#cw loss of autonomy

[sleepyfan-blog]

Meeting Interrupted

Author's note: This is the next part of Rotten Fate. Masterlist here. AO3

tagged: @ms--lobotomy @egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @bleedingichorhearts

warnings: body horror, loss of autonomy, manipulation, unhealthy relationship, please ask me to tag something if I've missed it/something bothers you

Summary: You decide to interrupt Typhus' Meeting with the thousand sons. What's he going to do? Make your life worse? Hah.

Once your lust dies down to the point after you can think clearly again, you mull over your current options. Your shitty “husband” calls you little Isha from time to time. Referring to the fact that you are his captive spouse that he is unable to permanently kill, nor blight with the horrific plagues and poisons of his Patron, Nurgle. What he seems to be entirely unaware of (and, good for her) is the fact that part of the reason why Isha does not attempt to escape Nurgle - other than being relatively safe from the predation of Slaanesh… Is that Isha works against Nurgle’s plots and plans by whispering the antidotes and cures that are always effective against his plagues and poisons.

While you can’t do that - Typhus doesn’t seem to make new poisons and plagues as Host of the destroyer hive - what you can do is attempt to fuck up his plans, whatever those may be. You have no idea what his plans are at the moment, but he did ask you to stay put while he parlayed with his cousin. And you can waddle your way into causing Problems for him on purpose by interrupting the meeting.

You’re also hungry as fuck, and there is no food anywhere within Typhus’ rooms. His evil bees buzz menacingly as you approach the door that leads out of his rooms, but you glare at them “Fuck off, you ugly shits. I’m hungry as hell and he didn’t leave me anything to eat. And I’m eating for at least two with-” You pat your distended belly. You can sense the little mind growing within you. The little one does not feel tainted by Chaos… At least not yet. Part of you hopes that you’ll find a way to get the child to safety, somehow.

Between Typhus’ potent psychic abilities and you being a perpetual there is no chance that the child you’re carrying won’t be a psyker of potent ability, once you give birth to them. Whether or not they are going to be a Perpetual is ambiguous to you. Neoth sired more than a few bastards before deciding to rule Humanity as a whole - or attempt to do so. Some of them were psykers. Some were Perpetual. Most, however, were neither… Though that was long before psykery became more commonplace amongst Humanity as a whole. 

The bees buzzed ominously, but apart from a full cloud of the ominous little fuckers flying around and behind you, they didn’t actually sting you this time. Which was nice, as you used a bit of psychic energy to flick the internal mechanism of the door open, through which you moved through…

The view of the hallway you were walking in was just as rank and dismal as the first time you’d seen it, having been picked up and thrown over one of Typhus’ shoulders unceremoniously… Weeks? Months? Years? Ago. You weren’t sure how long you’ve spent in Typhus’ captivity. You deliberately tried not to track the days, as the answer would only upset and distress you. You silently hoped that your crew was still alive and thriving. 

You pass mumbling cultists and tiny daemons, none of whom take notice of your passage, as you are using a little bit of Psykery to go unnoticed by the beings around you as you waddle your way over to where your captor and his Very Important Guest are either talking, posturing at one another or fighting.

Or possibly a combination of all three of them.

You can tell that you’re getting close to where Typhus is, by the way that his Evil Bees have landed on the simple white dress that you’re wearing. It’s the only piece of clothing he’s given you - you haven’t been allowed even any under things or even sandals. Which made traveling through the unpleasantly biological horror of a ship that Typhus had been gifted by his Patron a wildly unpleasant experience. 

You reached the door behind which was Ahriman and Typhus, along with at least a dozen of their brothers each. You drop the glamor, startling the four guards standing in front of it. You stare at the two Death Guard, ignoring the shifting and growling Thousand Sons. “I am going into that room, to talk to my husband. You can either step aside or open the door for me.”

“Who the fuck are you, and why are you dressed like that? How are you dressed like that and not -” One of the Thousand sons began to growl, reaching out to grab you.

You lean away from his touch “I would very strongly suggest you don’t try that again. My…  Husband’s little helpers don’t like it when strangers try to grab me. I am a Perpetual, and unable to be affected by the…” You gesture to the filth, stagnation and decay all around you “All of this unless I explicitly allow myself to be, which I don’t. Dying like this seems like a misery.”

“What do you mean by -AAahhhh! NO no no no no! Get it off, get it off, get it off of me!” The grabby Thousand Son wailed as one of Typhus’ destroyer bees landed on his out-stretched gauntleted hand, stinger poised to plunged through the armored plate. 

You snort and scoop up the angry bee, booping it on it’s snout “No. Bad bee! He didn’t do anything to try to hurt me, and stopped trying to grab me when I told him to. No stinging guests!”

The Destroyer bee buzzed unhappily in your hands, but did not sting you. You roll your eyes and settle it back on one of your shoulders. You go back to looking at the Death Guard at the door “Let me in to see my husband right now. Or I will escalate things. The Emperor of Mankind didn’t want me to stay on Terra after I left the Astartes project for a number of reasons. Do you want to find out what those are personally?” 

“... No. It’s just… Oldest Brother is in the middle of delicate negotiations and -” One of the Death Guard tried to explain.

Adorable. You kind of want to pat his helmeted head. Bless his gross, bloated hearts he’s trying. You reach up and pat one of his gauntleted arms gently “Don’t worry. I will handle my husband. I”ve done quite a few negotiations, you know. During my time as a Rogue Trader and before that. I remember what it was like during the Dark Age of Technology, though those memories are dim and distant now.” You sigh, shaking your head a little. It was a shame how things had gone to such heights, before crashing and burning so spectacularly because of the Eldari being too bored and horny so they decided to try and make a new powerful warp entity. 

“... As you say, Lady of Mercy.” Both of the Death Guard murmur, opening the door for you.

You blink a couple of times as you enter the main conference room of the massive spaceship. Lady of Mercy, hmm? That’s a new one. Did Typhus give it to you? Or did some of the others, now that you were here to distract him from some of his crueler pursuits at times? “Good boys.” You murmur distantly, patting them on the armored arm once again as you pass by.

Typhus and Ahriman are standing on opposite sides of the table, pointing and yelling at one another at considerable volume. There are a lot of very tense mutated astartes on both sides watching their eldest brothers having a go at each other, in regards to centuries if not millennia old slights and petty squabbling. 

Ah, family. Such a messy thing it often is. 

You teleport onto the table in a flash of cyan warp light, making sure to make enough sound and light to catch the attention of everyone in the room.

The yelling blessedly stops as you appear on top of the table, heavily pregnant and half-covered in Typhus’ bees. The unadorned white silk dress that fell just above your knees, the hem plunging down just far enough to give a peek at your cleavage and sleeveless, the thin straps starting to fall off of your shoulders. The pregnancy bulge of your belly quite prominent as the soft silk clings to your body,

For several seconds, there is a profound silence as the assembled Astartes process your sudden and unexpected arrival.

You allow yourself to giggle, smiling up at both Ahriman and Typhus, before demurely hiding your smile behind a hand. Your other hand coming up to cup your swollen belly, knowing that the motion would catch the attention of many in the room. “Greetings, First captain Ahriman of the Thousand Sons. I do apologize for Ty’s behavior. We were a little… Mm… Busy, when you stopped by for a visit.” You allow a demure blush to spread across your cheeks as your voice dips into a coquettish purr, your eyes going half-lidded for a moment.

