscitrusslice]

I hate that Arcane made the decision to make Hextech an inherently evil power. It should not have been that simple and the real-world applications are not that simple. Making Hextech evil is an anti-progress message.

Hextech is basically a fantasy reflection of nuclear power. Nuclear power is almost objectively a good thing, but tends to be conflated with nuclear missiles despite there being a huge gap between the two. The best thing coal companies ever did to try and save their industry was to convince us that they’re the same.

Most detractors will point to the Chornobyl disaster as an example of the dangers of nuclear energy. They fail to recognize that that happened largely due to incompetence and outdated reactor designs, all flaws that have been fixed long ago. Today’s reactors have failsafes upon failsafes and risky old designs have been retired. Even the disaster at Fukushima was nowhere near the caliber of Chornobyl. There are millions of people living in Fukushima today.

It is willful ignorance to continue using coal while waiting for a better source of energy to emerge. Nuclear energy isn’t perfect, but it’s far cleaner and safer today than coal power ever has been. Nuclear waste is disposed of with incredible safeguards rather than billowing up to linger in the atmosphere and slowly cook the planet. The US Bureau of Labor recorded about 20 annual deaths per 100k workers in the coal industry in 2021 (while we’re at it, 10 per 100k for oil and gas) while the nuclear industry had exactly zero. Even if nuclear energy isn’t perfect, it’s pretty close, and we’d be fools not to switch over to it until a viable replacement arises (solar and wind are not strong enough, at least right now).

Oh yeah, this was supposed to be about Hextech. Jayce is stupid, Heimerdinger is the coal industry, and I don’t think Viktor has a real-life equivalent in this nuclear-Hextech metaphor. Unless we say he just took bare, unprotected radioactive material and plopped it down in the middle of town square. Or… became the radioactive material, idk. That’s the closest I can get. Jayce saw the Runeterra equivalent of Chornobyl and decided to shut down all Hextech operations immediately. I understand why, but that doesn’t make him right. Heimerdinger is comfortable with the way things are now, in no small part because it’s comfortable for him even though Zaunites had it so bad in the coal mines they had a whole attempted revolution over it. Perhaps he was right and Hextech needed more safeguards, but there was no reason to eliminate it entirely. You want Zaunites to stop dying in the mines? Support Hextech so people have a better power source. (That’s not gonna fix everything; mostly a systemic change is needed, but Hextech instead of coal would also help.)

Let’s assess the problems with Hextech. There seem to be two central ones: the spread of magical energy causing Ekko’s tree rot and Viktor’s… whole thing.

The source of the magical energy rotting Ekko’s favorite tree comes from the Hexgates surging over capacity and releasing that energy underground thanks to the redirection tunnel/chamber that they built. This is a fixable problem. They can relocate the Hexgates, design a way to absorb the magical energy, find ways to relieve the magical buildup before it becomes a problem, etc. Don’t ask me, I’m not a mage.

Now to the Viktor apocalypse. This is a very fixable problem. THROW AWAY THE HEXCORE. Whoops, too late, it’s already merged with your husband lab partner? Make your speech about how he was never broken, etc etc. sooner to avoid him becoming Hextech Jesus or, failing all better solutions, detain him. Just detain him! I don’t like it either, but if the fate of the world is at stake, you gotta detain Viktor until you can love confession/therapy the Hexcore’s manipulation out of him. Let’s also not ignore the fact that this is a very niche, very unlikely problem to arise again. It was unlikely to begin with. No other project Jayce and Viktor worked on posed any threat of this problem. Caitlyn’s gun did not have thoughts of world domination. Viktor just happened to create the world’s cultiest AI. Actually, we don’t even know if the Hexcore was like this before the introduction of shimmer. It could be that those two are just a horrible combination and Hextech on its own doesn’t have the Glorious Evolution issue; only the magical contamination issue in the above Ekko tree section.

Sorry about the long post and sorry about the nuclear energy detour. Anyway, I’m still pro-Hextech and nothing can change that.

