#self-worth issues

[wangxianficrecs]

Why Not Me? by Eleanor_Fenyx

Why Not Me?

by Eleanor_Fenyx (@eleanorfenyx)

G, 26k, Lan Jingyi

Summary: Lan Jingyi knows that he's a Lan by blood. He wears the Lan family headband, with its special embroidery and everything. He's a disciple like everyone else, even though he's not so good at sitting through his classes, and he's racked up more punishments than anyone else in his age group twice over already. He's trying, so why is it none of his family want to raise him? Maybe they don't know he's here, in the children's home. Maybe they just need to learn who he is and they'll take in their orphaned cousin with open arms. If he could only learn to behave and earn their approval then he'd be set with a new family to take over for the parents he doesn't really remember, but why is behaving so hard?! Mojo's comments: Oh, I LOVE me some lonely, unloved Jingyi stories, and this one delivers. I think I might have cried for the whole first chapter, because poor misfit BABY! He's just so full of feelings that he splits at the seams and they all come jumbled and spilling out. But that's good, because it turns out there are people who will actually LISTEN to him. And then it turns out that there are people who will love him, too.

pov lan jingyi, child lan jingyi, orphan lan jingyi, loneliness, self-esteem issues, self-worth issues, adhd, neurodivergence, lan jingyi has adhd, found family, angst, fluff, family, lan jingyi & lan qiren, families of choice, gusu lan sect rules, character study, rejection sensitive dysphoria, thirteen years of wei wuxian's death

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[bloody-bee-tea]

June of (minimal) Doom 2024 Day 21 - Let's play a game

Satoru swears under his breath. The curse they are currently up against was supposed to be a second grade at best, but it’s a special grade and it fucking talks.

He thinks if he doesn’t kill Yaga when they get back then Suguru most definitely will, going by the absolute fury in his eyes.

“We have to end this, Satoru,” Suguru pants out when Satoru comes to a stop next to him.

The curse is leading them on, Satoru can tell, and the longer they allow that to happen the more dangerous it gets. They are being tired out while the curse is still as strong as it has been and if they keep doing this it only will end badly for them.

“And we will,” Satoru nods, new determination burning in his chest.

They were supposed to go on a date today before this mission interrupted their perfectly planned day and Satoru can’t say that he’s too pleased about that. He hates it when date time gets interrupted.

“Alright then, better get to it,” Suguru decides with a smirk at Satoru and just like that his competitive streak is on.

They should have done this sooner, Satoru thinks, as they intercept the curse at every point because like this it’s almost laughably easy.

Satoru and Suguru really do bring out the best in each other.

The curse seems to notice that something has changed too because its attempts go get to them get more desperate by the minute but for all that it talks and talks and talks, it doesn’t know where to hit at all.

Satoru knows that they have this in the bag with his next attack because by then the curse will be so weakened that Suguru can easily turn it into one of his orbs and that thought is enough to make him that bit faster, to make his aim with red that much more precise.

“Fine,” the curse wheezes out once half of its body is blown off. “Let’s play a game then,” he whispers, leaning towards Satoru so Suguru can’t hear and then Satoru watches how it almost goes willingly when Suguru reaches out to transform it.

Something must be wrong, Satoru thinks but his reaction comes a second too late.

“Wait!” he cries out, just as Suguru swallows the curse down and Satoru is met with wide eyes.

“What? Why? Is something wrong?” he asks and Satoru shrugs.

It’s not as if they can do anything now, because Suguru already absorbed the curse and whatever its game was is either foiled by that fact or will play out and if Satoru mentions what it said to Suguru then he’ll only worry.

And Satoru really doesn’t want that because now that they are done they can finally get back to their date plans.

“Everything is fine, I guess,” he says after a moment and even though Suguru narrows his eyes at him, he eventually shrugs it off when Satoru doesn’t say anything else.

“Can we get back now?” Satoru asks with a sigh, knowing damn well that their take-out has long gone cold back in their dorm rooms but looking forward to spending time with Suguru nonetheless.

“Yeah, sure, that way I can get rid of you faster,” Suguru says, almost absentmindedly and Satoru freezes as soon as he processes the words.

Suguru doesn’t seem to fair much better, going by the surprised look on his face and he belatedly clams a hand over his mouth.

“What?” Satoru asks, his voice faint because he doesn’t understand what’s going on.

“I said, it’s a good idea because that way I can get rid of you faster. You think I enjoy spending all my goddamn time with you? Don’t be ridiculous, Satoru,” Suguru says, and his voice isn’t even mean.

It makes it that much harder to understand what he says but once the words really hit Satoru it almost feels as if a stone is dropping in his stomach.

“Is this—the curse?” Satoru dares to ask, even though it wouldn’t make a difference.

Chances are it’s some kind of technique that forces Suguru to say what he really thinks and in all honesty, Satoru shouldn’t be surprised.

He knew that this was coming eventually. He just thought he’d have more time.

“Okay,” Satoru says with a shaky smile when Suguru nods with huge eyes. “We have to get you to Shoko, so she can check you out.”

“Satoru,” Suguru says but cuts himself off before more words can spill out and Satoru avoids his eyes.

He always knew that Suguru is just too nice to say what’s really on his mind, but he can’t deny that it hurts.

“You’re so annoying,” Suguru says through clenched teeth and the look on his face speaks of pure desperation. “You might be the strongest but what does that even matter when your personality fucking sucks?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Satoru forces himself to says, scratching the back of his head. “It’s hard to get the whole package, huh?”

Maybe if he just plays this off, if he pretends that this doesn’t hurt as much as it does, then he can get through this.

There’s no way they will get through this because Satoru is pretty sure that after today there won’t be a them to speak of anymore but maybe if Satoru pushes all of his feelings away right now, he won’t come out completely shattered at the end.

Here’s to hoping, he bitterly thinks and forces himself to look away when he spots tears in Suguru’s eyes.

Of course Suguru never wanted him to know that; he truly is too good for his own sake and Satoru probably should have never confessed to him in the first place. He thought Suguru has always been pretty good at saying no to him so he dared to risk it, secure in the knowledge that Suguru wouldn’t just go along with it because of who he is, but of course he had to be wrong in that regard, too.

“Satoru, will you please just go?” Suguru presses out, clearly using every ounce of willpower he has to not say whatever truth wants to spill out next and Satoru nods.

“I’ll—teleport back, inform Shoko of what’s happening, so you won’t have to explain anything to her,” Satoru offers and it sees as if his talking is setting Suguru off again, because despite the way he still clenches his mouth shut, words spill out.

“It’s so laughable that you think I could really love you. You’re so goddamn annoying. I’m glad for every second we don’t have to spend together. And the way you can’t keep your mouth shut! It makes me want to punch you so bad.”

“Great,” Satoru mutters, fighting the stinging of his eyes. “Maybe we can ask Yaga for more solo missions once this is over,” he suggests and valiantly pretends that his heart isn’t currently crumbling in his chest.

He thinks he has trouble breathing but in all honesty he is too numb to really notice anything right now.

“I’ll—go then,” he weakly says, and teleports out of there before Suguru can word vomit again.

Shoko startles badly when Satoru lands in her room but he doesn’t care.

All he wants right now is to hide himself away and never come back out because losing Suguru like this feels as if his chest is caving in and he’d really like to have a breakdown about this in peace.

“What the fuck!”

“Suguru is on his way back. The last curse he consumed did something to him, a truth spell or something along those lines,” he tells her and even to his own ears his voice sounds horribly flat.

“What? That’s so rare, and Geto doesn’t shy away to say the truth anyway, so how would you know?”

“Oh, believe me, there’s plenty he doesn’t normally say,” Satoru whispers and can’t help the few tears that spill over.

It seems it catches Shoko completely off guard because her look is absolutely horrified.

“What the hell happened?”

“He was just—very vocal about his feelings for me,” Satoru says, even as he walks towards the door. “I—you can tell him I won’t come to class for a few days, that the message is received. I’ll talk to Yaga too, about the solo missions, so he doesn’t have to worry about that. I won’t—tell him I get it. I won’t bother him again.”

“That is so fucking wrong, I don’t even know where to start,” Shoko whispers and Satoru gives her a court nod.

“Thanks for taking care of him.”

He slips out of her room, not looking back, not looking around to see if Suguru is already close and once he’s in his room, he simply—stops.

His head is a mess and his heart is in shambles and it feels an awful lot as if his spirit is broken and for a moment Satoru can do nothing but force himself to breathe. His thoughts are screaming at him in rage, his heart is screaming at him in pain and the contradicting feelings make him feel sick to his stomach.

If he has to throw up now, he’ll cry his eyes out, he just knows it, so he swallows everything back and then sits down on the bed.

Satoru feels almost brittle, as if too much movement could break him apart into a thousand pieces at any moment, but sitting at the edge of his bed is good. He can do that.

He can do that until he has to pick himself back up again and go out there, and maybe he’ll piece himself back together wrong but who cares, right?

As long as he functions, as long as he can still be useful, can still be the strongest it doesn’t matter one bit.

Satoru doesn’t know how long he spends like that on his bed but by the time the door to his room flies open it’s already dark out and Satoru feels stiff like a statue. He barely manages to get his eyes to focus and it doesn’t help at all when he realises that it’s Suguru who is standing in his room, chest heaving with how fast he must have run here.

“I—this is my room,” Satoru says, voice completely devoid of inflection. “You can’t tell me to get lost from here.”

“I love you,” Suguru blurts out and crosses the room in three huge strides. “Fuck, Satoru, I love you and I am so, so sorry, I didn’t know,” he almost cries out and Satoru is too surprised to do anything.

He didn’t think Suguru would go back to lying to him.

“It’s okay,” Satoru forces himself to say. “You don’t have to do this. I get it. It’s fine. You can—I’m not mad, or anything.”

“But you should be, gods, you should be, Satoru. Shoko said you think this is some kind of technique that makes me say the truth, so you should really definitely be fucking furious with me if you think I would lie to you like that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispers, because nothing matters anymore and he wheezes when Suguru hugs him even tighter.

“It wasn’t a truth thing,” he finally says and it’s a good thing Satoru is already mostly motionless because that would have made him freeze again.

“Yes, it was.”

“No. It made me say what you were most afraid of hearing,” Suguru says and Satoru wonders why he’s doing this.

He already cut all ties between them, what reason could he possibly have to lie now?

