#i like both of these characters (for different reasons)

[dianagpeppermintnightmare]

I'm not gonna disagree with the validity of some of these points, but I still feel the need to make some of my own.

So, "shonen", of course, is merely a demographic. It isn't a genre. When people outside of Japan use "shonen", they're often just using it as shorthand for what's an actual genre: battle manga. Shonen encompasses a great deal of genres, from sports manga, romance manga, slice of life manga, and gag manga, and even those can blend together. It still amuses me a bit that smaller slice of life gag series like Nichijou or Azumanga Daioh are both shonen and nobody seems to notice. Even a yuri manga like Bloom Into You is shonen, and was published in the same magazine as Azumanga Daioh.

It should also be noted that the vast majority of battle shonen that takes off outside Japan are the ones published by Weekly Shonen Jump, which has a particular brand and image. When people harp about alleged clichés in battle shonen (regardless of whether these clichés are actually that prevalent or if they're just going solely off Dragon Ball and Naruto), it's usually the tropes frequently utilized in these particular mangas. Which, to be honest, reflects a very narrow view? It's like simplifying American comic books to just Marvel. I'd also argue that some of them don't get enough credit for their female casts (I'd point to Gintama and Black Clover as good examples), but overall...well, splitting mangas by gendered demographics naturally leads to the aforementioned issues with female representation.

Dandadan is an example of a shonen that exists outside of the Weekly Shonen Jump bubble. It's published on Jump+, which has a looser guideline for what fits the image. It could never have been published in Weekly Shonen Jump. And I think that's a big reason why people are touting it as being this big shakeup, because it's from a different publication (still by Shueisha, sure) with more room for experimentation. There's still only a limited amount of Jump+ series that have been big hits, which is partly down to it being relatively newer. It could be a good sign for the future if Jump+ keeps having hits with this level of good writing and representation.

But seriously, don't limit yourselves with the shonen manga you read. There's still a couple with genuinely good female characters, some even protagonists! I'm gonna list a few for people to check out:

1. Undead Unluck. Great romance, great action, genuinely insane plot twists, very well-characterized female cast who all get moments to develop, and Fuuko Izumo is genuinely one of the best shonen protagonists out there. 10/10 character development. There's definitely some iffy stuff early on, but hey, same with Dandadan. And if you like romance, Undead Unluck does it VERY well.

2. Akane-banashi. So imagine a sports manga, except it's not about sports, it's about rakugo. That's this series. Incredibly engaging, Akane is a fun MC, and then you delve into deeper themes about the power of art and storytelling and you start crying.

3. Magilumiere Co. LTD. More proof that locking anime adaptations of good manga to Hulu and Prime is bullshit. A Jump+ series about magical girls as an actual business for responding to monster attacks, the main protagonist is a newbie to the world of adulting and job hunting before becoming part of a small magical girl startup. The only manga I've read where "privatizing the magic industry" is an actual plot point. And yes, there is commentary on aspects of capitalism and how valuing profit over people is bad.

And those are just the ones I'm reading. That's without going into Kindergarten Wars or Shy, both series with their own cult followings and female MC's. Or hell, Frieren got super popular, and some people don't seem to realize it's published in Weekly Shonen Sunday.

So, in short...yes, Dandadan bucks a lot of clichés associated with the most popular battle shonen, but it's still speaking from a limited point of view. There IS more variety out there, you just have to look. Don't just focus on the stuff that gets the big social media reactions from the anime adaptations, focus on the smaller cult hits too.

Ways I can think of that “DanDaDan” differs from other shonen series:

* Female MC is as important as male MC

* Canon romance gets consistent development through the series. I think that’s part of the reason why the MC ships with the rivals (Aira, Jiji) aren’t as popular with the fandom for once. The main ship is actually getting good development, so the fanbase doesn’t have to make up headcanons to fill in the space.

* Flips the found family trope on its head by having the main group despise new people whenever they show up and they even actively try to kick them out. The new people only end up staying because they keep lingering around to the point that the main group just gives up and lets them stay.

* The rivals aren’t emo or angst-ridden. Aira is a delusional tryhard popular girl while Jiji is a himbo drama queen. I’d even go as far to say that the MCs are the ones who are emo and angst-ridden.

* Supporting cast is more than just important, they become integral to the story. I’d say that the further you read into DanDaDan, the more it becomes an ensemble cast where everyone is a protagonist in their own right.

* World-building is all over the place, but in a good way. Most other shonen are pretty consistent with what kind of world their characters live in. MHA is superhero-based, Naruto is ninjas and magic, Bleach is spirits, and so on. DanDaDan feels like the author just throws whatever cool shit they can think of into the story. That’s actually the reason why I wrote in a different post that DanDaDan reminds me more of Marvel/DC than any other shonen series, it manages to capture the catch-all insanity of those comics.

* Doesn’t rely on hidden power-ups. The main characters either have to outsmart the villains or they have to train to get better with the powers they already have.

* The pervert comic relief guy is actually endearing for once. Not because of his pervert tendencies, but because he’s so oblivious to how socially inept he is that it’s kind of funny. This is gonna sound strange, but he sorta reminds me of Thor in Thor Ragnarok. Full of himself and oblivious to how dumb he can be. He’s Thor without the good looks lol.

* Flips the “nerdy outcast loser somehow gets a harem” trope. Instead of making Okarun cooler than how he actually is, the story emphasizes that the women who fall for Okarun are as weird as him. Momo is a weird outcast, Aira has main character syndrome, Vamola doesn’t understand how to human because she’s literally not one, Rin thought Okarun was a vampire (and wanted him to be).

* Flips the “elderly figure in charge of the teenagers” trope. I don’t really get motherly figure vibes from Seiko Ayase, I get more “cool wine aunt who is stuck with her niece” vibes. In fact, there was the arc where Okarun showed up to her in spirit mode to get her help with fighting off the alien invasion and Seiko’s response was, “Well, I’m not in the area and I have other shit to do, so you kids figure it out.”

* The series takes the piss out of the trope of mystical/magical items that the group acquired to get their powers. I mean…the main mystical MacGuffin in the series are Okarun’s balls.