[jandthecrow]

The Ghost

Simon Riley

SUMMARY: Simon Riley is sent back in time to kill the British parliament

CW: Death, talk of death, mentions of ‘atrocious crimes’, doesn’t go too into the deaths

Simon “Ghost” Riley had seen the impossible during his service with Task Force 141 - unthinkable operations, underground missions in hostile territories, and battles fought in the shadows where they can’t be found. But this? This was beyond his comprehension. One moment, he was in a shitty safe house looking over intercepted enemy comms. The next, a flash of light enveloped him, and he found himself standing in an unfamiliar room - ugly Victorian decor (Simon just didn’t like the look), with gas lamps flickering on the walls and a heavy cloud of cigar smoke hanging in the air.

He blinked, adjusting his mask as his surroundings came into focus. Rows of well-dressed men sat at long wooden benches, heatedly debating something that sounded vaguely political. He wasn’t just anywhere… he was in the British Parliament.

“What the hell…” Ghost muttered under his breath.

A loud bang startled him. Turning to his left, he saw a figure in a dark cloak and a crooked smile. “Simon Riley,” the stranger said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “You’ve been brought here for a purpose.”

Ghost’s instincts kicked in. His hand went to his holstered pistol, only to find it gone. Instead, he felt the weight of an old-fashioned revolver tucked into his belt.

“Who are you?” Ghost growled. “And where exactly is here?”

“London, year’s 1834,” the man replied. “The Parliament you see before you is overflowing with corruption, its members complicit in countless atrocities. History calls for a reckoning. That’s where you come in.”

Ghost narrowed his eyes. Time travel? Assassination? It sounded like madness… “Have I lost my shit?” Ghost grumbled to himself. But something about the man’s demeanor convinced him it wasn’t a joke. And if he’d been dropped into this chaos, he had no choice but to play along - for now.

“Fine,” Ghost said. “Who’s the target?”

The man handed him a parchment with several names scrawled in elegant, fancy handwriting - despite the irony he was about to do. Prime Minister Robert Peel, the Earl of Aberdeen, and a half-dozen other prominent figures.

“You’re mad if you think I can take them all out in one go,” Ghost said. “This place is crawling with guards.”

“You’re a ghost, aren’t you?” the man countered. “Disappear. Strike from the shadows. They’ll never see you coming.”

———————————————————————

The mission began as the debates continued late into the night. Ghost stalked the dimly lit corridors of Parliament like a predator, his footfalls silent on the plush carpet. He’d never assassinated a political figure (that he could remember), much less a historical one, but his training kicked in as he evaluated each target.

First was the Earl of Aberdeen, who lingered in the smoking room with a group of sycophants *cough* *cough* arse-kisser, stuck-up creeps. Ghost waited for the group to disperse, then slipped behind the Earl, choking him silently with a garrote improvised from a curtain cord. He laid the body on a chaise longue, arranging it to look like the Earl had fallen asleep.

Next was Robert Peel, the Prime Minister himself. Ghost found him alone in his chambers, writing by candlelight. For a moment, he hesitated. Killing soldiers in the heat of battle was one thing; this felt… different. But then he thought of the stranger’s words: corruption, atrocities. If these men were truly guilty, history would remember them differently.

He crept closer, his revolver aimed. The click of the hammer being pulled back made Peel turn, his eyes wide with fear. “W-who are you?” the Prime Minister stammered.

“A ghost,” Simon replied before pulling the trigger.

———————————————————————

By the time dawn broke, the halls of Parliament were in chaos. Guards scoured the building for the mysterious killer, but Ghost was already gone, melting into the foggy streets of 19th-century London.

He found the stranger waiting for him in an alley. “You’ve done well,” the man said, his grin as sharp as a knife.

“Send me back,” Ghost demanded. “I don’t belong here.”

“All in due time,” the man replied. “But first, there’s another mission. The course of history is fragile, after all.”

Simon “Ghost” Riley didn’t like being anyone’s pawn, but he had little choice. Adjusting his mask, he followed the stranger into the shadows, ready to face whatever the past - or even future - had in store.

@ghost-askblog here’s the story about you going back in time and assassinating the British parliament, cheers mate 🍻

[moonlight-tmd]

Blitzbee

Pre-relationship, but crushing hard.

