#but this show really is managing it AND they have to fight against self inflicted wounds as well

[anyasathenaeum]

If you are still taking requests! If not please feel free to ignore! Vash x reader. The reader can usually get themselves out of trouble but a rare moment they are a damsel in distress and need help.

A/N: Oooo I like this idea! I made this one a drabble so there's a biiit more context! Thanks for the request, Anon!

Warnings: Swearing, slight violence, Vash being a badass

"Well, shit."

You'd tried handling a situation involving a handful of bandits who were terrorizing a town of innocent people. And while usually, you were more than capable in handling this sort of situation yourself, what you hadn't anticipated was the ability of the bandits to ambush you.

As a result, you were stuck with your arms tied behind your back and strung upside down by your ankles, much as Vash had been the time you found him alongside Meryl and Roberto just outside of Jenorah Rock. You could feel your blood rushing to your head, and you found it hard to breathe as you hung upside down, dangling like bait in the middle of the town square, just waiting for Vash to come save you.

"I wonder how long it'll take before the infamous Humanoid Typhoon shows up to save ya!"

You heard one of the bandits taunting you, but you couldn't even find the words to answer them. If anything, you were too angry at yourself for getting caught to worry about how you would answer the bandit.

Usually, you were untouchable. Nobody stood a chance against you. You had trained and fought tons, honing your skills so that you were a lethal fighter, not one to be crossed or challenged. You hated having to rely on others to protect you, and that dislike remained even after you'd become self-sufficient. You enjoyed other's company, especially that of Vash, but you hated the thought of being a burden on anybody. And Vash...

'I'm sorry, Vash,' you thought to yourself, your anger surging at yourself for having to put him in a position where he had to rescue you, 'I'm really sorry.'

Vash was your best friend, and your longtime travelling companion, and the two of you had managed to get yourselves out of many a situation by working as a team. Then, later on, Meryl, Roberto and Wolfwood had joined you, and while you all got along, you and Vash had a much deeper bond with each other than with anybody else. You trusted Vash with your life, just as he trusted you with his, but even then, you hated putting Vash in danger because of your own stupidity.

"Look alive! Humanoid Typhoon at 12 o'clock!"

You heard the shout of alarm from one of the bandits, and though you were upside down, you could see the figure standing at the entrance of the town square, the familiar red coat blowing in the wind.

"Vash!"

You let out as loud a cry as you could with the small amount of air you could muster in your lungs from hanging upside down. However, the moment you let out the cry, you felt a large hand grab your hair and tug your head back before you felt something wrapped over your mouth, effectively silencing you. You let out a muffled cry of complaint and pain as this happened, and you could hear Vash's voice, surprisingly harsh and loud.

"Get your hands off them!"

You wished you cry out to him again, but you couldn't, instead fighting the looming darkness creeping in across your vision. You knew that were you upside down much longer, you'd lose consciousness, and should you fail to get right-side-up, you would eventually die.

Vash must've known that, too, because you could hear him calling out to you.

"Hang on, (Y/N)! I'm coming!"

You weren't able to call back, but you felt your worries ebb a little at Vash's words. You watched as Vash weaved through the bandits, effectively using his gun to inflict blunt force rather than to shoot, taking down bandit after bandit in his attempt to get to you. You could hear the exclamations of fear and surprise of the bandits as Vash took them down, unable to be stopped as he fought to free you.

Your vision was beginning to blur, the darkness creeping in further. You knew that you were mere moments from passing out. As your eyes rolled up into the back of your head, you just heard a cry of your name.

"(Y/N)!"

You didn't know how long you were unconscious for, but given that when you woke, you still had rope around your legs, you hadn't been let out for long.

"(Y/N)! Oh, (Y/N), there you are! Come on back, there you go!"

You recognized Vash's voice as you blinked, trying to make sense of your surroundings as everything came back to you. You were laying on the ground, being held by Vash, who was looking down at you with a soft smile, his big blue eyes showing relief behind his circular glasses.

"Oh, thank goodness, you're alright," Vash sighed, pulling you into a hug.

"Thank you for rescuing me, Vash," You mumbled into Vash's shirt as he hugged you, with you returning the hug, "I'm sorry you had to come save me."

"What are you apologizing for?" Vash asked, looking at you with a confused expression, "I'm just glad I could be there for you!"

"Yeah, well..." You mumbled, pulling away from the hug and beginning to untie your legs, "I'm just sorry I was stupid enough to get caught. Then you wouldn't have had to come rescue me."

You heard Vash laugh, and when you turned to give him an unimpressed look, he just laughed harder.

"I'll gladly rescue you, (Y/N), as many times as needed. I'd rescue you every day if I had to, and I'd do it with a smile because..."

Vash's voice trailed off, and a beautiful blush spread across his face as his voice dropped to a quiet whisper.

"Because it's you."

Maybe you should let yourself get caught more often.

Taglist: @mossygalaxy, @ryuukami4, @spacioussoul, @iceoblivious

[oliversrarebooks]

Prompt: Fitz using his vampire mind control powers for the first time and perhaps having PTSD flashbacks to Lily brainwashing him.

It really isn't Lily that Fitz has PTSD flashbacks to - at least not primarily. Which means that instead of Fitz's first time using his powers, I decided to write about a somewhat later time when Fitz's fears plagued him...

Masterlist

September 1910

TW: mind control, blood drinking, PTSD, self-loathing, mentions of blood

It was a bad night even before the puppets showed up.

In fact, it was destined to be a bad night ever since Fitz had happened to glance at the calendar and realize that it was the anniversary of the day he'd been taken from Lex. He immediately tried to push that sordid knowledge from his mind, knowing that it would result in nothing but a lot of pointless anxiety. 

The thin scars lining his hands itched and ached regardless.

And that was before he realized that the act booked to go on before him was a fucking puppet show of all things. As he waited in the wings, peeking out the curtain, he watched as the near-life-size wooden puppets twitched and danced. 

He tried not to feel the strings tightening around his own wrists and neck, forcing sore, tired limbs to move against his will. He tried to fight the urge for his own feet to twitch in uncontrollable rhythm. He tried not to hear the cruel whisper in his ear, pouring cold terror into his unresisting mind as his Master listed every trivial mistake.

One of the puppets was a ballerina, twirling in a graceful pirouette. Some of his fellow thralls had been ballerinas, too, delicate feet bleeding on the dance floor.

A sick dizziness washed over him. He felt detached from reality as he fought the urge to sink to his knees and grovel to his Master for a leniency that was rarely granted. The words were bubbling up in his rapidly tightening throat as he swayed and gripped a curtain to remain upright.

"Mr. Fitz?"

"Master," he murmured. "Master, please, I'm trying --"

"Mr. Fitz, hey. Are you okay, mate?"

The stage fell back into place around Fitz as he snapped out of the self-inflicted trance he'd been in. One of the stagehands, a scrawny boy of no more than nineteen, was pulling on his sleeve. "You look pale as the dead, mister," he said, with innocent concern. "Are you all right? You're going to need to go on in a few."

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he said, mustering up a smile that he was sure looked ghastly. The show needed to go on, after all.

---

Fitz somehow managed to hold himself together for an entire act. From the audience's delighted reaction, they didn't suspect a thing wrong. They couldn't hear the whispered memories tugging at Fitz's mind every time his focus slipped an inch, and thank the devil for that.

He slouched in his dressing room chair. What the hell was wrong with him? He had no reason to be so irrationally frightened of a threat that was an ocean away and several years removed. This time, when he criticized himself, it was his own voice and not the Maestro's --

Pull it together. God, you're fucking useless. Getting turned didn't cure you of that, now did it?

There was a soft knock on the door. "Come in," said Fitz, putting his smile back on, happy to have any distraction from his own wretched thoughts.

A young man in a stylish blue suit slipped in the doorway. He had big, dark eyes, the kind you could lose yourself in, and a gentle smile. A handsome man, one of Fitz's favorite sorts of distraction.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Fitz," said the young man. "My name is Charlie, and I'm a big fan of magic. I really enjoyed your act this evening, and the stagehand told me I could come backstage to meet you."

Bless the innocent stagehand and his excellent instincts. Not only was the man handsome, but he also smelled like a treat. A bit of blood would do wonders for healing his addled mind. 

"Yes, of course. Excellent taste!" said Fitz with a grin and a wink. "Have a seat. I appreciate the company, especially from a fan like yourself."

Fitz turned his vampiric charm on a low hum, not enough to exert any real control, just enough to set the man at ease and draw him in. He'd been a natural at it right off the bat, as soon as he'd recovered from the turning and the injuries inflicted upon him. He could already see the relaxed smile spreading across Charlie's face, the way he leaned in closer to Fitz as he sat.

"Can I ask how you do any of your tricks, or do you never reveal your secrets?" Charlie asked. "Especially the one with the two chairs."

"Oh, it's a secret," said Fitz, leaning in closer himself. "I can give you a hint -- only one of the chairs has a real back to it."

"Oh yeah?" 

"Mmmhmm. What else did you like about my act? I'm always eager to hear some praise, you know."

"I liked the part with the fishtanks. It was very suspenseful. And the bit where you escaped the handcuffs..." Charlie's eyes were going a little glassy. Perfect.

Fitz reached in and touched the man's hair, meeting with no resistance. Such an easy mark. "Very good," he said, physical contact allowing him to weave his real power around the man's mind, soothing him and promoting feelings of blissful pleasure.

"Very good," Charlie agreed, slowly nodding, losing himself in it already.

Fitz's treacherous, anxious mind supplied him with a vision a backstage dressing room years ago, the one where Lily had mesmerized him and sealed his fate. How it had felt to be helpless against a vampire's power.

Annoyed, he pushed it aside. This wasn't like that. He was the vampire now and he was fully in control. He wasn't packing this man off to one of those nasty auction houses, he was just taking a little taste. Charlie clearly had plenty of blood he wouldn't miss.

"Tell me, Charlie," Fitz said with a wicked grin that he knew would make his fangs obvious. "If you're such a devoted fan, would you mind parting with a bit of your blood? Just enough for a little snack, nothing that will do you any harm."

There was only the briefest of resistance before Charlie's head bobbed in an eager nod. "Sure, Mr. Fitz, that'd be just... perfect..."

Perfect.

The word rang through Fitz's head.

I'm trying! I'm trying, Master, please, I'm trying!

If you were actually trying, it would be perfect.

The puppet string tightened around his neck, his old scars feeling like they were on fire.

"No," he whispered, pushing the stranger away and falling to the floor, his stool overturning. "No, no, please, Master, I can't do it any more, I can't -- "

The stranger blinked and looked down at Fitz in confusion. "Are you all right? There might be something in the air here, I was feeling so strange --"

"Go," said Fitz, pushing the stranger away with the same force he'd used to draw him closer. "Leave me!"

The stranger couldn't scramble out of the dressing room fast enough, leaving Fitz to curl up in a miserable, pathetic heap on the floor, cowering before a Master that only existed in his head. He could feel the dank chill of the Maestro's practice room, the scrapes on his knees as he groveled on the floor, the sharp cuts where the fine, cruel silver knife had marred his skin --

Feeling desperate and pitiful, there was only a brief argument in his mind before he relented and sought out Lex. His mind traversed the familiar connection between sire and sireling, the one Lex was so careful never to abuse. Fitz hated leaning on his old love to soothe his troubled mind, but on a really bad night like this --

The connection was always weak from the sireling's end, so all he could send was feelings and vague impressions. Puppets. Knives. Fear.

The response was immediate. Are you okay? What's happening? Didn't you have a show tonight?

Fitz swallowed and tried to convey that he was fine in the practical sense, just having terrible waking nightmares.

He was rewarded when his mind was flooded with a cool, soothing calm, washing away his fear and pain. His muscles unclenched. His shaking subsided. He was able to sit up, leaning against the wall, drinking in the comfort Lex was providing him from afar.

He hated to do it. After all, this situation was largely his fault, no matter how much Lex tried to convince him it wasn't. He should be the one comforting his love. But he was weak. Even as a vampire, he was so fucking weak.

Masterlist

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @snakebites-and-ink @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @whumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining-blog @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada @typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable

[fanfic-inator795]

Man, like- Chip Whistler isn't even my favorite BCG character (Bill, Vasquez, Remy, Cricket and Tilly all outrank him by a wiiiiide margin) but the way the BCGs writers have developed Chip's whole arc really is fascinating in a morbid way - like a car crash you can't look away from.

Just like how the show - even if Chip's most intimidating moments - never forgets to still also show him as the loser he truly is, the show also never forgets to emphasize that EVERYTHING that has gone wrong for him is his own damn fault, regardless of how tragic it is.

(continue reading for a full look at Chip's arc and how I think it'll end)

I feel like whether or not Chip acknowledges this fault is going to be the catalyst as to whether or not he gets a second third FOURTH FIFTH chance, gets arrested or even gets killed off for realsies like the classic Disney Villains.

To get any sort of somewhat-happy ending, Chip would have to not only take responsibility for ALL his mistakes and crimes, vow to be better AND actually put in the work to be better, but he'd also has to acknowledge that the thing that started it all - chipping his tooth on fake produce - was something that he can ONLY blame himself for. And judging by the latest ep, this isn't just a matter of shifting blame but also a matter of finally realizing and accepting this self-inflicted mistake.