* Okarun was about to go into an “I’m weak / I wish I was stronger / I want to get stronger for my friends” breakdown, but Turbo Granny told him to shut up and keep fighting.

* Not afraid to put the “cool girl” in as many funny situations as possible. Off the top of my head, the series built up Momo as this cool, tough girl who doesn’t take shit from anyone…then several chapters later, Okarun found out she got a job at a maid cafe.

(Feel free to add to the list!)

[sleepdeprivedandoverthinking]

Saying this as both an Outlast and Mouthwashing lover.

A lot of people in the Mouthwashing fandom would not be able to handle it in the Outlast fandom, especially when it comes to liking characters.

Especially on tik tok, it seems the Mouthwashing fandom is so strict with what it does and doesn't allow, like I hate Jimmy as much as the next guy, but it's not a crime for someone to draw him or include him in the cast. He's an IMPORTANT part of the plot. The tik tok fandom also seems to say Mouthwashing shouldn't have a fandom point blank period because it's "too deeply thought out" and fanfics, ocs, and such shouldn't exist because it "ruins the story".

Meanwhile Outlast is a horrific, well thought out game with several installments, and the fandom is (mostly) chill. Like it's abundantly clear these guys aren't good people or even conventionally attractive to most people, yet they're adored and people make silly jokes of them all the time and make tons of fanfics, aus, and ocs. Hell, 90% if the fandom's favorite or second favorite dude is a guy who cuts people's dicks off and then kills them.

This isn't meant to say you can't have boundaries or things you like/dislike, but much of the Mouthwashing fandom overpolicies the fandom, and some even say Mouthwashing shouldn't have a fandom period because it's "too serious and dark" while Outlast is serious and dark yet no one cares what you do in the fandom.

Both are horror games with great stories.

Both produce gorgeous fanart and deep theories, and it's clear love is put into several art pieces and theories.

Difference is, a majority of one fandom can't handle fandom ACTING like fandom.

-------------------------------------------------

Mini edit: Honestly this could be about fandom as a whole nowadays but given they're both horror games, albeit different types, with fan bases, that I love, I decided to compare them. Lets try to be civil please in discussion.

Edit 2: Okay, this got a lot more attention than I thought. TO AGAIN CLARIFY, its okay to have boundaries and personal reasons you may not like a character but like another. Same goes for certain aspects of fandom culture. But there's also the aspect of "block/scroll and move on". Frankly, my examples from Mouthwashing were things I have personally seen that you may not have, hence why some of you may be confused.

[bloodhoundsandplagues]

Home.

Jinx x reader

Summary: set between Act 1 and 2 of Arcane season 2. You find a moment of calm at home with Jinx, Isha, and a stray dog you've found along the way.

Warnings: spoilers for Arcane season 1, tooth-rotting fluff (I hope) not proofread

No use of Y/N, no pronouns used for reader, no gender specific terms etc...

A/N: WHOO first piece of writing by Lev on this blog yippee!! I sincerely hope you all enjoy this lolsies. Please interact! I'm taking requests teehee

You don’t remember the last time you felt this at peace. 

It is like a buzzing, filling your chest, lifting you practically off your feet as you make my way home. 

This feeling is manufactured- it is not coming from the outside. It comes from deep inside your chest, thrumming happily, snuggled between your lungs, right below your heart. There are reasons for this warmth, this light- well, one reason. Her name is Jinx. 

When you say you’re going home, all you really think of is her. Yes, her lair is home- it is warm, and cozy, and as safe as a hot air balloon suspended above what seems to be an infinite void can be- but without her, it would be nothing. 

She is the light that fills your chest, with her bright smile and ridiculously long blue hair and perfect pink eyes. She is the weight on your lungs, making it hard to breathe when you think of her. She’s all the cheesy, corny shit the romance authors you hated so as a child wrote. Only instead of being a character, only words on a worn out page, she’s real, and she’s only a two minute walk away from where you are now. 

You have a satchel slung over your shoulder, the Dog (you don’t know when it became your dog; it just appeared by your side one day, and hasn’t left since) trotting along beside you. Its fur is matted. You reach down and scratch between its ears as you near the Last Drop, smiling to yourself. Never had you thought you would be living this life- on your way home, supplies for Jinx in your bag, the Dog padding alongside you- it is so domestic, so soft, so clean (despite the grime of the Fissures, the thickness of the air, the moaning of the people crowding the sides of the streets). This life is so unlike anything you remember your parents having. 

You take the quick route into Jinx’s lair, the dog following happily, its pink tongue lolling. You should name it, you think as you step onto one of the propellers. 

After Silco had died, you had expected the place to fall into disrepair; you had thought the lights would stop twinkling, and the tinny music would stop playing, and the workstations would gather dust until finally the propellers snapped and fell, taking Jinx with them. And yes, that had started to happen. But then, Jinx had met the kid. Isha, you had called her. All of you, huddled around an old, matted baby names book one of you had found at a scrapyard, pointing out names to each other. Isha, the kid had pointed at, a huge, toothy grin splitting her round face. One who protects. You had closed the book then, knowing that it was perfect. Jinx had smiled at you over the newly baptized Isha’s head, and you had smiled right back, squeezing her hand in yours. You had tossed the book down, into the void below. 

Now, your home was transformed. Jinx’s creepy dolls were gone, replaced with different colourful toys and gadgets picked out or made by Isha. The walls were covered in crayon drawings of all kinds of things- dragons, flowers, the three of you in fields of green and blue and pink and orange. There was a tent set up in the corner, full of Isha’s belongings. It was where you all slept, huddled together like a litter of cats. You love the place. 

At first, you think they’re both out. You call out, and when no answer comes, you venture further in, dropping your bag by Jinx’s workbench. The Dog sniffs around, its tail wagging as it comes closer and closer to an odd lump covered in blankets. You grin to yourself, putting a hand on your hip, tapping your chin with the knuckles of the other. “Hmm,” you muse to yourself, purposefully ignoring the giggle coming from the blankets, “wowie, I wonder where Isha and Jinx could possibly be.” You go in the opposite direction, checking under the workbench, scratching your head. The Dog watches, its eyes saying Can’t you see them? They’re right here! You wink at it, and it sits, tilting its head. “They must have gone out,” you declare loudly as the giggles intensify. “Guess I have this whole place to myself! Finally, I am rid of those stinky-“ 

As you are talking, you approach the mess of blankets. Before you are able to finish that last sentence, a small orange and blue bundle barrels into your legs, almost knocking you flat on your back. Isha launches herself into your arms, grinning her toothy grin as you spin her around. 