During a battle, they get stuck in a cave together.

i aM SO SORRY- i went on hiatus with tumblr post and completely forgot about the inbox! i will alnswer every single ask i have in there, dw-

For this one, I actually had a similar idea, perhaps even better than the original prompt.

So, imagine this; some mission involving a cave system happens and Lugnut does his thing and causes a cave in. Bee and Blitz were too busy taunt-teasing one another to pay attention to the evacuation screams. They got locked in and had to cease fighting for the time being.

The entrance wasn't very far but there was a lot of rubble in the way and scattered in the cavern, dust was still floating in the air and the two were talking. It was a moment that Bee noticed he was feeling odd, Blitzwing wasn't doing any better. Somethign was up with the air here....

They tried to shut their ventilation systems but it didn't work for long, the cavern itself was pretty warm and the fighting earlier left them running hot. Everything was starting to get blurry, speaking was beginning to be sloppy... but their worry quickly faded and they just sat there looking at one another- ever since Bee saw Blitzwing he developed a tiny bit of a crush on him. Blitz was big and strong, his frame proved to be quite attractive as odd as it was. Bee was accustomed to the human culture and its quirks, so hearing Blitzwing adapt the german accent to his speech was a cherry on top.

But it wasn't only Bee who felt like that; Blitzwing had more than needed fights with Bee and never one of them was the same as teh last one. Bee was fast and agile, his fast reaction and critical thinking alongside the sharp glossa have proven to give a challange to Blitz. The minibot himself wasn't bad-looking, he was quite cute actually and had that mischevious charm to him. Blitzwing found himself looking forward to encountering Bee whenever he was out.

Bee didn't know he slipped and started speaking, only after Blitzwing replied with a similar compliment he realized they were having a conversation. Nonetheless he continues saying how he likes Blitzwing, his manners and frame. Only for Blitzwing to return the adoration with the same if not bigger affection.

They were starting to feel more dizzy and the feeling inside bloomed the longer they heard one another speak their love. Blitz picked Bee up and place him on his lap for cuddles and they went on with their confessions...

Meanwhile Team Prime has been busy desperately clearing up the entrance. Turns out the gas condensed within few of he chambers near the cave system have chemichal composition similar to cybertronian drugs- the chambers have opened when Lugnut caused the cave in and began to spill outside thru the cracks. They only found that out when Bulkhead who worked in the front started swaying and collapsed halfway into the clearing, Optimus and Prowl had to wear masks and shut their vents to work while Ratchet took care of Bulk some distance away.

Eventually they dug thru to the large cave chamber, the dust was thick but htey could still hear things shuffling around. They feared Bee might have gotten seriously injured or even killed as they looked around and saw a giant figure somewhere in the back. They heard a voice- no, two voices as they neared...

But they didn't find what they were expecting to find. If fact, it was quite the opposite.

Blitzwing was sitting on the ground, holding Bee close while the scout snuggled in and murmured sweet nothings to him. At some point the two must have noticed the other two's presence and Blitz growled at them.

Bee said something nearly incoherent and instead showered Blitz with affection. They just stood there watching as Bee blabbered words of love and showered his inky face with kisses. Blitz only purred and made little trilling noises, eventually moving his face so the glossa that's been hanging out of his intake for primus knows how long dragged itself across Bee's face in a form of a big lick-kiss. It was then the Bee grabbed his helm and started making out with him.

Optimus and Prowl stepped in just in time to pull the two away from one another. It wasn't much trouble cuffing Blitz and both were dragged out of the cave. Thankfully Bulkhead was almost good to drive when the 4 came out.

Blitzwing had been completely disarmed by the gas and his ability to speak was reduced to whines, growls and other animalistic sounds. Bee one the other hand- he was still somewhat comprehensible and would not shut up about adoring Blitzwing. While Blitz was left nearby the cave cuffed for hte other cons to find him, Bee was blabbering about how much he loves Blitz and how sweet, gentle and attractive he is and so on. He was completely drunk on love even after returning to base. His drugged love blabbering were turning into lust blabbering- Optimus had to hold him down while Ratchet plugged the cables to initiate the forced stasis protocol... Let's just say, the comment Bee made thinking it was Blitzwing holding him down made Op a little more than awkward.