The destroyer bees that were resting upon your body begin to stir and buzz, likely in response to the shifting and heightening emotions of their Host. They are the only sound being made in the room, to your unending amusement. Your incongruous presence and statements seemed to have stalled their allegedly enhanced minds. Then again Chaos rots even the best of beings. 

Before things can escalate in ways that you don’t want them to, you walk over to where Typhus is standing, needing to go up on your tiptoes to kiss his corroded helm. You stage-whisper, knowing that the enhanced hearing of all of the Astartes present will allow them to hear you, if they aren’t deaf or otherwise hard of hearing, leaning into Typhus “Hubby, dearest, the baby and I are hungry… And you never told me where you keep the safe food.” You give him what you hope is a flirty pout “So I had to come find you. Your little friends were only a bit naughty.” You murmur, gently plucking up one of the ominously buzzing bees and pressing a faux-affectionate kiss to it’s unpleasantly furry and matted body before letting it go.

It buzzed back over to Typhus, swaying and flying as if it was drunk. Your amusement only increases. 

No one else has yet to do or say a single thing. It’s as if they’ve all turned into very strange statues. You know they haven’t as you can sense their rapidly shifting minds and emotions plainly, but none of them have yet to actually react. 

It’s very funny. It’s quite possible that none of them have seen a woman in thousands of years, and even longer since they’ve seen a pregnant one. The poor dears are dreadfully caught off guard and deeply, deeply confused. At least the Thousand Sons are. The Death Guard are mostly worried.

You tilt your head up and reach for Typhus’ helm, giving him a look of mock-concern. “Darling? Husband? Sweetheart? Why aren’t you responding?” You pout more as your nimble fingers find the catches on his helmet, pressing them in before twisting and removing his helmet, revealing his face. You set it down on the table before you close your eyes, going up on your tiptoes once again and press a kiss to his flesh-cheek. You lean against his armor -which is eternally cool to the touch and wrap your arms around his neck, batting your lashes up at him, peering through them as you ask “Husband? Typhus? Ty-darling?”

Typhus continues to stare at you with glowing, rotted eyes, seemingly transfixed to the spot. He hasn’t breathed in minutes -though you’re not sure that he needs to, given his long-ago transformation into the Herald of Nurgle. 

“Who are you?” Ahriman demanded, his voice strangled and deeply confused.

“Hmm? Oh me? I’ve gone by many names, and held hundreds of titles over the course of my very, very long life. I’ve died a few times as well, but it doesn’t stick, as I am a Perpetual… After the Unification of Terra, I found myself working directly with Him for a time. As soon as the Sol system was fully conquered and He started the Rogue Trader program, I was off to the distant stars, with my first retinue in tow. I did that for several thousand years… Until honey-sweet Typhus here decided to capture me in his clever web of death and sickness. Since then I’ve been his wife, per his decision.” You sigh. 

“You… A perpetual… One who has worked alongside the Carrion Emperor? How much… How much knowledge of Psykery do you possess? What could you teach those of us interested in the Arcane arts? Surely you would rather be around more psykers, rather than the fetid stink of Nurgle’s chosen Bastards?” Ahriman breathed, avarice in his voice “I would be more than willing to play the role of -”

“Don’t. You. Dare finish that sentence, you two-faced deceiver!” Typhus growled thunderously, two of his tentacles swiftly slid out from wherever he usually keeps them and wrapped securely around your body, carefully supporting the weight of the baby in your belly. He pulls you tightly to his chest, making sure not to squash your belly against his armor. “I have listened to your endless whining and plots about finding some ridiculous library that may not even exist for too long! Begone from this ship, you will have no aid from the Death Guard. If you refuse to leave, I will have you removed by force.”

Ahriman’s glare intensified “I was not speaking to you, Typhus, but the Psyker you are holding captive. Gods above only know why she seems to actually be sweet on you, though I suppose that honey of yours can addle even the greatest of minds.” His gaze shifts to you “Should you wish to leave this fetid, stinking bastard and his army of undead thralls, call for me and I shall whisk you away from all of this pungent suffering and treat you in the way that a psyker of your age and experience should be.”

With that, the first captain of the Thousand Sons sent out a psychic pulse. A moment later he and all of his brothers vanished from Typhus’ ship. 

“... Awfully dramatic fellow, isn’t he?” You murmur, an amused grin appearing on your face as you look up at Typhus, trying to get a read on his emotional state. It’s difficult, with the walls that he’s put up. 

“... You wouldn’t leave me for him would you?” Typhus asked, his voice surprisingly small and unsure. 

You blink, throw your head back and laugh “Go with him? Please. The endless machinations of his Patron and underlings would have me in a murder-loop within the week. Would I rather be able to wander freely throughout realspace on my ship, the one you took me from? Yes. But him? Hahahaha. No. His patron is far too capricious for my tastes.” You give him a little kiss on the cheek, for emphasis. 

“... I see. You mentioned being hungry, my flower?” Typhus rumbled, sounding calmer.

“Yes! Also, hand please. Unarmored.” You instruct, grabbing at one of his hands, which he gives you. It takes you a moment to take the gauntlet off, and you carefully grab the fleshy fingers of his hand, pressing them against your belly.

The little one in your belly gently kicks against the press, and Typhus gasps.

“Oh! Hello, little one. I am your papa… I am so excited to meet you, when you’re ready to enter the world.” Typhus murmured, his glowing eyes widening with awe and delight. He clicks his fingers and points at one of his brothers “Pestilan, get my wife food. The rest of you, clear this room and check to make sure those treacherous sorcerers didn’t leave any nasty surprises left for us to find for denying them their wants.”

“Yes sir!” The other Death Guards murmur at the same time, swiftly leaving the room.

[the-sun-and-the-craftsman]

The Sun and the Craftsman - Chapter 2

Content warnings for this chapter are at the bottom and tagged!

For more info, read the pinned post here.

It’s too much for Darius to ignore. The sight of Ashur brings a natural sort of panic to him, and seeing him grasp at Lafayette like that—it brings him back to that night. 

Darius had been living on the Isle of Ascent for a few months by then, having grown accustomed to his simple life there. One moment, he’d been on Earth, working in his smithy as usual, and there had been a mild altercation that had sent him running—and the next moment, he was transported to the Isle. Ashur’s magic didn’t interest him; it had merely gotten him out of his old life, and there had been nothing for him in his old life anymore. But that’s beside the point. 

This world—Ana, as Ashur called it—had been teeming with life and opportunity. Darius watched the way that life sprang back after it was cut down, chilled, burned, whatever. Ashur had helped him cut down some trees and split some logs to make his house, and upon learning that Darius had been a blacksmith, Ashur eagerly set up a rudimentary smithy for him, coaxing the plants to split the ground open under his feet, tearing up some ore, and letting Darius pound out nails to his heart’s content. Ashur had been kind; so childlike in appearance, but with such knowledge behind his too-bright eyes. 

He looks the same now—albeit, a bit reserved. He’s pretty short, not even coming up to Darius’ chest—maybe about the size of a child just entering his teenage years. His skin is tanned heavily, rich and saturated in color, but his eyes are pale and bright, almost white. He wears elaborate clothes, almost toga-ish, wrapped around himself and decorated with gold-embroidered thread and shining stones, pinned in place by gleaming brooches. But he wears no shoes—and Darius has never seen him wear shoes. He claims they’re uncomfortable, though Darius would argue that it’s more uncomfortable to step on one of the thousands of thorned plants littered around the forest outside. 

But Ashur can heal himself. 