“Oh my goodness!” You cry, “where were you hiding? You really are a master sleuth!” Jinx, still have tangled in the blankets, barks a laugh. You hug Isha to your chest and raise an eyebrow at her, mouthing you couldn’t hide anywhere better? She flips you off, but she is smiling. 

She stands and joins you and Isha, her hand finding the small of your back, the other going to Isha’s shoulder. 

“I have a surprise,” you whisper to the child, “but don’t tell Jinx, mmkay?” 

Jinx tilts her head, still smiling. Isha nods solemnly. 

“I found waffles,” you breathe, looking at Jinx out of the corner of your eye. Isha gasps and puts her hands over her mouth. Through trial and error, you and Jinx had discovered that the little one seemed to live for waffles. You now went out of your way, as the only one with your face not plastered all over the place, to find the sweet treat. 

“Gee, I wonder what the surprise could be,” Jinx says, playing along. She follows as you carry Isha to your bag. You set the kid down, the Dog nuzzling into her hand. You rifle around for a moment, and finally pull out the waffles. Jinx lets out a loud gasp, and Isha turns to her, delighted, pleased with herself that she was able to keep this secret. 

“Waffles?” Jinx cries. Isha claps her hands together, startling the Dog. 

You all sit together in the tent, sharing the waffles off the same plate. Isha (who thinks she’s being slick) keeps sneaking pieces of her food to the Dog, who delightedly licks it off her hand. She giggles every time, earning an affectionate look from you and Jinx. 

Once you have finished the waffles, you push the plate away and lie down. Soon, Isha curls into a ball in the space between your knees and your stomach, settling her head on your legs. Jinx dims the lights, then joins you; the two of you become a protective cocoon around the now snoring Isha. The Dog squishes itself in between you and Isha, resting its head on the kid’s side and looking up at you adoringly. You brush a strand of hair from Jinx’s face and smile. She smiles right back. She’s been smiling so much recently. 

“This is perfect,” you whisper to her once you’re sure Isha is fast asleep. 

She smiles, but doesn’t answer. One of her hands rests on your waist, and her fingers trace soothing patterns there. 

“I thought,” she begins, then stops, frowning. Her other fingers tighten around your hand. “I thought that, with Silco gone, there was nothing left for me.” Her words hurt you; it stings somewhere deep in your stomach to hear that she is in any kind of pain. 

“But then… I met the kid,” she continues. “And then I found you.” 

You feel an overwhelming wave of affection for the girl lying in front of you then. A girl you had once known what feels like a very long time ago; a girl who had once had blue eyes and the same wide, toothy smile as Isha. A girl who had been part of your distant past, who was now back in your life. She was right; despite having known each other your whole lives, you have really only just found each other. 

“And- and I realised that maybe, maybe Silco wasn’t all I needed. Maybe…” she trails off, but she has said enough. You shuffle forwards (careful not to disturb Isha or the dog) so that your forehead is only centimetres from hers. She meets you halfway, pressing her forehead to yours; your noses brush, and you smile, reaching up to cup her face. 

“I love you, Blue,” you whisper. A name, who she has always been to you. Blue. Blue like the sky, like the sea. Blue like the warm, the fluttering bird nestled in your chest. 

For a moment, you think she is going to cry. But she only pulls you closer, and whispers the same words back to you, your name uttered like a prayer. 

You close your eyes and smile, and her breathing slows. 

As you fall asleep, you think: 

You have never felt this at peace before. 

[endearng]

Lifeline

Pairing: earlyseasons!Spencer Reid x addict!reader Summary: How does one move on after seeing the lost versions of themselves on someone else entirely? WC: 8.8k Warnings: canon criminal minds violence (m-rder); pr-stitution and mentions of sex; s.h-rm; illegal substances consumption; mentions of dr-g abuse; panic attacks; graphic suicide attempt. Minors, please, do not interact. A/N: This is heavily based on "The A Team", "Gale Song" and "evermore" and also Skins UK's character Effy Stonem. Besides that, I was also somewhat inspired by CM'S 2x11 and I messed up the timeline. Feedbacks are always welcome! | masterlist

"Her name's Amelia Holden. She was found in a dumpster in an alley of a neighborhood in central Richmond. Along with her, we have four women murdered within two weeks." JJ informed as she briefed the team about the case they were invited to work on.

Their reactions always were different. Aaron Hotcher remained unreadable, often asking about the local police's findings. Derek Morgan usually worried about victimology and the modus operandi. Emily Prentiss used to brainstorm details on the pictures. David Rossi was the one to make comparisons with previous cases. Spencer Reid busied himself with data, statistics and whatnot about the locality.

Speaking of which, "This is an high-end neighborhood, not to mention the obvious fact that it happened in the capital of Virginia. Based on that, one could think that the citizens will cooperate to solve this as fast as we can."

Derek sighed, "I wish I could tell you're wrong in different circumstances, pretty boy." Spencer frowned, eager to ask, but Derek was faster, "Truth is, these girls were all prostitutes. The rich won't give a damn if they go missing, which is pure hypocrisy based on the fact that they go where the money is, which is, well... in their neighborhood." JJ pursed her lips, taking another look at the evidence.

There were pictures of four girls, placed so carelessly in the dumpster that it was possible to deduce that they had been all thrown in there already dead. Not a single chance of survival. Not a single chance someone could save them. JJ felt a lump in her throat and looked away from the photos.

“It’s most likely a male.” Rossi said.

Emily nodded, asking, "So what do you guys think? Maybe this guy is murdering them because he thinks he's doing society a favor?"

"It could be, yes. When prostitutes are targeted, the main reason is misogyny, but we can also associate these crimes to other forms of hatred. It can also be related to power." Spencer answered. "Are there any signs of sexual abuse?"