Go back to the scene with the 'Bean' family, which not only paints its fake!Cricket as the worst, least sympathetic and shallowest version of Real!Cricket, but afterwards Chip emphasizes that "(that boy) was so mean and I didn't even do anything to him", referring to fake!Cricket but obviously thinking about Real!Cricket in his mind.

But the thing about Cricket is that for as much as the kid can be reckless and make mistakes, he does put in the effort to make things right - often only needing a slight nudge from Tilly, Bill or his own conscious to fix his mistakes. The episode "Supermarket Scandal" is no exception to this. He realizes his mistake, fixes things, and even sacrifices his giant wad of cash. What's more, when Chip tries the fake produce (which is being clearly advertised as such), there's no 'trick' or 'prank' or whatever - it's just Chip ignoring the world and people around him, only to then blame these things when consequences happen.

Funnily enough, Chip isn't a complete moron. Sure, he's incredibly averse to hard work and thus doesn't have much sense, but he had enough business skills to do a decent job as one of Wholesome Foods' top managers and was even able to hold down an office job as Norm Alguy. Once his dad reminded him he had the power and resources of CEO, Chip came up with a pretty solid plan that nearly worked! He's not an idiot, but he's reckless, foolish, single-minded and - above all else - is driven more by pride and ego (as well as a hidden hunger for power) than by anything else.

Come to think of it, given that a big part of Chip originally being a Wholesome Foods manager was likely due to his father, I feel like his vendetta with the Greens was the first real challenge Chip ever had to face (or was 'forced' to face. We saw in his song that while he could challenge himself by changing careers or learning a new skill, he's not self-motivated enough to even try). Everything else was either handed to him or was something he succeeded just enough in to feel satisfied - so it makes sense that these multiple failures and 'offenses/personal attacks' from the Greens would impact his psyche to the point of it being impossible for him to ever completely let go of his need for revenge, needing that closure above all else.

Which brings me to another point: Beyond the fact that the initial tooth-chipping was Chip's own damn fault, Cricket has only ever been shown fighting back against Chip after Chip initiates it, he's never outright sought the guy out just to mess with him. And, when it came to both their tomato war and the apology contract, it was Cricket who gave Chip a chance to walk away both times. It was Cricket who wanted what was best for the farmer's market above all else, and it was Cricket who was the first one (even before Bill and Tilly!) to sign the contract, believing in Chip's ability to change and be a better person and possible friend instead of an enemy.

But each time, Chip refuses and ends up stabbing Cricket and the rest of the Greens in the back, no matter how illogical or foolish it may be for him, his happiness or his business. Again, Chip puts his ego, pride and power above all else. He can't agree to peace in the farmer's market because that still means surrendering. He can't become friends with the Greens because that would mean actually having to put in the effort to change and find other goals and means of satisfaction in his life. He can't just live a new life as Norm because he doesn't have the power over people that he had as Chip, thus putting him in a position to be 'wronged' again. He can't just let the Greens be happy because why should they be happy if I can't be.

And he can't fully accept blame and responsibility for the initial tooth-chipping because once he does, he has to also accept that EVERYTHING he did in the name of revenge truly was pointless.

At this point, you could make the argument that he really is too far gone. The man's essentially starting his Joker arc, fully embracing that he's a 'monster' by his own words, which kinda makes the idea of Chip simply stopping, apologizing and just going to therapy feel kiiiiinda farfetched (cause again, you can't really offer someone help if they don't want to actually put in the work to properly benefit from it- or at the very least, acknowledge that they need it)

With this in mind, I would honestly LOVE a scene where - after offering Chip chance after chance - Cricket finally just throws all these examples back in his face and forces Chip to fully acknowledge them, telling him its his own fault for never just walking away from this whole revenge thing and outright refusing to accept anymore blame or responsibility for this guy's misfortunes.

...Of course, even if Chip were to by some miracle gain some self-awareness/self-realization, I feel like he'd just respond to all this with "I don't CARE if chipping my tooth was my own fault! It still wouldn't have happened if I never met you or your dumb family! So if I'm going down, I'm gonna do all I can to take you down with me."

Like I said, it's a self-inflicted tragedy, and unless something major happens to break through to Chip - his father stepping in maybe? though tbh Chip seemed to barely respect him in the first place sooooo - I truly do feel like both his Joker arc and his story as a whole is going to end in flames with Chip getting the ol' Disney classic 'falls off a high place and/or into fire' villain death. That or he's finally arrested - either way, it'd be ending that cements his story as being finished (since, given that Chip is apparently going to try to destroy all of Big City and everyone in it, I'm not sure how much more you'd be able to do with his character after hitting that extreme that would still feel exciting or have some tension)

But who knows? The BCGs crew already surprised me quite a bit with where they decided to take Chip's story in his s4 return ep, so maybe they'll surprise me again. Whether they take it, I'm just hoping that (for unlikely as it may be) we don't get something that's either completely unsatisfying or something that feels like it's going against the whole point of Chip's arc - like Chip getting a snapshot redemption and rushing into an actual friendship with the Greens, or Cricket for whatever reason being the one to apologize despite every single one of Chip's misfortunes being - say it with me now - his own damn fault. As long as neither of these two examples happen, I'll probably be pretty happy and satisfied.

[klysanderelias]

I think the thing that makes me insane about battletech as a setting is that it's such a quintessential military science fiction universe in that there's basically no substance or interrogation or themes or anything

A lot of mech stories specifically use mechs as an allegory for something else, or a way to externalize the pain and torture of prolonged warfare without requiring the protagonists to be constantly injured or healing, or to show grievous damage to a body but not YOUR body, but it's still kind of your body, you know?

And as someone who has read probably literally close to a hundred of the battletech novels, that's just... not there. Almost all of the stories are boilerplate, relatively mediocre war stories that tell of heroes doing cool things and winning against regular odds, and the ones that deviate from the norm are the sort of thing that I'd find completely unremarkable in any other setting. Like, the closest I can come up with to a story that isn't just 'there's a guy, he's in a mech, he falls in love with a girl, he fights and he ends up winning and it's cool' is Ideal War, which STILL FOLLOWS THAT FORMULA but at least works within the confines of the universe to say things like 'war is horrible and piloting a mech doesn't protect you from having to see the violence you're capable of inflicting' (but yeah it really is still that exact formula just by a slightly more self aware author)

and the problem really is the same that a lot of science fiction falls into, where the summary is really really cool and you're like holy shit I would love to know more, like if I were to tell you 'this setting is about a technologically advanced galaxy where humans have been able to create 10 meter tall mechs that last hundreds of years and are the primary method of waging war, but because of the vastness of space and the limits of physics, society has reverted to feudalism and aristocracy because coordinating governments across solar systems is a nightmare and the larger a given nation, the more difficult it is to manage, PLUS as battlemechs are owned and passed down within families, it additionally stratifies society as a new noble class is established, oh and partially through the bloody wars between these feudal nations, a eugenicist death cult of technologically advanced humans sweeps in and completely curbstomps everyone in their way until the secretive communications network that kind of worships computers reveals that it's been hiding an army of its own that is close to on par with the death cultists, and challenges them to a winner-take-all battle for the galaxy'

and then I have to be like 'oh and it's really badly written, everything that sounds cool about this is thrown to the side because the guys who wrote this were all middle-aged white dudes who were weirdly enthusiastic about the US civil war and especially the South'

Like, I can't help but think about things like gundam, which has its faults but has clear politics and themes and narratives that carry through clearly and reliably, or EVA which definitely fumbles a lot of what it's going for but is laden with such evocative imagery and symbolism that even though it's kinda mid it still captured our hearts and minds for decades, or like every single mech story in existence that asks whether we consider them people, or how it changes our ability to relate to others to be encased in a shell of armor and death, or whether we're giving up part of our humanity to become part of a steel beast

and battletech is just no thoughts head empty 'it's so cool to be a soldier : ) isn't it great to be a special hero :DDD'

and that's on the good days, on the bad days it's 'well the clans are so cool and advanced and they're so good at fighting and they've got a code of honor that makes them vulnerable but really it's the ones that attempt to find loopholes or undercut that honor that are the bad ones, if only we could get the clans to stop fighting us and see that we should have peace, between us and the people who idolize genetic purity above literally everything else :)'

[alphateamsfinest]

“Why do we always have to meet in the worst ways? Jill, Jill, Jill…you have to stop doing this.”

She is no stranger to seeing the dead walk. Some ought to be more dead than others — especially him.

Albert Wesker’s tone is one of resignation, maybe a little pity and the sort of banter one might hear in a break room, as if he’s just teasing despite how he really is tired of having to bail her out of life-threatening situations (he is, admittedly, curious to see if the pack of Lickers closing in from all sides is as life-threatening to someone under the potential long-term effects of the P30 serum as it might be to an intruder he’s labeled as more disposable).

The creatures are either target-fixated or know better than to take a shot at the thing on the walkway above them. He stands not quite directly above her, leaning with one hip against the railing half-turned around, as if he had just been on an evening walk and happened to notice the spectacle occurring below. She is close enough to see that he has removed his ever-present dark glasses, and is regarding her with hellfire eyes (a different shade of orange-red than she remembers, set in pools of black instead of white) as he cleans them with a red cloth drawn from a pocket.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock? — Oh, who am I kidding…”

One of the crawling, skinless things lunges and he abruptly drives a heel down on the metal-grate surface of the walkway with a bang that trembles and hums through the structure as it dissipates. The creature stops dead in its tracks. More are coming out of the vents.

“How long do you think they’ll obey? You are the subject matter expert, after all.”

Wesker always seems to have the uncanny ability to appear when she’s getting herself into situations that could result in her death. If it were another scenario, if it were years ago, she would find it sweet that he had a guardian angel. But now it seems more apt that she has someone dragging her back to hell time and time again, tightening the noose around her neck but never tight enough that it might strangle her.

There’s been times, much less lucid times where Jill has begged him for death. She doesn’t know how many times it’s been, some of them were lacking conscious, others have been long buried under drugs.

But she still remembers the first time Wesker chided her like that.

The P30 injector had been in place and she had her first ‘test run’. She still remembered the mans eyes bulging as she slowly strangled him to death under Wesker’s watchful gaze. How she wasn’t in control of her body, how she was screaming on the inside trying to fight herself, how she wanted to cry but she couldn’t even manage that.

‘Jill…you have to stop doing this’ He said as he bandaged her self-inflicted wounds, disposed of the scalpel she had stolen, and mopped up the spilled blood on the floor. 

Her heartbeat quickens when the Licker lunges, just one exhale quicker but it’s enough to show fear. Almost everything in her screams for her to leave, to get out of this situation. She had survived the mansion, Raccoon City, years of fighting BOW’s and here she is, about to let these pathetic fucks take her out? But the other side of her wants this to end. Wants to stop being under his heel, wants freedom back, would rather be dead than be his puppet. 

Jill looks up at him, that steely grey-blue meets those pit of hell eyes unflinchingly. The hate in her eyes is as clear as it always is these days when she looks at him. A look that once held respect, care and meaning now holds disdain and a bone deep hatred that she can’t shake. Her look is certain and unwavering that she’ll fight him with everything in her power as long as she keeps breathing.

“Probably not much longer. The real question is how long do you think you can stay in control? Because if I have my way- they’ll take me out.”

[rockheadcd]

@pridepoisoned said: #: shaky hands (roark post-galactic encounters perhaps???) / a drabble meme that is SOMEWHERE around. continuation ( post-mortem? hee hoo ) of this absolute banger. ft. @electrivolt + galactic verse.

The events witnessed play over in startling clarity—his poor, overworked brain reeling and attempting to process anything but the wretch-worthy stench of that Skuntank. Roark can't even begin to think about how that will even be aired out of the gym, much less out of the office. It's pungency is unlike anything he's ever experienced before, carcasses included.

His face is buried in the mask left behind, such a gracious gift from Galactic's most notorious commander, wheezing filtered air as the only consolation. Moving out of here sounded like an absolutely wonderful plan—really, he'd love to move outside—but every inhale brings a sore, jagged point of pain.

Ugh, whatever was behind that kick of hers was fueled much more than the steel toe itself.

He has yet to open his eyes, partially the irritation of such fumes, partially from the disorientation from being shoved against one of the many metal and wood objects all over his office, partially from the pain—Arceus, just about everything was suggesting he was better off just passing out right then and there if he'd ever allow himself.

( i have a crap ton to clean up.. i can't let people know..... )

The slump in his torso shifts a wayward fallen decoration.

What an idiot, he didn't even think to send out a 'mon in the time Jupiter had even revealed herself, quickly ambushed with the disorientation that both Golbat and Bronzong are effective at. He was so easily corralled back in here it was shameful. Roark heaves a sigh, struggling to get a grip—confusion was a hell of a debuff, eh? He really should have known better. Eterna was a hop, skip and a jump away from Oreburgh. Their headquarters for Arceus' sake! Was he really so complacent after that fateful night nearly being deprived of air in the deepness of the mines?

Perhaps so.