“I know you don’t believe me, but now that the effect has worn off, I can use the curse to do the same to other people,” Suguru whispers and hides his face in Satoru’s neck. “So—I want to use it on you, so you understand that nothing what I said is what I truly feel.”

“Suguru—” he cuts himself off because with what was said, he doesn’t think he has the right to call him that, so Satoru tries again. “Geto.” The name sounds stiff and wrong in his mouth and Satoru almost feels bad for the way it makes Suguru flinch. “It’s okay. We’ll just—not. Not anything, you know. Not talk, not see each other, it’s fine.”

“It’s fucking not!” Suguru suddenly yells out, his voice wet with tears. “You don’t get a say in this. I’m sorry, Satoru, but I’m using that technique on you.”

He pulls away, a determined look on his face and before Satoru can say something else he feels Suguru’s cursed energy spike before it settles over him.

And just like that he can’t keep his mouth shut anymore, words being torn from his throat.

“You’re such a boring, righteous person. You think anyone wants to be around you with that judging look and your flat personality? Grow a character. And you think you have any right to stand besides me? You’re nothing compared to me and I don’t need you. I don’t even want you around because you’re just holding me back. You’re just like everyone else and it’s really laughable for you to think that you will ever be anything but average.”

Satoru’s hand flies to his mouth, but it’s too late already, the words are already out there and just like that, Suguru’s cursed energy fizzles out into nothing.

Suguru works his jaw a few times, before a determined look settles over his face.

“There,” he almost spits out. “Was that the truth you said just now?” he demands to know and even though he tries to look stern, Satoru spots the minute shaking of his voice.

“No,” Satoru immediately cries out. “It felt as if the words were pulled out of me, but I have no idea where they came from.”

“It’s what I’m afraid of hearing from you,” Suguru admits and even though it’s clearly not easy for him, he meets Satoru’s eyes.

“And what I said is what you’re afraid of hearing from me. There’s no truth to these words. The curse is just preying on our insecurities.”

Satoru opens the mouth to argue with him about that, because surely there must be some truth to what Suguru had said to him but he remembers how it felt, to have that cursed technique on him and he realises that Suguru is right.

There was no truth in any of the words Satoru just said; those words weren’t even things he has ever thought before, not once in the time he has known Suguru, and if that is true for him, then the same must be true for Suguru, right?

“I don’t think any of those things,” Satoru says, because he feels as if he should and Suguru gives him a shaky smile.

“And I don’t think any of the things I said to you before either. I love you, Satoru, personality and non-stop running mouth and all. I really do. I never want to be parted from you.”

“You’re not average,” Satoru immediately gives back because the thought that Suguru could really think that about himself is unbelievable to him. “You’re incredible and wonderful and you’re not holding me back and everyone loves you and finds you approachable because you are a wonderful human!”

“Okay,” Suguru says, his eyes a bit watery.

“I’m so sorry I believed you would say these things to me,” Satoru cries out because what if he damaged the trust between them now by easily believing what Suguru said?

“Please tell me we’re not about to develop another issue between us,” Suguru sighs out. “I can’t take anymore, this was already taxing enough.”

“But—”

“Satoru, the technique is specifically designed for me to say what you fear to hear the most from me. Of course you’d believe it, because it’s what you already believe deep down. The same goes for me. I would have believed you in a heartbeat if you said any of that because I am so afraid that it’s true. It doesn’t have anything to do with trust. I know you trust me. I know you love me. And I feel the same.”

Satoru takes a moment to digest that and figures Suguru is probably right. He has to be, because Satoru thinks he can’t take it if he isn’t.

He already lost Suguru once today—however fabricated and forced that was—and he doesn’t think he can do it again. Not today and not ever.

“I am really, really tired,” Satoru says and leans forward, falling into Suguru’s arms.

“I am, too,” he agrees. “Date night is kind of ruined, but is a cuddle session still on the table?” he asks and immediately Satoru’s hands shoot out to grab Suguru’s shirt.

“You’re not leaving my sight today,” he decides and Suguru nods.

“Then lets get to bed, alright?”

Satoru easily slides under the cover, not daring to let go of Suguru in fear of him running out on him, but Suguru is right behind him and soon enough they are curled up together.

“We’ll have to talk about this again,” Suguru mutters into the space between them. “I don’t like how you think any of what I said could be real. I hate that you think it could be true.”

Satoru really doesn’t want to hear that right now, but he gets where Suguru is coming from because knowing that Suguru thinks so lowly of himself, hurts him in ways he wasn’t prepared for.

“Same,” he gives back which makes Suguru smile. “But not today.”

“Hell no,” Suguru immediately agrees and pulls Satoru closer. “Today we only do this.”

Satoru snuggles into Suguru, scooting as close as he can and he sighs when he is finally able to hear Suguru’s heartbeat.

Today was horrible and under no circumstances does he ever want to do it again, but he has to admit that the end is kind of okay.

Suguru is back in his arms and they will just have to work harder on believing that the other is exactly where he wants to be. But they will do that together, too.

[whumpshaped]

whumptober 12

prompt list masterlist

tw abandonment, past trauma, rocky recovery, self-doubt, self-worth issues

"I'm up, I'm up!" Whumpee tried to sound convincing as they attempted to put on a shirt in their half-asleep state, very eager to prove that they were still part of the team. "Where are we off to? What happened?"

Their teammates were rushing in and out of the room as they were getting ready, sparing them no more than a few nervous glances; Whumpee was starting to think no one was even going to answer them. It was Caretaker who eventually walked over to their bed and placed a hand on their shoulder, looking apologetic.

"Whumpee, uh... I appreciate the enthusiasm. We all do..." Whumpee's chest was beginning to feel a little tight at the tone, but they straightened their back and feigned nonchalance. If only straightening their back hurt a little less, maybe they would've looked more unbothered. "But I don't think you should come with us on this quest. You're basically still recovering."

"I'm not! I'm as fine as I'm ever gonna be! Is this about me needing a cane now? I won't slow you down!" They sounded desperate, even to their own ears. They hated it. But they hated the notion of being left behind even more.

"No, listen... Listen to me. We've worked alongside each other for decades, you know you can trust me. So please, trust me when I say this isn't the quest for you."

Whumpee opened their mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Their facade was crumbling at a rapid speed. "It is about the state my body's in, isn't it? Don't lie, please. Not you. We– we all know I'm not in recovery. We all know this isn't gonna get any better. Is this it for me? Am I not–" Their voice broke, and they couldn't ignore the tears shining in their friend's eyes either. "Am I not of any use anymore? Will I never go on a quest with you again?"

Caretaker carefully sat down on the bed next to them, then took a slow, deep breath. "You're right," they said eventually, and it looked as though the words hurt them just as much as they hurt Whumpee. "We've been dancing around this entire topic because... because you're such an integral part of the team. We couldn't imagine the team without you. We told ourselves you would get better, and everything would go back to normal." Caretaker cleared their throat, probably looking for the right words to let them down.

"It doesn't have to go back to normal," Whumpee tried. "I'm telling you, I can handle myself. I can– I can do just as much as any of the newbies–"

"Whumpee..."

They sighed, the last of their hope leaving them on the exhale. Right. They were being ridiculous. "I get it," they said quietly. "Thanks for being honest with me. It's... certainly better than leading me on." They wiped away a tear, trying to keep it together for just a few more minutes. "I'll get out of here as soon as I can find a place for myself."

Caretaker's eyes widened. "Get out? Whumpee–"

"I don't want to be a fucking burden. You should already be on your way with the rest of the team, and yet here you are consoling me."

"No, no, Whumpee..." Caretaker took their hand in their own, looking into their eyes with sincerity they hadn't experienced in months. "The team and I have decided that it's best for you to stay out of quests, yes. I'm sorry that none of us was brave enough to tell you that directly. But Whumpee, look around– we're full of new members. New members who would be honoured to learn from you. We thought... we thought it'd be incredible if you could teach the newer generation everything you've learned."

Whumpee blinked, confused and speechless. "Me? Teaching..?"

Caretaker nodded. "Only if you want to, of course. But make no mistake — nobody wants you to leave. You're family, Whumpee. You're so amazing at what you do. And, well..." They chuckled, shrugging a little. "I'm not young anymore either. This is likely my last quest. After this, we could... we could start properly training the newer guys.

Together."

~

general drabbles taglist: @ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @whumpkinpie @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @whump-em @cyborg0109 @morning-star-whump @justanotherlokifan @2in1whump @lthrboy @justletmereadmywhump @florissimps

[rockingrobin69]

Perpetual motion, golden-bright

(1234 words, also on AO3)

Autumn came early that year; drizzling droplets of amber and ruby, sprouting golden and bright-yellow-green in the shrubs around their building. Outside the windows of their little flat the world was shaking, wet-dogged-like before an exhale: ready, ready. Draco wasn’t. Stirring a cup that might have gone cold, staring at the one branch of reddening leaves sway with the wind.  

A shuffle: at the kitchen door, impossibly lovely, sleep-crusted face scrunched on a frown. Harry, in his old jumper and boxer shorts, in, infuriatingly, only one sock. All at once it rushed in Draco’s belly, gushing and tight: affection so large it barely even fit, surging hot and fierce right through him.

“What are you doing,” Harry grumbled, “out of bed?” coming to collect him, two arms wrapped around his waist. Forgot to put on his house coat, forgot he was cold. Forgot that this was breathing, in, out, with the guiding rhythm of Harry’s chest.

“The appointment,” he remembered to say. “It’s, we don’t have much time. To prepare.”

“What’s there to prepare?” a huff of a laugh, warm and slightly moist on the back of his neck. “You ridiculous creature. It’s not even seven.”

“And we need to be there by ten,” admonishing, but gently. “I have your clothes ready.”

“Do you.”

“With a tie, and so help me, you’ll wear it. We need to make a good—impression. If we want…” a helpless look up and then down to the floor. Colour rising high on his cheeks, warm-warm and telling.

“Darling,” Harry breathed. Pressed a small kiss to the back of his head. “It’s going to be fine.”

“But what if—” turning in his arms so he could valiantly—no, hide in the crook of his neck: “What if it goes wrong.” The problem, as always, was jumping ahead of himself; the problem was he was already in love with the place. With the ivy on the walls and the copse of trees at the back, with the window that looked out onto the burn and a faint, persistent smell of lavender that lingered in the eaves. That it could be theirs, this little dream. Draco’s never allowed himself…

Gentle fingers in his hair; his eyes closed on their own. “Nothing’s going to go wrong. We’ll get the loan approved, and the house is ours. Mrs. Tinsberry said—”

“I know,” tightly. “I know what she said.” Heard himself swallow under the rustling of the wind. “It’s only, I can’t help but think—” the words jagged in his throat: “I wasn’t meant for such loveliness.”