"No, only physical violence." JJ answered. "The coroner's reports indicate that they were drugged, some of them with multiple substances. There are red bruises as well as knife scars and stabs basically all over their bodies."

"Multiple substances in their body can be a sign of addiction, but also that our unsub drugged them to make them easier to drag around." Spencer continued. “Does the lab have the substances yet?”

“Garcia is working on it.” JJ replied.

"And the amount of cuts and bruises on their bodies mean that our unsub is angry. Like, uncontrollably angry." Emily finished.

"Well, he's killed both black and white women, so we know it's not race motivated." Rossi completed Emily's train of thought. "He's been getting more and more desperate, given the depths of the cuts as he progresses, look." He said, pointing to the picture of the last victim.

Emily gulped, shaking her head lightly.

“I’d say that, given the color of the bruises, they were beaten right before they died. This unsub doesn’t keep them for much longer. Most likely, he tortures them and kills them, getting rid of them in the dumpsters. The place of disposal is rather telling.” Spencer chimed in.

"Get Garcia to look up sex offenders in that area." Hotch said. "Try to find them all, no matter what their outcome was. Close, dropped... It doesn't matter. If the theory about social cleansing is right, maybe the offender has a past history with it. On the other hand, if he's rich, he probably got away with it."

"I'll call her right now." Morgan said with a nod.

"Great. tell the Richmond PD we're getting there in a couple of hours." Hotch announces. "Wheels up in thirty."

—

Arriving in the precinct, Hotchner assigned the tasks. Rossi and Morgan would go to the latest crime scene as Reid and Prentiss looked around for possible witnesses. JJ would stay at the precinct in case something came up.

"Check this out," called Rossi. "The... instrument was big enough to go through her body, from her stomach to her back." He said.

Morgan sighed. "Intensified violence means that he's not planning on stopping any time soon."

A couple feet away, agents Reid and Prentiss talked to one of the prostitutes. "We're always here, especially at night. Some girls are here during the daytime, but you know, it's slower. Nobody wants to be seen with us." She had bloodshot eyes, a defeated expression on her features. 

"Who are your usual... customers?" Reid asked, a little embarrassed to be talking to a woman who had that much expertise in a field he lacked any. A flash of worry and guilt crossed the young woman's face and she looked around as if making sure no one was listening to them.

"Don't worry, everything's classified. You're not gonna get in trouble if you talk to us. We're just trying to help." Emily said, trying to ease her nerves.

"Okay... I... The guys who work in the bank are often here. Cops, too. But they are very sneaky." She whispered, fright almost palpable in her voice.

"Did any of them ever pose a threat? Maybe too violent? Persistent?" The young doctor asked, again. She blinked at him, willing the tears not to fall.

"Most of them are just bored husbands or divorcees who want to get laid without the worry of being chased after." Looking away, she went on, "we’re the ones who can't afford to say no to the things they're into. We get the best of their roughness, so it's hard to tell." Emily gave her a sympathetic look.

From afar, you watched their interactions. The girl, whose name was Renée, looked very nervous and guilty. You approached them, looking a lot more skeptical than the emotional mess they were asking questions to. You took a look at them, took in the way they were dressed, besides the pens and notepads in their hands. The man took a second look at you, but you shrug it off, used to be perceived and not always in the best manner, given your appearance these days. “You ok, Renée?" You checked on her softly and she nodded in agreement. "Excuse me. Are you with the police?" You ask in a serene voice.

"Hi. I'm Agent Emily Prentiss and this is Doctor Spencer Reid. We're with the FBI," the dark haired woman answered, both of them showing you their badges. You nodded. "We're investigating the murder of women in this location."

Spencer looked at you as you inspected their faces. You wore casual clothes, nothing like the outfit Renée had on, and, for a moment, he thought what were you doing in there and how and why did you know her. It didn't make sense, albeit briefly, to him, why would someone so mundane be in that place, at that time. After a couple of seconds of watching you curiously, the pieces started falling into places, though. The crestfallen expression, dry skin and chapped lips... You were going through something.

He had a feeling he wasn't sure if he wanted to know what.

That is, until you actually started talking.

"Hello," you introduce yourself. "Oh, I see. I didn’t think the locals would be interested in solving these anyway."

“Why do you say that?” Emily asked, curious to know your answer.

“I suppose they don’t like the fact that some of us are so daring to the point of going to their station to report the abuse we all go through weekly,” you snorted, voice thick with disdain, although every person in the conversation was aware that it was not aimed at either of them, “like, why are we complaining? We want to do this, we are willingly here.” Emily sighed.

“I’m sorry.” Was all that Spencer could muster up.

“Anyway…” you sniffled. A telling sign. “How can we help?”

"Have you seen anyone violent around here? A-a new face, perhaps?" He asked, turning his body to face you properly. Emily looked at him, puzzled.

"Doctor, with all due respect, they are men. And they are paying. It’s basically a green light for all sorts of abuse, I'm sure Renée told you that much." You answered, in a much more certain tone than your friend had used.

"Did either of you recall anything about that night? The most basic detail can help us.” Emily inquired.

"Yeah." Renée answered with a quiver of her lip, clinging to you, trying to find some solace. You squeezed her shoulder lightly, glancing at her.

Sensing she might not be able to talk, you went on, "I can't think of anything out of the ordinary that night. I didn't notice they were missing until the next day. We try our best to watch out for each other. As I said, some men can be real creeps, but once you start your own thing, it's… hard” you exhaled, “for some of us to keep track of what's going on around us. Unless we run into each other again, we won't know for sure if we're actually safe." You explained, looking down at your feet. After a couple deep breaths that felt like you were inhaling the oxygen of the entire Earth, you looked back at them. Still avoiding eye contact, glancing between their foreheads, something you'd learned to do in order to escape the person you were with when you needed to.

Spencer watched you the entire time.

“I see,” the woman said, taking some notes. “Would you know if they share anything in common?”