Roark tries to open his eyes, carefully, to accustom to the stinging as Skuntank's fumes slowly, agonizingly, sink and permeate into every porous surface in his office. His glasses are nothing but a blurry set of halves and cracked lenses, a further demoralization from the Commander herself. She sent a message, and the one remaining coherent thought that's managed to stick around was that he was going to everything in his power to make sure Volkner doesn't know about this part of their... "conversation".

With a pained heave, Roark finally straps the gas mask around his head, picking up the remains of his glasses to toss them away, effectively useless to him now. Delaying urgent care had to be self-inflicted punishment, and yet it's not all different from a wild encounter with a resurrected fossil to prevent injury to the scientists and further injury to their 'mons ( really, he's just trying to cope and process it all ). Around the office he goes, picking up the fallen documents, office supplies, and haphazardly tossed chairs. The habitual slip into old habits comes to rescue him once again, lost in his thoughts at such quiet hours of the night—how to talk to Volkner about this was at the forefront, leaving him with a bitter worry. The gym leader stumbles a little, trying to crack open as many doors as possible to let the chill of Oreburgh flow throughout the gym, a hand bracing his weight and gliding along the half-lit halls throughout. No other damage, thankfully, but the notion that this would only be the beginning if Roark didn't do something... If there was anything he would not underestimate, it would be her definition of escalation—and there would be no way for him to prepare, nor fight back, like this. The point was to show she was not about to give him ( or volkner, even ) respect or fairness. She didn't play by any rules but her own. Unpredictable, and brutal.

This was, after all, an organization that did not have a clean record.

( and yet he would never, ever know how dirty galactic's hands truly were )

Damnit. He has to see Volkner soon, but it can't be tonight. Not when he's hurting like this, not while the gym smells like it's a toxic waste dump, and certainly not when he has a pounding headache rising up as his survival mode eases up on the numbness. He could probably text him, given Volkner's sleep schedule was arguably worse than his own.

His city's safety is ultimately his highest priority—part of it included ensuring not a single person had a reason to worry about the movements of Galactic's grunts, much less the appearance of their highest ranking staff. The earthquake and Volkner's sudden appearance were concerning enough, where the days following left Roark with enough sympathy that he wanted to practically run from it in the quest for some kind of normalcy again, buried right back in the mines to occupy his days with safety inspections to ensure the tunnels weren't compromised, and if they were, the safest workaround to each quadrant.

..It's cold, his body finally acknowledges. Roark can finally settle the gas mask around his neck by the time he steps outside, the surrounding dirt barely has signs of coercion, much to his dismay. Leaning against the outside wall, just outside the entrance, the mass of stone pressing uncomfortably against his back, he takes another shaking, painful breath, looking at his hands finally.

They're trembling, but not shivering.

He's shaken up and he's still dancing around the fact he did get the shit scared out of him—this could have been much, much worse.

It would have been, if Volkner wasn't involved, wouldn't it?

"...ugh."

An alternative option he can make due with in order to deal with the stench that slowly wafts out of the gym requires him to borrow some 'mons that were currently snoozing at home. A glance at his phone reveals to him the entire counter took barely any time at all—another kick into the curb, so to speak. Most of the time spent here was wallowing in delirium. Now he feels sick to his stomach, and when Roark instinctively inhales, he gasps into a groan of pain, painfully reminding himself of what must have been a broken rib or two.

Just what did they introduce to this peaceful corner of Sinnoh, now...? He didn't know—well, he thought he knew, but he did not know the sheer scope of what Galactic could be capable of.

Realistically, he should be making his way to urgent care, not his home, but... well. He wasn't about to arrive smelling like this, no matter how easily he could explain it was just an unfortunate encounter in the Underground—with the common knowledge of his adventures taking place around this time, it'd just be a funny story in the end. But.. no, he can't lie like that. Home first. Get Leafeon. Get Politoed. Sweet Scent. Give Leafeon a healthy cleanse. Rinse and repeat. It'd be faster to hitch a ride on Ramses at this moment, but.. the idea of jostling around with injuries sounds absolutely horrendous, and Roark is beginning to value the time where all he can hear is the rustle of trees and the coos of the night birds. It's not enough to distract him from his current train of thought, however.

Insolence, huh.. He's awfully surprised she didn't attempt to finish the job, considering the grunts were thwarted that night. Granted, that would cause one hell of a commotion should Roark of all people go down under mysterious circumstances. ...She must have had to reasons to play this out, be it to prolong the suffering or not. Either way, she knew more than he did when it came to Volkner's activities..

( he needs someone to talk to in order to make this long trek home bearable, didn't he? )

He takes a more careful, deep breath, shaking as much as his fingertips are, eventually reaching for his phone again.

[ > Volkner ] hey. are you up still? [ > Volkner ] there's been a lot of galactic activity by sunyshore hasn't there? [ > Volkner ] not trying to be accusing or anything i just got a warning is all

There's no way he could really send anything lightly, was there? Dropping Jupiter's name alone could elicit anything, but.. maybe in the meantime, he could see if she had simply been bluffing ( oh, he's really hoping she was bluffing, but no one bluffs like that ). ..Home feels so far away.

[novantinuum]

top 5 side characters (from anything at all)

Oooooh side characters... that's a good question... I think I'll pick my fav side character from my most recent fandoms, one from each.

5) (Doctor Who) Missy- This incarnation of the Master is always very fun to watch, because her actress Michelle Gomez absolutely spends every second chewing the scenery clear off the walls. I also always enjoyed how they gave her a clear character arc in the seasons she appeared in- plus, it was lovely to see an incarnation of the Master who wasn't clear-cut "evil" as past ones have been, but rather Chaotic Neutral, and just in the game for the benefit of herself.

4) (The Legend of Zelda) Revali. A lot of the gaming community drags on this one, but I think there's a ton of interesting threads one can pull from what little we get of him in BotW canon that lend towards a fascinating picture of an incredibly insecure young warrior who's lashing out against someone (Link) who he sees as gaining everything he ever wanted but never working a second for it, as opposed to his hard, years-long struggle in perfecting his special flying ability. It's sad, in the end- because had he realized that Link was burdened by his own destiny and worked just as hard as he had to himself feel "deserving" of it, I bet they might've been able to find something to connect over, and became friends.

3) (The Adventure Zone) Barry Bluejeans- Goddammnit, FUCK YOU BARRY BLUEJEANS for having such a stupid ass name and making me CRY over you in just one 5 minute prologue! I really, really love this NPC... there's such a deep tragedy to his story- losing his wife and his whole found family and not even being able to remember that they're gone while in human form- and yet, every time he dies and goes back into lich form and remembers it all, still he manages to pick himself up and try again. Work harder. Work smarter. Set himself up for success each time he clones himself and returns to his human form to make his plan work. He fights tirelessly for YEARS without an ounce of thanks just because he loves his family and the world they've entered so much that he wants to make sure they'll all be safe, in the end. What a man.

2) (Gravity Falls) Fiddleford McGucket- For such an otherwise funny but unremarkable joke character back in season 1, it was amazing how the writers were ultimately able to transform him into such a tragic figure, and utilize him to give context to why the whole town literally pays no heed to any of the weirdness going on all around them. He's the sort of character who gives the show amazing re-watch energy- at this point, when I go back through the show, every single appearance he has just makes me feel incredibly sad- AND a lot of his otherwise "random" or "quirky" characteristics start to make a lot more sense. He's a man who lives in the dump, but is capable of building incredibly complex machines?" He's a literal genius mechanic who's simply gone through severe memory slippage. Said memory slippage? Self-inflicted by a memory erasing device he invented himself. Said memory erasing device? Has been used in the years since to purge the town of their memories of the supernatural. His backstory blasts open a whole new door of lore possibilities in this show. Love him.

1) (Steven Universe) Connie Connie Connie Connie Connie- Connie, my LOVE- I feel like by the end of the show she's grown into more of a main character than just a side, but that shows perhaps just HOW much wonderful development she gets throughout her journey. She grew from a timid young girl unsure of herself and her place in the world around her, to a fierce teen who has purpose, ambitions, and has a whole constellation of connections and confidants ready to cheer her on. I'm really proud of her <3

Every single time she showed up on screen for a new episode I got like, indescribably happy and went "damn this is going to be a good one," and basically every single SU reactor I've seen has had the same experience, so I think that alone shows how beloved Connie is, and how well written a character she is too. It's always great to have such a grounded presence amidst characters living in a world of fantasy.

[percontaion-points]

Court chapters 80-83

Click to see the rest of the snark & image descriptions

Chapter 80

Gargoyles are flying above us, shooting flaming arrows at the attackers, who have managed to scale this section of the wall, and I get my first look at the creatures that are attacking the castle. And then I scream.

Chapter 80 summary: The castle is under attack! Everybody wonders why, but there’s literally no time to stop and question any of this. 

Grace begins to have a panic attack, and Hudson calms her down by forcing her to answer simple maths questions. And again, I appreciate the author showing us that Grace is suffering from PTSD and anxiety. But at the same time… Did we really need 3 goddamned pages and an entire fucking chapter of this?

Chapter 81

“We have to help her!” I shout again and fight against him, clawing his arms to get free, but he doesn’t loosen his hold. 

“We can’t,” he whispers, and I don’t understand. Hudson has never run from a fight in his life. 

“There’s still time!” I plead. “We can save her!” 

“No, we can’t.” He doesn’t say anything else, and my eyes widen as I finally see what he’d seen with his better night vision. 

The flesh on her wrist is disintegrating. Decaying within seconds, becoming flakes that the wind picks up and carries away like dust. 

[...]

My proud and strong mate is on the ground, his arms wrapped around his knees, tears streaming down his face as he just keeps repeating, “They were gargoyles. They were gargoyles. They were gargoyles.”

Yeah… And? They were literally KILLING PEOPLE. Infecting them with their skeleton disease, whatever you want to call it. 

My proud and strong mate is on the ground, his arms wrapped around his knees, tears streaming down his face as he just keeps repeating, “They were gargoyles. They were gargoyles. They were gargoyles.”

Chapter 81 summary: The invaders are a collection of animated bones, and boy, are they rough looking. Grace says that they’re barely holding a recognisable human-esque shape. 

One of them grabs some lady named Moira, and Hudson has to yank Grace back from going to help her. Where the skeleton touched, the poor woman’s arm is also becoming skeletal. 

Hudson uses his powers and turns all of the bones into dust. But the thought that all of the skeletons were once gargoyles, caught in this time bubble, is too much for Hudson to think about. He has an emotional breakdown. 

Chapter 82

“We’re in a frozen Court, Grace.” He waves his hand. “Time doesn’t exist here for us. We don’t age…and we don’t die.” 

His words are like a gunshot ricocheting in my chest. “So they were gargoyles, like Hudson said,” I whisper. Oh my God. What did I ask him to do?

WHAT THE FUCK DID SHE THINK THAT THEY WERE?!

I don’t even hesitate as I turn and say, “Every time.”

Chapter 82 summary: Grace manages to calm Hudson down, and leaves him with her friends so that she can go talk to Chastain. 

He tells her that they had their first death because of a training accident. They buried him and held a funeral as normal. But then, his skeleton came back to life and killed 3 others. That night, there were 4 skeletons. The skeleton army grows a bit more every single night, and tonight, 2 others were killed before Hudson vaporised them. But they’ll be back tomorrow night.

He tells Grace that there are other gargoyles in statue form, who have been waiting 500 years to be freed from their self-inflicted prison. They cannot interact with the outside world, or else they’ll die from the poison. They will turn to flesh once again as soon as they get the call from the living gargoyles… But there have to BE living gargoyles in order to call to them in the first place.

Grace gets angry when Chastain tells her he wants Hudson to keep doing that every night until they find a way out of this mess. Grace gets angry, and says no, that it’s too much for Hudson. She won’t ask him to do it again. He asks that she’d choose her mate over her own people, and she agrees that she’d always pick Hudson. 

Chapter 83

The trick is figuring out how to heal when the broken thing is you—or worse, your mate.

Chapter 83 summary: The next morning, Grace asks Hudson how he knew that they were gargoyles. He refuses to answer at first, but then slowly begins to explain to her that he has to enter the minds of the people that he disintegrates. He is literally in their minds when he kills them. This knowledge hits the group hard when they realise exactly what Hudson has been exposed to.

Grace briefly explains that nothing can actually die here. So she thanks Hudson for giving those undead even a few hours of actual rest. 

[mikecrewsteacup]

holy shit chapter four!!! i have . Many thoughts. most of which being "oh, jon. oh, gerry." fjfgdjfh but also! i'm so impressed at how gerry has kept so much of himself. like, he didn't let them break him, even though it would be safer and it would hurt less. he's still sharp and sarcastic and so damn clever, and it's hidden under a layer of terrified survival instinct, but it still keeps showing through. i am so impressed at his,, will? i guess? to stay himself even through all the horrors inflicted upon him.

also, proud of jon for sorting out that misunderstanding. amusingly enough i think there was a misunderstanding between us too; i meant "compared to gerry's previous owners, the bar is in the floor", not "jon is doing abysmally but at least he's not malicious" fkfhdjdjd. either way, "created a new misunderstanding" is Concerning, like, what exactly got lost in translation between the two of them???

also i know i keep saying this but like. he's such a survivor. he's so damn strong, even though he shouldn't Have to be, but he's such a survivor that he's even managed to hold onto the essence of himself. i am so ridiculously impressed.