Darius hadn’t really paid attention to it until he had shot him that night. 

Lafayette—grinning like an idiot, squeezing Ashur’s lithe hands in her own worn ones—looks vastly different. That night, her already-pale skin had been drained of all color, all that color spilling out as a dark pool on the wooden floor. Her hair had been wet and matted, much in the same way that Ashur’s is now, albeit with a much darker hue. And her eyes were lifeless. 

But Ashur had brought her back to life after cannibalizing her. After Darius had whipped out his colt navy and shot him—after Ashur’s neck had exploded in a spray of unnatural gold—after Ashur had chased Darius down, canines bared like a dog, his flesh growing both as he healed himself and as he lengthened his arms and fingers to reach for Darius, a sickening, tumorous display of flesh growing over flesh growing over flesh, he had healed Lafayette. And nothing had been the same since. 

The flash of a fanged grin as Darius’ body crumpled in on itself, every muscle forced to flex in a way it shouldn’t, crushing any hollow space within himself. The realization that the meat that Ashur had provided Darius had been sliced from one of his friends, and the soul somehow kept inside to feel the pain of each severed nerve. The sweeping thunderclouds that would blot out the sky in seconds and throw down sharp, piercing, ice-cold raindrops that killed every living thing below it and washed away everything else—just for Ashur to pin down any soul he wanted to keep and hastily reconstruct their bodies once more. 

Watching the way that Ashur and Lafayette interact makes Darius’ stomach turn. He lets out a shaky sigh as Marco steps past him, wanting nothing but to turn around and go straight back to his house, his chair, and his box—the box that keeps his mind and body away from any feeling at all. 

Lafayette nods, and Ashur grins, and Lafayette lets go of Ashur’s hands to step inside the magic circle. Ashur picks up a jar, fingers fishing inside of it, then works like an artist around her, each swift motion sweeping his loose clothes as he spreads down a course, gray, metallic powder from that jar. He first outlines the magic circle around her, then fills it in with all sorts of arcane symbols. Despite the glaring injury on his head—which, Darius can now see, takes the form of a deep gash, crusted around the edges by his golden blood—he moves with the grace of a dancer. 

But he pauses, glancing at Darius, falling still. “Oh,” he says, his voice light. “Darius.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Right? Oh, there’s so many people here to remember...” 

“Yes, this is Darius,” Marco says to Ashur, just a trace of nerves left over in his voice. He turns to Darius, pointing at Ashur. “He really did lose his memory, huh?” 

Ashur’s cheeks darken, uncannily yellowish. Darius glances past Ashur, toward where Lafayette stands in the circle. 

“And how do you remember your magic, but not us?” he asks, glancing down at Ashur. 

Ashur’s eyes widen. “Well—it’s—I didn’t lose everything,” he says. “My magic is ancient—I'd know how to do these spells in my sleep!” 

He looks back at Lafayette. 

“She wanted to go home, too,” he says. “Did you want to say anything to her before she left? I was told that you two had a special bond...” 

Darius wouldn’t put it like that—she just happened to be from a marginally similar world. But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get a say in any of this. He pushes past Ashur and carefully steps over the powdery lines to get to her. 

Lafayette looks at Darius, a certain optimism in her eyes. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” she says. 

“I wanted to see if it was really true,” Darius responds. “You should’ve been the one to come get me. I would’ve believed you over Marco.” 

“Well, you’re here now, aren’t you?” she says. “And you wanted to ask something. You wouldn’t have talked to me, otherwise.” 

Darius nods. 

“Do you really think he’s sending you back home?” 

Lafayette smiles. 

“I do,” she says. “Sara volunteered to try, and after Ashur sent her away, he brought her back to tell us what she saw. She said she’d been sent back home—to the very place and time she vanished from. She felt the air change, she saw the house she used to live in down the road, she heard people’s voices...” 

“How did Ashur know where to send her?” Darius asks. “With his memory gone to the point where he doesn’t remember us?” 

“He just needs something from your own world to do the spell,” Lafayette says. She gestures behind Darius, toward a section of the magic circle, where a single silver button from her shirt sits nestled in a small pile of powder. “Apparently, something about it is linked to the exact place and time where you left. Glad we fought so hard to keep some of our belongings, huh?” 

Something from his own world—Darius looks down at himself. There are a few loose threads on the coat he’s been wearing since he was brought here... 

“Alright,” he says. “You’ll be safe in your own world, then?” 

Lafayette nods. 

“Then I’ll leave you to it.” 

Darius turns and steps out from the circle, glancing around the room to find Ashur, who had moved away to make the final preparations. Heading back to Marco’s side, Darius watches as Ashur snaps his fingers, producing a flame on the tip of his thumb. 

Ashur stoops down. He touches the edge of the circle and flame rushes around the whole thing, surging forward, flaring up, and vanishing as quickly as it came, leaving only the scent of smoke and a few dark stains on the floor. 

Ashur sighs. “Getting hard to do so many of these,” he says. “But only two left. Who’s up next?” 

As Marco steps forward, Darius folds his arms and thinks. He had seen how easily Ashur had healed from a wound that would be fatal to anybody else. There was barely even any time to bleed after the bullet had pierced through him. Now, looking at the wound on Ashur’s head, Darius struggles to reconcile the two sights. 

Ashur has every reason to trick everyone. He’s a cruel being. He had been nice in the beginning, sure, but he had flipped to cruelty in the span of that one day. The day before Ashur had eaten Lafayette, Darius had heard that he had been helping Ofor with making repairs to his house. And the day after, Ashur had stormed into Darius’ house, called Darius a few names, and put a hand on his chest, forcing Darius’ muscles to painfully squeeze and force the air out of him. He had played with Darius’ body like a doll—no, with more mastery than that, considering Ashur’s control over every biological process within the people around him. With a twist of his hands, Ashur could mangle organs with absolutely no outside indication. 

Once he feels himself receding back into his box, Darius shakes his head and forces himself to stop thinking about that. He has to think about something else—so for a moment, he assumes that Ashur’s being completely genuine with this. Even if Darius could go back home, he isn’t sure if he would want to. 

It’s nice that everyone else can go back with no qualms. But when Darius had first been pulled to Ana, it had come with relief. As a wanted man on the verge of getting caught, it had been a literal lifesaver. 

And if he’s heading back to the exact same place and time...he has to have a plan.

CW: mentions of crushing, asphyxiation, severe storms, flooding, dissociation, torture, loss of autonomy, and encounters with police descriptions of blood, gun violence, head injury, cannibalism, body horror, amnesia, and fire. 

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[enbycrip]

CW: discussion of pregnancy loss

Honestly this is one of the most powerful pieces of art I’ve ever seen.

(This is a personal interpretation; I don’t know if this was the artist’s intent)

There’s so little art out there about pregnancy loss. It’s a type of grief that makes people intensely uncomfortable. It gets equated with lack of support for abortion - which is upsetting, tbh, given it’s *incredibly* possible to support the essential right for bodily autonomy and yet still be utterly personally devastated by the loss, often repeated loss, of a potential life you desperately wanted.

In my work as an early modern historian, I’m bizarrely comforted as well as gut-punched by the statistics and personal experiences of child and pregnancy loss I encounter, which were so horrifically common before modern medicine, particularly vaccines and antibiotics. Because one of the effects of pregnancy loss is how isolating it is. We are so conditioned to silence about it. It is actually *helpful* to me when the grief strikes me to realise how huge a part of the human experience child and pregnancy loss is and has been.

