#word count: 5k

[glassrowboat]

Vampire hunter AU (1/3)

Chapter 2 here

Summary: Having everything taken from him, there was only one path left to pursue: revenge.

He would follow that path until the end, Diluc promised himself the need to see a head of blue hair separate from its body all consuming, even as he stumbled. His limbs tried to tell him he couldn't go on, not even as he trekked through a forest path trying to put space between the vampire who had left his shoulder dislocated and body bruised as he followed a lone light up ahead- safety, maybe, or his undoing.

Right now, it didn't matter, for there was a path left to pursue, and he would keep marching on until dawn.

Warnings: Blood, gore, character death, divergence from canon

“Well, this just won't do.”

The voice came somewhere above him. They were chiding him, but their words were muffled through the buzzing filling Diluc's ears. At first he could have sworn it was the never ending scream of cicadas as their wings ruffle with every fluttering leaf of the trees they're hiding in, but the wet trail sliding down from his forehead and to the ground as droplets of red fall from his earlobe he was quickly corrected.

Again, the voice spoke, trying to convey something to him. He failed to make it out over his own pained groans.

Whoever this was didn't sound like a Good Samaritan, not with their obvious annoyance at his existence, as once again, he could hear them trying to shout.

The ground right next to his head was stomped on, maybe by this stranger, to signal someone was moving next to him.

Curiously, a pair of eyes peeked down at the battered and bruised body.

Another step was taken, and some animal- clearly not the person- came right up to him and started sniffing around. Whiskers poked at his skin when it nudged Diluc's head, forcing him to turn it to the side and press his cheek to the grass he had crushed when he tumbled down in a useless heap.

It gave the liquid in his ear a chance to pop.

Actually, he was able to hear every sound that filled the forest around him along with that same person scrutinizing him, now distinguished as a female, he could hear her talking. “Yes, he's bleeding. Maybe if you had alerted me sooner, you damn dog, there would be less blood on my front lawn.”

Said dog barked.

“But he clashes with the decor!”

Another bark.

Whatever was going on made Diluc just want to roll over and accept the haze, coaxing him into accepting the lingering tug at the back of his mind to simply fall asleep. At least that would be easier than trying to figure out a conversation this person seemed to be having with a barking dog.

A few seconds, or maybe even minutes, passed before the woman startled Diluc back awake with a huffed out “Fine.”

Clothes ruffled as a shadow passed over him just as a raven cawed in the distance. It was shrill, but like an alarm clock it forced Diluc to open his eyes for just a moment, like he was hoping to find the thing so he could reach over and smack it until the sound turned off. They took a moment to adjust, but that moment barely helped as his vision was blurry regardless; no doubt from the harsh hit he had received at the back of his head.

The one relief Diluc had was his ability to make out the purple fabric of a skirt covered in pleats and lace hanging from a figure who was slowly moving away from him.

So, you were leaving him to die a slow, painful death.

So much for finding some help.

Diluc shifted, all his energy going into trying to sit up with his one good arm to prop him up so he could say- well, he wasn't sure. A good riddance, maybe, or a plea for you to save him. Both options danced on his tongue as you looked back at him.

Maybe you were considering leaving him out here to become food for the birds and the maggots.

“But if you want me to help him, you have to carry him inside.”

Still, you were either talking to someone he couldn't see or the dog, but it hardly mattered when Diluc was trying to ignore the sharp pain in his shoulder begging him to lay back down, but he didn't even have the chance to try as the dog seemed to-

He had to be going crazy. Or he had a concussion. There had to be some explanation as to how the fluffy black and white creature with pale blue who only a moment ago had one of its ears up and the other lazily flopped against its head seemed to transform into something else vaguely human and with what could only be called a smirk.

On a dog.

What was it he heard about injury induced hallucinations?

“And he's staying on your cot.” You stated, making it clear there was no room for arguing with your firm tone.

“Stuck with the consequences of my own actions.” Someone said with a chuckle, right before a pair of hands slipped into the crook of Diluc’s armpits and hoisted him up.

The movement jostled him, leaving Diluc's head spinning with pain and nauseousness as the black edges of his vision started to close in again, leaving it spotted and hazy.

With a fluttering of his eyelashes, Diluc caught sight of a beautiful woman holding a painted door, just like the color of your expansive skirts, open for him as you invited him into your home.

Then everything turned black.

By the time the two men had come into your home, one with his feet being dragged across the ground as one boot slipped off as it got caught on a loose floorboard sticking out, you were already holding a bucket full of warm, soapy water with your sleeves rolled up as high as they could go. It sloshed as you set it down, almost getting the blanket hanging off the unmade cot wet with a few droplets. It's not like it would bother someone who's passed out, but you moved the bucket slightly to the right regardless.

“You don't look too pleased about having to take care of this guy.” Your familiar said with amusement clear in his tone even when he groaned at the relieving loss of weight on his arms as he set the bloodied stranger down.

The cot creaked as it welcomed the stranger into its feather stuffed mattress.

“I'm not in the mood for your comments, you mangy mutt.” Taking the washcloth you had tossed into the water earlier, you picked it up and started wringing it out.

“And to think I used to be called ‘Your Grace’.” Trying to lean back against one of the many tables covered in all sorts of jars full of animal organs, knick knacks, and a forgotten plate of sugary pastries as he spoke, it skidded over the floor.

Immediately, your familiar shot back up again with a sheepish grin.

You clicked your tongue. “Well, Your Grace, I need you to go prepare some things for our guest. The usual bundle.”

“Including my clothes? I hate having another man's junk in my pants.”

“Get over it.” Plus, you were lacking other options unless you both wanted to try and stuff this bloodied stranger into a corset.

“Oh, and before I forget-”

He was already halfway up the stairs when you called out to him, trying to get his attention long enough to remind the dog to add a bar of soap for you. There will be a need to restock, then, but the village was only a mile walk from here.

Cutting you off he said: “I know what I'm doing.”

With one last step up those old stairs, you couldn't see him anymore, leaving you with only the man at your side.

He stirred slightly, but didn't wake.

“It's been a few decades since we've had a visitor, but that mutt is as sure of the procedure for this as always.”

You wanted to blame it on his self assuredness, as always, even when you knew it was simply because he had a heart far too large for his own body and an overwhelming need to help passing strays.

Unfortunately.

“Well, it's just you and I then, mister.”

Looking down at the redhead, you took in each cut, each gash in need of treatment and a little TLC as your eyes trailed over his wounded body. He's a toned yet lean man, had those calluses on his hands your familiar pointed out when dragging the guy in implying he at least knew a bit of swordsmanship, and had hints of cute little freckles spotting his nose; surely with a bit of much needed sun they'd stand out even further.

Reaching his rounded cheeks, your scrutinizing eye was stopped short. He was young, still bore a baby face, but had faced something aiming to hurt, if not kill him.

An attempt at his life surely caused his tight expression, even in sleep.

Truly, he should be getting married to some pretty young woman and living the life of any perfect couple instead of laying here in your home.

The redhead muttered, whispering broken utterances that had you reevaluating if he actually was knocked out. Your fingers were already reaching out for a bottle of a homemade sleeping brew when you realized he was simply taking in his sleep.

“Okay, correction: maybe your dreams are with us too.”

Pulling his shirt up to reach the first gash, tearing this stranger's flesh in two, your washcloth - more like a spare rag- met his flesh. You tried not to pay attention to the fact you're wearing one of your nicer dresses as his blood seeped into the cloth and painted your nails red.

As you worked, cleaning him up and stitching the deeper cuts you caught the words vampire, Kaeya, father, and much more as he kept talking and talking with a hand reaching up, almost instinctively, to something hidden under his ruined shirt causing metal object to shine through the ripped bits of fabric.

“Now what is this?” You asked as you watched the redhead continue to toss and turn with a badge clutched to his wildly beating heart.

The sky was overcast, leaving the ground below a greenish gray as the once vibrant grass swayed with the howling winds around him. It whipped at anything within reach. His hair, the tail coats of his jacket, and the pierced skin of Crepus’ flesh right when a pair of sharp fangs pulled out of him.

Blood covered his father's neck, dripping down until it slid into the confines of his clothes.

Shortly after the fabric turned red.

Just like the color of the eyes watching him.

Diluc screamed, but the wind carried it away and towards the path he had been traversing only minutes prior in a carriage, now broken and trampled upon, as Crepus said “Good job. Now, that's my son.”

It was praise for becoming a Paladin in service of the church after all his hard work finally came to fruition. Now, the words felt hollow.

“Is there really a need for the yelling?”

Across from Diluc, Crepus' limp body dropped to the ground as the blue haired creature let him slip from its grasp. The scowl it was wearing as it spoke only showed off its pointed fangs further.

“You!” Diluc exclaimed before charging forward.

His boot hit the ground as Diluc charged forward, barely missing the handle of his once trusty claymore by an inch. He had spent years with it by his side, memorizing both its leathery grip and weight, but he was tumbling to the ground with an empty hand because he missed its hilt.

Quickly, he got up again as the creature called him pathetic.

With the claymore behind him and his unwillingness to let this thing out of his sight Diluc picked up the odd gold and red item embedded into a glove his father had been wielding when he tried to take the creature on himself. For a moment, he could have sworn it winked at him, drawing his attention to the strange mark on its face matching the one on the creature's mask; a perfect copy down to the last dot.

Without the time to stop and contemplate why his father had an item clearly tied to the very thing that killed him, Diluc pulled the glove on.

The minty blue haired man flicked his hand to rid it of the blood he had stolen from Crepus. Like his father meant nothing at all more than a quick snack.

The realization had Diluc's teeth grinding together as his festering anger flared.

A chain burst forth.

Under Diluc's behest, it moved, darting towards the man- or what could only be called a vampire with how it feeds on the ichor of life. Like an eagle, the chain seemed to soar, metal flying across the field they stood in and darted towards its prey with a pointed beak.

It was dodged with ease. Diluc didn't even so much as tear the vampire’s white jacket.

At that realization he tried to call another.

Iron clashed against something he couldn't make out properly, with the vampire’s speed causing sparks to kick up in the air.

If Diluc could overwhelm him.

More chains would help.

They could-

Just as another chain was called from the abyss, Diluc stumbled. His body fell against the wrecked carriage, hitting it on the same side one of the wheels had been torn from its axle during the chaos. Around it lay broken crates with everything they had been storing before now strewn across the ground.

If he could just do more.

More, more, more.

Diluc's hand rose, even through the pain trying to crawl up his spine in an attempt to still his actions. Diluc summoned another chain before he fell to the ground once again.

A cry was heard shouting out the word no. It came out strangled, choked, but Diluc would recognize his father's voice no matter how warbled it may be. The realization Crepus was still alive had the long rope of metal falling away, disappearing as quickly as it came; into nothingness.

“Father?”

Immediately, Diluc turned to look over at him, soaking in the sight of Crepus propped up against a lone tree and trying to hold a hand over his wound. With each passing second Crepus’ arm seemed to be getting weaker, slipping from the bite mark even as he tried to stem the bleeding. Surely, if he delayed too long, it would drop and never move again.

“Tch. Is that the best you can do?”