- 🌻

hehe hello 🌻 I'm glad Gerry's stunning ability to stay himself has shone through! Honestly listening to his statement in canon, it was all I could think about - here's a guy who had [filmreel of Gerry's entire existence up til death], then woke up after dying to discover that the woman he'd spent the last of his life helping had not only betrayed him but ABANDONED him immediately afterwards, and then he is picked up by two serial killers/vigilantes. (I've always been curious about his canon reasons for talking to them at all - a desire to help fight back against the Powers no matter what? he reacts with pain to Jon tearing his page, so did they torture him at all? did he just revert back to obedience after listening to enough verbal threats/taunts and they didn't even have to hurt him physically?? ANYWAY). so anyway yes, I'm glad you are also enjoying Gerry's dogged ability to cling to himself despite the world trying very, very hard to rip it away. LKLDFDFFS FAIR yes that was my misunderstanding, then! the bar from the previous owners is definitely underground. it's in the basement. it's rapidly approaching the earth's core. and hmm, well, their 'misunderstanding' in chapter 4 is something Jon doesn't realize happened, but that bold font when he asked Gerry why he wasn't eating the food sure worked really well in getting him to answer honestly... <3 also chapter 5 is up because that's the kind of writer i am, apparently lol (the "has no self control" kind)

[navree]

i’m repeating myself but i really like how this series has gone to pains to show the audience exactly how awful order 66 was and to make us feel it, because fictional genocide is an extraordinarily tough beast to write but they’re managing it

[delimeful]

you cant go back (1)

BTHB: Locked Up and Left Behind

first in a new alien series! this one is completely unrelated to WIBAR :)

warnings: abandonment, violence, injury, mentions of death and starvation, mild cliffhanger

-

Virgil was screwed.

This was quite a familiar phrase for him. He most frequently utilized it while trying to haul Jan away from whatever batshit scheme he was joint-deep in before it blew up in their faces. Normally, however, even he could admit that his panic, fury, and/or despair was sometimes exaggerated for emphasis.

“I’m absolutely, massively, unbelievably screwed,” Virgil tried out in a low hissing whisper, and grimaced when it came out sounding like an understatement.

In the corner of his eye, his helmet’s display screen blinked an eye-numbing red, informing him that there was a breach in his suit, and the atmospheric pressure inside had been completely disrupted. There would normally be beeping, too, the shrieking ‘you’re about to die’ kind that made his shelling turn pitch with terror in simulations, but— well.

He’d been able to endure about two clicks of the racket before giving in and tearing through the audio speakers with his teeth, ruining them entirely. It meant he wouldn’t hear any of the vital organ failure notifications, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to experience a sickening play-by-play of his death on another planet anyhow.

The others had left him in some kind of dilapidated shack, hand-painted a faded red on the outside. It looked unstable, but it was apparently built sturdier than any of them expected, enough to not even creak as he thrashed around with all his free limbs. He’d been cuffed around one of the support pillars, which meant that even if he could break it, it would probably just immediately collapse and crush him to bits.

Considering there was an enormous crack in the glass of his helmet, he hadn’t really thought he’d get the privilege of worrying about how he was going to die. Aisleen— the one who had bashed his helmet against her elbow plate— had certainly agreed. She’d waited until after the others had left, granting him a quicker death the way her culture called honorable.

Janus would have disagreed loudly. Not just because Virgil was pretty sure his only friend didn’t actually want to see him choke to death on the probably-somehow-toxic atmosphere of a Deathworld, but also because that guy could go on about interplanetary ethics for rotations if you let him.

Virgil wrenched at his restraints for the hundredth time, ignoring the hot pulse of pain that came with the movement. His chitin had to be cracking by now, but the rawness of that was easier to focus on than thoughts like, ‘I’ll never get to watch him argue someone in circles again.’

The worst part wasn’t wondering if they’d fess up to abandoning him or not. No, the worst part was he wasn’t actually sure which option he preferred.

He could imagine Janus looking for him, searching for leads that didn’t exist, stubborn the way a starving shilsho would stay locked onto flesh. Never knowing what actually happened. Jan hated not knowing things, the way Virgil hated sitting with his back to an open entryway.

But if he knew… If Janus managed to wrest the truth from them— or if they bragged about it— he would blame himself. They’d left Virgil because he was just a weaker version of Janus when it came down to it, and because he backed Janus up no matter what, and because it was funny, leaving the twitchiest guy on the crew to die on a world where anything and everything could kill you.

At least Janus wouldn’t be tempted to come down and retrieve his corpse. The other Chelcera was all about self-serving scheming, and there was no way the benefits outweighed the costs. He had to believe that much for his own sanity.

Virgil closed his eyes, trying to push away the what-ifs and the mental flash-images of Janus stuck in his position. He had more than enough to worry about already.

Since the atmosphere didn’t seem toxic enough to kill him outright (for now), there was a surplus of possible ways he was going to bite it. Weather, wildlife, or withering into a lifeless husk due to lack of sustenance.

Alliteration, nice. He was funny when he was on the brink of deathbed hysterics.

For now, he was only in conceptual danger. The shack was sheltering him from any outside elements, being terrified had killed his appetite, and there didn’t seem to be any heat signatures nearby, though his vision was limited by the sides of the helmet.

It made his skin itch, not being able to see behind him, but his auxiliary arms were spread out and taut, waiting for even a wisp of movement. If anyone tried to attack him from behind, they’d strike quick and true.

Of course, then he’d probably be immediately immolated by a pissed-off Deathworlder, but at least he could go down fighting.

If he was vicious enough, they’d have to kill him, and he wouldn’t have to worry about being taken alive. Bitter venom welled up in his mouth at the thought, and he tried to breathe deeply.

He was thinking too far ahead. For now, he’d struggle and swear and watch his atmo tank dwindle down to nothing, see if it changed anything. Maybe he was going to asphyxiate, after all.

-

He made it through the night.

The sun was close to this planet, enough that he was warm even in the stripped-down version of his bodysuit and in the enclosed shade of the barn. He thought he might even get overheated if he tried to sunbathe here, which hadn’t ever been a concern back home.

Thankfully, the meager sun that spilled through the half-open window didn’t reach him, so he didn’t have to add boiling alive to his list of potential deaths.

Unthankfully, more and more heat signatures popped up as the dawn arrived, all small but still potentially life-ending. He’d heard more than enough horror stories about palm-sized Deathworlder creatures that could kill you with one bite. He wasn’t letting his guard down.

The noise that accompanied the day was welcome— he was exhausted, and every unfamiliar chattering call or whistle made his aux limbs lift back up defensively, keeping him from dropping off into sleep.

He was not falling asleep on a Deathworld. That was just asking for trouble.

The energy crash hit hard, though, and by the time the sun was overhead, he was warm and sleepy enough that he almost missed the slow creak of the door.

He definitely didn’t miss the bright splotch of heat that trotted in, though. He quickly flicked his sensor eyes closed, getting rid of the heat-sense overlay, and felt his hair stand on end as he met the slitted eyes of a small, furry quadruped.

“Mrow?” the creature chirped at him, tail winding back and forth in the air. Its fur was colored in abstract patches, and he could see the tiny fangs in its mouth as it yawned threateningly.

Virgil resisted the urge to hiss, wriggling his wrists desperately. There was no point in antagonizing a Deathworlder creature preemptively while bound and helpless, a voice in his head reminded him. It sounded kind of like Janus.

The creature stalked a little closer, predatory grace in every one of its movements, and paused to watch him again. It’s pupils seemed rounder now, ears flicked up attentively. Virgil resisted the urge to twitch his backlegs, keeping still like a terrified prey animal as it approached at a leisurely pace.

He’d had all of his bulky outer suit stripped from him by the others-- no point in leaving the soon-to-be-corpse with a pricy surface suit. They’d even taken the shoes, which had felt a bit like insult to injury.

Now, with the local fauna drawing close to his feet, it felt more like just plain injury.

As bad as the odds were, he was fervently hoping that he could make himself seem tougher than he was. Maybe having to work for its meal would scare it off? He grit his fangs and drew himself up in preparation to lash out as much as he could in retaliation for whatever damage the creature was about to inflict on him.

It trod directly over his feet and brushed its little head up against his legs, a low rumble beginning to emanate from it.

He stared blankly down at it.

“What?” he clicked quietly, and the creature chirped back at him, taking a tight turn to loop right back around and brush against him in the opposite direction. Still, not a hint of pain.

Did… Did it have contact poisons, maybe? There was a residue of shed fur building up on the ankles of his undersuit, but it seemed surprisingly harmless.

With another, louder rumble, the creature settled into a crouched position-- directly on top of his feet. Its eyes drifted slowly closed, the vibrations it was making rolling through him.

Oh, Seryl and all her stars. It was sleeping on him.

It seemed docile for now, but what would it do if he woke it? Even he threatened to bite people who interrupted his naps, and he wasn’t a tiny wild creature governed only by survival (no matter what Janus told people). His flimsy inner suit wouldn’t stop an Ampen’s claws, let alone Deathworlder teeth or claws.

The creature continued to be a warm purring weight on his feet.

He resigned himself to a very tense next few hours.

-

Patch, as he’d taken to mentally calling the creature, didn’t end up attacking him. When it woke, it stretched languidly, chirped up at him a few more times, and then departed shortly before the sunlight began to fade.

And then, the next morning, it returned. Despite Virgil’s many fears, it continued to show no interest in harming him. At some point in the day, he even accidentally fell asleep with it, and still, no surprise ambush.

Despite Patch’s yawns and rumbles and claw-flexing stretches that could all technically be threat displays, it seemed bizarrely… almost... fond of him.

There was the slightest hitch, on the second day, when he realized Patch could come in the other windows and approach from behind while he slept. Surprisingly enough, the thought of the creature sneaking up on him was less distressing than the idea of accidentally striking out at it while asleep.

The presence of a non-hostile creature keeping him company had been... surprisingly nice when he wasn’t busy freaking out about it.

Once he’d imagined that awful scenario, he couldn’t dismiss the possibility, and so he spent an inordinate amount of time using his aux limbs to fiddle with the sealing latch on his helmet until he could tug it free. The slick surface and broken glass of the visor meant that he fumbled it basically as soon as he got it off, letting it drop to the floor behind him, but the reserve power had already long died anyhow.

And then, when Patch returned a bit after the sun’s rising, they hissed viciously at him the moment he turned his head. They proceeded to refuse to come anywhere near him for a good long portion of the day, at first bristling and pacing back and forth, and then eyeing him oddly while pretending not to, and then finally approaching slowly-- in what Virgil struggled not to view as a predator’s stalk-- and deeming his feet a suitable resting perch once more.

He’d like to say he never had a friendship so exhausting, but his best friend was Janus, so this was basically different ditchport, same junkyard.

“You two’d probably get along,” he said to Patch after he’d been forgiven for the horrific crime of exposing his face. “How do you feel about schemes?”

Patch had imitated one of his double-click noises perfectly, which was somehow mostly-adorable instead of mostly-terrifying. He tried to make one of their little round chirp sounds and mangled it horribly, but thankfully the resulting look they gave him was more alarm than offense.

By the fourth day, he’d begun to keenly feel the effects of being completely without nutrients. It was really only thanks to his nature that he’d gotten this far. Chelcerae were sporadic eaters-- big meals sustained them over longer periods of time compared to other aliens. The downside of that, of course, meant that when his body finally realized that there was no food coming, the hunger pains were going to be all-consuming.

Working at Janus’s side, he’d gotten used to having food when he needed it, or even wanted it. It just figured that he was probably going to die the same way Janus had first found him: starving.

He fell into sleep more and more frequently. It passed the time, and being asleep made it much easier to ignore his impending doom.

Of course, if he’d been aware of the rude awakening he was in for, he wouldn’t have been so eager.

In fact, if he’d known what exactly was going to find him sleeping on that fourth day, he probably wouldn’t have dared to shut his eyes at all.

[yourlocalshittywriter]

The Duty of a Hero

Author’s Note: Howdy folks! I’m here with my first proper fic and I really hope that y’all like it! This will be exploring what could’ve happened if the Dabi that Aizawa fought wasn’t one of Twice’s clones. Since this is a fight, I advise the folks that are sensitive to things like that to click off and read another fic. Also, since this story does change scenery and moods a bit, I included some songs that change along with the the stories mood! This is mainly just because I like showing off my music taste and shit. Here’s Part 2!

Songs to Go Along: The Fighter by In This Moment, Acid Bubble by Alice In Chains, The Great Gig In The Sky by Pink Floyd

I felt extremely at peace for once in life. I felt the normal crackling of my joints silence into a warm nothingness. My aching muscles that had been torn to shreds time and time again, the ones that had been strained and stretched beyond the limits of the human body seemed to reform perfectly as they melted into the rest of my numb form. My skin, a forest of calluses, scars, stitches, and open wounds felt as if it was no longer there. I was no longer confined to the space of my body, and instead moved around as freely as water or air. I was a sort of goo, unmoving, stationary, simple, yet free. 