Our biology, despite all our technology, is not simple and foolproof. Pregnancy and having children is surrounded in a commodified and cutesified bubble of celebration. The wolf is the fact that biology, like chance in general, is harsh and fallible. We cannot wish our way into the outcomes that we desperately want.

"In Bocca al Lupo" by sculptor Beth Cavener. Stoneware, Mixed Media. Installation: H 90 x L 276 x W 48 in. 2012.

[quins-whump-stuff]

Idea: whumpees used for more "realistic" storytelling.*at least partially created as a result of a weird dream I recently had*

CW: death, forced to kill, guilt, loss of autonomy, drugging, generally creepy whumper stuff

Instead of having animatronics on an amusement park ride, weak, half-starved people are strapped to motorized metal skeletons, forced to act through the same actions over and over and over again, all day, every day.

Maybe they have been chemically paralyzed/drugged, maybe they are just too weak, or maybe the metal is just too strong for them to resist.

Instead of being around a ride, maybe they are forcibly cast in a play, where any staged deaths are real, a new victim brought in for every performance. They couldn't run from the death facing them, and their killer, despite logically being blameless (after all, Whumper is the real killer here) starts to be eaten by the guilt of having to kill person after person with no choice, no ability to even close their eyes.

Whumper believes that they do this to make their stories more realistic, but whether that's the truth...

Maybe I've been reading too much "people turned into dolls" whump recently, but I had to share this idea.

[colorisbyshe]

You know how some people learn a proper moral boundary but don't learn the theory behind WHY it's a boundary, so they end up policing the wrong things? I think the funniest example is people knowing shipping incest is wrong, so they try to yell at people who ship two characters who have said shit like "He's like a brother to me."

Like, no, two characters being brothers in arms or whatever together is not comparable to actual incest. People using familial terms to try to describe their feelings for each other is not reflective of the inherent abusive context of actual incest.

I think this lack of understanding is also why people don't get why adopted/step siblings is rife for abuse and thus shouldn't be shipped (outside of rare contexts like... idk... your parents married each other when you both were adults and weren't raised together).

Mindlessly accepting "this thing is moral/this thing is not" isn't okay, even when technically you are in the right. People need to do critical thinking on just why something is criticized because sometimes you are only hurting your own argument and it's embarrassing.

This is such a dumb thing in context, like I'm not actually mad about this specific instance, but it's indicative of such a larger problem of like... people just accepting moral codes with ZEEERO actual insight. Don't do that for real.

[wellnoe]

lets make a list of times jean gets mind controlled or fucked with telepathically so that she can get sexually assaulted. warlock, mesmero, mastermind. those 2 guys in fallen angels don't actually get to mind control her but they sure want to!

[seraphim-soulmate]

It's not that I wish I could stop the process of aging or make people live forever it's just that I wish it didn't have to suck so bad. It sucks that we're a product of our time, forced to live under the circumstances we're born under despite how important a life feels. A lifetime can genuinely just be pain and misery due to circumstances and it's so evil that not everyone gets a fair shot at the only chance they have. It hurts to see a loved one getting older and losing abilities and not knowing what you can do and also just hoping that you are doing the best you can to make their life manageable.

[dabunnybuns]

I’ve been workshopping this horror idea of like a monster that makes you forget right

But like not The Silence or False Hydra

Like it makes you forget

Like imagine the horror or realizing something is really wrong, running to your car, and realizing you no longer remember how to drive

For some reason your walks seem so much shorter

If you even remember how to walk

Or talk

[7nuh]

MR. SILVAIR YANDERE DRABBLE !

CW 𓂃 gn!reader, yandere!Mr. Silvair, loss of limbs, canon-typical violence, captivity

Mr. Silvair is very interesting to me because he rejects you, but I can definitely see him eventually adoring you like a cute little unruly pet that doesn't know any better.

What made you so interesting to him in the first place is your desperate struggle to hold on to your humanity. Out of all of the unfortunate idiots who made their way here, you survived the longest with your sanity in tact. It's so impressive that Mr. Silvair actually thinks you have a chance of making it back with your mind in one piece.

A part of him wished you had stayed in his lab for longer so he could pick you apart in closer detail, but he knew that would lead him nowhere. What Mr. Silvair needed was progress— for your sanity to deteriorate.

And the change is drastic. You were once a trembling good-for-nothing that would have likely died in two days without Mr. Crawling's help, but now you bite. Now you can twist limbs and tear torsos apart with your bare hands. Now you roam these hallways as the predator searching for prey, and, soon, you'll become another one of the many bloodthirsty residents here.

Not that Mr. Silvair would allow it to get to that point, though, as he proceeds to restrain and detain you in one of his many cells. Why would he allow the perfect test subject to slip away from his fingers so easily? As a token of your short-lived friendship, he even went out of his way and gave you a clean cell! He also arranged occasional visits from Mr. Chopped (but never Mr. Crawling) whenever you stayed docile long enough on the operating table. Nevermind your many escape attempts and increasing hostility, you'll understand soon enough.

In there, you're safe and that's all that matters. It's your temporary abode away while you 'rehabilitate', a safe space where you can't hurt anyone or yourself. You used to be so bothered by the lack of limbs, but you've stopped resisting. He thinks you're starting to learn how inconvenient it is to be in this helpless state— how futile resistance is. You're starting to behave.

Mr. Silvair observes that you now like getting headpats these days. Maybe a few kisses here and there to remind you of your long lost affection for him. Mr. Silvair can't accurately assess whether you hate it or not, though. What happened to the good old days when you used to run to his door for safety whenever you got chased down by something much larger than you? Now you hate this place when it used to be your only space of rest and respite.

As a special treat, he brings you interesting knick knacks that should remind you of your human life. But really, it's a special treat for him because he enjoys watching you pretend it's not making you miserable to be reminded of your past life. Either way, you'll take any positive attention you get from him, no matter how condescending, over the long hours on that wretched table. You can bark and hiss all you want but it doesn't change the fact that you crave any sense of normalcy, even if it comes in the form of his twisted affection for you.

It's cute, almost. Mr. Silvair enjoys being relied upon by something that was once so terrifying. He enjoys reducing you and chipping away at your autonomy, from the physical to the mental. He's at least self-aware enough to acknowledge that it's no longer a research project to him, but a perverse achievement to have you like this.

As interesting as it was to watch your descent into madness, Mr. Silvair wants to break you apart and be the one who puts you back together. It really doesn't matter how many times he has to break your limbs until you've learnt your lesson.

[diejager]

if you don't mind can i ask for your take on civilian s/o and yandere makarov? i wonder how he behave around an s/o who's like the opposite of him (like they're kind, gentle and has not known violence ever). hcs or short scenario or anything depends on you i don't mind (there's a drought of makarov content tbh 😮‍💨).

thanks for considering this and please take your time. have a good day 😚.

”Love” Cw: manipulation, obsessive behaviour, delusions of love, humain training, forceful taking, verbal abuse, tell me if I missed any.

Makarov doesn’t love. He knew how to, but he never truly did. He couldn’t with the heart and mind he grew up cultivating, to build his empire and strength, dwindling his heart’s empathy. Ironically, such ignorance towards love only increased his obsession, the amount of it that would only climb higher and higher, because in a sense, the loss of such emotions lead to a loss of a limit, driving him to insane lengths to achieve what he had his mind on.