His parents’ estate with its neat garden, rigid, clean rows of perfect blossoms; rooms that were so scared to move even their air froze still, beautiful things that were to be looked at and never-ever touched. Straight-backed chairs and tall, lean windows that offered magnificent, manicured views of a world that wasn’t real, never could be. And Draco inside it, so frightened to breathe too loudly or speak at the wrong turn or make the slightest deviation, the most miniature of mistakes, and ruin everything.

Had ruined everything. Should not be rewarded for cowardice or for cruelty. And the little house on the burn with its wilderness of a garden, with its crooked corridors and bright curtains and wonky chimney, with its nooks and cheerful cabinets and tiny attic, it was—it was perfect, and not for him. For Harry, yes, with someone good and beautiful and sweet, someone who could keep him safe and take care of him the way he deserved. For… the words stung in his chest: for Harry and his family.

Resolutely: “I—” but he wasn’t ready for those green eyes, for the look that went all the way from his lip (trembling) to his nose (sniffling) to his eyebrows (frowning) to his forehead (scrunched).

“Draco,” Harry said, “you idiot,” and proceeded to crush him so tightly it robbed him of air, of reason. Draco let himself melt into the embrace the way he always did, and forgot what was still crushing in his windpipe.

(Read more on AO3 or under the cut)

Harry’s hand on his chin—fought it on instinct and lost. Gulped a bit, miserably, at the determination on Harry’s face. “Silly creature,” he said in a thick voice. “You deserve all the loveliness. You—no, you absolute goose, look at me. This is our life now. You and me, do you hear? We’ll get the house and we’ll be so fucking happy in it, together, and I won’t—I’ll never let you forget just how much loveliness you deserve. Draco, it’s all of it.”

Whimpered, fought to be released, to bury his face in Harry’s jumper and never have to see him again, pretend he didn’t hear the words. In his heart he knew he’ll ruin this too, ruin anything good, and also, in his heart, he knew this: Harry won’t let him. Insufferable Harry, brave and generous and too kind, stupid and loving and gorgeous and soft.

Draco shook, and the smell of the jumper (lemony-sweet and wool) and the warmth of Harry’s skin seeping from under it and the pinch of cold air on his exposed shoulders—this early morning and all of it, all of it, stuffed so tight and humming, incessant, relentless.

“All right,” he surrendered, as always, “all right, enough. We have to—Harry, let go, we have to get ready. The car! We need to pack the car. And the biscuits still need to go in the oven. Please, darling, I have to do this or I’ll drive myself crazy.”

“Er,” Harry grinned. “Crazier.” But he petted Draco’s cheek, once, and took a step back. “You’ve made more biscuits.”

It wasn’t a question. Draco still answered, “Mrs. Tinsberry seemed to like them.”

Laughing: “Sweetheart, she already agreed. You don’t have to try so hard.”

“Of course I do. And it’s not all… I’m not trying to bribe her. I simply—” embarrassment sizzled in his throat, made him cough. Harry, for once, was merciful, and didn’t ask.

“I’ll go pack the car. And make sure we have all the printouts.”

“Thank you. Would you also mind—”

“Boots? Already cleaned. Honestly, love, you don’t need to worry. We’ve got this.”

Something burst inside him, impossibly bright, terribly tender. “Thank you, Harry,” in this rasp of a voice. “You’re—” something he couldn’t put into words. Harry smiled.

“Go on, get the biscuits ready. You already know I will pinch some.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” said Draco, who planned to make a whole tin just for Harry.

With a wink, Harry disappeared behind the door, in his one sock and his face and his hair. Once he managed, Draco turned to the kitchen counter, to the bowls he’d prepared and promptly forgot about.

It was autumn already although it was August. Perhaps every morning is a little bit autumn, this early on: from blinking warmth to fresh, crisp cool, to a hint of something coming, something big. Outside the windows of their little rented flat the shrubs had gone golden-yellow, and the trees up the street had turned, drizzling amber like teardrops onto the pavement.

Autumn came early, and with it this—yearning. For something he knew he shouldn’t have, that he longed for with all of his being. That Harry won’t let him shy away from. Something warm like a jumper and sweet, and too-close and unbearable.

Draco breathed it in. Ready, he thought.

[disastertriowriting]

@clonefandomevents

This is our fill for "Flashbacks". :D

It's been months since they lost Crosshair, and Hunter still misses him. It doesn't help that it feels like Omega's drifting away from him. She was teaching him to use the wings he had and never wanted, and then something... changed. He doesn't know if it's him, her, or just his imagination. Either way, it feels like he's stuck watching as what's left of his family tears itself apart.

[etoilehistoire]

So the Whumptober prompt for 10/27 is "scars," and I couldn't help thinking about how vain Astarion is about his beauty (because it's all he really thinks he has to offer, all that's kept him alive for so long) and how horrified he'd be at the possibility of facial scars that threatened said beauty.

And then I thought about my "Tav," Xia, and how she has horrific facial scars that make her very unattractive, and how she might comfort someone dealing with that fear.

And so this was born. The premise: someone, some old enemy of Astarion's (working for Cazador? The sibling of someone he seduced and betrayed? Someone else, working for their own reasons? Dealer's choice, really), found and captured him and decided, not to kill him, but to torment him in ways he would never forget and that would leave lasting scars. And indeed, by the time the party found him he was messed up pretty bad, but it had already begun to heal, meaning that even with the benefit of healing magic the scars remain. Upset, he retreats to his tent; Xia follows.

I originally planned to write the whole thing - the abduction, the torture, the rescue - but I realized that I only really WANTED to write this conversation, and that fanfic has no rules and I can do what I want forever. So here we go.

“Don’t look at me.”

A sigh from behind him. “I’m not going away.”

Xia. Of course it was Xia.

It shouldn’t matter. It mattered.

A minute passed in silence before she spoke again. “You lost a lot of blood.” A pause, barely perceptible. “Do you need to…”

She’d never offered before, not since that first night. She’d never said no, but she never offered. Not until now. He should be touched. Instead he interrupted her, cutting the question short. “No.”

Silence again, so profound that he wondered if she’d somehow left the tent without him noticing.

Then, barely more than a whisper, she began speaking again. "...I was never beautiful. Not like you. I didn’t have as much to lose. And what happened to me… it wasn’t deliberate. It wasn’t torture. So I won’t say I understand. Not everything.” A pause, and when she resumed her voice was just the tiniest bit shakier, the tiniest bit less composed. “But I remember what it felt like. How it hurt when it happened. How it felt to know the marks would never fade from my face, that it would always be the first thing anyone saw about me.”

A soft noise escaped him, not quite a whimper. When he trusted his voice again he asked, “How do you live with it?”

There was a rustling sound; his mind provided the image of her diffident, one-shouldered shrug. “A few ways. Reminding myself that anyone who thinks less of me for being ugly isn’t someone whose opinion I need to care about.”

“You’re not ugly.” He blurted it out, surprising himself, but… well, it was true. “I just mean. Your scars, they’re just… they’re part of your face. They don’t make you ugly.”

“Hmm.” An amused sound, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “In that case, maybe yours won’t either.” Her hand touched his shoulder – a warm, reassuring weight. “Star. Let me see.”

Childishly, he wanted to refuse still, but what would be the point? Unless he left the group forever she’d see it eventually. He steeled himself, closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see her reaction… and turned.

Silence.

Then gentle fingers on his face, tracing the lines he’d felt himself, running lightly over twisted skin. He forced himself not to shudder away, enduring when she tilted his head, examining him from different angles.

“Honestly?” she said after a long moment. “It’s not that bad.”

He scoffed, outrage immediately flooding him, and his eyes snapped open. “Not that bad?? He carved my face like a game hen! He burned me!”

Her eyes continued to roam over his face, critical, almost clinical. “The knife marks healed nicely. The lines are there, but they don’t look bad. Just like lines.” Her thumb brushed over his upper lip and he winced, remembering how the sharp knife had left him slashed and bleeding. “These… if I didn’t know better I’d think they were decorative. They’re delicate enough.”

She nodded, dark eyes calm. “He did. You’ve got visible burn marks here,” she said, brushing his temple, “and here. They’re not discolored, though, so they don’t stand out much." Not like hers, she didn’t say, but Astarion thought it anyway. "You got lucky.” Her mouth twisted in wry acknowledgement of the untruth in that. “Relatively speaking, I mean. As burn scars go.”

Her gaze traveled up. “The hair… I won’t lie, I miss your hair,” she admitted with a shrug, and he shuddered. “We’ll have to shave off the bits that are left – it looks messy like this.” She met his eyes, curious. “Will it grow back? Does your hair grow?”

He nodded slowly. “Not as fast as when I was alive. But with enough blood… yes.”

“Then we’ll make sure you get enough blood,” she said, amusement coloring her tone. “Not that you won’t be perfectly charming bald, but you’ll feel more like yourself with your hair back.” One gentle finger brushed over his exposed scalp. “It won’t grow where the scars are, but they’re small. They won’t be visible once it's long enough.”

Then she cupped his face in her hands, ducking down to look him in the eyes. “Star. The scars make your face more interesting. That’s all. You’re still beautiful. Always.”

His doubt must have shown in his eyes, because she shook her head even though he didn’t say a word. “No. Stop that. I’m not polite or tactful, and you know it. I would tell you if you weren’t, and do you know why?” She graced him with a small smile. “Because I don’t actually think it would be the end of the world if you were ugly.”

He closed his eyes then, the words – the possibility – twisting in his heart. “I don’t,” she repeated. “Star, that’s the other part of how I live with it. I know – I know – that my face is the least important part of me. I know that I have worth, and that that worth has nothing to do with being beautiful.”

“You do,” he replied, and ugh, it came out so bitter and ugh, he’d put far more emphasis on you than he’d meant to.

Her voice softened. “As do you.”