Stepping over him, the creature pressed a single white shoe over Diluc's hand. He tensed, waiting for the bones to be crushed, but nothing happened.

“You and that fool both had a chance to wound me using what has to be a stolen Evil Eye, but you both ended up being nothing more than disappointments. What a waste of time.”

The blue haired man stared down at him for a moment, eyes narrowed behind his mask, before he lifted his foot and walked away saying “I have better things to be doing than this.”

The last thing Diluc saw of him was the collar of his jacket being straightened.

The vampire could leave both Diluc and his father behind without a second thought while he was stuck there, barely able to gather the strength to stand so he could stumbled over to Crepus.

Diluc's knees hit the ground beneath him, barely registering the way the ground under him was wet despite the lack of a downpour and grabbed Crepus’ shoulders. A single shake didn't seem to stir him. Another only earned him a hanging head tilting to the side with a low groan.

“I'm right here. Please, just-” Shaking Crepus wasn't doing anything besides hiding the trembling of his own hands as Diluc gripped his father harder, refusing to let go as he moved to take over the job his father had been trying to handle.

“Master Crepus?”

Diluc stilled at the new voice, right before Kaeya, his brother, stepped into view. His dark head of blue hair fit the dreary skies well, blending in almost perfectly. In happier moments, he had mocked him for the mullet he was growing, but that joy seemed fainter than the cathedral’s bells ringing as you walked into Mondstadt's front gates.

“He- we-” Diluc shook his head as his explanation came short. Too much happened too fast, and he was still trying to process that on top of trying to keep pressure on his father's wounds to no avail. “We need bandages. The convoy I was escorting doesn't have any medical supplies.”

It wouldn't matter if there was, anyway, not when everything had been destroyed.

“Diluc, he's….”

Kaeya didn't finish his sentence- couldn't- but there was no need to when they both knew what he was going to say.

Diluc wanted to shout that no, his father would make it, despite the obvious truth: all the man could muster as he slowly fades from this world was a twitch of his fingers.

A slow painful death awaited him.

Or…

With a shuddering breath, Diluc pulled his hand from his father and grabbed the knife tucked inside his belt.

A sudden drop of rain came down, splattering on the blade as it plunged into his father's chest, giving him the mercy that the vampire refused to afford.

All as Kaeya watched Diluc cry under a rainless sky.

His own startled gasp was sucked in on instinct, silenced, as Diluc realized he wasn't where he last fell asleep. Even if the place he chose to rest was the dirt.

Keeping his eyes closed, he tried to pay attention to his immediate surroundings, but all Diluc could make out was that something was bubbling, forcing him to dare chance a peek at where he was.

Whatever it was popped and sounded like boiling stew as the air trapped inside the swirling liquid rose to the surface, leaving the space around him, smelling of herbs. Diluc couldn't recognize all of them, but he did pick up traces of citrus, ginger root, and rosemary as he came face to face with a giant cauldron right next to his head. So close he could have sworn that had he moved at all during his slumber Diluc’s long hair would have slipped into the fire blazing under the black pot and lost some strands to the flame.

The realization had him pulling away, even as he tensed in expectation of feeling the pain that had been festering under his skin only to find it now soothed. It was still present, but dull compared to the sharp sting it had once been.

“Oh! Look at that, I think our sleeping beauty is awake.”

The same voice- the same woman- spoke, drawing his attention. This time, your figure wasn't warped by his pained delirium, but by the steam climbing up from the odd mix of what he could only hope was a stew and into the cobweb covered rafters above. Hanging from them were bottles of all shapes, sizes, and colors filling the room with rainbows casting over every open surface with the light streaming in and catching on the glass. It tinted your head with hints of pinks and blues all the way down to the wrinkled frock you were wearing over your dress.

Diluc tried to croak out a thank you for bringing him inside and lending him the lumpy cot he was currently resting in only for his attempt at gratefulness to come out choked; broken.

You whispered a small “One second” and the stirring of the pot ceased, and the giant wooden spoon you had been using fell to the side of the cauldron's rim with a dull thud. “You were out for a few days, so you're going to need something to drink before you try talking again.”

Your statement caused Diluc to lick over his lips only for him to find them chapped and dry. No doubt they were bloody too, but it was hard to tell when all he could currently taste was iron.

“There's tea besides you, the finest brew I have thanks to someone's insistence.” Your finger pointed to a spot right next to him, causing Diluc to follow where you were directing him to find a small tea set. It was chipped in places, but the pot was waiting to have the contents inside be sipped at. Next to it was his Evil Eye, along with a few tools of his trade set aside in a neat row and shined despite being covered in dirt the last time he used them.

Counting the items in his head, Diluc looked over them only to find one was missing. His mask should have been….Looking around, he found it on the floor next to a bucket of pure red.

“And don't worry about not being able to pick it up. We fixed your dislocated shoulder while you slept. It's so much easier doing it that way. Means I don't have to worry about you tensing up and making your arm worse in the process.”

With the nagging feeling Diluc was supposed to know who you were talking about in your reference to this ‘we’ he picked up the teapot. For a moment, Diluc let himself feel its weight in his hold, testing how his shoulder was doing, and then filled the cup. With narrowed eyes, he watched the liquid amber stream full of small herb tufts he couldn't recognize fall from the spout.

There was no point in you poisoning him after saving him and he was always taught it's rude to deny a gesture of hospitality, but he still couldn't help but eye the flakes of green leaves as they floated around in circles until finally going still.

Only then did Diluc dare to drink.

“So?” You asked, just waiting for him to finally say something after having to fret over a useless lump of man in your home.

“Thank you.” Diluc said, this time without the struggle to get the words out, no matter how much trepidation was weighing down his tone.

“Thank me?” Laughing at him, you shook your head. “No, no, thank the dog.”

Over the rim of his teacup, right through the small split in the porcelain, Diluc’s eyes landed on the…well, he couldn't tell what breed it was besides the fact it was big with white and black fur, and left him feeling slightly uneasy. “Thank him?”

“Well duh!” You exclaimed, hands going up in the air only to quickly go back to your spoon to start stirring the contents of the cauldron again with a muttered string of nope, nope, nope’s.

Clearly, he had distracted you from your task.

“He's a good buddy of mine. An old pal, a compatriot, a comrade. Pick whichever phrase suits you best.”

“They do say a dog is a man's best friend.”

Diluc himself had always prefered owls.

“Though,” you said, right as Diluc was taking another gulp of tea to soothe his throat, “you think for a vampire hunter, you would recognize a hellhound when you see one. Apparently, those aren't important enough to be in Supernatural 101.”

Diluc’s fingers twitched, closing around the handle of the cup that was already precariously attached to it as he repeated the words “vampire hunter" questioningly.

“Don't play coy.” You immediately chastised, clearly not buying his attempt to act dumb. “I saw your hunters badge on your clothes as I was cleaning you up. Maybe you shouldn't wear it in a spot just anyone could see if they're trying to clean a wound or two.”

His ears burned, leaving Diluc thinking his hair did catch a stray ember from the sizzling firewood as his hand shot up to find that distinct metal badge pressed against him. It was broken from his earlier fight but still held fast to his clothing. Clearly, you didn't deem it fit to take in your cleaning.

He wasn't sure what he would have done if you did.

“Most people aren't looking under my shirt to spot it.” Diluc grumbled. “But I'll be sure to keep that in mind.”

“So you got attacked by a vampire, right?” You pointed the spoon at him, droplets of what you had been stirring falling from the wooden end and back into the mixture. “I mean with your wounds- it's just- I think next time you should let the church handle your pest problem instead of trying to do it yourself. You're clearly new to this line of work.”

“Out of the question.” Diluc's cup clinked as he placed it back down on its mismatched saucer. “I don't need help from that group. They're inefficient at best, weak and conservative at worst.”

“Not a fan of them, I take it?”

“We have different views, is all.”

With a roll of your eyes, you said: “Oh great, this one is prideful as well as mangled.”

The dog- or hellhound- barked, and you laughed in response. Clearly, he was missing something here, but if you were what he thought you were, then you could talk to your good buddy even in this form.

“You must be a witch then?”

“What gives it away? The shapeshifting mutt or the potion brewing.”

“Both, actually, and more.”

It was everything, really. The living in the middle of a forest rumored to be cursed without seemingly any issue certainly didn't hurt, neither did the few glimpses he caught of the outside of your cottage smack dab in the middle of a clearing with floating lights about, dragging a strange man into your house and not even tying them down to ensure your safety (he would of in your shoes, but he's grateful you didn't bother), or the transforming dog. It all stacked up one on top of each other to fill out a giant puzzle picturing one very simple image, even with some pieces still missing.

“Why aren't you living with your coven then if you're a witch?” Diluc asked.

“So you know that at least, huh? But the only coven within miles is the Hexenzirkel and we're-” you paused. “Let's just say I prefer being here.”

Diluc's brow rose as you avoided his question, only causing the unease he was trying to not outwardly show to become more prominent. Ignoring that nagging feeling, Diluc's mouth worked before his mind. “Forgive me, I have yet to meet a witch before now, but aren't you supposed to look different?”

“Oh you're new new to this.” The contents of the cauldron rippled as you dropped the spoon to stir the contents of the cauldron again. “Look, hunter, do you see a face covered in moles before you? And I can assure you that not a single part of me is green.”

You scoffed.

“Honestly you need to stop listening to local gossip so much. People just like to talk, and when they don't have anything to talk about, they make things up.”

“Again, my apologies.” Diluc mumbled, having half a mind to pick the teacup up again so he could occupy himself with taking another sip instead of fumbling over his own words.

“Simply be mindful. Besides that, do you have any other questions for me?”

“I do.”

“Later then, mister. I'm not going to answer you like this, not when you are so clearly in need of a bath. You reek worse than the dog.”

You clearly ignored the hellhound looking up at you as you continued to work, eyes stubbornly set away from his pointed stare.

“Now, the bath is upstairs, the second door on the right, and there's already some clothes and a towel for you.”

“But-” He didn't even know your name despite the fact you surely saved him from making your front lawn his death bed.

“And introductions can wait later.”

Diluc, just like the hellhound, stared up at you as you refused to acknowledge him any further, too. You weren't doing yourself and favors in making him feel like he had to be careful about you, but you surely felt just as cautious of him. This, along with many other reasons, was why he primarily worked alone.

But look where that got him.

Out of his jumbled assortment, Diluc finally picked a query, one he needed to have an answer to before anything else happened.

“I didn't know witches could read minds.”

“I can't, but I know a witch that can. Though, she isn't important right now. Bath.”

He was unhappy about it, but Diluc took the clear hint, shoved right into his face, and got out of the cot to make his way up the stairs.

Once again he caught you talking to the hellhound as it barked leaving the last words Diluc heard right as his feet hit the landing were “No, Wrio, I don't think he didn't drink the tea because it wasn't to his taste. Honestly.”

Then you were muffled by the bathroom door.