With a quirk as self-destructive as mine, becoming a hero was a sort of death wish. My quirk was known as “pain transfer.” Anytime I made eye contact with a person, I could activate my quirk and subject myself to pain only to have them suffer the pain of the injury for as long as I was looking at them. I could also transfer existing pain to my target. Although I may have had a wicked high pain tolerance and quick recovery period, my humanity was bound to catch up to me eventually. Quirks like mine, “villainous quirks” according to most people, should be kept hidden and the people born with them should go on to live normal lives as ordinary civilians. My parents were among these people. When I told them that I was enrolling in the hero course at UA, I was given the choice to either become a hero and be disowned, or ditch my pipe dream and stay their beloved child. I packed my things that night.

It was a miracle that I passed the entrance exam the next day. I was running on little sleep, the loss of my financial support, and the trauma that came with the realization that your parents didn’t love you anymore because you didn’t live in a way that they approved of. I had trained since my will to become a hero first arrived, a sort of passionate drive that crashed into my life so unexpectedly that the impact nearly gave me whiplash. 

I supposed that that inferno of, what? Spite? No, not spite, something deeper, hotter, and more righteous than spite. Let’s say ardor. This ardor was what drove me to take out as many robots as I could, despite the fact that my quirk was utterly useless in this situation. I took out a decent amount of robots, at least, decent enough to get into the hero course. A lady by the name of Recovery Girl healed me before I went on my way. I thought that I just had a few scrapes and bruises, but apparently I had a broken wrist. Surprisingly, I wasn’t the worst-off there, some poor kid broke both of his arms and one of his legs. 

The time between this moment and when I got into UA seems to have flown by. I came into UA, a semi-blank canvas, and now here I was, bleeding out on the campsite that I planned to spend my summer at with my classmates. Dying feels far less painful than one would assume; you really don’t even realize that you’re dying at first. It’s sort of like that feeling you get after eating a warm meal after starving for so long, sickening at first, but comforting after you grow used to it. It’s like taking a hot bath after spending a day in the snow; it burns at first, but the burning subsides into a comforting numbness. Your senses slowly dull into nothingness but your brain is left to conjure whatever image it pleases. I could have seen dead relatives, met idols, or even pictured an alternate life where my parents still loved me, but I didn’t.

I didn’t want it. Fame, fortune, admiration, acceptance, rebirth, none of it. I wanted none of it. I wanted to live. I wanted to do what I swore to do as soon as I got into UA. I wanted what I signed up for when I packed my bags and left my parents’ house at age fourteen. I wanted what I fought tooth and nail for. I wanted my ambitions and goals fulfilled.

Of course I wanted what I had worked for, that was beyond obvious, however, I also wanted the small things in life. I wanted my afternoon tea with Yaoyorozu, Sato, and Todoroki. I wanted my fashion shows with Aoyama, Ashido, and Hagakure. I wanted my midnight conversations with Shinsou and Tokoyami. I wanted my video game sessions with Kaminari and Sero. I wanted my morning meditation meetings with Shoji, Ojiro, and Koda. I wanted to watch pro-wrestling with Bakugou and Kirishima. I wanted to train with Iida, Uraraka, and Midoriya. I wanted to swim with Asui. I wanted to listen to music with Jiro and Mr. Present Mic. I wanted inappropriate jokes with Ms. Midnight. I wanted to make Mr. Aizawa proud; I wanted to make myself proud. So, with so many incredible things to live for, I opened my eyes, and attempted to move.

Much to my distaste, it turns out that my relief from pain, as well as the disassociation from my body was nothing more than a thin veil that was easily permeated as I rose from near death. The forest was nothing more than a verdant blur, one that was far from easy to navigate. However, all things end eventually, so I decided to run from death and wherever I ended up would be the least of my worries. I sprinted through the disorder and dysfunction, and wound up walking in on my teacher fighting the son of a bitch who had left me to die a lonely death with only the company of insects and whatever plants were to take over my wilting corpse.

As Mr. Aizawa tackled the cremation villain, I rose from the forest, stared at the man in restraints, and activated my quirk. As the pain transferred from me to him, I felt the veil of insensibility slip over me once more. The villain howled out in agony, the very agony that he had inflicted on me only minutes before. 

“Whatever you do, don’t break your gaze Eraserhead!” I chimed as I finally straightened my form, not wanting the hero to see me in such a state, “You’ll just have to trust me on this one!” Mr. Aizawa nodded, keeping a steady gaze on his target.

“Tried to kill me off?” I snarled as I made my way towards the sadistic bastard and beloved teacher holding him in place.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” the captive growled through gritted teeth, still under an amount of pain that would knock-out any average human. He looked beyond pissed that I survived, as if he took offense to the fact that I didn’t appreciate his work. I waltzed over to him, just far enough from Mr. Aizawa, but just close enough to the charred villain. 

“Surprise, I remain,” I cooed, low enough for only the villain to hear. He bared his teeth at me, looking at me as if he were some sort of rabid animal. I wanted to taunt him. I wanted to make fun of the fact that he had been taken down by a high schooler and their teacher, but I knew that it was never good to brag, because Karma would usually come to bite you in the ass for it. 

I stared at the man covered in staples, every blink I took releasing him from the effects of my quirk. Every blink motivated me to continue staring at him, to immobilize him so Mr. Aizawa could use his eye drops or blink, to buy him some time. However, I knew that this game of “pass the villain” could only go on for so long. Something had to be done. Eventually, the patchwork villain would catch both of us off guard and use his quirk, or one of his buddies would come and back him up. Mr. Aizawa and I were miles away from my peers or the rest of the pro-heroes. It was just the two of us up against this villain, and we were growing tired.

Only minutes after the realization had struck me, the villain escaped from Mr. Aizawa’s scarf when the two of us accidentally blinked at the same time. The human crematorium stood before us, and before I could use my quirk to disable him, he shot out a flurry of blue flames my way.

I dodged this attack as Mr. Aizawa ran towards the villain, yelling out the name “Dabi.” Before Mr. Aizawa was able to restrain him, Dabi grabbed the erasure hero and threw him headfirst into a brick wall, effectively knocking him out. I desperately wanted to check on my partner in battle, but I knew that I couldn’t let my guard down, because now Dabi was staring me directly in the eye.

I could attempt to charge at him, but I would be charred to bits, and even if I somehow managed to avoid his flames, I would meet the same fate as Eraserhead, knocked out and at Dabi’s mercy. I was screwed, I had no back up, my teacher was unconscious, and I was face to face with one of Japan’s most notorious criminals. I was dead meat.

That was until I devised a plan, one that would take out the cremation villain for good. One that would end his reign of terror once and for all. However, there was only one downside to this plan, and that was the fact that this plan would result in two casualties, Dabi and me. However, if I went with any other plan, Mr. Aizawa and I were to become the victims while Dabi walked off scot free. 

I was destined to become a martyr.

With that realization, I turned to my teacher who was slowly coming to his senses and gave him a gentle smile,

“Eraserhead, it has truly been a pleasure,” I announced as Dabi’s arrogant gaze turned to one of confusion. As Mr. Aizawa slowly faded back into his previously comatose state before he had time to be confused, I focused my gaze back on the blue-flamed bastard. It was time to end it, to end his rule once and for all.

I reached into my pocket, grabbed a tiny weapon that fit perfectly in my hand, locked eyes with the villain, smirked, and painlessly slit my neck. As Dabi grasped his neck and choked on his unseen blood, which was truly my blood, he fell to his knees.

As I took what I knew were my last steps, I came face to face with the first half to my murder-suicide. He glared at me, an amalgam of agony that felt nothing at all, and snarled.

“I’ll see you in hell, you cunt.”

I laughed, of all the things he could’ve chosen to be his final words, he chose to give into the childish desire to have the last word with me. As his oddly-familiar eyes drained of life, I felt the pain I had so carelessly inflicted upon myself finally hit me like a freight train.

I began to choke as I fell to my knees, similarly to how Dabi had fallen only seconds before. I knew that my time was up soon, I would succumb to my injuries and lose the thing I had fought tooth and nail for only moments before. I looked to the horizon to find the sun casting his loving gaze upon my battered body. It was as if Apollo himself was granting me a warrior’s death, like he knew I had made some kind of a righteous sacrifice that warranted a soothing transition from death to afterlife.

The sunrise was something like I had never seen before. The blues burned brighter than the flames I had defeated minutes before, the yellow pooled around my weary being like an evening gown to a death dance, and the red painted a comforting scene in the clouds, as if to distract me from my own red that painted my body and the ground around me. I smiled my final smile as I walked into the loving embrace of the sun.

My duty as a hero had been fulfilled.

[spencers-renaissance]

I fear I will be ripped open and found unsightly

Summary: After Spencer fails his firearm recertification, the FBI believes some hand-to-hand combat and self-defence training is in order, and who better to administer it than the BAU's very own, Derek Morgan? Everything goes swimmingly until Derek decides to simulate an attack from above, and Spencer's thrust into the throes of a horrific flashback.

Tags: hurt/comfort, past abuse, platonic cuddling, angst with a happy ending, friendship or pre-slash, crying, panic attacks, flashbacks, episode: s01e06 LDSK, protectiveness TW: !!Discussions of Underage Rape/Non-Con including Molestation and Incestuous Sexual Abuse!!

Pairing: Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid (Platonic or Pre-Slash)

Word Count: 4.3k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

It’s a dreary day in late October when he fails his recertification test. Later, he’ll look back on this moment with a strange mixture of thankfulness and stone-cold dread, but in the moment all he can feel is the burning of his cheeks and the festering humiliation sat heavy in his chest.

Hotch is kind about it, because Hotch is kind about everything.

“Do you know what happened, Reid?” he asks with a complete absence of judgement, and it’s clear from everything about his body language and tone that he isn’t angry and he isn’t being critical, but Spencer feels his defences rising regardless.

He shakes his head and shrinks back in his seat, avoiding Hotch’s eyes.

“Did anyone do anything to make you feel uncomfortable?”

His eyes snap up to meet Hotch’s and he shifts to sit a bit more upright as he shakes his head with more vehemence this time. Sure, he didn’t particularly like the evaluator, but only because he seemed unimpressed with Spencer from the moment he laid eyes on him, acting as though evaluating someone who was doomed to fail was a waste of time.

Spencer can’t exactly blame him.

Hotch sighs. “Listen, Spencer,” he says gently, “I know you can handle yourself in the field and I know you can handle a gun just fine, but you know how many requirements were overlooked for you to join the unit in the first place, and you also know that your position in the BAU has been controversial with a few of the higher-ups. So, here’s the plan. I’m going to be your evaluator for your next recertification in two weeks, and in the meantime, I want you to do some hand-to-hand training with Derek to improve and consolidate your field and self-defence skills.”

Realistically, he knows that this is the best he could’ve hoped for, and he knows how hard Hotch and Gideon fight his corner when he’s questioned by everyone from witnesses to local PDs to the director of the bureau himself.

That does not mean he has to be happy about this.

He acquiesces because he has to. “Okay,” he says quietly, hoping he doesn’t sound as defeated as he feels.

“Reid,” Hotch says, redirecting his attention from the spot on the carpet he’s staring at. He waits for Spencer to look at him before smiling slightly and looking at him with a raw kind of earnest he knows is privileged to witness. “You know I’m proud of you, right?”

It’s Spencer’s turn to smile, brightening up from his miserable disposition slightly. “I do.”

⭑⭑⭑

“Hey, pretty boy,” Derek says cheerfully, slamming his locker closed just as Spencer enters the FBI gym. “I was beginning to think you weren’t gonna show.”

Spencer sighs, opening the locker next to Derek’s and putting his messenger bag inside before opening the grocery bag he’d brought his gym clothes in. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says drily as he pulls out his clothes and heads towards one of the two private changing cubicles.

He hears Derek chuckle to himself before he calls back to him as he opens the door to the gym. “I’m gonna set up, you come through when you’re ready.”

Spencer procrastinates for as long as he can, making sure his shoes are tied perfectly and the bows are even sizes, folding all his work clothes as neatly as possible and placing them carefully back into the grocery bag, but before long, there’s nothing more he can do and he has to face the music. He inhales deeply, steeling himself for the next hour, before putting his bag in his locker (closing it with much less force than Derek did earlier) and walking into the gym.

It’s a fairly big hall that’s usually used for academy recruits, large scale demonstrations, and the various sports teams that have cropped up in different divisions of the FBI. Spencer knows that Derek currently plays basketball for the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime team, the department that the BAU is part of.

Right now, though, Derek has them set up in a tucked-away corner, both hard and soft mats laid out on the ground surrounded by various equipment Spencer couldn’t hope to identify correctly.

“You took your time,” Derek says when Spencer approaches him, eyebrows raised and an obvious note of amusement in his voice. “But now you’re here, let’s get started.”

They begin with a short conditioning exercise that Derek says is supposed to ‘get the blood pumping’ but in actuality has Spencer panting like a dog and soaked with sweat within minutes. Maybe those higher-ups have something of a point. He knew he was unfit, but this is just embarrassing.

“Okay, now with the warm-up out of the way—”

“That was a warm-up?”

Derek doubles over with his laughter and Spencer can’t help but join in, despite how out of breath and red in the face he might be.