“Do I?” Eyes flying open, he stepped back, away from her gentle hands. Turned away from her. Words he’d held back for some time now were on the verge of spilling out, and it would be easier if he didn’t have to look at her when he said them. “Ah yes, the vampire spawn. I bring you so much value. All my enemies are yours, with bonus blood loss and a sore neck on a regular basis. Lucky you.” He laughed, a high, strangled noise. “I can offer you so much! Doesn’t a lifetime in the dark and the shadows sound appealing? Hiding with me during the day, never seeing the sun again once we deal with the tadpole? Being hunted by my former master and his minions, living in fear of any monster hunter who spots my fangs and decides I’m a monstrous thing that should be killed with impunity? Or how about being my own personal snack cabinet, forever? I’m certain that appeals!” His voice caught. “I don’t even… I don’t bring you physical pleasure. Xia. The only thing I’ve ever really had to offer you is my rather substantial beauty, and if that’s gone… how long?” He didn’t look back at her, didn’t acknowledge the tears forming in his eyes. Forced his voice to stay steady. “How long before your kindness and pity for this pathetic charity case runs out? How long before you realize how much better off you are without me?”

Silence reigned. He didn’t care. He felt scraped out, hollow, all the words he’d sworn he’d never say out loud just laying there in the dirt between them.

Eventually, Xia broke the silence, clearing her throat loudly. “You are… obviously having a rough time,” she said, a new note of steel sounding in her voice. “So I will let it slide, for the moment, that you called the man I love a pathetic charity case.”

He whirled, eyes wide, startled out of his misery for a moment – she’d never used that word before. Dark eyes met his, hard and fiery. “Yes, I’m kind. Yes, I’m sworn to help those who need it. That might make me stand with you against Cazador. It might make me offer you my blood. It wouldn’t make me sleep next to you night after night. It wouldn’t make me seek out your company, or hold your hand, or stay up late to sing with you by the fire when everyone else has gone to bed. It wouldn’t make me actively look for ways to make you happy, for gifts that might please you, for opportunities to make you smile.” Her eyes narrowed. “It wouldn’t make me say I love you. And I do. I love you. I didn’t think it needed to be said out loud, I thought I was fairly obvious, but apparently it does. I love you. For reasons that have precisely nothing to do with how pretty you are or what I think you can give me.”

He was staring openly by this point. “Why?” he finally managed, his voice strained.

She lifted shining eyes to meet his again. “We will deal with your enemies. We’ll deal with Cazador. And when the tadpoles are taken care of we'll find another way for you to walk in the sun, and until we do I will gladly walk with you in the night. After all.” One corner of her mouth quirked up. “The night is full of stars.”

She smiled sadly. “Why does anyone love anyone? I like being with you. I like being around you. You make me happy. I like your jokes, the way you talk. I like the way you move and fight. I like the masks you wear and the lies you tell – they’re fun! – and I like the glimpses you let me see of the real you behind them." He swallowed hard, the words ricocheting through his head, a feeling very much like fear - but not fear, something wilder and deeper - stirring inside him.

She wasn't done. "I like that you’re still fighting even after going through so much. I like that you can still be brave. I like that you can still be kind, even if it’s only now and then – it’s more than most people could, after everything you’ve been through.” Her eyes dropped. “I like the way I feel when I’m with you. Safe. Strong. Calm. Like everything will be okay in the end, as long as you’re by my side. Astarion, not only would my life not be better without you, it would be significantly, terrifyingly worse.”

Gods, he loved her. The realization settled into place like tumblers aligning in a lock, the way they were always meant to fit. “I…”

The words caught in his throat. Nine Hells, why was this so hard? He’d said the words a thousand times without meaning them; why should they be so difficult the one time he did?

Without changing her expression, Xia raised one eyebrow, slowly. He could feel the amusement radiating off of it. “Yes, all right, no need to be like that,” he complained. “Maybe it’s hard for me to say it, but. Yes. That. What you said. The same.”

“I know,” she said mildly. “Unlike some people, I can read between the lines.”

Despite his best efforts, a slow smile spread across his face. If she was teasing him, then all was right with the world. He stepped back towards her. “You’d really love me if I were ugly?”

“Gods, I almost wish you were.” An eyeroll really had no right to be so expressive. “Do you have any idea how intimidating you are? You act like you’re not worthy of me, but you do know that anyone who sees us together is going to think you’re excruciatingly out of my league?” She gave him a dry, baleful glare. “You could have gotten ugly scars, like a normal person, but no. You had to continue to be ridiculously, painfully pretty. Even now that you’ve joined the facial scar club, you’ve got me beat.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said, stepping forward to wrap his arms around her waist. “Your scars look beautiful to me.”

“And that’s how I know you love me,” she shot back, comfortably. “Because that is objectively untrue, but you believe it anyway.” She wrapped her own arms around him. “I told the others we were taking a day off. That you needed time to recover.” She smiled. “Want to recover via cuddling?”

“Yes,” he replied immediately. “Yes I do. Lots and lots of cuddling, and also pampering, and maybe you can remind me how my new scars make me look more beautiful?”

She laughed, leaning her forehead against his. “I can do that. Again and again. As many times as you need, I can do that.”

[kyuohki]

Chapters: 4/8 Fandom: Final Fantasy Tactics Advance Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Original Character/Original Character Characters: Marche Radiuju, Montblanc, Original Characters Additional Tags: Kidnapping, Whump, Secrets, Rescue Missions, Self-Worth Issues, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Eventual Happy Ending, Aged-Up Character(s), (bc when I wrote this I forgot how old the charas were), Blood and Violence Series: Part 1 of Discarded Hope Summary:

When a rival clan is paid to bring Marche and Clan Ragnarok down, the altruistic leader is stolen away to Clan Uroborus’ home base in Jagd Helje. Olgan, Ragnarok’s main healer, is outed as a former member of Uroborus, and after he is accused of betraying Ragnarok, he leaves on his own to save Marche. Kemal, Ragnarok’s brash monk, chases after Olgan, angry that the young mage left to save Marche on his own, as well as fearful for his safety.

But Olgan has more secrets in his past than Clan Ragnarok is aware of, and his history with his former Clan’s leader might be his, and Marche’s, downfall…

[lothiriel84]

Winter Kept Us Warm

It was a good thing, he mused somewhat grimly, that he was so very much in love with Miss Hale; otherwise, he might have been put off marrying her altogether – though he knew he could never own to such a thing, on pains of being laughed out of Milton proper.

A North and South ficlet. Sex-repulsed asexual!John Thornton.

It was the night before his wedding, and John Thornton was lying wide awake, wishing like never before he could rely on his father’s guidance on this most delicate venture. He was thirty-two years of age, and while not entirely ignorant of the mechanics of marital congress, his knowledge up to this point had been purely theoretical – save perhaps for a handful of instances in which he had been unfortunate enough to stumble upon a couple of illicit lovers in a darkened alleyway in Princeton, and he had been most desperate to purge the unpleasant memories of it at the time.  

Even as a young lad, he could never understand what all the fuss was about; while all other boys at school spoke of nothing but lusting after this or that girl, and the most daring ones boasted of their conquests, real or otherwise, his eye had never been caught by the female form in so unbecoming a manner. Even as a grown man, he still retained the impulse to excuse himself from any room in which the particulars of bedding a woman were being discussed, as frequently happened in the company of his fellow mill masters; some of them appeared to take a sort of perverse pleasure in discussing the intimate details of their latest encounter with some female of lower standing – and quite possibly in desperate need of coin, he reflected bitterly, not quite bothering to hide his contempt for those so-called gentlemen who saw fit to conduct themselves in so unbecoming a manner.  

Tomorrow, he would wed the only woman he had ever – and would ever – love. To his utter mortification, his mother had thought it her responsibility to warn him against the roughness of his supposed desires; his new bride, she had told him, would be shy of him, and it was his duty to be gentle with her and do his utmost to ensure her comfort. The act, she had then proceeded to inform him, came with a certain amount of discomfort for a woman, even more so the first few times; he ought not impose upon his wife too often, and there would be several days each month in which she would be indisposed and therefore unable to allow him into her bed.  

It was a good thing, he mused somewhat grimly, that he was so very much in love with Miss Hale; otherwise, he might have been put off marrying her altogether – though he knew he could never own to such a thing, on pains of being laughed out of Milton proper as not at all a man, as a disappointed widow of dubious morals had once accused him of being, after he had rebuffed her offers of a very specific kind of comfort without so much as a second thought.  

He would take Margaret as his wedded wife, and he would do his duty by her, as was expected; no one needed ever know about his own deficiencies on this account, and besides, he was most eager for any children that might come out of this marriage. It had been painful enough to give up any hope of a family of his own, in the aftermath of Miss Hale’s first refusal; he would not allow any unnatural inclination – or disinclination, as it happened – on his part to prevent this most cherished wish from coming true.  

.

Suffice to say, it did not go well. Oh, his intentions had been everything that was good and proper as he knocked on the door that led into his wife’s chamber; Margaret had welcomed him with such bashful tenderness as to make his heart soar, and for a fleeting moment, he had nearly convinced himself all his previous reservations were nothing but unfounded. ��

Then they began in earnest, and it became too much for him almost immediately. When she winced in pain, as he had been told to expect, he found he could not go on, and hastily withdrew from her despite her earnest protestations that she was well, and they should proceed like before.  

He was a beast, he was all too painfully aware, for abandoning his new bride in so unconscionable a manner; even now, as he approached the washbasin on shaking legs and attempted to clean himself with pitifully trembling fingers, he could hear her sobs through the connecting door, which he had locked and bolted in his blind rush to put as much distance as could be contrived between himself and the proceedings.  

If he were any sort of gentleman at all, he would go to her this instant, humbly throw himself at her mercy for the terrible slight he had inflicted upon her, regardless of how unwittingly done on his part. Instead, he merely stood there, struggling with his every breath to gain some shred of composure, and loathing his own cowardice with every fibre of his being.  

.

“Is it because of me, John? You need not lie for my sake – indeed, I would rather have the full truth, no matter how hard to take in.” 

He laughed – a hollow, somewhat pained sound. “It’s not that, Margaret, not even close. God knows I have never met another woman worth putting myself through all that. With you, I thought it might be different; that I’d be able to overcome my inadequacies, and be with you as a man with his wife.” 

She regarded him pensively, yet there was such unbidden kindness in her countenance he knew himself most undeserving of. “My Aunt Shaw told me that all men desire it above all things – that they take great comfort in the marriage bed, and they wish for it, constantly.” 