He only knew death and bloodshed, the destruction of the mundane and corruption of the innocent, being the source of the rot and decay in the cells of a flower, to make it wilt and dust. Perhaps that’s where his interest in the normal stemmed, that curiosity that would someday bloom into obsession. He searched for an object of obsession, something - someone - to put all this attention on, something tangible, solid under his hands and malleable to his intentions. Despite his lack of time to dawdle, to spend on meaningless affairs, he found the perfect subject, someone so starkly different from him and his world.

There was a dichotomy in Makarov’s world, the harshness of war, battle and conquering of countries, and the deceptive softness in his eyes, the gentle touch of his scarred and calloused hands, and the coo with his sly tongue. You were the only softness in his life, a civilian he -one day - decided to pick up from the streets, bright-eyed and innocent to the horror he saw and spear-headed. Your tired eyes untouched by his mind and your scarless body free of any conflict that he could start with a simple wave of his hand.

There’s a need in his mind to see this innocence wilt away, to pry your mind of any autonomy and freedom you’ve lived with. Makarov wanted a doll, something soft and precious he could corrupt with words and ruin with his hands, deceptively gentle and loving, a poem spilling from a cruel smirk and eyes gleaming darkly. He has his ways to turn you into a thing of his imagination, to make you into his willing Russian doll, layer over layer of maliciousness and subservience.

He’s a man of culture, letting the people under him do all the dirty work. Despite all the viciousness and madness in his being, he doesn’t hit, he doesn’t abuse the object of his obsession, that was reserved for men lower than him, poor and mindless men. Rather, he preferred manipulation, well-thought words used in right situation to have you crawling back to him for safety, protection and comfort. He wanted you to come to him on your own, to make your pliant and uncaring of the wider view. He, after all, took you for himself, to endure himself in a second source of power.

Makarov has a silver tongue, whispering words into your ears that take root, your doubts and fears growing in the depth of your heart, bringing you closer to the man who promised to protect you. His fingers wiping away your tearful cheeks, pearly gems rolling down your cheek as he teases you about being worried. You shouldn’t be so fearful with him beside you, he’s your warden, your all-powerful and dependable lover.

He won’t let a shred of suspicion towards him fester, it’ll be dealt with swiftly with the call of your name, breaking down your vulnerable mind and building it back up in his image, his opinions were yours, his thoughts were yours, his goals were yours. So much so that you were his, knowing fundamentally that whatever he said goes.

”мой маленький цветок,” he mumbled, pressing his lips against yours, hands soft but wandering, laying down chains over your waist, around your dainty wrists and tightening the collar around your neck, keeping the hold on your mind, “You did so well, I’m proud of you.”

Positive reinforcement. He often used positive reinforcement to deepen his hold, to sink his teeth into your clean soul. Sweetened words with a voice he taught you to crave and possessive touches of bloody hands with intentions that he blinded you of, finding a way to make you want them.

“What do you say?” His hand traveled up your jaw, featherlight fingers cradling your ear and cheek until it stopped under your chin, tilting your head to look at his narrowed eyes, proud and dark.

“Thank you, Vladimir.”

He smiled, a thin-lipped grin.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @kaelysia

[writingwithcolor]

What Makes an Ethnic Villain "Ethnic" or "Villainous?" How Do You Offset it?

anonymous asked:

Hello WWC! I have a question about the antagonist of my story. She is (currently) Japanese, and I want to make sure I’m writing her in a way that doesn’t associates [sic] her being Asian with being villainous.  The story is set in modern day USA, this character is effectively immortal. She was a samurai who lost loved ones due to failure in combat, and this becomes her character[sic] motivation (portrayed sympathetically to the audience). This story explores many different time periods and how women have shown valor throughout history. The age of the samurai (and the real and legendary female warriors from it) have interested me the most, which is why I want her to be from this period.  The outfit she wears while fighting is based on samurai armor, and she wears modern and traditional Japanese fashion depending on the occasion. She acts pretty similar to modern day people, though more cynical and obsessed with her loss. She’s been able to adapt with the times but still highly values and cherishes her past.  She is the only Asian main character, but I plan to make a supportive Japanese side character. She’s a history teacher who knows about the villain and gives the protagonists information to help them, but isn’t involved in the main plot otherwise.  Are the way I’m writing this villain and the inclusion of a non-antagonist Japanese character enough to prevent a harmful reading of the story, or is there more I should do?

Why Does Your Villain Exist?

This makes me feel old because David Anders plays a villain with this kind of backstory in the series Heroes starring Masi Oka. 

I think you want to think about what you mean when you say: 

Villainous (In what way? To whom? To what end?)

Harmful (What tropes, narratives and implications are present?)

I’m relatively infamous in the mod circle for not caring too much about dimensions of “harm”. The concept is relative and varies widely between people and cultures. I don’t see much value in framing motivations around “What is less harmful?” I think for me, what matters more is: 

“What is more true?” 

“Are characteristics viewed as intrinsic to background, or the product of experiences and personal autonomy?”

“Will your portrayal resonate with a large audience?”

“What will resonate with the members of the audience who share the backgrounds your characters have?” 

This post offers additional questions you could ask yourself instead of “is this okay/not okay/harmful.” 

You could write a story where your antagonist is sly, sadistic, violent and cold-blooded. It may not be an interpretation that will make many Japanese from combat backgrounds feel seen or heard, but it’s not without precedent. These tropes have been weaponized against people of Japanese descent (Like Nikkei Japanese interned during World War II), but Japan also brutalized a good chunk of Asia during World War II. See Herge’s Tintin and The Blue Lotus for an example of a comic that accurately showcases the brutality of Japan’s colonization of Manchuria, but also is racist in terms of how Japanese characters are portrayed (CW: genocide, war, imperialism, racism).

You could also write a story where your character’s grief gives way to despair, and fuels their combat such that they are seen as calculating, frigid and deeply driven by revenge/ violence. This might make sense. It’s also been done to death for Japanese female warriors, though (See “Lady Snowblood” by Kazuo Koike and Kazuo Kamimura here, CW: sexual assault, violence, murder and a host of other dark things you’d expect in a revenge story). 

You could further write a story where your antagonist is not necessarily villainous, but the perceived harm comes from fetishizing/ exoticizing elements in how her appearance is presented or how she is sexualized, which is a common problem for Japanese female characters. 

My vote always goes to the most interesting story or character. I don’t see any benefit to writing from a defensive position. This is where I'll point out that, culturally, I can't picture a Japanese character viewing immortality as anything other than a curse. Many cultures in Japan are largely defined by transience and the understanding that many things naturally decay, die, and change form.

There are a lot of ways you could conceivably cause harm, but I’d rather hear about what the point of this character is given the dilemma of their position. 

What is her purpose for the plot? 

How is she designed to make the reader feel? 

What literary devices are relevant to her portrayal?

(Arbitrarily, you can always add more than 1 extra Japanese character. I think you might put less pressure on yourself with this character’s portrayal if you have more Japanese characters to practice with in general.) 

- Marika. 

When Off-Setting: Aim for Average

Seconding the above with regards to this villainess’s story and your motivations for this character, but regardless of her story I think it’s also important to look specifically at how the Japanese teacher character provides contrast. 

I agree with the choice to make her a regular person and not a superhero. Otherwise, your one Asian character is aggressively Asian-themed in a stereotypical Cool Japan way (particularly if her villain suit is samurai-themed & she wears wafu clothing every so often). Adding a chill person who happens to be Japanese and doesn’t have some kind of ninja or kitsune motif will be a breath of fresh air (well, more like a sigh of relief) for Japanese readers. 