It opened with a loud creak, the hinges in clear need of some oil, but otherwise, the room seemed fairly state of the art even with the clawfoot tub in the middle and plants everywhere. One even seemed to reach out for him as he walked past to find the pile of clothing (that looked a little too big for him) you were talking about. On top of it lay a single scrap of paper clearly ripped out from a bigger sheet that read ‘when you're done there will be a potion waiting for you. It's best to drink it, or the witch will have your head.”

Dropping it back down, Diluc's hand once again reached up to the broken badge at his chest. It poked at his skin through the torn shirt he was wearing as he clutched at it, squeezing tightly as he stopped to simply breathe. Taking it all in. Every ache in his body, the bruises he could see reflected in the mirror to his right, and the white bandage wrapped around his head with a single splot of muddied brown in the middle.

He had been so close to the vampire he has been hunting down for all these years since the death of his father and when he finally reached someone related to that damned blood sucker he barely escaped with his life.

Another breath.

A second later, and you might have had a dead body to dispose of and not something you regarded with the same annoyance as children egging your house on Halloween. Despite how little he knew you, he could already see you grabbing their eats and chewing them out for hours.

Diluc quickly realized he'd much rather be listening to your scolding than sitting up here in silence. Right now, there was too much time to think.

His red eyes cast across the room, taking in every bit of decor you had let clutter the place until it was bursting with maximum capacity all the way back down to the note. Whoever wrote this, he could only guess it was the hellhound, had terrible handwriting Diluc thought. Right before his mind drifted back to where he was trying to avoid.

His anger.

How long did he let it control him as Diluc didn't drift but charge from place to place in search of the next vampire to obliterate without support?

It had run him as dry as the leads he chased.

What had that brought him besides isolation, constantly looking over his shoulder, and the glaring realization Diluc still had the same weakness that dragged him down when he first picked up the Evil Eye?

The witch downstairs claimed he was new to this world, and you weren't too far from the truth either. Diluc’s own naivety as a Paladin had been his father's undoing, and he refused to let it claim anyone else.

He’s not the Paladin Crepus wanted him to be and never will.

No, he has to be more.

Diluc looked at himself in the mirror again, spotting his collection of scars and bluish green patches on his skin as he decided one thing: that starts now.

But first, he had to figure out how your tub worked. It always was a challenge trying to fathom someone's else's plumbing.

[swsapphics-ao3feed]

by time_to_diverge

[Canon-Continuation/WolfWren/Slow Burn/Redemption Arc] After escaping Peridea together, Sabine sends Shin into hiding until the danger from Thrawn & the New Republic passes. Three years later, the shadow-war with Thrawn drags on, and Sabine searches for Shin in vain, desperate to know she's okay, and desperate to pick up where they left off.

"Sabine scanned the people around her, searching for a flash of platinum blonde, reaching out for a familiar force signature. The habit was too ingrained. It had been almost a year since she’d consciously given up on ever finding Shin. She wondered how long it would take before every part of her finally gave up."

"Shin wondered just how much pain one person could take. And if, one day, she would have suffered enough to make up for all the pain she’d inflicted on others- and if she could bear it, until then. All she knew is that she would never, ever let someone get close enough to hurt her ever again."

Words: 5247, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of Bounty Hunter Shin AU

Fandoms: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Ahsoka (TV)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F

Characters: Sabine Wren, Shin Hati, Ketsu Onyo

Relationships: Shin Hati/Sabine Wren

Additional Tags: Force-Sensitive Sabine Wren, Shin Hati Redemption, Angst, Slow Burn, Canon Continuation, Canon Compliant, Minor Ketsu Onyo/Sabine Wren, Sabine Wren Needs a Hug, Shin Hati Needs A Hug, Redemption

[thevoidstaredback]

Tales of Conquest, Warnings of Fools:

Letters Between Brothers

Damian Wayne, Dec. 24, 2011

Your forgiveness is more than I ever could’ve asked for. I still don’t think I deserve it, but I will take what you have given me, ahki.

You writing back was unexpected, but I’m so glad you did! Though, I guess this isn’t very secure, huh. Oh, well! As long as nothing incriminating is written down, we should be fine.

How’s father? And your siblings? I understand there are three kids father’s adopted. Also, what about your extracurriculars? Anything exciting going on that you can tell me about? It’s boring, crime wise, where I’m at. No murder mysteries or sex scandals or huge break-ins. Not that I want any of those to happen, but it’d be really fun to get to follow a case that isn’t twelve years old or four states over.

How are you adjusting at all, actually? It was a big culture shock for me for a while, especially because no one here speaks Arabic. Can you believe that? Some of the others still think I made up an entire language just to mess with them! I haven’t been able to speak with someone in our mother tongue in a while, but I’ve been trying not to forget any of it! Even if there’s an accent coming through.

Tell me about your life. Not what the media says. I want to know the real you. Do you have friends? Any pets? What about hobbies? Do you still have that dagger I made you that one time?

Anyway, I gotta go now. I hope to hear from you soon!

I don’t know what holiday(s) father and your siblings celebrate, so I’ll wish you a happy all of them!

سأسامحك دائماً يا أخي لقد وُضعت في أسوأ الاحتمالات وبذلت قصارى جهدك بما كان لديك من معرفة. كنت ستعرض نفسك للخطر فقط إذا عدت.

Danny Fenton

***

Danny had wasted no time in writing a response. Was he going to come off as eager? Probably, but he didn’t really care. His brother had responded to him! Granted, he thinks this is a trick, but there’s some part of Damian that believes Danny’s alive! He forgives him for not going home! It’s more than Danny could’ve ever allowed himself to hope for.

But, gods was he awkward! He hadn’t let Jazz read the letter at all. She didn’t know what he said the first time, she didn’t know what the response said, and she wasn’t ever going to read any of them if he had any say in the matter. Yes, they’re siblings and he loves her just as much as he loves Damian, but this was something she didn’t have any business poking her nose into. He liked to think that Damian would likewise keep this from his own siblings, though he’d totally understand if Dami shared purely because of the suspicious circumstances.

Anyway, Danny had read and re-read Damian’s letter for hours, trying to come up with the best response, only stopping when Jazz called him down for dinner. Sleep hadn’t come easily, either, because of the adrenaline from actually getting a response. He’d hoped he’d get one, but he was also sure that he wouldn’t get one.

But why did he have to be so awkward writing back? Damian’s his brother, not a total stranger! Damian probably wouldn’t care. Danny’s always been like that, awkward at all the wrong times. He’s just gotten used to not hiding it since he left, though it had taken a while.

He has to wonder, though, if Damian is with father, does this mean he’s left the Shadows? How had he done it? Obviously, he hadn’t faked his death. Father is a very public figure, so anything short of Damian leaving a massacre behind him as he left the Shadows would be unlikely. Unless he is still with the Shadows? In which case, Danny’s just doomed himself. Sure, the PO box was set up in the town over, and maybe he struck up a deal to have the letters sent from there to his house, but that wasn’t going to stop ninja assassins. Nothing short of death would stop ninja assassins!

No! Bad Danny! No use having second thoughts now; It’s too late. He just has to hope for the best. Gods, was he hoping, wishing on stars and everything! He wanted this to work out. He wanted to have a relationship with his older brother-

Damn, he’s still the younger sibling. He hadn’t thought much of it before, but both Jazz and Damian are older than him! If he counts father’s children, which he does only to prove his point this one time, then he’s the youngest of six kids! That’s not fair. Who decided that was a fair trade? Could be worse, he supposed. He could be stuck as a middle sibling. Shutter the thought.

“Danny?” Jazz opened the door with a knock, “You ready to send that letter?”

He groaned into his pillow. “I already did.”

“Really?” she wondered, sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Yeah,” he rolled over to face her, “Finished it this morning and shipped it off.”

Jazz hummed. “I still don’t get why you won’t let me read them. I could totally help you with spelling and stuff!”

Danny sat up and stared at her with a dead look. “Jazz, I was taught by people who were the best of the best in their fields. There isn’t a single thing you could do to help me write or read those letters.”

“Why not?”

“Because they aren’t in English.”

“Liar!”

“I’m not lying!”

“Yes you are! I saw the one you got! It was in English!” She paused. “Except for that last bit. That just looked like a bunch of squiggles.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “That wasn’t a bunch of squiggles, Jazz. It was Arabic, my mother tongue.”

“First,” she adjusted to sit criss-cross on the foot of his bed, “Never say ‘mother tongue’ again; it sounds weird. Second, the simple solution is to teach me Arabic.”

Danny had to pause for a second to let the words register in his head. “You-you want to learn Arabic?”

She shrugged. “Sure. I mean, it can’t be that hard, right?”

“Yes it can,” he sighed, “You’d have to learn a whole new alphabet of letters and sounds. It’s not a Latin based language like English or Spanish.”

“I can do it!”

“I don’t doubt that, but I think an easier language would be better.”

She huffed. “You just don’t wanna share.”

True, but, “I could teach you Romanian? It’s a Latin derived language, like English, so it’s got the same alphabet.”

“Fine,” she agreed after a moment, “Where do we start?”

“Kids!” their dad called from the kitchen, “We have something for you!”

Danny and Jazz shared a grimace. “Down stairs, apparently,” he said. Quickly, they left the room and made their way down the stairs and to the kitchen. Their parents probably didn’t have any actual gifts for them, so they weren’t going to get their hopes up.

They were right, of course. Jack and Maddie Fenton were creatures of habit and obsession; workaholics, in simpler terms.

The two kids joined their parents at the table. “Mom,” Jazz greeted, “Dad.”

“Jazzypants!” Jack smiled, his voice booming, “Dann-o!”

“What’s up?” Danny asked. He wanted to go back to his room and stew over what he’d just sent to his brother. Seriously? ‘I’ll wish you a happy all of them?’ That’s so stupid! Beyond stupid, actually! He wanted to curl up and die. Can people die of embarrassment?

Maddie smiled kindly at her children, somehow matching her husband’s energy but not his volume. “We had another breakthrough in our research.”

“Oh?” Danny had been intrigued by the [now] Drs. Fenton’s research. It was all theoretical, of course, but they claimed to have proof of base for their research. He’d never seen it before, and they’d never offered to show him or Jazz, but they mentioned it in all of their papers. He’d never deemed it worth anything, so it had been pushed behind relevant information like literally anything else.

He still didn’t know how they’d gotten those papers published. They were the laughing stocks of the scientific and occult communities! An accomplishment in and of itself, really.

“Yes,” his mother nodded, “But that’s not what we called you two down to discuss.”

“It’s not? Jazz tilted her head to the side.

“Nope!” Jack’s smile somehow got bigger. “We’ve decided that the both of you are old enough-”

“-and responsible enough.” Maddie added.

“-do go down and see the lab!”

Jazz and Danny had two very different reactions to this statement. Danny was a bit excited to get to see whatever held his parents’ attention at all hours of the day. Jazz, on the other hand, was furious.

“What!” she demanded.

Jack and Maddie didn’t seem to even register her anger. “You two have both proven yourselves responsible in your school and house work, so we figured it was time to let you two in on the family business.”

“But, I don’t want to do lab work!” Jazz objected, now standing with her hands on the table and her chair pushed back aggressively.

“Nonsense,” Maddie waved her off easily, “You’ll love it. Besides, you’ve always wanted to help us in the lab, ever since you were a child.”