“It’s supposed to be, Spence, but maybe I over-estimated things a little,” he concedes once their giggles have died out. “Alright, alright, let’s move on to some basic self-defence moves. I know you probably already know most of these, but this is supposed to be a refresher, yeah? And to remind you that you can hold your own in the field, whether you pass your recertification or not.”

Spencer winces. “I don’t know, Derek, I mean I did fail every single physical aspect of the academy examination.”

“See, that’s what I mean, pretty boy,” Derek says, standing up from the mat and helping Spencer up, too. “You’re in your own head, and when you’re out in the field, you have enough enemies without making your own mind one as well. You know this stuff, Spence, I’m just here to remind you of that.”

“Alright,” he nods, holding in his sigh. He doesn’t mean to be negative, he just can’t help the way he’s feeling. The last week has been rough.

“Okay, so let’s go through front-facing attacks first,” Derek says. “What’s the first move you can do to protect yourself in that situation?”

“Elbow shield,” Spencer replies, holding out his arm and blocking Derek from coming any closer with his forearm acting as a barrier that Derek presses his chest against.

“Exactly, and what can you do to inflict damage in that position?”

Spencer responds by sliding his forearm up to Derek’s neck and applying light pressure, not wanting to actually hurt him.

“You got it. Okay, now what if I manage to grab you and pull you closer, what’s your move?”

He keeps his forearm locked to keep Derek from advancing too close, but this time he grabs his bicep with both hands and uses his core to bring him closer before he raises his shin and mimes kicking him in the groin.

“See, you know this stuff,” Derek says brightly. “The only note I have is to just remember to keep your thumbs in line with the rest of your fingers, not wrapping under my arm.”

“Oh yeah, that makes sense. The thumb is easily broken, although the most common injury associated with a broken thumb is actually damage to the larger bone of your hand, the metacarpal.”

Derek chuckles. “Exactly.”

Funnily enough, Spencer actually finds himself having fun as they walk through some other basic defensive movements as well as the best way to use tactical punches to overpower or debilitate an unsub or attacker. They frequently burst into peals of laughter, as can be expected when two close individuals find themselves having to do semi-serious work together, and before he knows it, forty-five minutes have flown by.

“Okay, I want to end with some more up close and personal attacks and the best way to stave them off, alright?” Derek says as he puts away the boxing gloves and pads.

Immediately, Spencer feels a small glimmer of nerves and anticipation for how this might make him feel, but he brushes it off. He knows he’s safe with Derek, and the whole point of the exercise is to defend himself. Nothing’s going to happen.

“Let’s start with an attacker coming at you from behind,” Derek decides, coming up behind him. “I’m going to cover your mouth, and you’re going to use your skills and knowledge to remove me, alright?”

Spencer nods, hoping Derek doesn’t read the hesitancy in it, and he supposes that he doesn’t because soon enough a large palm is tightly covering the lower half of his face.

For a brief moment, he isn’t a twenty-five-year-old agent training with one of his closest friends in the gym in the basement of the FBI Headquarters, but a scared and lonely ten-year-old in his childhood bedroom, trying to fight the persistent, evil man on top of him, wondering why his dad would do this to him—

He snaps himself out of it by opening his eyes and forcing himself to take in the surroundings, and before long instinct takes over and he’s gripping at Derek’s wrist and using his core and bodyweight to bend forward and free himself from the restrictive hold.

“Good job, Reid!” Derek says encouragingly, and there’s no evidence on his face when he turns around that he noticed any sort of hesitation or deliberation, so he suspects that his flashback really was only for a second, no matter how everlasting and all-consuming it felt in the moment.

He manages a shaky smile, and invites his next method of torture. “What’s next?”

“Okay, what if I was to grab your t-shirt and immediately start punching you?” Derek asks, immediately miming doing exactly like that.

Fighting the instinct to go into protective mode, he instead turns around elbow first and uses his other hand to mime punching Derek while his knee goes up to attack his groin.

“Perfect! That’s the spirit, kid. No unsub’s ever gonna get the best of you.”

Spencer blushes a little at the praise, ducking his head so he doesn’t have to meet his eye, but inside he’s beyond pleased, both with the encouragement from Derek and his own self-confidence he can feel flooding back. Maybe he really does have a handle on the more physical side of things. Maybe he isn’t just good for his brain.

“Alright, let’s finish off with some on the ground stuff, okay?” Derek says, sitting down on the mat and inviting Spencer to join him with a pat on the space beside him.

He hesitates a little, and this time Derek notices, his face softening.

“Listen, I know this one is a bit more uncomfortable than the others, but we’re almost done, right? Let’s just get a few moves consolidated and then you can go and have a shower and head home to relax.”

Spencer nods finally and joins him, laying on his back as Derek instructs. The vulnerability of the position has him feeling deeply uncomfortable, no matter how many times he tells himself that he’s safe with Derek, but he forces himself to lie still. If nothing else, he doesn’t want to reveal this very personal and private detail of his childhood to his best friend. He just needs to keep reminding himself that he’s safe.

“Right, let’s practice the pinned wrist escape, okay?”

Before he knows what’s happening, before he can process the words and prepare him for what’s about to happen, Derek’s straddling him and resting his full weight over his hips and his wrists are wrapped in a tight grip, pinned to the mat above his head.

It’s so sudden and the sensations so overwhelming that he can’t help the immediate fear response that’s triggered, because he’s not in the FBI gym with Derek anymore, he’s somewhere else entirely.

“No, please,” he begs, voice strangled by a sudden, all-consuming dry sob that heaves his chest, “please don’t, I’m sorry. I’ll be good, please, dad, don’t—”

His sobs suddenly overtake his words and he’s left crying pathetically on the floor, too trapped in the memory to notice that the pressure’s been removed from his hips and he’s free to move his arms, too consumed by the physical and emotional anguish that came with the abuse to hear Derek’s desperate, heart-broken pleas from beside him, begging him to come back to himself.

“Spencer!”

A voice finally manages to break through the fog of panic, and he slowly regains consciousness, the white hot glaze of fear and crippling memory fading incrementally until he can see the high beams of the gym ceiling, until he can hear Derek’s gentle, soothing words beside him.

“It’s alright, pretty boy, I’m here, you’re safe,” Derek tells him gently, although Spencer can hear the urgency in his voice, even in his scared and overwhelmed state.

He covers his face with his hands as his desperate, heaving sobs transform into wet, humiliated cries.

“Hey, hey, Spence,” Derek murmurs beside him, “is it alright if I touch you?”

He considers shaking his head, but really, he wants some comfort right now, no matter how much he’ll hate himself for embarrassing himself further later. He’s glad he does though because Derek very carefully and very slowly lifts him up until he’s wrapped up in a comforting hug, his face buried in a strong chest. He’s not sure he’s ever felt safer than in this exact moment.

“You’re alright, pretty boy, I got you.”

Spencer continues to cry, the overwhelm of having a flashback that intense still wracking his body, but eventually, he starts to calm down, the tension slowly bleeding from his muscles as he collapses, boneless against Derek’s body.

“Here, why don’t you have this granola bar and some water,” Derek suggests gently when his tears have dried up, reaching over to the edge of the mat where he was clearly hiding some post-exercise rewards.

Spencer accepts them tiredly, not moving from his position slumped against Derek’s chest.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Derek asks him once he’s sipped his way through half the bottle and the granola bar is gone.

As much as he’d like to get things off his chest, as much as he trusts Derek, he just— can’t. So he shakes his head and pulls himself into a sitting upright position, although he still doesn’t meet Derek’s eyes.

“Okay,” Derek says softly. “I’m gonna drive you home. Come on.”

Spencer numbly walks through the locker room and the halls of the FBI with Derek guiding him until they reach his car, and the motion of climbing in brings a little bit more awareness back to him.

“Thanks,” he whispers as Derek starts the engine and drives them out of the parking garage.

“Don’t be ridiculous, pretty boy. No thanks needed.”

They don’t speak on the journey home, and Spencer contents himself with looking out the window at the passing scenery until they enter the city and trees transform into tower blocks. His mind drifts, but he’s just grateful that it doesn’t keep circling back to the flashback, having somewhat successfully resealed those memories like he always does, pushing them down and smothering them with as much good as he can collect in people and memories and things.

The silence between them prevails until Derek steps into his apartment behind him, closing the front door and helping Spencer out of his jacket before hanging his own coat up on a hook and steering Spencer towards the sofa. “You are going to sit here,” he orders, picking up one of Penelope’s hand-knitted blankets from its position neatly folded over the arm of the sofa, “while I get some tea and something to eat. Fancy anything in particular?”

Spencer remembers the satsumas and macaroons Penelope brought over the other day and tells Derek as such, following the other man with his eyes until he disappears into the kitchen and he’s left alone with his hazy thoughts for a couple of minutes.

They pass in a blur, though, and before he can blink, Derek is pressing a mug of warm chamomile tea into his hands and placing a small plate of a satsuma and a couple of macaroons on the coffee table.

The weight of Derek sitting down on the sofa next to him, and the grounding feeling of his palm wrapped around his ankle, has his hazy mind clearing until he’s in a much more present and aware headspace, enough so that Derek clearly notices it.

“You feeling a bit more like yourself?”

Spencer nods, and offers a small smile, trying to ignore the curls of humiliation and self-loathing working their way up his throat. Thoughts he hasn’t had in years are bursting at the seams Spencer had sewn tightly around them, brought up by physical memory alone, and he’s trying to hold them back, but somewhere in the back of his head, there’s his dad again, whispering dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty, di—

“Hey, Spence,” he hears, and he snaps his head up, his dad’s voice shutting up and making room for Derek’s — Derek’s soft and gentle reassurances, his promises that he’s here and he’s safe and everything will be okay. “You got a bit lost in your head again there, kid. You alright?”

Spencer sighs tiredly, and a tear runs down his face unbidden. He’s not crying exactly, just— leaking. Leaking in the way a tap that hasn’t been turned on for years does when it finally experiences a much overdue release of pressure. Leaking in the way Spencer Reid does when he has a flashback to the sexual abuse he experienced as a child for the first time in two and a half years.

“Spencer,” Derek says, and something in his voice catches his attention, something serious, something earnest. He looks over at him. “Spencer, I know what you’re going through.”

His cheeks pale and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears because those words, that means— surely not, right? How could Derek— how could he—

“It happened to me, too.”

And there’s the confirmation. There are the five words that have him breaking down again, tears splashing into hot chamomile tea and onto cold, cold hands, sobs wracking his sore and tired shoulders. No one should have to go through what he did, no one. Especially not— God, especially not—

“Hey, Spencer, listen to me,” Derek says urgently scooting closer on the sofa until he can lift Spencer’s chin up with his hands and raise his head until their eyes are locked on one another and he can bear witness to the pain and the openness and the concern swimming in his dark brown irises. “I’m okay. You’re okay. We’re here, aren’t we? We’re safe. Don’t cry, pretty boy, everything’s gonna be just fine, I promise.”

He pauses to give Spencer a little time to catch his breath, but after a couple of minutes he speaks up again. “Would you like me to tell you about it?”

Spencer knows it will break his heart to hear. He doesn’t want to listen to a story in which Derek Morgan was the victim and not the hero, not his hero, but part of him knows that he needs to hear it; needs to know that he wasn’t and isn’t alone. And he can’t help but wonder whether maybe Derek needs to say it. Whether he also needs to tell someone what happened and have them empathise completely, have them say “I understand, I know what you’re going through” and have them mean it.

So he nods.

“His name was Carl Buford,” Derek says, resting the hand not clutching Spencer’s ankle on his knee, “and he was my football coach. A hero of the community. After my dad died, I got in a little trouble on the streets, right, and as a result, I got a record. Eventually, that record was expunged, and I learned that Buford had done it. I was confused, obviously, but he told me I had potential, that I was special, that I was going places and he was gonna help me get there.

“And so we started spending more time together. At first, it was just one-on-one football training and some run of the mill mentoring, and I finally felt like I had a real father figure again, someone who I could look up to and talk to and trust. Until one day when he took me up to his cabin. He gave me Helgeson wine to intoxicate me, and then convinced me to go skinny-dipping in a lake with him but when we came back to the cabin, he started— he started rubbing up against me. It eventually spiralled into… molestation and rape. He used to say "You better man up, boy, look up to the sky" when I would cry out for him to stop, or later — when some shameful part of me had accepted it — when I would wince in pain or he could sense I didn’t want to be there.

“And that went on for years until I guess I outgrew his preference and he— I mean— I guess, I guess he must have moved on.”

Spencer wants to be sick, and he’s pretty sure Derek feels the same, so all he can do is lean forward and wrap Derek in the tightest hug he can manage while they cry together.

“Did you ever tell anyone?” Spencer asks after a little time has passed.

Derek nods. “When it started affecting my football career in college, I started seeing a therapist, and I’ve really gotten to a place now where I’ve come to terms with it. As much as I’m ever going to be able to anyway. Half of that therapy was me grieving for the childhood I lost, expressing the anger I felt towards Buford in a healthy way, and then accepting that there isn’t anything I can do to undo the pain except work my ass off at the BAU putting guys like him behind bars since I lost my chance with him.”