A note on characterization—while our standard advice for “offset” characters is to give your offset character the opposite of the personality trait you’re trying to balance, in this case you might want to avoid opposites. You have a villainess who is a cold, tough “don’t need no man” type. Making the teacher mild-mannered, helpful, and accomodating would balance out the villainess’s traits, but you’ll end up swinging to the other side of the pendulum towards the Submissive Asian stereotype depending on execution. If avoiding stereotypes is a concern, I suggest picking something outside of that spectrum of gentleness to violence and making her really boring or really weird or really nerdy or a jock gym teacher or…something. You’re the author.

Similarly, while the villainess is very traditionally Japanese in her motifs and backstory, don’t make the teacher go aggressively in either direction—give her a nice balance of modern vs. traditional, Japanese vs. Western sensibilities as far as her looks, dress, interests, values, etc. Because at the end of the day, that’s most modern Japanese people. 

Sometimes, the most difficult representation of a character of color is making a character who is really average, typical, modern, and boring. 

- Rina

[sonic-au-collision]

SONIC AU COLLISION: ROUND 1

click to see full image

Shadow Barbie AU belongs to @curetapwater [link to fic series]

Content Warnings: kidnapping, unethical experimentation, and mind control/loss of bodily autonomy

Descendants AU belongs to @a-dream-journalist

Creator Note: CW along all three acts include child abuse, fantasy racism, drugging [sorta], attempted murder, and suicidal ideation.

Explore each world below the cut!

Shadow Barbie AU:

Shadow the Hedgehog is the prince of a kingdom filled with magic, wonder, and danger. Born from the cauldron of genius sorcerer King Gerald to heal Princess Maria, he is dedicated to defending his kingdom from the many challenges it faces. He discovers hope, love, and the power that dwells within him.

An in-progress, four-part saga told via increasingly loose adaptations of 2000s Barbie movies. The first installment is Shadow and the Magic of Pegasus, and upcoming is the sequel, Shadow and the Diamond Castle.

Descendants AU:

Mobius has lived peacefully for nearly 20 years, but soon-to-be king Sonic is ready to shake the culture. His first proclamation: invite the children of the Isle of the Lost, erected 20 years prior to punish scoundrels and almost-innocents alike, to the mainland for a better life. Even the progeny of the most malignant Black Doom is invited, and the chance simply cannot be passed up. With thirst for vengeance and a spellbook in hand, Team Dark sets their sights on the Emerald Scepter that formed their island prison and whispers of release for the villains.

Yet this world whispers something else as they adjust to their new life. Omega isn't as quick to bare their cannons, Rouge quite enjoys her work being appreciated, and Shadow is taking way too nicely to this pestering blue hedgehog in the way of his plans. Perhaps the poison apple falls further from the tree than they thought.

Magical hijinks, familial trauma, fae politics, prissy pink princesses, and love spell cookies are a must.

[oleander-nin]

Horrortober Day 17- Home(Yandere TMNT 2012 Raph x Reader)

A/N, not important: Guys I rewrote this one eight times I hate it so much but if I have to spend any more time on it I'm going to explode. Any criticism is welcome, constructive or not. This is supposed to be a gender neutral reader, so if I screwed up somewhere, please tell me.

-Ollie

CW: Kidnapping, loss of autonomy, dark themes, yandere themes

Words: 993

Summary: Raph needs you to calm down and accept your new home

Raph paces in front of you, his face screwed into a scowl as he grumbles under his breath. Your knees were tucked to your chest, your heart pounding and nerves shot. He could still envision your panicked screams that erupted from your lips when you first woke, your eyes wide once you realized you were stuck. Your screams had died down by now, only small breaths of panic leaving you, but it was still too much for him. He never thought you would be scared of him. Sure, waking up chained where you didn’t fall asleep was scary, but the way you looked at him still broke his heart.

Raph’s hands twitched at his sides, the familiar anger bubbling up and dragging him down. You had no right to be scared. He’d never hurt you. Sure, he blew his lid sometimes, and sure, he shouted at you when you woke up, but you screamed first! It wasn’t fair that you were this panicked when you had only woken up in his room. You’d done it hundreds of times before, so what if this time you can’t leave? Can’t you see he’s just protecting you? Raph’s scowl deepens, still pacing in front of you as he tries to decide what he wants to do with you. He wanted to take this slow, to not hurt you or scare you for the first week at least, but he apparently already screwed that one up. He watches as you fiddle with the chain around your ankle, small stings of fear and worry biting at your heart. He still hadn’t explained what was going on, and while your screaming stopped, your panic had not.

“Raph?” You ask meekly, waiting for his head to turn to look at you before continuing. Raph hesitates, then meets your eyes. He scans your face and tries not to frown at the fear in your eyes, knowing that the thing you were scared of was him.

“Yes?” He grunts, toxic green eyes staring you down. He tries to relax his posture and fix his face, hoping that the more open he looked, the less scared you would be. It doesn’t seem to help much, as you still shake under his gaze. 

“What’s going on?” You ask, your voice slightly less shaky as you gain back your usual confidence. You straighten your back and lean forward, no longer looking at the chains keeping you from fleeing. While your chest was still rising faster than normal, you had mostly calmed down, the fear slowly being replaced with confusion and hesitance. Raph wasn’t even sure if you were fully aware you were being kidnapped, and not being subjected to a weird game that he and his brothers were roping you into.

“I’m keeping you.” Raph says bluntly, unsure how else to put it. He figures he could tell you how he finds you the most wonderful thing in the universe, and that he’d do anything to keep you safe and by his side, but that would be too many words, and way too personal. You didn’t need to know how obsessed he was with you. He didn’t want you trying anything stupid.

You look at him strangely, as if you didn’t believe his words. Raph shifts where he stands, his eyes narrowing while he huffs. He didn’t want to scare you again, but he needed you to understand. You weren’t leaving. You tug at your chains again, frowning. It was clear you were desperately trying to rationalize this, to come up with reason or rhyme for why you woke up chained to his bed. Raph hadn’t touched you yet, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He really hated how loud you could scream.

“I don’t want to play your stupid game Raph.” You grumble, looking up at him with nervous eyes. Raph sighs, realizing you were starting to break down again. He’d probably gag you if you started screaming again.

“Not a game. You’re not leaving. I’m tired of you getting hurt and being in danger.” Raph tries his best to be blunt, to give you as much information while still keeping his feelings close to his chest. He didn’t want to overwhelm you with all that just yet. He was sure you loved him anyway. Why else would you be so calm? You’d always stuck by him, and even commonly stayed over with him. Making you love him was easy, but keeping you quiet would be a problem. He hadn’t even told Leo you were here yet. Raph would forever be glad he had the foresight enough to wait until his brothers were off with Casey and April to bring you home.

Raph watches your eyes closely, frowning as the fear returns. You chew on your cheek, you form small and closed off as you tug at the chain. You were confused and worried, unsure what all this meant. Raph wasn’t sure how to console you, shifting uncomfortably as he realizes he might have to help you deal with your emotions. He wanted you to feel safe, not scared.

He moves forward and reaches his hand out towards your face, his eyes darkening when you flinch back on instinct. He reaches forward and grabs the collar of your shirt tugging you forward. “I’m not scary. I’m not doing anything wrong.”