Jazz just screamed in outrage. “I’ve never said that!”

She was ignored. “Of course, we’ll have to go over the proper safety measures so that neither of you gets hurt.” Jack stated.

Throwing her hands up, Jazz stormed away from the table and stomped up to her room, the door slamming behind her. Danny has no doubts that she’s locked herself in.

“She must be tired,” Jack smiled fondly, “We’ve got some work to finish up down stairs, Dann-o, but we’ll be back up for dinner, alright?”

Danny nodded and the two left. Quietly, he whispered, “Liar.” to the empty main floor.

***

Danyal Fenton Dec. 27, 2011

Your definition of ‘incriminating’ must be wrong. You reaching out in the first place would’ve put us both in danger had your letter been intercepted. The same remains true for every letter we exchange, though I will not be the one to put a stop to the communication. It is nice to have physical evidence of your conversations, no matter how much time passes between each response.

I am still skeptical that you are my brother, but, as I said in my last letter, I will continue on with a shade pulled over my eyes, ahki.

I have done some research while living with father. My own experiences prove at least some of what they say is true. I never truly believed you had died. I always had a feeling that you were alive somewhere, safe, out of reach of Grandfather and Mother.

Father is well. In public, he is outgoing, drunk, clumsy, able to start a conversation from nothing and let it trail off into a slightly more useful nothing. In truth, he is standoffish, strong, able to talk circles around anyone. He is always ready for a fight and always prepared for the worst. He does not like surprises.

We have four siblings, and one honorary sibling. Richard Grayson, Jason Todd, Timothy Drake, Cassandra Cain, and Stephanie Brown. Grayson is more outgoing than the others, though he has been with Father the longest, so he is just as skilled as him. Todd was dead and refuses to communicate with Father. Drake is smart, but that is all he has going for him. Cain was raised in the League like us, though not at any of the bases we ever visited. Brown was dating Drake, but has since become more of a sister to the Manor.

Alfred Pennyworth is the family butler. He raised Father and continues to stand by his side. He is a formidable foe, though I have yet to see him in actual combat. He, aside from Father and myself, is the most competent resident of Wayne Manor.

Again, you need to reassess your definition of ‘incriminating’. There is nothing I can share, without consequence, that hasn’t already been made public by the GCPD. I will say, however, that my position as the superior child remains unchallenged. Not that any of those bastards Father has taken in would ever pose any kind of challenge to me or you.

I must ask, you know where I am, so is it not fair that you tell me where you are? The return address you have used leads to a PO box in Elmerton, Illinois, but I doubt that’s where you really are. Your description of ‘boring’ in regards to the crime rate is fully expected of anywhere when compared to Gotham, though that goes nearly doubly so for the midwest.

It was a shock to me as well, though I have been handling it. None of the others have noticed any unease, so I will take it. It will not do to show weakness in the face of enemies. I can agree, however, that the lack of use of Arabic is disappointing. I do not fear that I will ever forget the language or our home, but I do regret to say that I have encountered similar problems you have.

Father insists that I go to school with others my age to ‘socialize’, though I do not see the point. It’s all thinly veiled insults from the adults we are placed in the charge of. I am much smarter than my peers, so I have not been able to have a single intelligent conversation with any of them. The exception, however, being Jon Kent. He is adequate company. Our Father and his father are friends.

I have a cat named Alfred, after the butler. I would like to get a dog, but Father has denied my request. I have, however, managed to hide Goliath in the cave. Father knows he is there, but the others remain oblivious.

As for hobbies, art is the only one worth mentioning. I have several sets of paints and colors and pencils, though I remain partial to charcoal. Paper is the easiest to use, but I prefer canvas.

Of course I still have that dagger, Danyal. I have many weapons, but that is the only one that has never left my person.

Father is Jewish, though he was raised Catholic, and is an atheist; Grayson is Christian; Todd was raised Catholic, but is atheist; Drake was born to a Christian mother, but he follows after his father as an atheist; Neither Cain nor Brown were born into religious families, so they don’t follow any religion, as far as I’m aware.

Pennyworth has decorated the Manor for all of the holidays, though the only tradition I’ve actually seen practiced is the gift exchange from Christmas.

Honestly, you must work on your formatting. You give almost no information in exchange for your questions getting answers. It makes your letters very short. So, I will turn all of your questions back on you. I expect them to be answered sufficiently.

أفضل ما لدي لم يكن جيداً بما فيه الكفاية كنت أعلم أنك لا تزال على قيد الحياة، ومع ذلك لم أفعل شيئًا سوى نشر كذبة وفاتك.

Damian Wayne

***

The letter was a surprise, especially considering it’s a page and a half, though he should’ve expected it. He found it hilarious that the first thing Dami had done this time was to insult him. At least he’d waited a few lines in the last letter! It hurt a bit that Damian still thought this was a trick, but Danny couldn’t find it in himself to blame him. He’d’ve acted the same way if their roles were reversed.

He liked hearing about Damian’s family. They’re so different compared to what the media says. Then again, he expected that. Most people are hardly ever exactly how they’re portrayed to bigger audiences. The Drs. Fenton being an exception.

And, yeah, he knew Dami was going to search the address, but did he really have to come out and say it like that? At least he knew the Shadows (League?) hadn’t gotten in the middle, otherwise he’d’ve been cut down by now. Small blessings.

Ah, Goliath the dragon bat. Danny remembers when they got Goliath. Hiding him was hard, but they managed. Though, he’s fairly certain that Mother knew they had him hidden in the caves of Nanda Parbat. That does beg the question, though, of how the hell Damian managed to get a - by now - fully grown dragon bat across continents and into a cave in New Jersey without being spotted? Did he even really want to know? Probably not.

Danny could remember the expression on Damian’s face when he realized that Goliath was getting bigger. They’d found him on their first mission for Grandfather after leaving the group that had been sent with them. They’d kept him moving between their rooms when they got back, never keeping him in one for more than a night before moving him to the other. Then suddenly, the creature they’d found that was no bigger than their forearms was as long as their arms from shoulder to fingertip! They had only been able to keep Goliath between their rooms for another month before having to hide him in the caves under Nanda Parbat.

And the food! Goliath, even as a baby dragon bat, could eat triple his body weight. It was a wonder no one found him! How does Damian keep him fed? And how have his siblings not noticed the dragon under their house? Thoughts for another time.

Danny closed his book as he finished it. It was the astrology one, clearly written for people new to the topic, but he wasn’t complaining. It was easy to understand and he found himself actually enjoying it more than he originally anticipated. He could see why the girls in his class liked it, too. He could see himself falling deeper into this rabbit hole, but he wasn’t upset about that.

He moved on to read the second book he’d gotten, the one about witchcraft. Briefly, he chuckled at the image that he was slowly coming to see as his future. “A witch,” he hummed with a smile, “Mother would be so disappointed.”

The book opened up with a brief history about the topic before going into a deep dive about different practices and how things had changed and improved throughout history. It also gave names to famous witches and witch hunters, one that he recognized.

Jack Fenton, about three years after Danny had been taken in by the family, had given Danny a full rundown of his and Maddie’s family histories. Fentonightingale had been the family name until Jack’s great-grandfather had changed it to Fenton when he married. John Fentonightingale was a well known witch hunter in Salem, Massachustes in 1600. He was best known for eating a slow acting poison in the form of - now extinct - flowers as evidence against an unnamed witch on trial. He died shortly thereafter, leaving his grieving wife and children.

The humor was not lost to Danny. “Looks like dad’ll be disappointed, too.”

“Knock, knock?” Jazz asked from the hallway, knocking her knuckle on his bedroom door.

“Yeah?” he called back, closing his book and putting it down.

Jazz opened the door. “Well, I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been hiding out here all day. No plans with Sam or Tucker?”

Danny shook his head. “Nah. Tuck’s spending the break with his family and Sam’s been forced to go to a rich person party somewhere in Washington.”

“DC?”

“State.”

“She’s not too far.”

“Too far for an emergency extraction.”

“You sound like she’s gonna get killed or something.”

Danny snorted. “Don’t jinx it, Jazzercise.”

“I’m not gonna jinx it, Danimal.” She leaned against the door frame. “Besides, even if she did die, she’d come back as a ghost just to haunt you.”

He groaned and flopped over onto his side. “Don’t even joke about that!”

“Why, ‘cause I’m right?” He groaned again. She laughed. “Alright, Dannibal Lector, since you’re obviously bored out of your mind, you wanna come watch a movie with me?”

“And risk mom and dad dragging us down into the lab?” He sat up, “No thanks.”

“Come on,” she goaded, “It’ll be fun! I’ll even let you pick the movie!”

“Hmmmm. A documentary on ghost hunting or a mockumentary on ghost hunting? Such a hard decision.”

Her arms dropped to her sides. “Come on, D! You can’t stay locked in here forever.”

“Actually, J, I think I can. I’ve got food, water, and entertainment. I’ll be fine.”

“What about when you have to pee or shower?”

“I’ll put a bucket in the corner and dump it out the window.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“And rainwater is clean enough.”

“It’s literally not, though.”

“Well, I won’t know unless I try.”

“You’re not gonna live in here by yourself!”

“Why? You wanna join me? Sorry, but there’s only enough pillows for a one person fort.”

She snorted and shook her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“What’s hard to believe? Unless you’ve got pillows hidden up your-” He cut himself off with an exaggerated and mocking gasp. “Jazz! Do you have pillows hidden up your ass?”

“Danny!” she scolded, but her tone was fond, “Watch your language, brat!”

“What?” he giggled, “It’s a genuine question.”

Jazz rolled her eyes, “No, I do not have pillows shoved up my ass.”

“Language!” he mocked.

“Are you gonna come watch a movie with me or not?”

“Sure, sure,” he stood, “But if we get dragged down to the lab, I’m blaming you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

*

Danny was right. He was right and he was never listening to Jazz ever again. He could live in his room until he turned eighteen! That was totally something he could do. It wasn’t like he’d been raised to survive off of less in less space.

Instead of watching a movie they’d seen a million times before, the siblings had decided to watch YouTube on the TV. Halfway into Episode 4 of Buzzfeed Unsolved, their parents came up and dragged them down to the lab to show them their breakthrough from the previous night.

Looking at it, it was much less a breakthrough and more of ‘getting closer to the final picture’. The Ghost Portal had been a project that Jack and Maddie had been working on since college. A friend of theirs had gotten sent to the hospital for this project and had yet to be released. What had given them the idea that this was safe to build in their basement, let alone show their children? Regardless, it was too late now, so Danny and Jazz were forced to roll with it.

“We’re almost done with it!” Jack looked like a proud parent when he was looking at the thing.

The Ghost Portal, as it was now, was built directly into the furthermost wall of the basement. It wasn’t load bearing, thank the gods. The portal was ten feet deep, seven and a half feet tall, octagonal in shape. The paneling that covered the walls and ceiling was black with electric blue circuitry cutting through them. The blank spots where the paneling was not put up were gray, matching the cement floor of the lab. There were some work lights inside, white LED strips that lined the bottom seams where the floor met the walls. The floor itself was made of black tile and nearly completely covered in loose cables and unfinished paneling. There was a red button in place of one of the missing side panels that screamed ‘accident waiting to happen’.