Spencer nods. “I’m sorry he isn’t in prison.”

Derek shrugs his shoulders a little, pulling out of the hug. “I keep tabs on him. If I ever so much as catch a whiff of him hurting one of the boys at the centre I’ll be on him in no time. Just… waiting for the evidence, I guess.”

Spencer takes the hand resting on top of his knee and squeezes it, a show of solidarity his tongue can’t manage.

They sit in silence for long, comfortable minutes before Spencer finally feels like sharing. He knows that Derek isn’t expecting anything: if he never wanted to explain, he knows Derek would understand completely, but something about knowing he’ll understand like no one else can, that he can share and feel safe in doing so has his own story rolling off his tongue like it never has before.

“It was my dad,” Spencer says quietly, a confession he’s always been too ashamed to make. “The first time it happened was the night of my sixth birthday. He said that the day was his own celebration, because he’d waited so long and he was finally going to get his prize. He raped me. It wasn’t like that every time, sometimes he’d stop at… touching or— or fellatio, sometimes he’d come into my room and stand over me, getting off on how scared I was anticipating the act that never came.

“He left when I was ten, not far away from my eleventh birthday, and a big part of me always wondered whether the main reason he left was that I wasn’t in his preferential age group anymore. But when I was thirteen, I bumped into him in a hotel in California of all places, and even though I was bigger and stronger and nowhere near as vulnerable, he still got the best of me, he still weaseled his way into my room and took advantage of me again. After that time I carried pepper spray everywhere I went until the FBI issued me a gun. I swore I’d never let it happen again.”

Derek looks desperately sad when he finally meets his eyes again, and before he knows it he’s being wrapped in another hug, and they’re both in pieces again. However painful these memories are, though, the release of them is more cathartic than anything Spencer’s ever experienced; crying together with another survivor over everything they lost, the people that stole their childhoods and abused them for years on end, their younger, scared selves, desperate for someone to save them.

It hurts Spencer’s heart, but he also doesn’t think he’s ever felt safer than right in this moment.

“Is this the first time you’ve talked about this, Spence?” Derek asks eventually, with his cheek resting on the top of Spencer’s head.

“Yes,” he admits, another tear dripping onto the hands curled anxiously in his lap.

Derek pulls away and looks him in the eye, cupping his face gently and brushing a tear away with his thumb. “I’m proud of you.”

As broken and unseemly and ripped open and torn apart as he feels right now, as exposed as this entire ordeal has made him feel, for the first time, he thinks he agrees with Derek.

His trust was destroyed by the person supposed to protect him, and he’s carried the trauma of being sexually abused as a young child around with him for the last two decades, and still, he’s here. He’s brave enough to share himself with Derek, and he’s strong enough to cry and grieve and ache for the scared six-year-old boy he wishes he could go back in time and save.

Right now, in the early evening light of the flat and the safe and supportive arms of his best friend, he’s proud of himself, too. And that feels really damn good to finally say.

Please practice self-care after reading this, especially if you are also a survivor. RAINN Rape Crisis UK International Help for Survivors

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @temily @enbyspencer @reidology @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @tobias-hankel @hotchscotchh @oliverbrnch @physics-magic @sbeno22 @im-autistic @thataveragenerd @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @reidreids @cmily @notevanbuckley @thebipolarbisexualnerd (taglist form)

[purple-dahlias]

day six- hidden injury

wc: 1804 requested: no warnings: self harm, injury

Sarah hadn’t meant it to go this far, not in the least. At least, that was what she told herself. And really, she had managed so long without it, years in fact. Only for things to start crumbling now. And no, she’ll never let anyone know. Doesn’t want to bother anyone. It’s not that big of a deal, anyway, she’ll tell herself. Nothing she can’t handle herself. Nothing she hasn’t had to handle herself before. And all her problems, well, they just feel so pedestrian. That was what she had told Dr Richardson. Plenty of people felt that way, right. Lots of people did that. It wasn’t exactly uncommon. Maybe not talked of so much, but not something rare. In any case, she had got herself out of it before, and she would do it again, right?

At some point, she would, she told herself.

She tries to be careful. Wears long sleeves. Remembers to keep her white coat on at all times. Tries to avoid situations where she might have to scrub in. Which, luckily for her, since becoming a psychiatry resident, don’t occur very often anymore. And she’s meticulous with cleaning. Making sure everything is sterile. No chance of infection. Her bathroom cabinet well stocked with bandages and plasters and antiseptic wipes. Even a suture pack she had managed to lift from the ED one day. Just in case. She hadn’t needed it so far, though. And she wasn’t planning on it. That was what she told herself.

And oh, how wrong she was.

It’s a Tuesday morning and Sarah is late.

She’s supposed to be at Med by now, Dr Charles will be expecting her to round on their patients and instead, she’s sat on the bathroom floor, leaning against the bath panel, the cursed suture kit on the floor beside her, face contorted in pain.

Maybe things had gone too far.

Perhaps she should have thought to try and bring back some lidocaine as well.

But no. You did this to yourself, Sarah Reese.

And it’s ironic. Because she had inflicted that pain on herself. And now she couldn’t do it again to fix it. Typical.

—

“Hey, have any of you seen Sarah?” Dr Charles asks, approaching the nurses’ station in the ED, where Natalie, and Noah are stood.

Natalie shakes her head, just as Maggie calls out for her, sending her off to treatment three.

“I didn’t see her car parked outside,” Noah responds.

“Yeah, me either.”

“She hasn’t called in sick, has she?”

“No,” confirms Dr Charles, brow furrowed. The Sarah Reese he knew was always so responsible, a stickler for rules, so it was unlike her not to notify someone of her absence.  

“Yeah, I didn’t think so, we’d arranged to have lunch together today, so…”

“And Sarah’s not really one to break her plans,” the head of psychiatry muses.

“I can try and call her,” Noah offers helpfully.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Dr Charles nods as Noah fishes his phone out of his pocket, only to find the dial tone to ring out with no answer.

“You sure she’s not upstairs?”

“No, I’m sure she’s not. I did page her, but no luck.”

“Well, um, if you like I can go round to hers… check on her?” Noah offers, picking up on the worry in the normally level, calm voice of the psychiatrist.

“That’s good of you,” Dr Charles smiles, clapping Noah on the back

“No problem,” Noah returns, with a promise to update him when he found Sarah, watching as Dr Charles turns, making his way to the elevators and away from the emergency department.

One thing was for sure, Dr Charles was grateful Sarah had Noah for a friend. Even if Sarah wasn’t the most vocal person, he knew she’d been dealing with a lot lately, that much was clear. And he knew how important it was to have people around you who cared.

It’s not long after that conversation that Noah finds himself faced with the front door of Sarah’s apartment, having knocked, awaiting an answer.

When there’s no answer, he knocks louder. “Sarah,” he calls out. “It’s Noah. Dr Charles wanted me to come and check up on you because you didn’t show up for rounds.”

Still nothing.

Knowing she kept a spare key under the mat, Noah fishes it out, turning it in the lock.

“Sarah, I’m coming in, alright,” he warns, entering the apartment.

The curtains are still drawn across the windows, Sarah’s bag is in its place by the door, her coat hangs on a peg in the hall. Sure signs she is still here. He calls out to her, moving through the few rooms until he comes to the bathroom, the door half open, a head of brown curls just about visible.  

“Sarah what—"

The words die on his lips as he takes in the scene: Sarah hunched up against the side of the bath, knees pulled up to her chest. He sees the suture kit, the gash on Sarah’s arm, how pale she is. And, most of all, how frightened she looks at seeing him there, how she just about refuses to meet his eyes.

“Sarah,” Noah begins again, trying to compose himself.

“Noah what are you doing here?” It’s said so forcefully through gritted teeth that if it was any other time, any other situation, any other person, Noah would have taken it as his cue to leave. But he couldn’t leave her. Not like this. Not after what he’s seen.

“Dr Charles sent me to check on you,” he tries.

“Well I’m fine,” she grits out, firmly, covering her arm as best she could.

“No, you’re not.”

“Please, Noah, just go. You’re supposed to be working,” her tone is different now, she’s almost begging him to go. He’s not going to, though.

“So are you,” he counters, inching closer. “Sarah what happened?” Noah tries, tone softening.

“It’s nothing, really.”

“That doesn’t look like nothing,” Noah reaches for Sarah’s arm, and Sarah snatches it away, fighting through the pain.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she huffs. She wishes he would just go back to the hospital and leave her be.

“Fine. But Sarah, I have to ask. Did you do this yourself?”

Yes she thinks. Yes I did.

“I think you already know the answer to that one,” is what she says instead. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have to ask.” It comes out harshly. But really, the anger isn’t directed at him. It’s all directed inward. At herself, for allowing this to happen, at herself for getting caught.

“But Sarah— why.”

And it all comes out. She finds she just can’t keep it hidden any longer.

“I— I don’t know. I just. I can’t anymore. And I haven’t done this since I was fourteen, and now… Noah I don’t know what to do!” Sarah is sobbing freely now, her shoulders shaking as Noah sits down beside her on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, holding her close, careful of her arm. He notices the scars and the cuts littering her arms, in various stages of healing. It pains him to see this, to know this. That Sarah had been struggling for so long without anyone noticing.

“Oh Sarah—” Noah begins, smoothing her hair with one hand, the other rubbing circles into the small of her back.

“Stop. Stop feeling sorry for me.” Sarah scrubs at her eyes, willing the tears away.

“I’m not. I just. I hate that I’m here seeing you hurt, and you know I— I can’t take that away from you.”

“Then go. You won’t have to see then.”

“I’m not leaving you like this Sarah. Do you mind if I take a look?” He asks her. Carefully, levelly, eyes trained on her all the while.

“Fine.” Sarah agrees finally, and Noah has to fight back a gasp as he sees the full extent of the injury. Luckily, as far has he can tell, the wounds aren’t deep enough to have caused any significant damage, but really, as an assessment, he knows the damage is already done. Not physically, but it is there.

“Okay Sarah, we need to clean this up and get it stitched, alright.” Noah keeps his tone calm, knowing that showing any sign of panic would do neither of them any good.

Sarah merely nods.

“This is going to sting, okay,” he warns, taking an antiseptic wipe out of the first aid kit beside them.

“Unfortunately you’re going to feel every step of this because I don’t have anything to numb you with. Think you can be brave for me?”

Another nod, but it’s all Noah needs before he gets to work.

Sarah doesn’t watch as he begins. She keeps her eyes down, trained on the floor, counting the tiles, teeth gritted as she tries to fill her head with something. Anything. Any thoughts that aren’t about what is happening right now.

When he’s finally done, the two sit in silence, both leaning against the bath, side by side. And it’s then that Sarah finally looks. Noah had bandaged up her arm, the stitches hidden beneath the dressings. The memory of what she had done there. But hidden. Out of sight, but not out of mind.

“So, uh,” Noah’s voice tears into her thoughts. “You wanna maybe sit somewhere a little more comfortable and less cold?”

And it’s just so Noah of him to say, his tone making it sound like he’s asking her to move and sit at one of the tables inside the hospital cafeteria instead of outside, rather than what he’s actually doing, which is asking her to get up off the bathroom floor after he’d stitched up the cuts she had made.  

So Sarah makes the choice. She allows herself to be helped up, she allows herself to be led from the bathroom. She lets Noah guide her to the couch, wrap a blanket round her shoulders and disappear off into the kitchen, only to watch him come back a few minutes later, a steaming mug of tea in hand that he sets down beside her.

Still wordlessly, Noah takes a seat next to Sarah, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close to him. He had sent a message to Dr Charles while he had been in the kitchen, letting him know what had happened. He knew that Sarah would need to address what had happened, that there would be a long road ahead of her. That him finding her that morning wasn’t the end of it, didn’t mean that Sarah was out of the woods. But Noah would be there. He would be there with Sarah, for her. He would be there until she was ready, and long afterward. And this was the start. Sarah herself knows that, too.

[reds-burrow]

Sorting Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings

If you're unfamiliar with the Sorting Hat Chats system, check out @sortinghatchats and their WordPress, or this post by @wisteria-lodge.

Spoilers below. This really was Wenwu's movie though, so I may change my mind about Shang-Chi and Xialing's sortings if they get more development in future movies.