“There you have it, then. Not only I’m no gentleman, as you correctly assumed at the beginning of our acquaintance – I'm no proper man, either. Heaven knows what I am – except a liar and a cad of the worst kind, for proposing marriage to you under false pretences.” 

He turned to look out of the window then, facing away from the only woman he had ever envisioned his future with, and whom he was now honour bound to set free as soon as an annulment could be petitioned for. There had been no consummation to speak of, and it was no great stretch of the truth to attest to his inability to perform his husbandly duties; at that moment, he did not even care that such a thing would inevitably make him the laughing stock of the town, as he could think of no worse fate than being made to renounce all prospects of happiness he had dared to believe himself secure of.  

“Of course you are a man, John,” his wife promptly dismissed his doubts, and with a few decisive steps joined him near the window. “And you know very well I was quite mistaken in dismissing you as anything less than a gentleman.” 

“Any gentleman worth the name would do his duty by his bride,” he pointed out, feeling every bit as bitter as he sounded. “And as a magistrate, I am perfectly aware no marriage is valid in the eye of the law that remains unconsummated.” 

Margaret smiled, unaccountably, and went to place her hand upon his arm. “It is a good thing, then, that it was Jane who came in to change my linens this morning – I daresay the entire household has been informed by now, and is under no doubt that I have become your wife in every respect.” 

“And how would you like it, Mrs Thornton, to be a wife in name only?” he pressed then, his sense of duty urging him on against every dictation of his heart. “To find yourself tied to a husband unwilling to share your bed, precluding any possibility of children from your future?” 

He saw her determination waver, but it was only for a moment. “I was resolved never to marry, when I thought your regard irrevocably lost to me, so you see, it would be no great inconvenience to carry on as before. If you do not wish for children, then we shall have none – think only of the Boucher children, and there are so many more – we could do so much good, you and I.” 

“I do wish for us to have children, Margaret,” he interrupted in his desperation. “Can you not see how impossible it is? The one thing that is clear to me is that I should never have placed you in this position, and I am sorry.” 

“Have faith, John,” his wife murmured in so affectionate tones he was powerless to do anything but to gather her to himself. “God will see us through, one way or another.” 

Her body was warm and pliant in his arms, but it did not cause him any revulsion now, with their shared love a living, pulsing thing surrounding them like an embrace. He tucked her head under his chin and closed his eyes in a silent prayer.  

.

It took John many a week – and several failed attempts at completing the act in a manner conductive to the creation of children – to swallow his pride and consult Doctor Donaldson on so personal and delicate an issue. Unfortunately, the physician was at a loss to identify the root of his problem, and therefore unable to prescribe a remedy for it; everything appeared to be in working order, so to speak, and surely there could be no other obstacle preventing him from bedding his wife as he wished? Of course, as a medical man, he knew that some men’s proclivities went in a rather different direction, but surely Mr Thornton’s did not – ? 

Mr Thornton assured him, most vehemently, that they did not, and took his leave with a great deal of mutual embarrassment on either side. He was by this time resolved to fix whatever it was that was wrong with him, and was debating the merits of taking himself to London to see one of those Harley Street doctors – the only thing preventing him from jumping on the next train southward being the sheer horror at the possibility, however remote, that word of his difficulties might somehow reach Margaret’s London relations, revealing the whole extent of his unsuitability as a husband way in excess of their previous objections. 

It was close on two whole months after the wedding when John quite accidentally discovered that things went along considerably more smoothly if he could take his mind off the immediate proceedings and focus on something else entirely for the duration. This unexpected disclosure, coupled with Margaret’s growing confidence in all matters pertaining her wifely duties – which he strongly suspected to be the result of a timely intervention on his mother’s part, though he most definitely did not wish to know about it – ultimately produced the desired outcome, much to the relief of Mr and Mrs Thornton alike.  

It would still take several months for Margaret to conceive, but the worst of it was behind them, and John’s strong distaste for the activity began to fade to a more manageable level of discomfort with familiarity and time. By early April, Doctor Donaldson was called in to confirm that Mrs Thornton was indeed with child, and Mr Thornton was at last granted a much-needed reprieve from his marital duties for the time being.  

.

“Come back to bed, John. He will need feeding soon enough – we ought to get some rest while we can.” 

He shook his head somewhat ruefully, his gaze still trained on the arresting sight that was his tiny son fast asleep in his crib. George was much smaller than his cousin had been at the time of her birth, but he was growing fast, and it had not taken long for his proud grandmother to declare that the boy would undoubtedly grow as tall and handsome as his father.  

In the months leading up to Margaret’s confinement he had discovered that, once freed from any expectations of bedding her, he gained much comfort from sleeping with Margaret at his side; he was still in the habit of doing so, and although that meant he was often awakened by his son, he was still reluctant to quit this peculiar intimacy with his new family. He knew he would have to, once Margaret was recovered from her confinement and the time came for them to resume their efforts towards providing Master George with a younger brother or sister; for the time being, he was content to enjoy every opportunity of admiring the wonderful miracle that was the child he had worked so hard to bring into existence. 

With that, he did in no way intend to make light of all the hardships his Margaret had had to face to bring their son into the world; she had carried the child within herself for several months, nurturing and protecting him, until the time had come to be delivered of him with considerable pain and suffering on her part, let alone the very real risks that came with childbirth for women and babes alike.  

He owed the joys of fatherhood in great part to her courage and strength, and he was deeply grateful for that. With one final glance to his beautiful, beloved son, he finally retired to the bed, resuming his rightful place in his wife’s waiting arms.  

[fanfictasia]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Bad Batch (Cartoon) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: CT-9904 | Crosshair & Clone Trooper Hunter Characters: Hunter (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), Crosshair (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), Omega (Star Wars: The Bad Batch) (minor), Wrecker (Star Wars: The Bad Batch) (minor), Tech (Star Wars: The Bad Batch) (minor), CT-21-0408 | CT-1409 | Echo (minor) Additional Tags: Wings, Wingfic, Alternate Universe - Wings, Hunter Needs A Hug (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), POV Hunter (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), Force Shenanigans (Star Wars), Star Wars: The Bad Batch (Cartoon) Season/Series 01, Angst, Depression, Unhappy Ending, Sibling drama, Trauma, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Is there ever a warning enough for when you give your heart to someone, And they turn it against you, Until you feel wrong in your own skin, I swear Crosshair has a reason for acting like this, and it’ll be explained later, THAT DOESN’T MAKE IT OKAY, No one knows anything about trauma, Possessive Crosshair (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), Self-Worth Issues, Non-Consensual Touching Series: Part 2 of Homowingian

Summary:

Only Force-users have wings, so when Hunter's grow in right after Bracca, none of them understand why. More than that, they're black. Only Dark Siders have black wings, and Hunter is neither. He doesn't like them, and they draw too much unwanted attention from everyone who sees them. Especially Crosshair.

Read on:

https://www.wattpad.com/1395931032-homowingian-part-2-rejection

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14294113/2/Homowingian

[firealder2005]

Whumpcember 2022 Day. 13 FEAR OF THE UNKNOWN

Featuring: Luke Skywalker Having A Bad Time. Post-Empire Strikes Back. There are self-worth issues, self-hate, lots of internal conflict and the like so PLEASE BE CAREFUL

see the AO3 link for a more cohesive tagging.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43558857

Enjoy!

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Luke’s fears kept him awake at night.

That, and the nightmares.

The nightmares that Leia had seen, had shared in.

She hadn’t seen..that moment, not yet at least, and perhaps it was only a matter of time before she did.

He had considered just…telling her. But…

But what if she hated him? Luke’s stomach clenched at his selfish thought.

But it was true. Leia hated anything and everything to do with Darth Vader.

And what if that extended over to him, if he told her?

She’ll find out anyway, a taunting voice inside his head said. She’s been seeing your dreams…so she’ll see it soon too.

Maybe, maybe not.

Maybe that’s the real reason why he stayed awake when night fell, thinking that if he didn’t sleep, didn’t let the nightmares come, Leia wouldn't find out.

Because he was scared. Luke was scared she would reject him, would abandon him if she knew what Vader had told him on Cloud City.

He was the son of her most hated enemy. The man who had massacred so many people…

He was more terrified of Leia’s reaction, then he was of Vader himself.

Luke nearly let out a merciless laugh at that. Ironic that he feared his best friend more than the monster of a father he had.

Why had he gone to Bespin? Why hadn’t he listened to Master Yoda and Ben?

He had failed to save Han. He had to be saved himself. And he had lost his hand to his own father.

Maybe he hadn’t tried hard enough when he let go of the gantry in the hope that the shock, the sheer horror he felt in that moment, would go, would disappear if he didn’t exist anymore.

Maybe the galaxy would be better off if he hadn’t survived the fall…

Maybe Leia wouldn’t have to hate the son of a monster then.

(If she knew.)

Maybe Han wouldn’t have such a failure for a friend.

(Was he even aware that Luke had been there?)

And maybe…maybe Vader wouldn’t have such a pathetic excuse for a son.

(He sounded genuine in his offer…even after the beating he had delivered upon his own son.)

Luke rolled onto his back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling.

Would Leia hate him?

And did Vader really want him?

Luke let out a quiet snort, mindful of the sleeping Wedge nearby.

Irony strikes again.

He desperately wanted his best friend to accept him, even as the son of a monster, but he knew better. She’ll hate him, she’ll be right to hate him. What good could the offspring of such a villain do for the Rebellion?

And he so desperately wanted a father - all he ever wanted was to know his father.

But his is now a specter of evil, the walking nightmare of the Alliance.

And yet, there was still that traitorous part of him that longed to go to Vader, to finally know his father, to be accepted by him.

Then Leia could have a legitimate reason to hate him.

(Would she though? Would she really toss aside everything she knew about him and hate him on sight? The doubtful part of him reasoned, but Luke couldn’t bring himself to believe it.)

But no. He couldn’t do that.

As much as he longed for, desired to be with his father, he had to fight that urge.

Leia, and the Rebellion, was more important than his own selfish, childish wants. He was twenty-two, not a wide-eyed, naive seven year old innocently asking when his father would come home.

He was a Jedi-in-training. He was a Rebel. Best friends with the Princess of Alderaan and a quick-thinking smuggler. The Rebellion’s Death Star Pilot who had one-shotted the monstrous battle station.

He had trained with the Grandmaster of the old Jedi Order.

He had survived a duel with Darth Vader - and had been mentally, emotionally, and physically scared by him.