“They usually stay in the park at the end of the street,” Renée answered, “They go there once things quiet down, and guys pick them up in their cars. The night they were… um, taken, was pretty intense. If they got kidnapped, we couldn’t even give you a license plate. We weren’t around.” Her voice dripped with pure guilt. You ran your thumb on her shoulder.

At the moment, though, there's something else entirely on your mind. Eventually, after a beat of silence, you decide to speak your mind, to expose your insecurities. Not worried about how you may look. Hell, it's been a long time since you stopped. "I'm sorry to press or if I sound too demanding. I know sometimes things get out of your control, but, uh, you're gonna catch this guy, right? I mean... we have to be here. I hope you don't think we have another choice."

As you talked, your soft voice and pleading eyes drew Spencer's attention to you with even more intensity. Your voice and mannerisms weren't something he was expecting. He berated himself after realizing how he was in the wrong by assuming you’d portray yourself in a certain way because of the area you worked in. Your voice was low, but firm. Your words were understanding, but demanding. Your posture was almost defensive, but the desperation of your tone told them how terrified you were. He couldn't help but notice the fact that you were sniffing quite often. His profiling skills were faster than himself and he made the conclusion that, given the line of your work, he presumed it most likely wasn’t only a cold.

Spencer knew, then, that you shared something in common with him. Something bad.

Again, not something he wanted to know about.

Emily opened her mouth to speak, but Spencer beat her to it, "We're gonna do the best we can, Miss."

"Glad to hear that," you muttered, unable to look him in the eye.

“Thanks for your time.” Emily said, a gentle smile on her face.

Spencer watched from the corner of his eye as you and René left, walking arm in arm. In a safe distance from everyone else, he saw as your friend broke down in your arms and as you comforted her, even if you had your own tears streaming down your face. He had reached Morgan and Rossi when you two walked away. Emily studied his face attentively, wondering why he was so fast to assure a possible victim like that, because, one, it was unlike him to want to partake in such sensitive conversations with the ones involved in the process. Two, what kind of agent, doctor, official, profiler, whatever, makes promises before such an intricate process such as their work?

“So, did you get anything?” Rossi asked him, breaking him out of his reverie.

“Oh, yeah. Those two women said that the victims usually waited for clients in the park right down the street.” Emily said.

“I think we should go take a look.” Spencer suggested.

Searching the park, which was full of passersby and families just spending some time outside their houses, Spencer couldn’t shake the feeling that this case had already hit him too close to home. The violence was something that still messed with his head and he thought he could never recover from the flashes of memories behind his eyelids once he closed his eyes to sleep every night. Still, it wasn’t that that baffled him the most, but you. He knew what it was like to struggle with addiction. He had been very harsh on Emily not long ago, during a withdrawal, so he knew aggressiveness and mood swings were to be expected. You and your mannerisms, however, were totally out of the addiction bingo. The way you looked, so broken, so sick, in every sense of the word, didn’t stop you from having a polite conversation with them, even if the topic was very much concerning to you. Plus, the caring nature you seemed to have and the way you made sure to be supportive towards you and the others who, just like you, went through hell every day for the most unspeakable reasons stood out to him.

It was intriguing, to say the least.

“Hey, I got something.” Morgan said as he approached the team with a piece of paper. “It says: They will not do it again.”

“Who’s they?” Rossi inquired.

“Maybe the prostitutes. The only way of stopping them is killing them.” Spencer answered, albeit his thoughts were still far, far away from the scene.

“But stop them from doing what? Causing a divorce? Being a homewrecker? Polluting the city?” She wondered out loud.

“These are all valid possibilities,” Rossi nodded, “we now know from your interview that rich men are regulars here. Maybe one of them was unfaithful and snapped after getting his divorce. Now, he might be taking it out on these girls.” He finished.

“We still need to figure that out.” Morgan sighed. “Hey, babygirl, we need a favor,” Derek said once Penelope picked up his call. “Can you check every upper-class man in Richmond that has recently gotten a divorce?”

“Sure thing, handsome,” she quipped, “it might take some time, though. And I know you’ll need to narrow it down.”

“We’ll keep you posted. Thanks, babygirl.”

“Always happy to help, hot stuff.”

—

Back at the station, the BAU team was surrounded by cops, sharing their findings so far. Spencer was the one to make sure that the cops would be on duty and laser focused on the areas he determined through the geographical profile. Those areas were most likely the ones the next attack would take place. He emphasized, very intently, that they needed cops especially in darker alleys and that they were looking for a male in his thirties. 

Spencer couldn't shake the thought of dread that crept up on him, making him almost paralyzed. The fear of getting to the unsub, of letting him get away, of being too late, of being too early, of not being enough. Every scenario was the worst, his mind working overtime to make sure he had at least an ounce of optimism for months on end, ever since he finally managed to stay clean off Dilaudid. The cops moved around, divided between groups to start surveillance. And the dread kept building inside of him, like a crescendo of horror.

Sitting next to Emily, he decided to break the morbid silence hanging over them. “I'm sorry I lashed out on you, Emily. I don't think I ever apologized.”

Totally not expecting his words, she looked at him, wide-eyed. It took her a second to gather her thoughts and form an answer. “It's no problem. I know what you were going through.”

“Still. It doesn't change much. It's not a good enough excuse for me to treat others poorly.” He couldn't look at her, fiddling with his fingers instead.

“Reid, why do I sense you're talking about something else?”

He sighed. He was so, so tired of keeping it in, of bottling everything in, of swallowing his words so as to not make anyone uncomfortable. “I am.” He confessed, after a moment of silence.

Maybe staying quiet was less morbid than the conversation they were about to have, he mused.

“What happened?”

“That girl, today. The second one. I could tell she's having issues. The same as me, I mean. And she was so nice the entire time. She was trying to make her friend feel better.”

“Spencer…” Emily breathed out, a somewhat reprimanding look on her face. Not that he could see it. “This comparison is unfair on so many levels. First, you've seen her for what? Five minutes? We don't know what she's been through, if she has a family… There are so many possibilities. Maybe she was having a good day—”

“How does one have a good day knowing that they have very high chances of being killed?” He interrupted. A sigh left Emily's lips.

“I don't know. But you do understand why that comparison you made was unfitting, to say the least, right?” 