Xu Shang-Chi: Snake/Burnt Lion (recovers by end of movie) Throughout the movie it is his loved ones that spur him into action. In the bus scene, it's only when Katy is attacked that he decides to fight. After, he realizes his sister is in danger and rushes to hop on a plane to see her. Even his decision to save Ta Lo comes from his sense of responsibility for his father and a desire to protect the place his mother protected. As a kid, his father's unhealthy Snake primary dominated Shang-Chi's life, and he constructed his sense of right and wrong based on what Wenwu taught him, that a "Blood debt must be pain in blood." This led to the assassination, and the moment when Shang-Chi finally stopped prioritizing Wenwu's needs over his own. There is a pattern for unhealthy Snake primaries to latch onto someone and make them number one in their circle, above themself, especially if that Snake is young and is dealing with a parental or authority figure. Shang-Chi did this with Wenwu after the trauma of losing his mother and seeing the change in his father. The assassination was the first time Shang-Chi was on his own however, and the first time he was able to see himself and what his father had made him into. He finally found the strength to put himself first and ran away. His secondary burned, however, though only partway. When you look at how he solves single-player problems, particularly when he's fighting, he looks like a healthy Lion secondary. Watch in the bus fight, how he uses the bus itself as a weapon, bashing people against poles, using the elasticity of the articulated joint to jump and maneuver around people. Or in the scaffold fight how he knocks a guy down and uses the guy as a bridge. Shang-Chi displays some of the most creative Lion improvisational fighting we've gotten out of the MCU. But while his Lion was still healthy in single-player situations, it was burnt in multiplayer ones. He could no longer face his authentic self, something vital to the multiplayer part of a Lion secondary. He wound up finding Katy, who was experiencing her own secondary issues, and the two of them spent their days avoiding anything remotely hard. His journey to heal his Lion is a journey of accepting himself and what he did under the influence of his father, and after his time in Ta Lo with his aunt, he is able to reach that acceptance in time for the final battle. Both sides of himself, Loyalist and Constructed, reflected in the mixture of both his mother and father's style of martial arts, find balance.

Katy Chen: Snake/Snake

Katy is adrift when we first meet her. Her family and friends, aside from Shang-Chi, all push her to find a "real" job, to do something with her degree, to live up to her potential. But Katy just wants to have fun and admits that she tends to abandon things. This is a common thing in Snake secondaries, usually immature ones. As soon as something gets hard, boring, or if they feel they might get locked into it with no other options, they search out something new.

The only think Katy is unwavering in is her loyalty. She flies to a different country, enters another dimension, and puts her life on the line to fight for that dimension all because she is following her best friend. Even when Shang-Chi admits all the secrets he's been keeping, Katy's Snake primary doesn't falter. She refuses to abandon him, and if the mid-credit scene is any indication, Katy and Shang-Chi will be a package deal from here on out.

Xu Xialing: Snake/Badger

After her mother's death, Xialing was ignored by her father as he poured everything he had into revenge and training Shang-Chi. So, Xialing trained herself in secret, mastering the rope dart and a high level of martial arts. Her self-discipline and persistence helped her shape herself into a warrior, indicative of her Badger secondary. She also tells Katy that the way she managed living years alone with Wenwu was to keep her head down. When in survivor mode, Fluid secondaries may try blending in with the background, going invisible to avoid conflict. This is especially true of Badger secondaries who don't already have the extra armor that a mask can provide. Xialing describes this time of her life with distaste because she was essentially trapped and alone. Even so, she waited for years for Shang-Chi to return for her. Her loyalty to him is undeniable, and even as furious as she is for him abandoning her, she goes back to save him. Her founding of the Golden Daggers and later taking over the Ten Rings not only shows her ambition but comes back to the deep wound she was inflicted when she was rejected from training by her father. She wants a place where men and women can fight alongside each other because if she had had that as a child, she would have had a place to beside her father and brother.

Xu Wenwu: Snake/Bird

Wenwu is shown to be a collector of information, of old legends and maps. He's a collector of people, of warriors and even a jester. He collects Morris simply as proof of Ta Lo. His Bird secondary is in large part why he is able to hold power of a worldwide organization for over a thousand years. After living so long and experiencing so many deaths, he barely blinks when several of his men are killed on the way to Ta Lo. They were simply tools that served their purpose for as long as they could. Even so, he is undeniably a Snake primary. Everything he does in the movie is for Li. He gives up the Ten Rings, both the weapons and the organization, all for her, and after her death, everything is about revenge or bringing her back. While he is too consumed by grief and revenge to care for his children's emotional needs, he trained Shang-Chi because he thought his son needed revenge like he did and also to protect Shang-Chi. As he says, "I trained you so the most dangerous people in the world couldn't kill you." Conversely, he didn't train Xialing because she reminded him too much of her mother, and he didn't want her fighting anyone in the first place. As abusive as he is, he needs his children to be safe, which is why he had them tracked when they left. It is only when he sees that Li is living on through his children that he is able to find some semblance of acceptance and peace.

[tomorrowsdrama]

So the costumes in rebel princess are obviously beautiful and incredibly detailed.  But I love that the costuming also informs us about a character’s social standing and for some characters, their state of mind as well.  Or in Song Huaien’s case, how far into the dark side he’s gone.  He’s really the inspiration for this post.  As I was re-watching some of the early episodes while waiting for the new subs (shhh, I know I’m unhealthily obsessed with this drama), I noticed not only how drastically his costuming/hair has changed, but also that he’s pretty much a mirror of whoever he chooses to follow at the moment.  Cheng’s very own Single White Female without the obsessive craziness, if you will.  Delusional?  Sure.  But not quite crazy.

But first, let’s talk about the clothing of the noble class.  I’m sorry for this thesis that I’m going to inflict on everyone that no one asked for.  I’ve joked about the long trains on Awu/the nobles’ clothing before, but it’s clear that they are a sign of high status and wealth.  The higher ranked/wealthier you are, the longer your train is it seems.  Also, just in general, the nobles’ outfits usually include an abundance/overflowing of luxe silky and billowy material.  See:

And the nobles can afford to have such styles of clothing not just monetarily, but also lifestyle wise.  To put it bluntly, the nobles don’t have to do shit in their lives so they can afford to drag long trains of expensive fabric back and forth in their huge manors/the palace.  These clothes aren’t for functionality, but for beauty/showing off your wealth (whether intentionally or not).  If they need to go anywhere, they have comfy carriages to travel in instead of walking long distances.  If they need something?  That’s what servants are for.  I mean, just imagine how cumbersome it is to move around with such huge billowy sleeves and six feet of cloth dragging behind your ass.  You don’t have to imagine, just look at this scene where Daddy Wang visits Prime Minister Wen in prison (oh, how I regret taking this time for granted and condemning Daddy Wang for imprisoning that old fool):

Look at how his train drags over the threshold of the prison door.  Daddy Wang literally has to lift his train and throw it over a bench in order to sit down.  

The higher your status, the less physical activity you have to partake in a.k.a. the more useless you are, so it should come as no surprise that the longest train I’ve seen so far in the drama belongs to none other than our Useless Mopey Teenager Zitan:

The clothing choices are pretty deliberate, because whenever a character needs to do something more than just sit around enjoying tea (or wine if you’re Awu), they are given clothes that are more practical for moving around. Like the outfit Awu wore when she chased after her dad:

It’s much shorter than her usual garb and she’s wearing simple black pants underneath which makes horse riding and chasing after a traitorous father much more manageable.

What’s interesting is seeing the opposite happen with Hu Yao.  Hu Yao is usually in very practical and simple clothing since unlike the rest of the nobles in the capital, she has to fight against invaders and protect Cheng.  But when she goes to meet our Emo Emperor Zitan, of course she has to be dressed up in a big frou frou dress that makes it hard to walk:

It highlights just how impractical this type of extravagant clothing is for any kind of life other than a noble’s.  Hu Yao can barely walk without tripping over her own dress, let alone fight.  Also what the hell is that giant bow?

Now let’s talk about Daddy Wang’s clothes.  So before he gets exiled for attempting a coup, Daddy Wang was arguably the most powerful man in court.  He was the head of the Wangs, the most influential noble family in Cheng.  The past 10 empresses of the empire were daughters of the Wang clan, and his sister, the current empress, listened to whatever he said (for the most part).  Also his nephew wass the crown prince and easily manipulated.  He’s also wealthy AF so his status and wealth was apparent in his clothing.

Look at the sheen on that fabric and all that intricate embroidery work!  But then of course, he gets exiled and understandably has to put on some more humble clothing:

Simple, unembellished clothing made of coarse fabric that can withstand moving through the fields and rough terrain while you covertly make your way towards your disappointment of a son.  What really sticks out to me though, is his wardrobe choice after he reunites with the turnip.  Instead of going back to the lavish and ornate clothing he used to wear, he opts for an understated gray and black outfit with no long train in sight:

Turnip obviously can afford to put his dad in fancier clothing.  I mean look at the gaudy over-embroidered monstrosity that he’s wearing.  But it makes sense that Daddy Wang has now opted for something a bit more subdued and modest.  He’s been defeated once and is no longer the powerful prime minister he used to be.  Also, the Wangs do not hold as much clout as they used to because 1) empress has gone mad; 2) potato emperor is dead; and 3) the official head of the Wangs is now...Turnip.  

But make no mistake, his clothes may be simpler than before, but they’re still made out of very nice materials. He is after all, still Daddy Wang.  And Wang will rise again if he can help it! 

Next we have the seagull.  Ugh, yuck, gross, I hate her.  Anyway, now that I’ve gotten the bad taste out of my mouth...So for the majority of the drama we see her in light pastel colored clothing with little to no make up as if to imply that she’s a sweet, innocent thing:

She’s also usually pretty covered up.  But then she becomes Concubine Su (ugh) and all of a sudden she’s in bold colors, wearing red lipstick, and most noticeably, gotten very breast-y

Man, did Seagull make a wrong turn and accidentally stumble onto the set of The Empress of China?  She’s definitely got the tackiness to fit in with them.  This drastic shift in styling is clearly to signal to the audience that Seagull is now a seductress ready to do whatever it takes to hold onto that magical flute and never let go.  Also, whereas before she was a snake hiding in the grass, now it’s all out in the open (at least to the Wangs) just like her bosom.

Look, she even gets her own long train to reflect just how useless she is.

And finally, we have Song Huaien, Cheng’s very own Single White Female who molds himself to whoever he happens to follow and takes on their personality and principals (or lack thereof).

In the beginning, he is stuck to Xiao Qi’s side like a shadow, dresses similar to him, and even wears his hair like him.  He’s like the kid brother who copies everything his cooler older brother does because he looks up to him. 

Notably, he’s the only one in the Ningshuo crew who wears his hair down with a half bun, just like Xiao Qi.  Hu Guanglie (RIP best bro) is XQ’s oldest friend and literally devoted his life to him, but he’s also his own man and did not need to copy XQ.  He never wanted to be him, he only wanted to serve him. 

If you didn’t pay attention, you wouldn’t be able to tell who’s who.

When you follow a brave, honorable general who’s sex on legs, you too will be a brave, honorable and sexy general.  Song Huaien never looked better than when he tried to emulate Xiao Qi.

Interestingly, when Song Huaien goes off with Awu and starts to fall for her, he also starts to incorporate some color into his previously all-black wardrobe.  I guess spring arrived in his heart even though it was the cold winter:

Hm, now I’m starting to wonder if a part of his crush on Awu wasn’t influenced by his desire to be like XQ a little bit.  And then, sigh, he starts to get tempted by the riches of the capital city and the internal shift in his character is materialized externally through how he wears his hair in his first appearance in court:

This is the first time we’ve seen him wear his hair in any style other than the usual loose half bun.  And of course, his top knot conforms and fits in with how the rest of the ministers wear their hair.  Now contrast that with Xiao Qi who only wore his hair in a top knot once:

and then promptly went back to his usual hair style:

Sure, he looked good with the top knot (when does he never look good), but it wasn’t him.  Unlike Song Huaien, XQ is secure in himself and knows who he is.  He is not easily swayed or corrupted.  That is why he is able to remain just like how he always has been, internally and externally.

The next change we see in Song’s appearance is his armor.  Now that he is Count Suyi, his armor is noticeably more ornate.  Unlike XQ’s armor, which remains pretty much the same barebones armor we’ve seen since the beginning, Song’s gets fancier and fancier as he gets more lured in by the nicer things in life.

At this point, his hair is still down like before.  But then the next time we see him after his wedding, his hair style is changed into a high ponytail:

Which is a very good look, don’t get me wrong, but it is again another physical representation of the change happening in Song internally.  It’s kind of a weird limbo he’s in because it’s not completely a top knot, but it’s definitely neater and closer to a top knot than his previous hairstyle.  At this stage, Song hasn’t completely crossed over to the dark side quite yet.  He’s still kind of wavering and going back and forth.  So a high ponytail that is a shift from his prior hairstyle but not quite the same as the nobles’ hairstyle makes sense.  He keeps this look for a while and even momentarily goes back to his less fancy self while dealing with the floods away from the capital.  That is, until he joins hands (or is it roots?) with Turnip and it’s all downhill from there, character-wise and also appearance-wise.

First, we have this very ill-advised mustache and goatee which mimics the same facial hair Turnip all of sudden started sporting:

Matching facial hair to commemorate their entry onto the shit list, perhaps?  Anyway, turns out facial hair isn’t for everyone, including Song Huaien.  But this isn’t even the worst of it.  As Song Huaien continues his descent into being a greedy, spineless, puppet for Turnip (HIM of all people! or should I say, of all root vegetables?), he gets uglier and uglier.  I mean:

He looks downright haggard and as if he aged 20 years overnight.  Notably though, he looks exactly like the rest of the useless ministers in court.  He has definitely lost the sheen, vigor, and hotness that he once had when he was following XQ.  It’s as if the ugly inside is reflected on the outside as well.

I guess when you follow a weaselly coward like Turnip, you too will turn into a weaselly coward.  Oh Song Huaien, Song Huaien.  What a disappointment you turned out to be, you dumb, greedy bastard.