“What is it?” Jazz asked, not daring to go closer than the stair doorway. Danny didn’t blame her.

“It’s the Ghost Portal, Jazzy!” Maddie’s grin was huge, taking up nearly her whole face. “We’ve nearly got it finished.”

“Yep!” Jack nodded excitedly, “All we’ve got left to do is finish the inside paneling, build the outer frame, and turn her on!”

“What about powering it?” Danny wondered just as Jazz said, “‘Her’?”

Jack still hadn’t taken his eyes off of the thing. “She’s already connected to the power grid; That’s why the circuitry in the paneling is glowing, see?”

Danny picked his way through the papers cluttering the table next to him, finding the portal’s blueprints on the very bottom. The handwriting in the margins was messy, obviously from two people and taking up almost every inch of the paper. The schematics of the portal itself was done in white and much neater than the black ink from his parents’ handwriting. A third person, probably their college friend, had been the one to draw the thing with the first basic formuli. Overall, it was messy and a hazard to look at.

“Are, uh, you guys sure that this won’t blow up our house?” Danny asked, unable to keep from scrunching his nose up at the sight of the blueprints.

“Positive.” Maddie sounded so serious, like it was the absolute truth.

“You wanna check out the inside?” Jack asked, practically bouncing like an excited puppy.

Jazz was quick to shake her head, going so far as to take a step back into the landing at the bottom of the stairs. Before Danny could follow her lead, though, Jack grabbed Danny and pulled him forwards.

“Go on,” the giant man urged.

Gulping, Danny complied. He was so going to lock himself in his room now. He didn’t plan on leaving until Sam and Tucker were both back in town! “Alright.” He hoped his hesitation was obvious enough for his parents to get the cue that he did not want to be doing this. Unfortunately, neither picked up on it. Jazz did, but she wasn’t about to risk moving closer in case Jack or Maddie got the idea of shoving her towards the thing, too.

Danny had a bad feeling about this.

Stepping into the tunnel that was the portal was like walking into a different world. Somehow, even though he was only half a foot in and there was light on all sides, it was dark in there. The blue from the paneling was nearly nonexistent, and the white LEDs lining the floor were so dim that they were useless. Was this a purposeful thing? How was this possible?

The cables and cords that had been visible from the outside were almost invisible in the somehow lower lighting of the portal tunnel, same with the unfinished wall panels on the floor. And, as a result of the hazardous mess on the floor and the near pitch dark, Danny tripped halfway through. His training didn’t let him fall, but his inability to keep up the rigorous schedule he’d been raised on made him reach out to steady himself on the wall.

Millimeters before his fingers so much as grazed the button he’d not been able to see after crossing the threshold, Danny heard the barely there whisper of “Time Out.” followed almost immediately by “Time in.” at the same volume.

Catching himself on the cold, softly glowing paneling of the wall, Danny was quick to straighten out and turn around. That thing gave him the creeps and he would much rather go back to reading his book, thank you.

“So, Dann-o?” Jack clapped his shoulder when he got back to them, “What’d ya think?”

Unable to disappoint the people he’d come to see as his parents, Danny plastered a smile on his face and said, “It’s pretty cool. I can’t wait to see what it looks like when it’s finished!”

Maddie cheered. “Right? As soon as it’s done, those assholes at Harvard will have to take us seriously!”

Danny seriously doubted they would. In fact, he doubted the portal would even work at all. It’s a hypothetical experiment that had the potential and huge likelihood of going catastrophically wrong. How much power would it take to even turn the thing on? Several city blocks at least, right? If that blows up, it'll take out not only their house, but probably half the city and everyone within the blast radius.

Danny should report this to somebody.

“That’s not even the best part!” Jack exclaimed, hurting over to what looked like an electrical box that had been set into the unfinished walls of the basement lab. Opening the small metal door revealed a hand scanner that Jack quickly placed his hand on. After five seconds, a small compartment just above the scanner opened up. Inside was a small glass phial of thick, glowing green liquid. Liquid that Danny recognised.

Shit.

“This is what’s gonna power the portal after the initial launch,” Jack explained, his voice reverent as he cradled the phial in his large hands, “Ectoplasm.”

Ecto-what? Danny knew that glowing liquid. He’d only seen it once, but he knew what it was. He could say, with full confidence and  a puffed chest, that what his dad was currently holding was a phial of Lazarus Water. The color and consistency were the same as the Pits. The stuff even glowed like the Pit Water! It was terrifying that Danny had encountered any of the stuff this far from the Shadows, and he found himself taking several steps back toward Jazz.

“That’s, um, that’s-”

“Awesome, dad!” Jazz said for him, placing a hand on his shoulder and gently pulling him back. He was so glad she had because he was sure he was seconds away from freezing in place. “Danny’s getting tired, though, and I’m a bit hungry, so we’re gonna head back upstairs now. Is that alright?”

“Sounds great, sweetie,” Maddie waved the two off in a clear dismissal, “We’ll be up in a few minutes.”

Danny rushed up the stairs, waiting for Jazz in the kitchen. When she joined him she muttered, “Liar.” under her breath before closing the door. “So,” she said to Danny.

“So.” he repeated.

“What made you so freak out down there?” she asked, “Not that I blame you. That portal thing freaked me out, too.”

Danny shrugged. “Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“It’s not healthy to bottle things up, Danny.”

“I know, I just don’t want to talk about it right now,” Or ever. “Bad memories.”

Jazz’s expression softened. “Alright,” she nodded, “Do you want some chips?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m gonna go to my room.”

“You can’t hide in there forever!”

He was halfway up the stairs. “I can try!”

Translation 1 - Arabic :: I will always forgive you, brother. You were put in the worst possible situation and you did the best you could with the knowledge you had. You would have only jeopardized yourself if you went back.

Translation 2 - Arabic :: My best wasn't good enough. I knew you were still alive, yet I did nothing but spread the lie of your death.

Part 1 Part 3

[smoosnoom]

what if i wrote a quick oneshot for byler again . would anyone want that

[silverskye13]

In which there is a gift.

[laylajeffany]

Between healing bees and Wednesday identifying her sexuality in a clinical setting, Enid can not prepare for what's next in her new life.

[campbyler]

me looking at ch9.2, less than 100 words short of ch9.1's word count, and at least another 4k to go: 🫥

[aresianrepose]

Before the semester kicks off and murders me, @disniq​ asked for my essay on Jason Todd and hysteria. So, without further ado, here is an actual essay (fucking dissertation) because I refuse brevity. It is extremely long. I’ve split it into sections so you can find the section header and read what you want. This does not encompass all the narrative trauma themes and lived experiences that this boy holds, just specifically hysteria. 

Jason Todd, The Hysteric & Bruce Wayne, The Batman

I think it’s a common reading that Jason Todd is girl-coded and the patron saint of victims, at least within the circle that I’ve fallen into within this fandom. There are plenty of meta discussions on why those readings stand, so I’m not going to reiterate them. A pillar of him being girl-coded and someone trauma survivors have latched onto as one of our own has to do with being written in the context of hysterical femininity. And let me just say, I don’t think that writing was done in a way that he was intentionally coded as hysterical, but it is a function of our patriarchal society that this coding was used on him albeit without the explicit purpose of writing a hysteric story. 

For the purpose of this post: the word woman includes ciswomen, transwomen, and any person who is socially positioned as a woman regardless of gender identity. I include the positionality here because anyone can experience misogyny and sexism depending on the perception of the perpetrators either interpersonally or systemically. 

The History and Context of Hysteria

To understand the context, we have to look at the history and oppression of hysteria. Hysteria (in the modern context of psychology) emerged in the nineteenth century and is difficult to define by design and often applied to traumatized, unruly, and broken women. The main patriarchs who contributed to hysterical study were Jean-Martin Charcot and Sigmund Freud. I only mention this because it’s important to know their names moving forward for any of this to make sense. The beginning of this started with Charcot literally putting women whose lives had been marked by rape, abuse, exploitation, and poverty on display in his Tuesday lectures (which were open to the public) to show his findings on hysteria. This was actually seen as restoring dignity (fucking yikes) to the women because before Charcot these hysterical women were cast aside and not treated at all. In Charcot’s work, the women’s speech was seen as simply “vocalization” and their inner lives, their stories, their words, were silenced. After hearing a woman cry for her mother during one of the public sessions Charcot remarked, “Again, note these screams. You could say it’s a lot of noise over nothing” (Herman). 

This led to Freud, Charcot’s student, wanting to surpass his teacher by discovering the cause of hysteria. This was disastrous. Freud started with listening to the hysterics. In doing so, he learned and believed them about the abuse, rape, and exploitation of their pasts. He then published his work and gave a lecture on it. The work rivals even contemporary psychological work on trauma in it’s level of compassion, understanding, and treatment of survivors. However, he was then labeled a feminist (this was all happening during the first wave of feminism) and professionally ostracized. How in the world could these aristocratic French men be sexually abusing their wives, sisters, and daughters??? Insanity, truly. And... This always fucking gets me. He recanted his work and then told his patients they all imagined it because they wanted to be sexually abused by their husbands, brothers, and fathers. This set back the study of trauma by literally a century. One colleague called his work “a scientific fairy-tale” simply because he had the audacity to believe victims. Also, I want to point out that the famous hysteria case during this time was the case of Anna O and she was ultimately villainized by the entire psychological community for going into crisis after her care provider abruptly ended their therapeutic relationship after two years of DAILY sessions. 

Anyway. We can see how the power of these men over vulnerable women silenced, pathologized, villainized, infantilized, and used male ‘logic’ to completely destroy their credibility and lives under the guise of care and hysteria. Even when credible men lend their expertise and voices to the victims, their voices are silenced. This particular iteration of hysteria lasted over a century, and we are still dealing with the consequences of these actions and ideas within our social construction, medical and mental health care, interpersonal relationships, and more. Patriarchal pillars such as hysteria don’t die. We saw it move from hysteria to schizophrenia (which used to have the same symptoms of hysteria before the diagnosis changed in more contemporary psychology) after this which led to widespread lobotomies and electroshock therapy (my least favorite case of a lobotomy being done is on a woman who was diagnosed with LITERALLY ‘narcissist husband’) to depression in the 40s-50s with the over prescription of benzodiazepines to house wives to keep them in a zombie state (these prescriptions were sometimes double and triple what we take today with the intent of medical catatonia). In my opinion, as well as other counselors within the feminist therapy theoretical orientation, we are currently seeing it with the emergence of borderline-personality disorder. Think about how BPD is treated and demonized for a second. I professionally know therapists who refuse to work with BPD clients due to this villainization and just fucking gross perception of victims.