Right on cue, to make the subject die, he muttered a “I guess.” so she could drop the subject. From afar, Spencer watched as you left a building with a glare on your face. He wondered what you were feeling and if your expression always told you off.

“There she is. Not looking happy.” Emily said, simply, not relating it to the use of any substances out of respect. She could only imagine what he was going through, being forced to watch someone she loves slowly lose themselves over something so trivial, but at the same time, dangerous as a substance.

Spencer pressed his lips on a thin line.

—

You laid there, on a big, albeit uncomfortable bed, simply enduring the sloppy, much erratic thrusts of a man who was old enough to be your dad. Grandfather, if you pushed it a little bit. Internally, you chuckled bitterly at the thought, because those two decided to want distance from you a long, long time ago. You had turned out into a person who many people didn't want to be associated with, so you kind of understood their attitude towards you. Still, it didn't make navigating through this world all by yourself any easier. In fact, it stung harder than you cared to admit, but, for the most part of the time, you were as high as a kite — your coping mechanism to shield your brain for reminiscing about the disgusting, vile man that you had to... satisfy to avoid starving to death. It was a never ending cycle. A torturous one that you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy.

Speaking of which, the man above you came on your stomach, meaning that the appointment had finally reached its end. You couldn't quite pinpoint if he was the first, second or even third man you've encountered that night, but you didn't care. The effects of the dope made sure you wouldn't remember them the next day. Actually, it had been a while since you had been exposed to daylight. Your routine consisted of being around all night with those men, getting home, scrubbing your skin hard enough to draw blood as you showered, trying to get rid of the feeling of the greedy, disgusting hands all over your body, sleeping all day, getting high and repeating it all over again. Some nights you didn’t have too much strength to do it all. Some days felt like they mashed together with how long it felt with the same ache, the same hole in your chest. Your life was miserable, and you often caught yourself thinking if it was worth it. And, if it was, what for?

"You're so good, princess, kept quiet all the time and shit." The man said as he pulled his shirt back on, covering his thin frame. You cleaned yourself the best you could with a washcloth. "You’re fairly pretty… If you weren't a junkie, I might take you home with me... keep you all to myself, you know?" He inquired, a smirk dancing around his features.

You didn't dignify him with an answer. Instead, you glared at him, even though he couldn't see your face, grabbed the money that had been placed in the nightstand and made a beeline to the door.

You stared at that money with burning rage. If you didn't need it so much, you would definitely tear it apart given the hatred coursing through your veins. You gulped, and it tasted bitter, and it was hard to swallow the lump in your throat. You sold yourself for something as ordinary as money, and it made you so angry because your family was swimming in it. Sometimes, you wished they would drown in it, just to see if your anger simmered down.

You weren't always like this, so... so rotten. Coming from a rich, traditional family, people expected highly from you all the time, thus, you had been an excellent, straight A's student, being the valedictorian of your class at a traditional Catholic school without your teachers needing to double check any records. You also volunteered halftime in an institute that helped old people, which made your parents immensely proud. At that time, you had gotten yourself a boyfriend, your high-school sweetheart, getting engaged to him as you started your third year at a great university, majoring in Psychology. It all went down, though, when you started struggling with addiction.

It started with lighter substances, like alcohol. You drank until you started mumbling out the words you meant to say, going even as far as embarrassing yourself and your fiancée multiple times at social gatherings that involved booze. You loved the thrill, the buzz, the lightness it made you feel, instead of the pile of anxiety that built and seeped into your very bones after being so pushed to the edge your entire life. You thought you liked your life, but after being in touch with people who had a much (what you considered to be) easier life than yours, you started to let loose. Since you didn't have any family around you to put you on a tight leash, you lost control altogether.

When your family realized what had happened, too engrossed in their own businesses and investments and money and anything that was more important than their offsprings, it was too late. You couldn't go a day without drinking, dropping out of schoolcALT without thinking about the consequences for your future. Ironically, you knew and understood pretty well the things you were going through, but battling an addiction requires a lot of strength that you didn't know where to find, since you were all alone. After all, you had pushed all your friends away, your fiancée had walked out on you and your family basically disowned you.

Left to your own devices and unable to keep a steady, serious job, despite your background, you found yourself in the streets.

Sigh.

Opening the door to your small apartment, you got rid of the clothes that began to reek of alcohol, throwing them mindlessly on the floor. You rushed to the bathroom and stared at your own reflection for a moment, noticing the dark spots under your eyes, your dry lips and the lifeless gaze that your eyes had turned into. You had lost quite a bit of weight, now looking like a dead skull, wandering around, doomed to search for any reason to continue living in a world that had been pitch black.

In the bathtub, you scratched your skin aggressively, not being able to avoid the feeling of the remnants of several unknown men, which sensation brought up the comparison that you felt similar to a person who suffers with phantom limb pain: you couldn't see their hands, you couldn't come up with anyone's face, but you couldn't avoid sensing their touch on your skin. But, unlike the syndrome, you didn't feel pain, feeling rather like needles were seeping into your skin, deep enough to reach your bones. But, like the syndrome, it felt like it was yours. Their touch, although invisible, was forever inked into your skin.

You couldn't help the tears running down your face, mixing themselves with the water that poured from the shower. Tears of both pain, disgust, desperation, regret. It was a whirlwind of emotions that you couldn't deal with. As you left the bathroom, you downed half a bottle of vodka, hoping that it would lull you to sleep.

Maybe for good this time.

—

A loud banging on your door roused you from sleep. Your mouth felt dry and your skin felt even worse — it felt like it had been days since you last drank water. Maybe it was true. The loud noise made your head throb in pain. Curled in bed, you tried to muffle the sounds by covering your ears with your hands, but it was just as annoying. The person on the other side of the door seemed hell-bent on seeing you, but you couldn't come up with anyone other than your landlord, because your rent was supposed to be paid yesterday.

Getting up from your bed with a groan of annoyance and pain, you threw on a flannel you found on the floor. Opening the door, you were surprised to see your older brother.

"Y-you?" You asked, baffled. Embarrassed by your own appearance.