You whimper, eyes wide and full of the fear that he hated to see. He knew it would take a while before you fully realized how he was telling the truth. Raph sighs and lets go, watching you fall back onto his bed. You stay silent, keeping your breathing calm as you scratch at your arms. Raph exhales slowly, leaning back against the wall across from you so he could watch you process. He would wait, and silence any scream that escapes you. He would be patient with you. He had all the time in the world now that you were fully his.

[stanfordprepped]

"No. No you don't. You don't get to quit. We don't get to quit in this family. This family is all we've ever had." #StanfordPrepped - An independent HBO reboot of Sam Winchester from the CW's Supernatural. A study in: Co-dependency, Loss of autonomy, regaining autonomy, overcoming guilt and self hatred, self love, finding your path, working through trauma, self sacrifice and more.

Loved by: Jared/Sammy

[forwhump]

Your Light Was On

a/n; will I always start every post by apologizing for posting ? probably, so here we go: sorry ! I’m kind of purging the folder in my google docs app for these two & they’ve lived on my shoulders for years so I have an absolutely insurmountable amount of content. I’m gonna be just unbearable w all my posting & I apologize in advance ! but will I apologize again anyway in the future ? probably yes !

this is kind of light on the whump & more of just a random oneshot, but if I’m gonna post these 2 little guys entire, traumatic lives (& I am) it’s important there’s some backstory okay ?! it can’t get worse if we didn’t know how less shit it used to be !

tw/cw mentions of being gutted, gore, wounds, mentions of medical torture, hints of complete loss of autonomy

human weapon whumpee, patching up wounds, stitches

There had always been something about Wren.

Even before Wren was his Wren, even before Wren had started to beat in the place where his heart used to be. Silas had always been drawn to him, an instinct entirely outside of his own control.

Wren was beautiful, Wren is beautiful, and Wren is beautiful in a completely unapproachable way. Wren is so beautiful it gives him an unsettling sort of quality and honestly, when Silas had first been dragged into this unit, Wren was so beautiful it had kind of creeped him out.

It had really creeped him out, actually, but he’d been drawn to him all the same. As creepy as he was, there was something Silas had always found really enchanting about him.

The way he speaks, maybe, always soft, gentle and sweet, but his accent is thick and Silas always thought it was weird. Every human bit of Silas had been wiped away, his memories along with it. He doesn’t remember a life outside this place. He doesn’t know anything outside these walls. He doesn’t know any accents but those around him, and that’s a total of three; two of the soldiers, London and English, have the the same accent; the rest of the unit shares an accent with Silas; Wren and his brother, Robin, have accents like nothing else Silas thinks he’s ever heard. Weird, but obviously beautiful and enchanting, like everything else about Wren. He’s from a place called Sugar Land, because of course he is. He looks exactly like somebody Silas would picture being from a place called Sugar Land.

Always so soft spoken, though, so patient, so kind. So gentle with Silas.

And maybe it was situational. Silas was their unit’s only weapon, but he wasn’t their only freak. They could be divided up into three categories; Weapons, Super Soldiers, and Wren. For a long time, Silas couldn’t even begin to guess what the hell Wren was doing there, but he was there, and he was human. His skin was still soft. He was warm.

Whatever it was, it pulled at Silas, it clawed at all the squishy human parts of him he didn’t realize he still had.

It was the pain that had woken him up. About a week prior, he’d been gutted during something the soldiers called a training exercise — Silas couldn’t die, so they made a game of making him bleed. Healing was shitty and Silas kept ripping his stitches. It was the pain that had woken him up, and he woke up with his sheets and his shirt both sticking to him, soaked through with blood. He was floating in it.

And Wren wasn’t his Wren yet. They weren’t even really close. Silas probably wouldn’t’ve bugged him at all, but when he dragged himself out of his room, fleeing a sticky trail of bloody footprints, Wren’s light was on, filtering into the corridor from beneath his door.

Silas tried to knock, but he was bleeding a lot and starting to lose dexterity in his fingers. He kind of banged his hand against Wren’s door, cruder than he meant to.

Wren’s voice was more tense than Silas had been expecting. It sounded weird. Not like usual. “What do you want?”

And then Silas realized that maybe he had just fallen asleep with his light on, and he felt weird for standing outside his bedroom, bleeding and waking him up. “Sorry,” he said.

A rustle, like Wren was moving in bed. It had made Silas blush, which he thought was kind of a waste of what little blood was left in his body. “What?” Wren had said. “Silas?”

“Yeah,” Silas said. He’d smudged blood on Wren’s door when he knocked. He tried to wipe it away with his sleeve, but there was blood on his sleeve and he made it much worse. “Sorry.”

The door was pulled away from his face as Wren eased it open. His hair was down, and it was the first time Silas had ever seen his hair down. It made him feel weird, like he was looking at something private, something really intimate, something he didn’t deserve to see, and it made him feel so weird it made him lightheaded. Or was that the blood loss?

“What are you doing?” Wren had asked, soft and concerned. “What happened to you?”

“I think I pulled my stitches,” Silas said.

It made Wren smile. Wren had always had one of Silas’ favourite smiles, even back then. It had made him blush again, which just made him feel stupid. Blushing and bashful, bleeding down the insides of his joggers so they were sticking to the insides of his thighs and his blood was starting to pool around Wren’s feet. Wren said, “I think you might be right.”

“I have a feeling,” Silas agreed. Wren breathed out a laugh, which had made him smile — crooked, now, because of a scar at the corner of his mouth, a lasting memory from a different training exercise.

“Do you need a hand?” He asked softly.

Silas nodded. “Yes, please.”

Wren smiled up at him as he stepped out of the way, and Silas almost slipped in his own blood on his way across the threshold. Wren set him up on the end of his bed and stood between his knees as he peeled off Silas’ t-shirt. It was the closest they had ever been to being the same height, and Silas had felt really weird about that. He thought it might’ve been a good weird, but he couldn’t be sure.

Wren was gentle and his hands were soft. Silas didn’t know why, yet, not at that time, but he knew already of Wren’s weird affinity for getting things; he was the only one of them that could ask a soldier for something, and get it. He could make requests. He got gifts. He was allowed to keep things in his room. He had things to keep.

Among his things were general medical supplies. He cleaned Silas’ leaking wounds. He taped him back together again. His stitches were all ugly, raised staples, barely holding shredded flesh together, but Wren didn’t flinch. He didn’t wretch. He cleaned and he taped and he was so gentle, so careful, as he layered bandages over the furious, red, raised Y of his wound.

Silas watched him closely. He didn’t mean to, not necessarily, but like in every other aspect, he was drawn to Wren, and he couldn’t help but watch him, his long, deft fingers, the part of his lips, the shadow his eyelashes cast on his face.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said finally, and he didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t really help himself. Just thinking it didn’t seem like enough.

Wren’s eyes flickered up to him from beneath his eyelashes. “Thank you.”

“It’s kinda weird,” Silas admited.

It startled a laugh out of Wren, who looked up at Silas properly. “Excuse me?”

Silas cracked a smile, crooked. “I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s weird.”

“I think you’re weird,” Wren told him, lips curved into a smile that made Silas feel kind of sick but in a good way.

“Why?” He protested. “Just ‘cause I get gutted sometimes?”

Wren laughed again. He layered another bandage over the stapes down the centre of Silas’ chest, pressing it into place with warm, gentle fingers. It gave Silas goosebumps.

Wren noticed. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. He thumbed gently over Silas’ sternum, an apology. “Did I hurt you?”

Silas was bleeding less so he could feel his blush a little more properly in his face. “No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

He did that thing again, looked quickly up at Silas before he looked away.