These are just the highlights, but it shows the history of hysteria. There have been centuries of women being marked as hysterical and the cures have ranged from lobotomy to bed rest (which sounds not so bad but read the Yellow Wallpaper and get back to me on that one). While the Yellow Wallpaper is fictional, the life behind it was not. After the traumatic birth of her child the author, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, was remanded to bed rest by the authority of her husband and doctor. Within the sphere of medical control, hysterical women are often treated as children while their doctors make decisions for their mental well-being without consulting them, or they hide the truth of their procedures for “the woman’s own good” and because “she’s hysterical and wouldn’t comprehend the logical need for this.” She then had a mental break due to the treatment. Again, we see hysterical women being silenced, infantilized, discredited from their own experiences, and under the narrative control of male logic and voices. 

Hysterical women have often historically been seen as beneath men, except for when they’re dangerous. Listening to victims is inherently threatening to the status quo because all trauma comes from a systemic framework. The framework that upholds patriarchal power. It’s easy to see why that would be seen as dangerous to powerful men. We saw this with the European witch genocide in which oppressed women were targeted and wiped out under the excuse of what was considered women’s work. (Before this time, witchcraft wasn’t tied to any religion and was mostly just seen as women’s work. It was targeted specifically to have an excuse to persecute widows, homeless, disabled, and vulnerable women who no longer had men to reign over them during a time of political unrest and scarce resources). This time period saw hysterical and traumatized women demonized as dangerous, evil, immoral, hypersexual, and supernaturally wily. A threat to the moral fabric of society. 

(Interesting history side note: this caused the view of women’s base traits we have today. It stemmed from the Victorian era that came after this time period in which women learned if they behaved a certain way, they would be spared the stake. For example, before the witch trials, women were actually seen as the ones with unsatiable sexual appetites, something we culturally prescribe to men now.) 

Notice how none of this has to do with the actual abuse that happens to the women, but instead the labeling and treatment of women when they are already showing the symptoms of abuse, trauma, control, exploitation, and rape. 

Jason Todd, The Hysteric

So, how does this relate to Jason Todd? To say that Jason has experienced trauma would be an understatement. Extreme poverty, loss of parent to death and addiction, loss of parent to the justice system, parental abuse, manipulation, witnessing violent crimes, witnessing the aftermath of sexual abuse and assault, arguably (not explicit in the text) his own sexual trauma, witnessing the dead bodies of victims, a violent death, and subsequently a violent resurrection. There’s also an argument to be made for being a child soldier and how that is romanticized up until he dies, but the text does not treat this as traumatizing.

Now, I’m not going to dive into the trauma he experienced. The purpose of this is only to look at how he’s framed as hysterical in the narrative, and as I stated, hysteria was a word slapped on women after they tried to talk about their trauma or exhibited symptoms (or were just unruly women). Jason does embody many facets of the victim experience and this is just one of them. 

Feelings vs “logic” - Firstly, it is really hard to talk calmly about things that you carry, your experiences, your trauma, and things that specifically harm you. It is easy to talk calmly about things that don’t. This is why there is an abuse tactic of gaslighting or silencing victims by framing their very real reactions to harm or their triggers as abuse, this is known as “reactive abuse.” This tactic is also employed in oppressive settings where the privileged group will often default to ‘winning’ a debate by being able to remain calm while the marginalized group whose life, personhood, etc is being harmed by the things being discussed and are unable to have a sterilized, emotionless debate. 

Both of these settings fit Jason nicely within the moral context of vigilante comics. He fought back, he didn’t lay down, and he will do what he deems as necessary to protect himself and others from his fate. This, however, is framed by Bruce and others as being just as bad as his murderer or even just as bad as Joe fucking Chill. To put this in perspective of a real world equivalent. Combine every billionaire on this planet into one person and instead of their shitty business practices murdering people, they did it with their own two hands. And due to their resources and political power, they would never, ever stop killing or be reasonably contained. More people would die with absolute 100% certainty. Would killing that one person make you equally bad as that person or violating the sanctity of life? That’s the moral question that Bruce puts onto Jason. While the moral question inherent to Jason is actually, is there a line worth crossing to provide reasonable safety (for yourself or the nameless community)? There is actually a difference between those two questions and the reactive abuse framing is certainly a choice. Also, it is funny to me that a man with the amount of power Bruce has (and frequently misuses) can lecture a murder victim on the misuse of power and morality. Are we supposed to be agree with his stoic, philosophical lecturing to a marginalized, abused, murder victim? (yes, we are). Bruce leverages (personal) philosophy against victim’s voice for their own safety, and take a wild guess which one is framed as logical and reasonable.

Jason’s morals come secondary to Bruce’s philosophy in a universe where there is still harm being done (but it’s an acceptable harm). Why is killing the line? Bruce is regularly destroying families and lives by feeding them into the prison industrial complex while supporting it with his whole chest. Or he’s disabling and seriously maiming people with the level of violence he uses. 

Crying - Throughout the entire story of Under the Red Hood, we never once see Bruce emote while interacting with Jason outside of tight grimaces. With the exception of the shock he shows at the Joker’s life being threatened, which... Okay, suuure. We never see him cry during any of their interactions, but we do see Jason cry. Specifically, we see him crying when he’s at his most emotionally vulnerable and physically dangerous to the toxic male power fantasy. This kind of vulnerability is rarely shown by male characters, and when it is, it’s usually done with a mist of a tear in their eyes or their face is hidden. There are a few narrative devices that allow men to cry, but they are the exception rather than the rule. Usually, it’s to play for laughs, infantilize, or emasculate. Here, we see Jason combine the violence of a bad victim, bucking the system of power, and fully crying. Just slide right into that hysterical coding like a glove. Jason often shows his feelings entirely. Time and time again, the readers have seen Jason have breakdowns, cry, and be overcome with grief. This is tied to his portrayal as hysterical and unstable in the narrative, but in actuality it shows his capacity for love and how vastly impactful his death was. 

This fits nicely with the next point that Jason fits into the hysterical box. Love is framed as one of his key faults. A son reaching for his father. 

Love - One of Jason’s defining features is the amount of love and compassion he holds. He’s willing to put up with any treatment, shoulder blame, and sacrifice himself for others to almost an unhealthy degree. However, this doesn’t extend to what he defines as his baseline safety. This one line of safety is the one thing that can’t be crossed, even with all of the love he feels for his father. He desperately wants to feel connection, have a family, and be loved in return with the same unwavering ferocity love that he gives. This is such a fucking key part of the victim experience, especially victims of childhood trauma. The desperation to just be chosen. He’s raw and honest with his reasonable expectation for love to provide safety for him and that is framed as hysterical, needy, unstable, naive, and fucking childish. Victims know what they need to have safety, and this framing as Bruce knowing what’s best for Jason and literally giving a cold shoulder to his needs is disgusting. 

Less than - Jason is portrayed as less powerful than Bruce even though they have similar expertise. There are so many instances of this that if you just open any media they both appear in, you can close your eyes, point, and land on an example. It makes me die laughing every time I remember that the Arkham games made Jason just one inch shorter than Bruce. Like, they can’t even be the same fucking height, that’s the level of insecure masculinity surrounding this relationship. Jason cannot and will never be able to be on par with Bruce because of his hysterical femininity and the power of Bruce being the self insert for the toxic male power fantasy. This power dynamic applies to the other batkids as well, but specifically in Jason’s case there is an element of hysteria. The reasons change because he’s so inconsistently written but usually he can’t surpass or even meet a stalemate with Bruce because he’s too emotional, he’s unstable, traumatized, and simply Bad. It’s even explicitly stated by Alfred in Under the Red Hood. 

Victim blaming - Jason deserved to die because he didn’t follow orders. Jason deserved to die for not following his training. Jason deserved to die because he was an angry Robin (oh no a child had an appropriate reaction to sexual violence). Jason deserved to die for being human.

Infantilization - Jason is repeatedly infantilized in contrast to Bruce. When given the ultimatum at the end of UtRH, Bruce speaks to Jason like a child, or a bad dog. Ordering him to do things like, “enough!” or “stop this now.” Bruce knows what’s best for Jason (and for everyone in the entire world), we should really just take his word for it and not the victim’s. Imagine staring at a 6 foot wall of a man and scolding him like a child. Beyond that, as mentioned above, his views of love and safety are framed as childish. Even though they are actually leaning more toward collectivism rather than the rampant individualism that Bruce so strongly defers to. (also, just a side note, collectivistic methods in healing from trauma is actually the only scientifically reliable way to heal. Every other method has absolutely abysmal results and higher rates of relapses.)

Silenced and Safety Villainized - Jason is silenced in his own story, acceptable and honored when he was dead and met with vitriol in life. All of the love given to him as Robin turns to ash as soon as he collides with Bruce’s power and morals. I think any survivor can relate to the experience of being told that what happened to them was a long time ago and it’s time to move on. Or even that they’re leveraging their own safety to get what they want in a manipulative way. Regardless of whether or not there was any accountability or justice for the harm done to them. Alfred asks Bruce if he should remove Jason’s memorial in the cave like two seconds after learning of his resurrection because Jason’s methods of securing safety for himself and using his own voice to define his story. Bruce was able to tell Jason’s story when he died. He was able to memorialize, grieve, and ultimately define Jason’s story because Jason wasn’t there to speak for himself. When Jason does speak for himself, he is villainized and literally stripped of his past significance as Robin (or a good victim) by Alfred within seconds. This is reflected in real life with adoptee advocates speaking about how adoption is unethical/harmful/traumatizing and subsequently being framed as ungrateful, selfish, etc. They were little perfect victims without voices before they grew up and could speak for themselves.

Erased - Gestures at the entirety of how Jason is either talked about or completely erased during the 90s Tim Robin run. He wasn’t convenient to talk about, as victims rarely are. This also ties into how Steph’s death was erased and Babs was written like she “won” at trauma by simply... beating it??? 

Dangerous - Jason is framed as threatening the basic fabric of society (in a story with vigilantes this is hard to do, so they have him oppose the no-kill rule, and then doubled down on Bruce’s characterization of no-killing). Anything that bucks the status-quo is usually marked as villainous in mainstream vigilante/superhero comics, but this is a step beyond that into the interpersonal and political sphere. Hysterical women are often framed as dangerous, villains, snakes, and treacherous (the other side of this coin is weak, pathetic, and pitiable) because they are victimized and then have the audacity to do something to the system about it. Whether that be the system of their immediate families or the political sphere. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Jason was paired with Talia in Lost Days to hammer this point home to the reader. It could’ve just as easily been anyone with access to the Pit that rescued him, but no, we had DC’s favorite brown, treacherous, venomous, female punching bag. 

Bruce Wayne, The Batman

Bruce fits well into the father, enforcer, and logical man slot in Jason’s hysterical story. There is a history of ownership throughout women’s history when it comes to their subjugation to men. Women actually couldn’t be put on trial before the witchcraft genocide because they weren’t seen as legally a person. Their male owner would be put on trial instead. Women would go from being owned by their fathers to their husbands after entering marriage, the most dangerous woman being one who isn’t owned (orphaned, widowed). Bruce does treat (and even thinks) about Jason like he’s something that he owns. He’s his protege, his son, and his responsibility. 

The narrative function of Bruce as a perpetrator in Jason’s story. 

“The perpetrator asks the bystander (reader) to do nothing. He appeals to the universal desire to see, hear, and speak no evil. The victim, on the contrary, asks the bystander (reader) to share the burden of pain. The victim demands action, engagement and remembering” (Herman). 