"It's me." He said, the usual serious edge to his voice. He said your name, hesitantly. "Can I come in?"

You didn't know what he wanted. The fact that you had been left alone for so long made your heart burn with anger and you wanted to slam the door in his face. You considered it for a moment, but it wouldn't take a genius to know that you needed someone with you, even if for just a couple of minutes, even if it was out of pity. You didn't mind. You relied on the kindness of people to get by, so what harm would it be in accepting a little more pity? More self loathing than you already had and constantly feeded inside you? You judged it impossible.

With a curt nod, you gave him space to enter your apartment. The place was a mess, clothes scattered around, curtains drawn closed, the darkness in the room not only caused by the absence of sunlight. Something somber stopped light from entering. Your brother looked around with an unreadable expression and saw the countless bottles everywhere, from the floor to the couch, not to mention the many white remains on the surfaces like the small coffee table. He blinked away tears, desolate to see you in that position. Desperate to find words. Desperate to find you again in that vessel of a human you had become.

Clearing his throat, “I… heard what's happening. I was worried so I came all the way here to check on you.”

You bit back a bitter laughter. How could someone be this cruel? Abandon you and then treat you like you mattered? It made you almost want to throw up. “I'm alive. Happy?” You couldn't help the snarky remark.

“Come on, you know I'm not like them.” He defended, not able to look you in the eye.

You took a deep, shaky breath, trying to keep your emotions at bay. “If you weren't, you wouldn't have left me, too.”

“Come on, I was going through my own shit, I didn't realize what you were going through until it was too late.”

“Too late? Too late? I spent all my days wishing any of you would pick up the damn phone so that someone could come and get me before I was dead. But you're all the same. So self absorbed, so selfish, so… individualistic.” Your words were daggers, but you couldn't stop yourself from being mean, from trying to push away the only person who seemingly had an interest in helping you. Too bad you felt it was a little too late.

“Don't say that.”

At this point, the verbal vomiting was unstoppable. You sure looked like a maniac, rambling and jumping inconsistently from one topic to another, aiming to hurt him as much as they have hurt you, too. You knew what you were doing, but it felt for a moment that something else was forcing such cruelness out of your mouth. “The final blow was grandma dying, right? So you could finally pretend I don't exist. Keep doing that.”

“Let me help you.” He pleaded, coming close to you.

“I don't need your help.”

“If you don't accept it now, you're gonna spend more time wishing you had.” He said, holding your hands with his own.

“How are you going to help me? By sending me money so that I spend it all on drugs? On booze? Hah, nice one, really.”

“I wouldn't help you kill yourself.” He almost shouted, rage and sadness fighting over which would be the dominant feeling in his eyes.

“Then how? I basically just told you I'm helpless. I'm a ghost. I stopped existing a long time ago.” A sob broke through you, echoing in the walls of your dark apartment. You shut your eyes. “I don't know who I am anymore.”

Silence.

He's probably thinking everything through. Trying to find a way to let me down gently, you thought. “Let me take you somewhere safe. We'll see how it goes.”

You didn't expect that much. Despite wanting to say yes, your mouth was seemingly disconnected from your brain, so your words took a whole different turn. Instead of accepting his help, you simply stated, “I don't think I would stand to let you down again. I'm sorry.” He looks at you, bewildered, but, to you, not strong enough to put up a fight. “Can you please leave? I'm waiting for a friend.”

Defeated, he walks out the door. 

You don't notice the paper with his number left on the kitchen counter. When Renée shows up, dressed in a skin-tight red dress, she sees and runs her finger on the note as if it could save her from every single risk her life could show her. 

—

"We found another body."

Amidst the research and data analysis required to provide the profile, Spencer Reid got easily lost on his obligations and far too focused on his duties in order to help people as fast as he could, which was why he was seemingly terrified of one of the local officer's voice. 

At the crime scene, the found body was once Renée Woods. Spencer watched from afar as the coroner  examined their body and as Derek and Emily searched frantically for anything they could do to help, whether it was examining the crime scene or simply talking to the assigned legists. Spencer, unlike them, stood still. Muscles unable to make any movements besides clenching his hands in fists so tight that his somewhat long nails almost cut through the sensitive skin.

How would you take the news?

What if that was you?

The thought went as quickly as it came, because, from afar, he watched as you showed up, looking skeptical, but soon becoming hysterical once you recognized her, even from a certain distance. You could tell it was her by the clothes she was wearing. You cried hysterically, screaming as if someone had torn apart your heart with their bare hands, sobbing as if you couldn't breathe unless Renée was walking the Earth. A cop touching you, instead of soothing your turmoil, only served as a fuel to the fire raging through you. Sadness, anger, desperation, panic, everything flooding your chest, ragging your breath. You pushed the man away, trying to find a way to enter the crime scene.

Spencer finally was taking control of his body again. Approaching you, calmly, as if you would attack him too if he got too close and too abruptly, or worse, you’d run away, he made his way to you. Noticing your red-rimmed eyes, he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“You said you’d do your best,” you said in a broken voice, looking him in the eye. Defeated.

Silence. All the noise seemed dull, distant, far away. You were in a bubble.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out, wide eyes looking at his confused ones. Right now, talking to you felt like whiplash. “I know it wasn’t your fault. I didn’t mean to accuse or blame you. Fuck,” you cursed, bringing your hands to your eyes. “Can I do anything to help? I can… I can try.”

Unbeknownst to you, Emily Prentiss watched your interactions with a puzzled look on her face. You looked and acted so distraught that she felt the need to approach, mindful of the damage the words from an enraged, saddened close friend of a victim would do. Unable to stop her own feet, she approached you. Spencer wouldn't utter a word. You looked nervous, looking from her to him and obsessively trying to wipe your tears that seemingly had their own will to run on your face.

"Can you come with me?" She offered, handing out a blanket for you. You looked at her and amidst the mixed feelings that the grief started etching into your eyes, you could give her a grateful glance.

By her side, you looked at Spencer, who was still frozen in place.

"I'm sorry..." You whispered, looking at the ground.  

He looked straight ahead. Once you were with Emily, he glanced your way with a pitiful look on his face.