When Bee finally came back to his senses he was having a hard time staying online- it was all so dizzy and he couldn't get anything down his throat, the head ache that literally spilled to the rest of his frame was not helping. Once he was mostly back to normal he asked what has happened. All of them seemed to not wanna tell him... well, all of them except Ratchet, who for all he knew told him how insufferable he's been with his drug-induced love for Blitzwing... and if that wasn't bad enough apparently they were kissing in that cave, from that Op told him... Yup, it was time to die.

Jokes aside, he felt so incredibly embarrased. Him- kissing Blitzwing?? The Enemy?!? Part of him refused to believe it was real, there was just no way. He didn't even remember what happened after they entered the cave!

But then the same night it all- well, most of it, returned to him. He saw the flashbacks and heard the words of love coming out of Blitzwing's derma. Him caressing Bee so gently and lovingly... When Bee woke up he couldn't have been more of a blushing mess.

And so was Blitzwing apparently, Lugnut found him a little more over 24h cuffed at the cave, he was somewhat conscious but still incomprehensible in speech, only mumbling something about a "hummel" while ocassionally giggling a little. Lugnut took him back to base, reported the situation to Megatron and left Blitz uncuffed in his own room. Blitzwing woke up with a headache and some nausea but was still forced to work, even if it meant data and monitor duty. His other personalities were arguing over his frame status until the flashes of the previous day slowly flooded back to him. He was just sitting there frozen and flustered as frag as he recalled what he did- what Bumblebee did. What they both did!

...Megatron decided to send him off to get better in his room seeing how slow and unefficient he was being at the work station. That certainly added to the sheer embarrasment and intrusive thoughts when he was left all alone in his nook in the mine. What stuck to him in particular were the love confessions that the minibot whispered to him when they were back there... did Bee really mean that? How long has he been hiding his feeelings? Did he know Blitzwing liked him back? All the questions were buzzing in his mind and not a single answer arose... at least until he bumped into said minibot on one of his patrols.

ever since the cave accident they both seemed to avoid one another, that however didn't last long as they quite literally walked into one another while hanging around one of the parks further away from the city at twilight.

It was so fragging awkward- both of them didn't know what to say- IF they should say anything but none of them wanted the other to leave without getting answers... For once, Bee took the logical approach to the situation. He managed to explain what happened in that cave and that the actions that ensued were effect of the drug-gas.

For a moment it seemed like Blitzwing was disappointed for the answer... Bee thought they would leave it at that, but then Blitz brought up what Bee said in that cave and that he liked him. It... wow.

Bee system literaly froze when Blitz said that, it took an awful bit of time to unfreeze it but when he did he was a stuttering blushy mess. It was hard to form a proper sentence but from what snippets of phrases he said Blitzwing managed to hear he liked him back.

It didn't take long at all for random to pop out and pick up Bee to spin around and hug tightly and also maybe leave kisses on his helm. Yep, Bee was definitely gonna faint if Blitz didn't stop when he did.

So i guess, this is yet another way to start their romance added to the collection. Idk what's with the stuck somewhere while drugged scenarios, they just work. Hope you had fun reading and sorry again for the delay!

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 49: Alexander's Task

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tw: mind control, hypnotic induction, branding, possessiveness, drunkenness

September 1925

The walk home from the ballet had been somber, to say the least. Oliver had started off the night so excited, and he knew Alexander had, too, anticipating a lovely night out. But now Oliver was terrified, and his master was simmering in fury in a way that Oliver hadn't seen from him before.

"Not at you, Oliver," he said when pressed. "I'm not angry with you. You followed my instructions; you couldn't have done any better. No, it's my sire I'm furious at."

Oliver nodded and swallowed the lump in his throat. "Is he actually going to drink from me, sir?"

Unsurprisingly, this made Alexander's fury deepen. He took a long time before answering. "My hands are tied. Certain arrangements have to be made."

"What does that mean, sir?"

"...Leave me. I'm in no state to -- we'll discuss it next evening."