But he was still here. And Vader was still his father.

Vader was a monster, yes. There was no denying that. He never has, and never will excuse all he had done.

(And yet…and yet…there had been a speck of light within that monster…)

[bloody-bee-tea]

Kaebedo Week 2023 Day 4 - Scars

“Can I take it off?”

The question makes Kaeya freeze. There’s no mistaking what Albedo means, not with the way his hand is cupping Kaeya’s cheek and his thumb grazing the edge of the eyepatch.

Albedo clearly takes up on Kaeya’s hesitation as well because he slightly tilts his head to the side.

“I know what’s underneath it. I know what and who you are. Surely there is no need to hide it any further. It’s just us here.”

“But someone could always come barging in now, couldn’t they?” Kaeya asks and tilts his head out of Albedo’s hand.

He sees how his fingers twitch at the loss of contact and while it does make Kaeya feel bad, he doesn’t feel like explaining what’s underneath the eyepatch.

It’s not just the eye that marks him for what he is; it’s also what Diluc left him with when they had their falling-out.

“Who do you expect to come up here? Klee?” Albedo asks and there’s a challenge in his voice.

“Jean could—”

“Jean knows better than to send someone for me if Mondstadt isn’t currently burning down. And she definitely knows better than to send someone for you here if Mondstadt isn’t burning down.”

Kaeya opens his mouth but he finds that he can’t even argue with Albedo on that one. He’s right, after all. And for once he did tell Jean that he would go visit Albedo, so the chances of someone barging in unannounced truly are slim.

��Kaeya, if you don’t want to take it off, that’s fine. Just say so. I can’t claim to understand, but I’m also not going to push you or do it against your will.”

That, Kaeya definitely knows. It’s the only reason he stayed still for so long with Albedo’s thumb so close to the scar he keeps hidden. If he wouldn’t trust Albedo, he would have moved away before his hand could have even made contact with his cheek. The intent Albedo had had been clear after all.

“I don’t want to,” Kaeya says promptly, and he can’t help the pouty tone of his voice. “And I don’t feel like explaining.”

“Then I’m not going to ask. It’s fine.” Albedo steps close and reaches for his hand, raising it to his lips to press a kiss to the back of it. “I didn’t mean to spoil the mood,” he then adds with a small smirk and Kaeya huffs out a breath.

Albedo likes to claim that human interaction is hard for him, that the finer intricacies of conversation and interpersonal relationships escape him but Kaeya has seen him skilfully navigate conversations before. And even this now is all done to put Kaeya at ease.

And he hates to admit it, but it’s working.

“You didn’t,” he sighs out and threads their fingers together. “There wasn’t anything to spoil anyway. You were working before I came to bother you.”

He distracted Albedo with kisses, until he almost shattered a vial, but Kaeya leaves that unsaid. Albedo knows anyway, going by the glint in his eyes.

“Then maybe we should go back to that,” Albedo says. He leans up, just as Kaeya is leaning down but right before their lips meet Albedo says “There is still so much work to be done.”

He’s gone before Kaeya can blink and by the time Kaeya has regained his composure enough to join Albedo at his workbench, he is already engrossed in his work. Kaeya thinks, it’s probably what he deserves after all of this, but it also lets him know that despite his words, Albedo is upset.

And Kaeya can’t even blame him. There have barely been secrets between them, not since Albedo came clean about his homunculus nature and Kaeya told him about the eye he’s hiding. It’s just—it’s not just the eye after all.

It’s also the scar. And Kaeya is not ready for Albedo to see it and might not ever be.

That night, Kaeya can’t sleep. Kaeya ghosts his fingers over the eyepatch which he keeps on, even now, wondering if he shouldn’t just tell Albedo, shouldn’t just show him. But when he turns his head to the right side, he’s met with an Albedo in all his glory—his skin fair and even, completely unblemished except for the one mark he wears so proudly on his neck for everyone to see. Apart from that his skin could be made out of porcelain for how absolutely perfect it is.

It’s the exact opposite of Kaeya’s skin and he knows that Albedo could never find him beautiful again should he know the full extent of imperfections marring his very being.

So no. Kaeya is not going to show him. It’s probably for the best if he hides that part of himself away for as long as humanly possible.

~*~*~

Kaeya has been covering up the scar on his chest for longer than he cares to remember but the one perk that brings is that he by now can do it even half asleep. Given that he has to get up even earlier to get it done, it’s the least he gets in return.

On days like this he wonders if it wouldn’t just be easier to change his damn outfit but his outfit is as much a part of the act he puts on as everything else, so that is out of the question. Besides, it does help to get information from tipsy and drunk people at the tavern. 

Sometimes it seems as if they find it easier to talk to Kaeya’s chest than to his face and it’s an advantage he can hardly give up.

Kaeya is reaching for the next pot with make-up in line, fumbling his way through his routine more than half asleep when suddenly the front door opens.

That certainly is enough to wake him up completely.

“Kaeya?” Albedo calls out and who else would it be but him. It’s not as if Kaeya goes around handing out keys to his place to just everyone.

Kaeya briefly debates if pretending to not be here will make Albedo leave, but by now he’ll have noticed Kaeya’s shoes and his sword by the front door and Kaeya never leaves the house without them.

No, pretending is not going to help here. Kaeya strains his ears and just like he dreaded he hears Albedo take off his shoes before he makes his way over to the kitchen.

He’s here to stay then.

“Fuck,” Kaeya mutters under his breath, rushing through his routine in case Albeo decides to come looking for him. He can absolutely not find Kaeya with his scar on full display like this.

The faint smell of coffee reaches Kaeya in the bathroom and he can just imagine Albedo puttering around in his kitchen as if he belongs there, feeling completely at home. It almost aches with how desperately Kaeya wants to keep this but he knows that life is a fickle thing and affection is just as easily snatched away as it’s given. Kaeya already learned that the hard way and he is not keen to have a repetition of that.

Sure, Albedo can look past the fact who and what Kaeya is, due to the fact that Albedo himself isn’t quite human but the scars are a different matter. His looks are one of the very few things Kaeya has going for him and if Albedo realizes just how marred he really is, he’ll surely turn away.

And Kaeya can’t lose Albedo.

Kaeya takes his time to put the finishing touches on his chest, making absolutely sure that the scar will be completely hidden once he slips his shirt on and only then does he step out of the bathroom.

He finds Albedo slumped over the kitchen table, his mug of coffee clutched in one hand and Kaeya can’t help himself. The picture Albedo makes in his kitchen is simply too enticing so Kaeya goes over and drops a kiss to his head.

“I didn’t know you were going to come by,” Kaeya says when Albedo only hums and as soon as the words leave his mouth he knows he fucked up.

He sounds way too defensive and there’s no way Albedo hasn’t picked up on it.

“I–thought it’s okay. You gave me a key, after all,” Albedo gives back, noticeably more awake now and Kaeya pulls away. 

“Yeah, sure, I just would have–” Kaeya works his jaw and crosses his arms defensively in front of his chest. “A little warning would have been nice, is all.”

“Kaeya,” Albedo says with a sigh and it immediately puts Kaeya on edge. “Is this about the scars?”

And just like that Kaeya freezes up completely. He wants to say something, wants to deny whatever conclusion Albedo has come to but he can’t even manage to form words. It feels a little bit as if his life is crumbling around him and he wonders just how long it will take until Albedo gets up to leave. Until he walks out and never comes back.

“How?” he finally croaks out and almost wilts under the look Albedo gives him. 

“Please do remember that I am the Captain of the Investigation Team. I am neither stupid nor blind and some of your scars are raised enough that they can be felt even through the clothes. So far I didn’t say anything because clearly you’re being weird about it but I think it’s enough now. What is going on?”

“Why would you think something is going on?” Kaeya shoots back, falling back on his usual tactics of extracting information instead of giving anything away himself. 

“Because you’re acting weird. You have been acting weird for a while now. You know I’m not that into the sexual aspect of the relationship so I thought you were holding back on my account and that’s why I haven’t said anything before but it’s not actually that, right? You’re content to keep me at a distance because you’re hung up about something and it’s that, correct? Your scars? I just don’t understand why.”

“What’s there to understand?” Kaeya deflects because he knows where this is going and it’s kind of cruel of Albedo to drag this out. “You know where the door is.”

Albedo narrows his eyes at him but doesn’t actually move otherwise.

“You think your scars are going to change the fact that I love you?”

At that Kaeya flinches. Albedo has never actually said that before; sure, they are exclusive and Kaeya is reasonably sure that Albedo cares for him but to hear it so plainly? It’s throwing Kaeya off.

“Is that–also a problem?” Albedo asks and now suddenly he sounds guarded as if he’s the one bracing for rejection.

“It’s–surprising, that’s all,” Kaeya admits and finally sits down opposite of Albedo, who doesn’t seem too pleased, still.

“It seems we’ve both been lacking in that department,” he gives back and Kaeya hears it for the reprimand it is. 

It’s not as if he has said it before, either.

“I do, though,” he whispers, unable to meet Albedo’s eyes as he says it. “I love you, too. That’s why I’m so hesitant.”

“Scared,” Albedo corrects him and Kaeya can’t even refute that so he simply shrugs. “Of what? Help me understand, so I can put your worries to rest.”

“You won’t understand.” Kaeya shakes his head. “You can’t.”

“Because I don’t have scars.”

“Because you’re perfect.” He lets out a harsh breath. “Because you were made to be literally perfect.”

“And yet my master still found fault with me,” Albedo mutters. “But you’re right. I don’t have scars. I can’t get scars.”

“Lucky you,” Kaeya bitterly mutters and even though he is the cryo user in the room it still feels as if the temperature suddenly noticeably drops.

“I find it rather–troublesome,” Albedo finally says and it’s surprising enough that Kaeya finally lifts his head to look at him.

“What are you talking about? You are perfect in every way, nothing will ever be able to mar you, and you’re dissatisfied with that?”

“Is that how you see yourself?” Albedo tilts his head in thought and Kaeya does not like the feeling of being pinned under his gaze. He feels like one of Albedo’s more puzzling experiments. “Is that what you think of scars? That they are disfiguring?”

At that Kaeya scoffs.

“Of course they are. What else would they be? Beautiful?” He almost sneers the last word but Albedo’s gaze meets his as evenly as before.