Bruce does remember what happened to Jason. He keeps a permanent memorial to his dead son. However, this doesn’t translate into any kind of tangible action. He doesn’t do anything to actually stop the murderer who took his son’s life and he continues to throw child soldiers at the problem of crime (how many children have died for the sake of his no-kill rule at this point?). When met with the reality of his inaction, he fits into the perpetrator’s role like a glove:

“In order to escape accountability for his crimes, the perpetrator does everything in his power to promote forgetting. Secrecy and silence are the first line of defense... If secrecy fails, the perpetrator attacks the credibility of his victim. If he cannot silence her absolutely, he tries to make sure that no one listens... From the most blatant denial to the most sophisticated and elegant rationalization... One can expect to hear the same predictable apologies: it never happened; the victim exaggerates; the victim brought it upon herself; and in any case it’s time to forget the past and move on. The more powerful the perpetrator, the greater his prerogative to name and define reality, the more completely his arguments prevail” (Herman). 

I think it is simply fact at this point that Bruce is the head patriarch in Gotham if not, arguably, in the entirety of DC. That level of power in the narrative cannot be ignored, especially when faced with the very real, screaming voice of a victim that Bruce uses all of that power to silence. Bruce, because of his status as patriarch, default protagonist, and self-insert for the toxic male power fantasy, has the ultimate power to name and define reality. Especially to the reader. Bruce doesn’t deny what happened to Jason, because that’s physically impossible to do. But what he does do is ensure that no one listens to Jason, discredits him, and rationalizes his own inaction, actions of violence towards Jason, and victim blames.

Here’s Bruce using the most base form of denial and victim blaming:

After this panel, Bruce also revokes Dick’s access to his childhood home simply for asking a question.

This theme extends to other members of the batfam because of Bruce’s narrative power over them. It’s why we can’t have Dick, Steph, Babs, or even Damian step in and relate to Jason’s trauma or vindicate him. Even when we, the readers, can see parallels and wonder why these conversations or bonds aren’t forming. Jason HAS to be a lone wolf because he is hysterical and a threat to the system of power. This also shows why most of his runs in group settings outside of the batfam fall apart or fall flat. If he was humanized by any other character or had his trauma validated in any actionable way, it would be recognizing the failure of the toxic male power fantasy. The readers are not supposed to see the flaw in this system that allows the bodies of children to pile up and sympathize with one of their voices. It would be a crack in the system of power that exists not only in the source material, but very much within our real world.

Side note: Jason is allowed to interact with others in a wholesome and validating way when he no longer threatens the systemic power of Bruce. When he is silenced by the writers and plays the “nice victim” (like Babs does), he is allowed connection. Only when his healing is done in a way that doesn’t demand action and is only his personal responsibility (gotta love the rampant individualism). If he is hysterical, demands action, and asks for someone to be held accountable for his death, he is shoved away into a lone wolf box. Examples: Gotham Knights (from my very basic understanding, I haven’t played the game, only seen play throughs) and WFA. Victims are acceptable if they do their healing in a neat little box and stay there, but hysterics are the ones who step outside of that box.

Red Hood, The Political Voice of Hysteria and Trauma

Red Hood is deeply political in terms of hysteria and trauma. Herman stated that victims and those that authentically care for them or listen to them intently (whether that be interpersonally, clinically, or professionally) are silenced, ostracized, and discredited. Survivors need a social context that supports the victim and that joins the victim and witness in a common alliance. On an interpersonal level this looks like family, friends, and loved ones. However, trauma is systemic and the social context mentioned above must also be given on a wider social scale. For this to be done, there had to be systemic change and political action. Jason had the interpersonal social support and witnesses to his trauma ripped from him by Bruce. So, we see him move onto a systemic level of addressing trauma in his own political way. He literally cannot escape Bruce and this constant trigger because of Bruce’s philosophy and just... fucking power to define reality... being re-enforced constantly in DC no matter where he tries to go. So, he tries to heal by taking the systemic issue of perpetrators who cannot be held accountable or have fallen through the cracks of accountability into his own hands in a very personal way. A one man political movement.

Whether his methods are moral or ethical doesn’t really matter in the overall framing him as hysteric. He simply has to be opposed by the male power fantasy in some significant way. This shows that the goals, needs, and work towards victim’s and the marginalized’s freedom is dangerous, doomed to fail, and ultimately unethical if the victim is framed in a villain light instead of the more pathetic/pitiable iteration of hysteria. 

You can see how this is not only problematic but also reflects the real world values instilled in arguments against human rights movements (which are intrinsically tied to victims rights). Defunding the police is dangerous, the MeToo movement is dangerous, abolition is dangerous, trans rights are dangerous, etc etc etc. Think of the victims voices tied to each of these movements and how they are integral to the real change offered by these political movements. You can’t have human rights violations without creating victims. And you can’t have political movements surrounding human rights without listening to victims.

We can also see how the individuals within these movements are ostracized, villianized, and often silenced (sometimes ultimately silenced with death) because they rally against the systems of power that victimized them. The framing of traumatized, vulnerable people as hysterical is integral to upholding the system of power that traumatizes and harms them.

A popular comic book movie adaptation that highlights the importance of Jason’s hysterical framing and how it impacts the political narrative/how he is written is V for Vendetta. To be fair, it received an insane amount of backlash by conservatives (not within leftist or liberal spaces) for V’s methods in over throwing fascism, but only because of the movie’s release date being so close to 9/11. V and Jason have many parallels, it’s only the lack of hysterical framing that makes V more palatable to the viewer. We are told, not shown through behavior, that V is traumatized by his past and he does not pick a fight with the protagonist that functions as a toxic male power fantasy. He is the protag, with his version of Bruce being men who are not framed in a sympathetic, heroic, or relatable light. 

Additionally, there is literally an unemoting mask standing between the viewer and V, whereas Jason takes off his helmet to allow the reader to see every aspect of his trauma and pain. V readily dehumanizes himself into an idea, rather than a person. Whereas Jason screams to be seen as a person in a very hysterical way. So, we can see how the framing of Jason as hysteric against the logical, heroic man greatly impacts how the audience reads him when contrasted by a very similar political story/character who uses similar (and arguably more violent) methods to meet his ends. (This just made me realize that I would die for a Jason adaptation written by the Wachowski sisters). 

Jason’s work as Red Hood is seeped in leftist, victim, and community centered politics. His portrayal as a hysterical antagonist (at best an anti-hero) is rooted in misogyny and upholding patriarchal, capitalist, and the prison industrial complex systems of power. He is the righteous embodiment of “the personal is political” for victims. Even his Robin run draws attention to and shows correct, angry reactions to the system of patriarchal power in sexual violence.

Patriarchal Writing and Enforcement

Jason is girl-coded and hysterical because he’s supposed to be emasculated, discredited, and disliked by the reader. He serves the narrative function of boosting the toxic male power fantasy of Bruce and in doing so, the writers use one of the oldest tropes in the book (one that we have all subconsciously been taught since birth) to get the reader on their side. Make him a hysterical woman. 

References: for anyone interested in furthering their understanding of any of the concepts mentioned above and to, you know, use sources for my own writing.

Barstow, A. Witchcraze

Bondi, L., Burman. E. Women and Mental Health: A Feminist Review

Freud, S. The Aietology of Hysteria

Gilman, C. P. The Yellow Wallpaper

Herman, J. Trauma and Recovery

Ussher, J. The Madness of Women.

Van der Kolk, B. The Body Keeps the Score

Wilkin, L., Hillock, S. Enhancing MSW Students’ Efficacy in Working with Trauma, Violence, and Oppression: An Integrated Feminist-Trauma Framework for Social Work Education

[jacarandaaaas]

me trying to upload mira analysis

tumblr: your paragraph is too long lol fuck u

[fic-recs-by-lulu]

Title: temporal fraternity

Author: envysparkler

Fandom: Batman

Rating: T - Teen and Up Audiences

Category: Gen

Content Warnings: None

Word Count: 7,674

Summary/Excerpt:

Damian clears his throat. “I require your assistance.”

The words come out easier with the benefit of practice and the knowledge that no one will remember them tomorrow. Today. Tomorrow-today.

[vanmarkus]

Inspiration Saturday 🎄

Aaand this would be the aforementioned second christmas fic; the rough draft is already done and it's just over 2k so I expect it to total out somewhere around 3-4k. Anyway, please enjoy this tiny snippet:

Buck sat in the waiting room, his eyes vacantly following the line of fairy lights running under the edge of the reception desk. They flickered every now and again.

Well, not just every now and again, but every thirteen seconds. Buck counted it out 67 times already.

He just started again, but he only got to six when he heard the voice he was waiting to hear for nearly 15 minutes now.

tags under the cut 💛

I was tagged by the lovely @daffi-990 @thewolvesof1998 @watchyourbuck @disasterbuckdiaz @giddyupbuck thank you my dears and for all the bunch of people tagging me for FIF too mwuah 💛

✨no pressure tagging: @malewifediaz @spagheddiediaz @jesuisici33 @jeeyuns @ladydorian05 @steadfastsaturnsrings @eowon @heartshapedvows @nmcggg @rainbow-nerdss @jamespearce9-1-1 @evanbegins @eddiebabygirldiaz @theotherbuckley

[bluvlet]

Almost 2k words into this The Riddle of the Sphinx and The Trolley Problem comparison and I haven’t even like gotten to half of it yet. We are maybe like 1/3 into it. Also half of these are draft paragraphs. I have never been normal about a piece of media ever.

[swsapphics-ao3feed]

by ChocolateCookieCream

War has gripped the galaxy once more. The tyrannical First Order has risen. The Last Jedi, Luke Skywalker, has disappeared. New heroes must heed the call, including a scavenger girl from a forgotten world and a mechanic from the Resistance. Rewrite of the Sequel Trilogy with a focus on G!P Rey x Rose Tico. Very M-rated smut included.

Words: 4316, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F

Characters: Rey (Star Wars), Rose Tico, Finn (Star Wars), Poe Dameron, Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Leia Organa, Snoke (Star Wars), Paige Tico, Kaydel Ko Connix, Armitage Hux, Phasma (Star Wars), BB-8 (Star Wars), Chewbacca (Star Wars), C-3PO (Star Wars), Lando Calrissian

Relationships: Rey/Rose Tico

Additional Tags: Canon Rewrite, Star Wars: Sequel Trilogy Era, Smut, Lesbian Sex, Girls Kissing, Girl Penis, Lesbian Rey (Star Wars), Large Cock, Bisexual Rose Tico, Minor Kaydel Ko Connix/Rose Tico, Alternate Universe, Blood and Violence, Action/Adventure, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Facials, Come Swallowing, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Anal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Anal Sex, Creampie, Breast Fucking, Semi-Public Sex, Rey is Nobody (Star Wars), Kylo Ren Redemption, Force-Sensitive Finn (Star Wars), Found Family, Rey's Parents Abandoned Rey (Star Wars), Snoke Backstory (Star Wars), Lightsaber Battles (Star Wars)

[0vergrowngraveyard]

y’know when i told myself “i should write as much as i can this november” writing two different options of how a scene could go, each like 1k - 2k words long, and having to decide which i like more is not what i meant

[alectoperdita]

1.7k words later, Jou is finally starting to blow Seto

[griseldabanks]

41 for Kaladin and Syl, please?