And Oliver had no choice but to comply with his master's wishes, as the waves that usually drew him closer to Alexander were now pushing him away. 

Alexander stormed off to his quarters the moment they arrived at home, and Oliver didn't dare follow. Instead, he did his best to comfort himself with a mug of warm milk and a supper of buttered bread. Afterwards, he retired to his own chambers early, curled up in his soft warm bed but unable to rest, flipping listlessly through books, unable to focus on any words and looking only at the illustration plates.

It was as if he could still feel the ancient vampire's unnatural grip on his body. He didn't want that vampire to visit, and despite all of his conditioning, he certainly didn't want him drinking his blood.

His blood was his master's alone -- and that thought certainly was the conditioning, stronger in his mind than any of his own convictions.

It was well past morning when he finally sank into a restless sleep, tossing and turning and waking up halfway from nightmares. By the time he fully awoke, it was already evening again, his room dark and foreboding, reminding him of his fears. Alexander's sire was arriving tomorrow evening. 

He had to talk to his master. He had to know what to do, how to behave, to avoid being harmed. But when Oliver emerged from his room, flickering gas lamp in hand, his master was nowhere to be found. Oliver checked every corner of the library, the music room, the parlor, a dozen disorienting spare rooms filled with more books and storage crates and bits of random furniture. Either Alexander had left the manor or he was still confined to his room. 

Even Oliver's need wasn't enough to overcome his fear of knocking on the door. One of the few rules of the manor was that Alexander's room was off-limits without permission, and the last thing he wanted was for his master to be angry at him when he so desperately needed his protection. All he could really do was wait, and worry, and take a long hot bath in the hopes that it would ease his worries, and inevitably end up worrying in the hot bath.

If only he didn't have to worry about any of this! If only he could simply be Alexander's thrall, spending his days in the library and providing his master with blood. He was meant to be loyal to Alexander, the perfect thrall, wasn't he? When he closed his eyes and imagined, he could almost hear the song calling to him.

His master needed his help, and Oliver wanted so badly to be helpful.

He toweled off from the shower, making sure to apply lotion to his face and neck, just as they'd done in the auction house. Back in his bedroom, he rifled through the wardrobe to look for something suitable, finally settling on a tasteful red frock. After all, if he couldn't solve his master's problems, he could at least try to cheer him up.

Suitably dressed, he had emerged from his bedroom and was gathering up the courage to go knock on Alexander's bedroom door when he heard a commotion in the foyer and rushed to see.

"Ugh, just drag me to the library and leave me to die," said Alexander, precariously wrapped around Miss Lily, who was dragging him into the manor with a long-suffering look on her face.

"I'll take you to the library, but I'm not going to leave you until you've done what you need to do," she said.

"Screw that. Screw all of it. Screw my goddamn sire and his goddamn rules. Sick and tired of him touching my thralls." It was obvious now that his master was drunk, as he grasped onto Miss Lily for dear life. "He was touching Oliver, my Oliver. He's gonna drink from my Oliver. Put his goddamn fangs in my thrall!"

Oliver's heart clenched at the way his master was talking about him. It was strange, to be wanted, to be possessed, but not at all unwelcome. It gave a strange sort of pleasure to Oliver that his master didn't want anyone else to drink from him.

"Welcome home, sir," said Oliver, emerging into the foyer, doing his best to look like a proper thrall. "Is there... um. Is there anything I can help with...?"

"Oh, now, isn't that just precious," Miss Lily cooed, while Alexander looked as though he were about to pass out.

"Look at him, Lily," he said with a tone of pleading. "He's so loyal, so goddamned perfect. I don't want to hurt him. How can I..."

Oliver's eyes widened. "How can you what, sir?"

"Don't you worry about it, dear," Miss Lily cooed at him, and Oliver could feel his mind soften. "Don't you worry about a thing. Why don't you go make yourself comfortable in the library? Your master will be joining you shortly after I give him a little pep talk."

"Yes, sir," he said. The calm he had managed to carve out for himself had evaporated. What was his master going to do? Was he simply referring to allowing his sire to feed on Oliver? He fussed with his dress -- a garment he still wasn't at all used to -- as he settled onto a couch and waited.