“I find them fascinating, actually. Wonderful, in a way, because they allow you to recount your life through them. Each scar makes up a story about your life, neither good nor bad, simply preserving what you went through. I am–lacking, in that way.”

Kaeya brow furrows at that but before he can put his confusion into words, Albedo goes on.

“The day before you came to visit, a wild boar attacked me. I was speared clean through, right here,” he points to his left side, “but it all healed up. There’s no trace of it to be seen.”

“Albedo! Why didn’t you say?”

“Like I said, it’s all gone now. Every reminder of that vanished. And soon, even the memory will disappear. Sometimes there’s this ache in my shoulder; a previous injury, no doubt but I don’t remember. I don’t know what caused it and I never will. It feels as if I’m an empty canvas; nothing ever sticks to me. I could be born yesterday and people would believe it with the lack of a life my skin tells them.”

Kaeya opens his mouth but he’s not actually sure what he wants to say and before he can figure that out Albedo beats him to it.

“I tried to make them stick once, you know,” he whispers and Kaeya watches with a sick feeling in his gut how he traces a line up his arm. “Nothing I tried worked. And now it’s barely even a memory anymore.”

There’s a faraway look in Albedo’s eyes, one that makes Kaeya’s heart beat fast in worry and he slams a hand on the table.

“Stop that,” he hisses out and he almost feels bad when he sees how Albedo flinches. “You don’t understand how it is to be marked like that, the kind of looks it gets you. You understand nothing.”

“I don’t,” Albedo agrees. “But not for a lack of trying. I don’t know how it is for you to be marked like that. But you don’t understand how it is to not be marked by anything. Tell me, Kaeya, how often have you bonded with your fellow soldiers over scars? How often have you shared stories and drinks over late-night talks?”

There’s a ferocity in his voice that Kaeya only ever rarely hears from him and he isn’t sure how to handle this. And if he’s being completely honest then he has to admit that Albedo is right. Scars do bring up a kind of comradery with Kaeya’s fellow knights. 

He has made up more than one story about how he ‘lost his eye’ all in the name of getting information out of someone; it’s a tool Kaeya uses quite often. It doesn’t change the fact that he would rather not have them, though.

“That doesn’t change anything.”

“Because you’re a stubborn bastard,” Albedo almost immediately agrees but then he shrugs. “I’m not saying it changes anything. I’m just saying I don’t understand why you’re so adamant on not letting me see your scars. Clearly I don’t have the same hang-ups about them as you clearly do.”

“Yeah, I heard you, Albedo, you think my scars make me beautiful. Can you fuck off with that now?”

“You’re not listening,” Albedo says with a shake of his head and he’s almost eerily calm. “They don’t make you beautiful. But they also don’t make you ugly, like you so clearly seem to think. They don’t make you anything. They just are. And I don’t care for you more or less, knowing that you have scars. They are not the reason I fell in love with you and they won’t be the reason I will fall out of love with you. Your prickly personality, though, that might do the trick.”

It’s a cheap trick and Kaeya knows it for what it is but it doesn’t change the fact that it makes him smile, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. 

“That’s better. Listen, Kaeya, I’m not going to force you to show me your scars but it feels as if you’re forcing yourself away from me because of them and that I cannot accept. I am right here and I’m not going anywhere, with knowledge of your scars or without so don’t make our relationship hinge on that, that’s all I’m saying.” With that Albedo gets up and shoots Kaeya a small smile. “Now, I realize I might not be entirely welcome here today, so I’ll just go home. Come find me if you want, alright?”

It seems as if Albedo is hell-bent on making good on his word because he starts to walk and it doesn’t seem as if he’s going to stop any time soon and Kaeya finds that he can’t have that. Just as Albedo walks past him, he reaches out, circling his arm around Albedo’s middle and pulling him on his lap.

“Don’t go,” Kaeya whispers, hiding his face away in his neck. “I can’t–show you, not today, but don’t go.”

“You don’t have to show me,” Albedo soothes him, pushing his fingers through Kaeya’s hair as he properly straddles his lap. “But don’t pull away from me either.”

“Fair,” Kaeya allows and presses a kiss to Albedo’s neck, close to the only mark that does stick to him.

“One question, though,” Albedo suddenly says and he’s tense in Kaeya’s arms in a way that tells Kaeya he won’t like it.

“You can try.”

“They are so raised–don’t you ever go to see a healer?” Albedo wants to know and ghosts his fingers over one of the scars on Kaeya’s side.

It makes him freeze–force of habit more than anything–but Kaeya takes a deep breath and consciously relaxes.

“Barbara hasn’t met a secret she can keep yet, not when it comes to Jean or Rosaria.”

“Ah, meddling friends. I get it.”

“I usually–” Kaeya freezes up, wonders if he’s really going to do this, if he’s really going to talk about this, but then Albedo scratches his scalp, not demanding anything and Kaeya melts into his touch. “I usually freeze the wounds until I can deal with them at home. A lot of them have burn marks because of that.”

Albedo forces his head up at that, forces Kaeya to look at him even though he wants to do nothing more than hide.

“If my home is closer, you go there. If my workshop is closer, then you go there. I’ll stock up on first-aid supplies. Do not force yourself to endure this for longer than you have to, if there are other options.”

He could have scolded Kaeya. He could have called him crazy and he could have been mad as well. And instead Albedo shows him nothing but care and love.

“I love you,” Kaeya whispers, trying his damn hardest to ignore the burning of his eye but going by the look on Albedo’s face he knows exactly what’s going on.

“I love you,” he gives right back, and when he leans in to first press a kiss to Kaeya’s eyepatch before he moves on to his mouth, Kaeya doesn’t even flinch.

He’s certain now that Albedo is going to wait until he’s ready and that he’s not going to judge him by his scars whenever that happens.

And that is all Kaeya can ask for at the moment.

[tup-ika-5385]

Summary:

Taking a nervous breath, Tup approached the hangar bay, gearbag slung over his shoulder, all packed for his new mission. Recently, Captain Rex recommended him as a potential ARC candidate, which had him nearly vibrating in excitement. However, he didn’t have as much experience as some of the other applicants, so he’s been assigned a mission, a trial run of sorts, to see how he’d do fighting alongside someone outside the 501st. All this to explain Tup’s anxious anticipation as he approached the Omicron-class shuttle currently parked in the Resolute’s main hangar.

Chapter 2 Summary:

After some stakeout bonding time between the Bad Batch and Tup, tensions rise when one member goes missing.

Chapter 2:

“So, Tech,” Tup asked, breaking the awkward silence that had settled since Hunter left a few minutes ago. “How do you guys typically organize in a standard attack formation? Most configurations I know start with five troopers, so I’m just trying to figure out where I should slot in if this comes down to a firefight.” He wisely didn’t ask about why they were a group of four, or even if they were from the same batch; he figured it’d be a touchy subject.

Wrecker interrupted with a laugh. “Ha, standard formation! Dunno if you noticed, but we’re not very standard ourselves!” He chuckled.

Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Tup sent Wrecker a grin; the larger trooper reminded him a little bit of Hardcase. If he were here, they would’ve gotten along like a ship on fire.

Adjusting his goggles, Tech nodded at Wrecker’s statement. “Wrecker is correct; as a Commando squadron, our attack formations vary significantly from standard. Instead, we use a series of plans, numbered one through 99, having memorized our positions and responses… well, most of us, that is.”

At this, Wrecker gave a sheepish grin. “Was never really much for studying; but if I’ve done it once, I can do it again pretty easily, so Hunter’ll usually just say “Like that time on Felucia” or something. That, or I can just smash ‘em to pieces!” 

Tup nodded in understanding, making sure to keep an eye on their objective, “Makes sense. One of my brothers in the 501st is like that. Sometimes he has trouble paying attention during our mission briefings, so the Captain would usually send him a quick written comm afterwards, summarizing the main objectives. He’s saved my life more than a few times. A good vod, quick on his feet.” 

Wrecker grinned, “Sounds like my kind of Reg!”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, what is a “reg”?” Tup tilted his head questioningly. Earlier when Crosshair had called him that, he’d been sure he meant it as an insult, but he wasn’t getting the same vibe from Wrecker now.

“Means regular clone, ya know, without modifications and stuff.” Wrecker explained, shrugging.

Tup stifled a laugh, not wanting to come off as rude. “Heh. Most brothers I know would be hard-pressed to call anyone in the 501st regular.”  

“How come?” Wrecker asked.

Tup shrugged, “Probably partially because of our General. Skywalker’s a bit of a loose canon, compared to most jedi, and a lot of the larger battalions kinda imitate the styles of their generals. Plus, Captain Rex is always looking for free-thinkers when he recruits on Kamino, which gets us a pretty interesting mix of vode.” 

Humming in understanding, Tech spoke up. “Perhaps that is why Commander Cody suggested a joint mission. We don’t usually associate with other battalions, but GAR command has been looking to… adjust the leadership structures associated with Commando squads recently. It’s likely that he thought we’d have more luck finding cohesion with less… regular regs.” He considered, thinking to himself.

Giving another shrug, Tup looked back out the window. The Bad Batch was a little rough around the edges, but given what he’d seen so far, he wouldn’t mind working with them again. The group fell into silence again, this time a little more comfortably. Wrecker had taken’s Hunter’s place as the second lookout, aided somewhat by the infrared setting on his prosthetic eye, so Tup spent a few minutes listening to Tech as he explained a few of their more basic plans, sending them to Tup’s comm in case they became relevant.

Peering through his scopes again, Tup let out an excited noise. “There’s a lothcat!”

‘What? Where?!” Wrecker asked, sharing his excitement.

“Over there, on the edge of the supply field!”

Looking through his own pair of scopes, Wrecker grinned. “Aww, look at the little guy, takin’ a nap in the sun! Kinda looks like Crosshair on our mission to Ord Cestus.” 

Tup chuckled at the mental image, noticing the black and white coloring and permanent grumpy expression on its sleeping face.

All of a sudden, Tech’s comm chirped, like Crosshair had been summoned. Tech answered it with a look of confusion. “This is Tech, what’s your status, Crosshair?”

Crosshair’s gruff voice sounded annoyed as he asked, “When’s Hunter going to get his lazy shebs over here? I’ve been waiting for nearly 20 minutes.” 

Like a switch had been flipped, Tech’s form straightened nearly hard enough to snap. Tapping intently at his datapad, he scanned the security footage for his brother. “Hunter left right after we called you. He should have been there fifteen minutes ago.”