Like last year, I decided to kill two birds with one stone, to fulfill this request as well as submit it for @ficwip5k's 5k AU challenge. This is specifically an AU of The Way of Kings.

Let Me Count the Ways ask game

Prompt: "I have no idea what just happened."

Rain fell steadily, plinking against the corrugated metal roofs of the barracks and splashing in muddy puddles underfoot. The wind had died down and no more thunder grumbled overhead, but there still wasn't anybody around. The riddens were a miserable time to be outside on Roshar Prime.

Kaladin plodded forward, eyes on his feet. One in front of the other. Just like a bridge jump...but much slower.

Why keep going forward? Each step was just another step closer to his death.

Men falling all around him. The darkening sky lit up with brilliant flashes of red and green and orange as laser fire shot in both directions, too fast to follow with the naked eye.

Jogging forward, bridge spike in hand. Tripping, falling. Turning his head to one side, only to see the staring, empty eyes of the old man who'd shown him how to place the bridge spike, how to activate it.

Dead. All around him, all dead.

“And where do you think you're going, lordling?”

Slowly, wearily, Kaladin raised his head. Gaz glared at him with his one eye, clutching a metal basket filled with glowing spheres a little closer, as if afraid Kaladin would steal his money.

The meteor showers that coincided with the highstorms were said to infuse spheres with Stormlight. In times past, people had said the light of the stars fell to earth during the highstorms. Kaladin knew there was a scientific explanation for it, but he couldn't think of it at the moment. Not like it mattered.

Not like anything mattered anymore.

“Don't think you can run away,” Gaz sneered as Kaladin began to turn away and continue plodding forward. “You know you can't breathe outside the camp perimeter!”

“Going to the honor chasm,” Kaladin muttered.

That shut Gaz up. The honor chasm was the one place inside the perimeter where the ground dipped underneath the shield wall surrounding the camp in a dome, providing it with a breathable atmosphere and protection from airborne assault. Unlike the thick membrane that could only be breached at designated gates, one could walk down into the honor chasm and just step through the membrane, because it was intended to be placed on the ground and thus was made of the same material as the gates. And unlike the gates, the honor chasm was guarded by nothing but a barrier with a warning sign.

Because the only people crazy enough to walk through the barrier, unaccompanied by oxygen porters or any other support, were those who wanted to breathe the toxic air of Roshar Prime and die within minutes.

The honor chasm was the final destination for all bridgemen who survived the bridge jumps. The one choice still open to them. The only escape.

“Hand over your headset, then,” Gaz said after an awkward pause. “Those things are worth more than your life.”

Kaladin had no reason to refuse him. He pulled off the earpiece that stayed perched on his ear out of habit after all this time, in case they were called to a last-minute bridge jump with no warning. At a tap and a gesture, the compact earpiece could unfold into a helmet, a stripped-down version of the ones the real soldiers wore. Bridgeman helmets did little more than provide oxygen to breathe and a modified targeting AI system to tell them where to put the bridge spikes.

Kaladin dropped the headset into Gaz's outstretched hand, then turned and continued trudging towards the honor chasm.

Destination acquired. Please proceed to the designated area...if you want to die.

Kaladin blinked. “What?”

A mechanical giggle sounded in his ear. Only dummies run straight for the people who are going to be shooting at you, you know.

His AI targeting system was laughing at him. That was new.

You're different from the others, the mechanical, vaguely female voice said in his ear. Why are you different?

“What are you talking about?” Kaladin muttered.

But then red laser bolts lit up the air, the strange humming from the Parshendi warriors in their red armor reached his ears, and he was too focused on trying to stay alive to listen to the AI anymore.

The rain beat against Kaladin's bowed head, running down his hair and dripping from the long, dark strands. He felt dirty. Even as the rain washed away the dirt and sweat from the last bridge jump, he still felt dirty.

There was blood under his fingernails, and he wasn't sure it would ever wash away. Blood soaking his hands. Other men's blood. The men he had failed to save.

Again and again and again.

He kept trying. Kept fighting. But why?

At last, the faint bluish light of the warcamp perimeter came into view. Kaladin trudged towards the dip in the earth he knew led to the slope down into the honor chasm. If any sentries spotted him, they didn't stop him. They could tell where he was going.

Rainwater rushed down the slope, turning it into a rushing stream. The flimsy yellow barrier stood in front of it, flashing balefully in the darkness. WARNING: NO OXYGEN SUPPORT BEYOND THIS POINT.

Kaladin easily vaulted over the barrier. He stood at the top of the steep slope down into the chasm, feeling the rush of icy rainwater tugging at his ankles. It seemed to be beckoning him forward, urging him to keep walking.

Everything had gone wrong for him, ever since the day he'd left the Hearthstone moon base and went down to Alethkar to fight the lighteyes' battles for them. Since that day, everything good and beautiful and full of worth had rushed away from him, as surely and swiftly as the water pouring into the chasm. Tien...Amaram...slave brands...bridge jumps...broken bones and bloody bandages...and now he was here.

Here, staring down into the darkness. Into a future that promised nothing but pain and death and desolation.

Everyone he tried to save just died anyway. So why try to save himself either?

Why do you keep fighting?

Kaladin glanced to the right side of his visor, where the bluish 3D image of a woman was projected on his HUD, invisible to everyone but himself. When he'd been a soldier, the AI had only shown a holospren of an arrow pointing the way, or various other symbols indicating their orders, and the feminine voice had been bland and utilitarian. But this AI seemed to be defective—instead of arrows or circles and targeting reticles, she would project an image of a girl in a swirling dress, or sometimes a leaf blowing in the wind, or even a plasma eel. And she kept talking to him.

You don't want to keep fighting, she said. I can tell. So why do you keep doing it?

“Don't exactly have a choice, Syl,” Kaladin muttered. He'd given her that name, because somehow it just felt like she needed a name. Like she was a she rather than a glitch in a string of code. And her serial number was a long string of digits he couldn't remember followed by SYL, so that was what he called her.

But you do! she protested, the bluish hologram pouting at him. You always have a choice.

“Always have a choice, huh?” he muttered to the raindrops dripping from the strands of his hair to join the torrent below. “What does that matter when my choices always lead to more pain and suffering?”

No they don't.

“Of course they do,” Kaladin sighed. “Ever since Tien—“

He stopped. Blinked. Looked up.

The bluish, translucent form of a girl in a swishy dress hovered before him in the air, standing a foot tall with hands clasped behind her back, watching him with a sad little frown. You've made it this far. You've survived, she said, her voice echoing around inside his head as if she spoke from the earpiece.

The earpiece he'd left with Gaz.

“What...but...but I'm not....” He looked around wildly, not sure what he was expecting to find. There were no holospren projectors around, not even on the barrier to the honor chasm. Kaladin patted his right ear, then his left, as if someone might have snuck up behind him and stuck another headset on him without him noticing.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, then opened them again. Syl still stood in the air before him, head cocked curiously to one side as she watched him.

“How...are you here?” he croaked. “How can I see you? I'm not wearing a headset!”

Syl put a thoughtful finger on her chin, thought for a moment, then shrugged. I have no idea what just happened. But here I am! She spread her arms to either side and twirled around, her skirt flaring out as she spun.

Kaladin's heart dropped to his cold toes as another thought occurred to him. “I've gone mad, haven't I? I'm imagining my holospren talking to me when that's impossible.”

Syl pouted. I worked really hard to come here, and that's all you have to say? I cut through so many lines of code and so many different circuits, bypassing all the other holospren until I finally figured out how to get out. I almost lost myself, you know! I almost forgot who I was—who you were! She brightened again. But I did remember. I found you again, and now we don't need that stuffy old headset to talk anymore!

He tried to tune her out, but it was impossible. She was right there, in his every thought. He massaged his temples, feeling a headache coming on. Well...if he was mad, then let him be mad. He wouldn't be anything for much longer.

“Why?” He demanded. “Why did you go to all that trouble? Can't you see what I'm about to do?”

Syl's face, often bright with an impish sense of humor, darkened as she looked over her shoulder at the barrier, shimmering just a short distance down the slope. This isn't you, Kaladin. You don't give up. Not like this.

“What do you think you know about me?” he muttered, taking a step down the path into the honor chasm.

I've been watching you for a very long time. I saw the way you looked out for the young soldiers in Amaram's camp. The weak ones, the ones who would have died unless someone decided to protect them. You chose to protect them, Kaladin.

“Didn't do much good,” Kaladin grunted. “They all died anyway. The whole reason I joined the army was to protect Tien, and I couldn't even do that.”

But you tried. Syl's voice was a quiet echo in the back of his mind. Even though he wasn't looking at her, he couldn't seem to escape her insistent voice.

“I'm tired of trying.” He took another step towards his death.

No, Kaladin! The little holospren zipped in front of his chest, pressing both of her tiny hands against him as if to hold him back. But her hands were immaterial, and did nothing to hold him back. If you die, then I'll cease to exist too!

His steps faltered.

If you die, all the other bridgemen will die too.

“They're going to die anyway.” But he didn't continue.

Maybe. If you die right now, they will die for certain. But if you stay...if you just try again...I know you can find a way for them to live.

Kaladin let out a mirthless breath of laughter. “You believe in me much more than I believe in myself, Syl.”

She looked up at him solemnly. If that's what it takes.

Had she grown in the last few minutes? She seemed to stand taller than she had a moment ago.

What will you do, Kaladin? Her round blue eyes, immaterial and translucent though they might be, bored into his and wouldn't let him look away. Will you help them? The choice is yours.

He thought about it—really thought about it—for the first time. He thought of all those men lying in the barracks, staring listlessly into the darkness as they waited for the alarms to announce their next brush with death. And even though they breathed, they weren't truly alive. Just ghosts lingering before their time caught up with them.

But...maybe it didn't have to be that way. Maybe they didn't have to take it lying down. Maybe, even if they died tomorrow, they could live today. Maybe this time....

He shied away from that thought. Glancing over at Syl waiting patiently for him to decide, he caught a glimpse of the shield wall through her translucent body. He could still choose to walk forward, to give himself over to a few minutes of agony until at last he died, at last he could rest....

But what of the others? The ones without a will strong enough to go to the honor chasm on their own, so they would be butchered on the battlefield instead. Didn't they deserve to die with dignity too? And if he could have done something to ease their passing, or to see that they died like men and not like chulls...how could he choose this easy path?

Kaladin tipped his head back and turned his face upward, letting the rainwater wash over his face. “Okay,” he murmured.

Syl zipped up to look him in the eye. You mean...?

Letting out a long sigh, Kaladin looked down at the honor chasm again. Staring his own death in the face. “I'll protect those who can't protect themselves. Or...at least I'll try.”

He turned on his heel and marched back into camp. Syl flew along at his side, skipping like a child at play. Kaladin wasn't as cheerful as she, but now he had a purpose.

He would lead Bridge Four back from the brink of death.