Perhaps ten minutes passed before Miss Lily arrived, carrying an old white tin. She was followed by Alexander, who looked forlorn as he sat down next to Oliver on the couch. Oliver could smell the alcohol on him, and his master wobbled slightly as he regarded Oliver.

"Can't you do it?" he said to Miss Lily in a tone that was nearly a whine.

"You know you have to be the one to do it."

"He won't know."

"He will and you know it."

"I helped you with Miriam."

"And I'll help you with Oliver, but you still need to be the one to do it."

"Do what, sirs?" said Oliver with growing fear. "What are you going to do?"

"You trust your master, don't you?" Miss Lily had settled in on the other side of him, and brushed back his hair to speak in his ear. "You want to be a good and obedient thrall for him, don't you, dear?"

"I trust my master," said Oliver automatically, Miss Lily's voice and her choice of words sinking him into a helpless daze. "I want to be obedient..."

His master leaned over and began to hum in his other ear, a song which washed over his mind and soothed away his fears. "You're my loyal and obedient thrall, aren't you? And you trust me." 

"Yes, Master. Completely loyal and obedient."

"You love being obedient," Miss Lily coaxed. "Obedience is pleasure. You wish to serve."

With Miss Lily's voice and Alexander's song hypnotizing him so thoroughly, he almost felt like he was back in the soft leather chair in the auction house, his sleeping mind open and pliable and oh so very obedient. "I wish to serve," he said. "I -- I just want to help you, Master. I want to be your loyal and obedient thrall."

Alexander's hum was pleased, making Oliver feel so relaxed and so good. "And so you are, Oliver. You're just perfect. I couldn't be more delighted with you."

"Thank you, Master," said Oliver, floating in the bliss of praise.

"You're just so... you're too perfect. That's why I can't bear the thought of my sire drinking from you." His master was leaning his head on Oliver's shoulder.

"I understand, sir. My blood should only be for you."

"Only for me, yes, that's right," said Alexander fiercely. "Only for me."

"But you must obey Alexander's sire as well," said Miss Lily in his other ear. A tone of warning, but Oliver wasn't sure it was for him.

"...Yes," said Alexander after a long hesitation. "You must obey him, and allow him to drink your blood, even if... Just for now, Oliver, just for now. You can do that for me, can't you? You can obey him, because you are loyal to me."

"Yes, sir, I can obey."

"Obedience is pleasure," whispered Miss Lily. "You only desire to serve."

"I only desire to serve, sir."

"Lex, you need to --"

"I know," said Alexander, and his song changed subtly. Instead of inducing obedience, Oliver felt his mind being shifted, further entranced, his thoughts becoming foggy and far away. It was like falling asleep with his eyes wide open. "You're safe, Oliver. You're safe with me."

"Safe... Master..." he slurred, his head growing heavy and coming to rest on his master's shoulder. 

Alexander was rubbing his back gently. "I need to do something now. It's important, and unavoidable. You are going to lose awareness as it happens, and when you wake, you will feel no pain."

"What..." He wanted to ask, but his mind was slipping under the waves of his master's song, the song that was now urging him into sleep.

"Shut your eyes, Oliver," said Miss Lily. "Become unaware of everything around you except for our voices. You won't feel a thing."

"Nothing but our voices and a deep, dreamless sleep," said Alexander. "Rest, now, Oliver. You're so obedient, so loyal, so good. You can rest. You can be still, so very still, as you sink into a place where you will feel no pain."

Oliver's vision blurred as his eyes began to close, leaning back against the couch as his master ran his hand through his hair. He was surrounded by song - obey, relax, go to sleep, feel no pain - and everything else was fading away until he was floating, floating in the deepest abyss of the ocean, where there was nothing but darkness and the rush of cool water and his Master's beautiful siren song.

He could obey. He could give himself over to his Master, body, mind, and soul. It was the easiest thing in the world.

Oliver wasn't sure how long he floated there in contented bliss. Time had lost all meaning, all of his senses dulled and drowsy. Finally, as if a hand was reaching down from the surface of the water, his Master spoke once more. "You can wake now, Oliver. You'll feel no pain and no distress as you wake."