“Maybe he got lost?” Wrecker suggested, looking nervous.

Tech shook his head, “Unlikely. Hunter’s modifications give him awareness of a planet’s magnetic poles, meaning he is always aware of his cardinal directions.” 

“Well, let’s go looking for him!” Wrecker said, standing up, barely remembering his flimsy civvie disguise. The rest of the group quickly followed. Crosshair met them in the middle, taking the lead; without Hunter, his enhanced vision made him the best tracker they had. 

“There’s signs of a scuffle, here.” He pointed out disturbed dirt, noticing two pretty clear imprints where Hunter’s hands had been pressed into the ground, but they looked different, intentional. 

“Tech. What’s that symbol mean?” He asked their resident genius. Outside of ARC sign, Hunter and Tech had come up with their own shorthand for various status updates, and that’s likely what Hunter was trying to communicate when he got taken.

Tech leaned closer, adjusting his goggles to get a better look. “This one means ‘Enemy off radar,’ and this one… ‘Extreme caution, pursue objective at a distance.’” Of the three of them, Tech was usually the best at keeping his cool in stressful situations, Wrecker and Crosshair could be loose-cannons, but his forehead creased in worry as he tried to decipher the message. 

“Enemy off-radar? What’s that supposed to mean?” Tup asked, and Crosshair shrugged.

With a sudden intake of air, Tech had a realization. “He didn’t sense them coming." Tech's hands gestured wildly as he explained, becoming more animated. "Hunter’s enhancements grant him an awareness of everything within a kilometer of his surroundings, sometimes more. Sneaking up on him should not have been possible without some sort of experimental technology. Perhaps that’s how the medical supplies keep getting stolen!” 

“What about the second one then?” Crosshair asked, expression terse. 

“Well, objective could mean our mission objective, to discover who has been stealing the medical supplies. Hunter being taken implies that we were likely being watched, and if I am correct…” Tech paused, taking out his datapad again to look at the camera feed of the hangar where the supplies should be. “As I suspected, our opponent utilized our distraction to escape with the supplies once again.”

Wrecker let out a grunt of frustration, slamming a fist into a nearby wall. “So all this was for nothin’?”

“Hardly,” Tech said, glancing furtively around the alleyway. “But before I can say more, we should head back to the Marauder. It’s not far from here.”

_________________

Back at the Havoc Marauder, the Bad Batch plus Tup gathered around the holo-table. 

“Alright, what was so important that we had to wait until we were at the ship?” Crosshair griped, jaw tight with worry. 

“I just need to check the Marauder’s surveillance systems to confirm my hypothesis.” Tech said, not pausing to talk. After a moment, he made an affirmative noise before turning back to the rest of the group.

“I had noticed, when looking at the feed of the missing supplies, a strange anomaly that wasn’t visible before, that disappeared during the time that Hunter went missing. Using the Marauder’s systems, I was able to pinpoint the time the anomaly first started, as well as a general location. Using this information, as well as that from the locators Crosshair tagged the supplies approximately six hours ago, I was able to determine a likely location for Hunter. Thankfully, it appears they were not monitoring us when we first arrived, so only some of them were detected,” Tech said, adjusting his goggles.

“Locators?” Tup asked at the same time that Wrecker asked, “How do ya’ know that Hunter’s going to be there?” 

“The second symbol,” Tech brought up a holopic of the signs Hunter had left in the dirt. “‘Extreme Caution; Pursue objective at a distance.’ Hunter obviously had reason to believe that his pursuers were the ones who had taken the supplies, and that our methods to locate them would aid in our efforts to find him. I am a little concerned about this first part, though… especially given Hunter’s likely location.”

“Well, where is he, already?” Wrecker groaned. 

“Given what we know, this is the most likely location. Three of the trackers were likely discovered and removed in-transit, but the last one continued here.” He pointed to their map.

Crosshair jutted his chin proudly with a smirk, glad to finally have an objective. “They always stop looking after three.”

“Indeed,” Tech nodded. “However, I’m not able to pull up any surveillance camera for Hunter’s location, and from what I can tell, the warehouse has some unusual modifications, almost like it’s prepared for an incursion.”

“Let’s go then. We’ve wasted enough time.” Crosshair slid his rifle out from behind him, nearly out the door before Tup spoke. 

“Crosshair, wait. We have no idea what we’re up against. We should at least try and do some recon first.”

Crosshair’s nails dug into his palms; body screaming for action. They needed to save Hunter now! And instead of going where they were needed, he had to stand around and explain his reasoning to some stupid reg? The idea of anyone other than Hunter giving him orders already made Crosshair vehemently angry, let alone a kriffing adiik they’d only met a day ago!

Standing in the doorway to the main cabin of the marauder, Tup’s sympathetic tone felt like a patronizing slap in the face. “Crosshair, I know you want to help Hunter, but we need to make a plan. We can’t just go charging in there. You heard what Tech said; we have no idea what we’re walking into; it’d be jareor. Suicide.”

He pushed past Tup with more force than necessary, glaring ice-cold daggers at him. “If you disagree with it, shove off and go back to the 501st. We don’t need you dragging us down.” He snapped bitterly, smacking away Tup’s careful hand. 

Tup straightened defensively, refusing to take this lying down. Crosshair could get his whole team killed if they went in blindly. “Whether you need me or not, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m here, and I’m here to help. So if you’ve got a problem, di’kut, don’t take it out on me!”

Softer, he continued. “We’ll get Hunter back, but not like this… we’ll do some surveillance, maybe even call reinforcements, if we need them.”

Turning back around, Crosshair’s shoulders were tight as a cord as he adjusted the toothpick in his mouth, voice hardening to hide the shard of helplessness in his chest. “And why shouldn’t I take it out on you?” He asked casually. “Because it’ll hurt your feelings? Because it’s not fair? Because you think you’re worth something, you ARC wannabe?”

He faced Tup now, shoving him as he spat out a toothpick, broken in his anger. “Let me tell you something, reg ,” he sneered. “You and your opinions aren’t worth a kriff . You think you’re an individual? That you’ve got something to contribute? We’re clones, products, replaceable to the last gene; Even our squad, Clone Force 99, could be wiped clean on a whim if it suited the GAR. To anyone outside of this room, Hunter’s as good as worthless, just like the rest of us, and I’m not waiting for nat-borns to sift through their kriff while he bleeds out in some cell!” 

Crosshair knew better than to hope for reinforcements; Clone Force 99 was on their own, just like they always were. One friendly reg wasn’t going to change that.

As Crosshair hissed the word “product,” images of Umbara came up in Tup’s mind. Sense memory came unbidden, and something inside Tup snapped. “You think I don’t already know that?!” 

“I-If any of us were worth something, battles like Teth, Kamino, Umbara wouldn’t have turned into complete FUBAR’s, and my batcher wouldn’t still wake up screaming, thinking he’d been taken away for doing the right thing! I figured all that out long before you got here, but getting yourself killed isn’t going to help Hunter!” 

He refused to let his eyes tear up like they wanted to, focusing on his anger rather than the crushing helplessness he always felt when a brother was taken from him. 

A small warning bell went off in Crosshair’s mind, alerting him to the fact that he’d overstepped. He wanted to ignore it, kriff he really did, but at some point during their argument, Tup’s hair had come undone and seeing another flash of brokenness in a face so similar to Hunter’s was something he couldn’t do, not right now.

So with a put-upon sigh, Crosshair extended an olive branch in the only way he knew how. He turned to Tup, no longer angry and attacking, and asked, “What did you have in mind?”

Chapter 1 Link: Here

[lost-to-stardust]

My super spicy hot take is that wolfwood deserves nice things.

Summary:

While visiting Meryl in December, Wolfwood chooses something for himself.

Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

Gen

Fandom:

Trigun Stampede (Anime 2023)

Relationship:

Meryl Stryfe & Nicholas D. Wolfwood

Characters:

Nicholas D. Wolfwood

Meryl Stryfe

Additional Tags:

Post-Episode: e12 High Noon at July (Trigun Stampede)

Post-Season/Series 01

Slice of Life

Gratuitous Decriptions of Clothing

Dress Up

Clothing as Self-Expression

Introspection

Self-Worth Issues

Self-Acceptance

Language: English

Words:2,463

Chapters:1/1

[starthornisscratching]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Pocket Monsters SPECIAL | Pokemon Adventures Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Ookido Green | Blue Oak/Yellow, FeelingShipping Characters: Yellow (Pokemon), Ookido Green | Blue Oak Additional Tags: Fluff, Love Confessions, Self-Worth Issues, Ookido Green | Blue Oak is Rich, (because he is), Gift Giving Summary:

Blue always gets Yellow gifts on her birthday. Even though she doesn't really feel like she's worthy of it, it's always nice to receive things from him.

But what did he bring this year?

[kyuohki]

Chapters: 1/8 Fandom: Final Fantasy Tactics Advance Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Original Character/Original Character Characters: Marche Radiuju, Montblanc, Original Characters Additional Tags: Kidnapping, Whump, Secrets, Rescue Missions, Self-Worth Issues, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Eventual Happy Ending, Aged-Up Character(s), (bc when I wrote this I forgot how old the charas were) Series: Part 1 of Discarded Hope

Summary:

When a rival clan is paid to bring Marche and Clan Ragnarok down, the altruistic leader is stolen away to Clan Uroborus’ home base in Jagd Helje. Olgan, Ragnarok’s main healer, is outed as a former member of Uroborus, and after he is accused of betraying Ragnarok, he leaves on his own to save Marche. Kemal, Ragnarok’s brash monk, chases after Olgan, angry that the young mage left to save Marche on his own, as well as fearful for his safety.

But Olgan has more secrets in his past than Clan Ragnarok is aware of, and his history with his former Clan’s leader might be his, and Marche’s, downfall…

God, this is an old fic. Not my oldest (those will probably never see the light of day again), but it is from 2011. It's rushed and rough, and really could use a re-write (which I eventually plan on doing).

But...I love it. I wrote over 37k words in two months with a deadline, which was a lot for me in 2011 (I was still a student, and working full time in retail). It became the proof that I was capable of writing *and* finishing something.

So! I’m gonna post a chapter a week, then the small side story sequel (that I actually wrote first). I have not done any more editing to the story, only fixing the formatting and page breaks.

(If you ever hear me reference a Fic-o-Doom(TM), it's this. Because it was, and still is).

[mythtakens]

✨Buck's baggage✨