Silas didn’t stop watching him. He didn’t think he could’ve if he wanted to. “Thank you,” he said.

“Of course,” Wren answered.

“Your light was on,” Silas said, curious, but it had come out kind of gruff. “Why?”

Wren smiled but he didn’t lift his head. “I don’t sleep very much,” he said.

“What do you do?” Silas asked.

He smiled again. “I draw, usually,” he said. He flattened a hand against Silas’ chest as he smoothed out a bandaid and Silas could only hope he couldn’t feel how much quicker his heart started to beat in return. “I used to be an artist.”

“What’s an artist?” Silas asked.

Wren looked up at him properly, and he didn’t smile. He turned away from Silas, in fact, and Silas very nearly panicked, thinking he offended him. It wasn’t his own fault he didn’t know what an artist was — he had no point of reference. “I’m sorry,” he said, an instinct.

“Why?” Wren asked. He was shuffling through a stack of books on his desk, his back to Silas. “Don’t be.”

He wasn’t looking at him and Silas didn’t find that very reassuring at all. “Okay.”

But when Wren turned back to him, a thick, bound book in one hand, he smiled again. He offered the book to Silas, who took it carefully, before Wren went back to carefully bandaging his split chest. “My art,” he explained.

Oh.

“There are a lot of mediums for art,” Wren told him. “Some people use words. Songs. Charcoal, clay. I’ve always preferred paint and pencil.”

Silas opened the book at random. The pages were thick and white and they were covered in the most unbelievable art Silas had ever seen.

Wren was so talented.

He’d drawn things Silas recognized from around prison, things from before that Silas didn’t remember or that he had never seen. He’d drawn people Silas had never met. He’d drawn the rest of their unit. He’d drawn Silas.

Silas didn’t recognize his portrait at first. There are no mirrors in the unit, nothing really reflective at all, and Silas couldn’t quite remember what he’d looked like before this place, anyway, before everything that had been done to him. But there was an angle to the portrait’s smile, crooked, because of a stenciled scar at the corner of its mouth. Its head was kind of tilted away, angular jaw and crooked smile. Its hair was Silas’ hair, but pulled only half up at the crown of his head, the rest loose around his back and his shoulders.

Silas didn’t wear his hair like that very often; only when June could be arsed to do it for him.

“Me?” He asks, holding the drawing up for Wren to see.

Wren looked up, and looked away just as quickly. Not so quickly that Silas couldn’t see him flush, pink, across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “Yes,” he said, and his smile was sheepish. “That’s you.”

Silas studied the drawing carefully. The more he looked, the stronger he could taste his own heartbeat. “Why?”

“Why did I draw you?” Wren asked. He nodded. Wren didn’t look at him when he said, “I thought you looked beautiful.”

Oh. Well.

Silas didn’t know what to do with that, but it made his chest hurt, well beneath where Wren was patching him up. He flipped through more pages, looked at more of Wren’s art, found more drawings of himself.

One of them was drawn from behind. Silas, his hair in that half knot, big and broad shouldered. He knew it was him because he’d been drawn in the deadly uniform they dress him in for field tests. He looked lethal; he looked like something from a nightmare.

He held the book up again for Wren to see. “Me?”

Wren looked up, looked away, exhaled a laugh. “Yes,” he said. “That’s you, too.”

Silas found that very interesting. He flipped another few pages until he found himself again, his profile, recognizable enough because of the scars. It was interesting to see them from the outside. It also made him dizzy. He held the book up again.

Wren breathed out another laugh. “Are you just looking for drawings of you?”

“Yes,” Silas said.

Wren laughed properly, which made Silas grin, but he wasn’t kidding, and he flipped a few more pages.

“I’ve never seen me,” he said.

Wren’s hand stilled on his chest. “What?”

“I’ve never seen me,” Silas repeated. “It’s weird.”

“You’ve never seen you,” Wren said, and his hand left Silas’ chest entirely. “I guess you haven’t, have you?”

Silas looked up, shaking his head.

Wren held his hand out, expectant, and Silas handed his book back, reluctant. Wren flipped through the pages deftly before he turned it back around, holding it out to Silas with a smile. “That’s you.”

Silas took the book from him carefully and studied the drawing closely. It was a head on portrait, and it had to be flattering, because it was kind of a handsome drawing, even with all the raised scars and patchwork disfigurement. He wasn’t smiling and he definitely looked scary, there was no doubt he was a nightmare, but he looked more like a man than he was expecting. Less like a monster.

He felt really weird about that, so he said, “you draw my hair like this a lot.” His hair was pulled into that half knot at the crown of his head.

He looked up at Wren, who looked a little like he’d been caught. He said, with a smile, “I like your hair like that.”

“Oh,” Silas said, and he looked down at the drawing again. He couldn’t look at it very much longer. He closed the book and handed it back to Wren, who placed it back on his desk. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Wren said softly. He layered a final bandage over Silas’ chest and they were done. He offered Silas a smile and his blood soaked t-shirt.

Silas took it as he stood. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Wren said, so earnest it had kind of taken him off guard. “If you need me, Silas, don’t be shy. Anytime. Even if my light isn’t on.”

Silas heaved his shoulders. And, as a matter of fact, immediately regretted it, pain rippling down the lines of his staples. “I won’t wake you up if you’re sleeping. Not if you don’t sleep very much.”

Wren laughed softly. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I do,” Silas said. “You’re very small.”

Wren laughed again. His small hand brushed his arm as Silas left his room. “Goodnight, Silas.”

Silas smiled, crooked. It felt weirder on his face now that he kind of knew what it looked like. “Goodnight, Wren.”

He closed the door behind him. All the blood had dried on the surface, and it looked like a crime scene.

A problem for the morning.

[deathdiedieblood]

DNI if you think Normal types are boring

DNI if you treat Pokémon like toys

DNI if you act like a baby

DNI if you're easily offended

DNI if you don't know what "no" means

DNI if you want everything to be "perfect"

DNI if you believe in ghosts

DNI if you like Steven Ultraspace

DNI if you piss me off

DNI if you hate DNIs

Everyone else can look at my blog, but you're on thin ice.

CURRENT FRIENDSHIP: 44

HIGHEST FRIENDSHIP: 44

CURRENT RIDDLES:

THE STUFFUL STUFF (LINK)

RAGING ROTOM (LINK)

THE P WORD (LINK)

SOLVED RIDDLES:

WHAT AM I? (LINK)

HER FAVORITE BERRY (LINK)

STUFFUL'S TASTES (LINK)

Hello! This is a blog by @pixelated-hub.

Ground rules: Muse is a young adult. Slightly suggestive stuff is allowed, but no outright NSFW. IC anon hate is allowed, but be aware that it can and will decrease the friendship meter. You have a blanket permission for your muse to have romantic interest in mine, but it may well not be reciprocated and definitely won't be while the friendship meter is still low.

CWs: Past child abuse (including physical and violations of consent/bodily autonomy, explicitly not including sexual). Past Pokémon abuse (including things along horror/loss of identity lines, with currently ongoing effects). General hostility and misanthropy. Likely some discussion of violence (anything descriptive will be tagged with #descriptions of violence).

Wait, what's up with the friendship meter?

The friendship meter measures this character's connections with others and general friendliness level. It will increase and decrease through interactions, but it cannot go below 0. Good things might happen if it gets high enough.

Okay, but who is this character anyway?

That's something you'll need to pry out yourself. Ask questions, and maybe you'll get some answers.