His eyes opened, and he was back in the library, still feeling strangely disconnected from his body. His Master looked grim, but surely it wasn't because of him. He was a good thrall, and he had obeyed. 

His shoulders felt cool, and it took him a moment to realize that his dress was gone, neatly folded up and sitting on a nearby table. His chest was bared, and there was a bandage just below his collarbone. His head fogged again, and he felt numb, almost as if he weren't allowed to perceive all of this.

"Don't worry about that, Oliver," said Alexander, grasping his chin and drawing his gaze up. "You were just perfect."

"Thank you, sir." 

Alexander collapsed onto the couch beside him, as though he'd been through some great ordeal. "There, Lily, it's done. Now can you leave me to die a second time?"

Oliver couldn't help but reach out to him. "Sir, if there's anything I can do... any way I can serve you..."

"You've done everything you were supposed to do," said Miss Lily. "And no one's leaving you to die, Lex. You need to sleep it off. Oliver, you can put him to bed, can't you, dear?"

"Put him to bed, sir?"

"Yes, as you do each night, no doubt."

Oliver looked at Miss Lily, alarmed. "I'm -- I'm not allowed in the bedroom without permission, sir --"

Miss Lily raised an eyebrow. "Really, Lex?"

"I don't need a thrall warming my bed. Hot water bottles and steam heat suffice," said Alexander with a groan. "And I didn't want to get attached."

"...And how is that working out for you?"

Alexander groaned again. "My head is killing me, Lil, spare me the lecture."

"You're hopeless, you know that?" said Miss Lily. "Come on, Oliver. I'll hoist him up and you accompany me. Your master needs your help."

"Of course, sir, right away."

Miss Lily picked up Alexander as though it were nothing, carrying him up the stairs and into the bedroom with Oliver following at her heels. She expertly navigated the cluttered floor in the dark, freezing cold room even as Oliver tripped over discarded laundry. She pulled his shoes off and tossed them aside, pushing Alexander onto the bed and draping the messy covers over him, as he curled up like a sleeping child.

"Go on now, Oliver."

"Me, sir? What should I do?"

"Vampires are cold all the time, in case you haven't noticed. He needs to sleep, and your warmth will help him rest."

Oliver's throat tightened with the thought of crawling into his master's bed, and he couldn't tell if it was fear or anticipation. He looked to Alexander for confirmation of what Miss Lily had said. "Sir... you want me to..."

"God damn it, Lily," he swore. "Just for tonight, yes." A low hum emanated from the mound at the center of the bed, one which drew Oliver near. He felt himself stepping forward, climbing onto the bed, and in a flash, he was sucked under the covers and surrounded by the strong arms of a cold vampire. "You're so warm. It's been ages since I've had a thrall in my bed." He yawned into Oliver's ear as his arms tightened.

"I knew that'd help," said Lily smugly. "Well, I'll be taking my leave. Good luck with our sire." She walked out, shutting the door.

Oliver, meanwhile, stared out into the gloom, his heart thumping. The bed was soft and smelled of floral soap and winter winds, and his master was gripping him so tightly it was almost uncomfortable. "Will this help you sleep, sir?"

"Hmph?"

"Um, will this help you sleep, sir?"

His deep voice was groggy, sounding half-asleep already. "'m never warm. Hard to stay awake when it's so warm." He sighed. "You're a good thrall. I hope you know that."

"Thank you, sir," he said, feeling warm himself from the praise.

"Almost the best thrall."

"...Almost, sir?"

"You should go to sleep, too."

"I can try, sir."

His master's voice hummed a sweet lullaby into his ear, and Oliver was immediately hypnotized once more. The fact that his master sounded so drowsy as he sang only made Oliver succumb to its spell faster. He was so tired, so sleepy, and his master was pleased with him too, inviting him to rest...

He was helping his master, finally. It was so nice to be here.

"You're mine, Oliver," said the voice in his ear. "My thrall, my perfect thrall."

"Yours, sir," Oliver agreed as he drifted off.

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Next time, Alexander takes matters into his own hands.

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