—

Days passed. You were in the precinct once they called Renée’s family to break the morbid news. You watched as her mother fell to her knees once one of them told her what had happened to her daughter. You heard the chanting of "I failed, I failed, I failed..." endlessly. And by endlessly, you mean it is still haunting you to this day.

For three days, all you did was escape reality, whether by sleeping or doing drugs. Your brother's contact sat still on the kitchen counter, collecting dust and meaning hesitation from your end.

On the fourth day, you were sober for a couple of hours. You opened the curtains and despite the darkness still loomed around, it felt better. It burned, but in a nice way. As you stared at the note in the counter, untouched, Emily Prentiss knocked on your door to let you know that they were close to catching the killer. His profile was complete, it seemed. Something about a man in his 40s taking out the frustration of his parents’ broken marriage because of his father’s infidelity and his own divorce because of his affairs. Cyclic. Looking at your wrecked state, she told you all about him.

"Why are you telling me this?" You asked as Renée’s mother chant still echoed in your mind.

"First, I thought you needed hope. Second, I was thinking you might recognize him.”

Needless to say, she was right. Your lungs burned at each breath you took, and, in that moment, you decided you would try to be strong. Stronger. Renée’s face came to mind. You had nothing left to lose if you exposed a few rich men. Thanking Emily, you said softly, your tone contrasting with the vile nature of your words, “You said he dumped the girls in a specific place, right?” She nodded. “I don’t know if anyone told you about this one place, but they take some of the girls there. It’s kind of off-radar” 

As you gave her the location, her surprise betrayed her usual composure. “No, nobody did.”

“Do you think it could be helpful?”

—

You found yourself in one of aforementioned building’s room along with Dr. Spencer Reid, as sort of your protector, while the others patrolled the building and the people who came and went, and the local cops lurked around downtown, in the park. You felt nervous, reminiscing about your last interaction with the man. Taking a deep breath, you sat down on a chair. “May I ask you something?” You inquired, carefully. He hadn’t talked much to you unless it was information about what you knew and what he needed to know. He nodded at you, turning his attention to your figure. "Do you like your job? I only ask because... you know... nobody really likes this job."

"... I do, yeah." He muttered, albeit not the whole truth. It was gruesome, but he thought he could manage. Besides, you didn’t need to be exposed to even more disaster. It was bad enough as it was.

"I don’t know if you know or acknowledge this, but not many people choose to do this. It's more of a last option, the one you really don't wanna take." You justified, even though you didn’t quite know why.

You supposed it was the embarrassment that came with being with a man who knew what you did but wasn’t with you to do that.

Understanding flooded his features, a soft "I understand." making its way out of his lips.

"Thanks." I say with a tight-lipped smile. "It means a lot."

He nodded. "You keep fiddling with your necklace."

"It's a locker, actually. It's a picture of me and my grandmother. I don't wear it when I'm.. um... Anyway, it's kinda sacred to me." You chuckled, gripping the accessory tighter. “I wore it today so that it would give me the strength needed to help Renée. And myself.”

He glances at you as if he wanted to know more. After a beat of silence and deciding that it was enough, "Do you have a good relationship with her?"

"I did. We were very close, but she passed away last year, sort of giving my family the free pass to cut me out entirely. I believe they think that I was the one who killed her, my life choices and whatnot."

He furrowed his brows. "You didn't choose this."

"In a way, I did. I knew what I was doing, I just couldn't stop. It's just that... It felt good not to have so much pressure on me, you know? I felt finally free... but what did it cost me? A safe relationship, my education, my family and friends… They never gave me a chance, not even to explain myself. I needed help. Thus far, I have had company my entire life. I didn't know how to exist. Then one of those girls helped me, but I realized that she was struggling to pay rent and I needed to do something, not just sit pretty and be high with the money I had left.”

His silence was unexpected.

In reality, it was caused by the cliché of watching your life passing before your eyes took over his mind. He remembered being drugged by Tobias Hankel, he remembered the needles puncturing his skin and the relief he felt from the entire situation once the substance started running through his veins. He remembered taking Dilaudid from his abductor’s pockets and he remembered staring at his own reflection in the mirror and finding a stranger looking back at him. He remembered being given a chip of sobriety even though he wasn’t sober for that long. He remembered thinking of himself as unworthy as he became more and more dependent, especially when he couldn’t even disguise how affected, how it changed him. Looking at your defeated face, he muttered, “I understand. It changes your perception of things and yourself.”

You could act oblivious and assume that his knowledge of the topic came from books, but you don’t see that expression on just anybody’s face. You felt sorry for him. Sensing he didn’t want to talk about himself any further, even if, in your opinion, wasn’t nearly enough for someone who had battled something as deep as an addiction, you decided to respect his wish. You talked about yourself instead, hoping to give him something, someone to relate to, as you desperately wanted for yourself. “I wasn’t always like this.”

“I’m sure you weren’t.” His voice held that tinge of something you couldn’t quite describe, something distant, but so close at the same time. He saw himself in you, almost if he was talking to himself.

He might have had Penelope check your background. Something about the lost potential resonated deep within him, and it made him all the more anxious to be close to you, to repair something he hadn’t been the one to break. As he looked at you, all he could see was someone in dire need of something, someone to grasp onto. “How does one manage to move past all that?"

Despite the will growing and boiling inside of him, he couldn’t just come up with a magic solution to cut through the darkness surrounding you. "Honestly, I don't know." You couldn’t see when he gulped.

"It's a long way from home. At least, for me."

For a moment, you looked at each other, mouths shut, not a single beat of sound around you. You looked at him, searching for answers and for someone to relate to. Spencer hesitated for a moment, the silence hanging over you like a fog. He wasn't trying to seem disinterested or unkind, but he felt as if his curt phrases weren’t enough to calm your heart. He spoke again, his voice softer, offering a hint of deeper sincerity, "Sorry, I..." he trailed off, unsure how to convey his thoughts without making the situation more hurtful. "I'm sure you can manage it with the right people."

Your grip on your locket softened, letting it fall close to your chest once you let it go. Looking at him, a soft melody started playing in your head.

Patience.

“I’m sorry,” you said, earnestly, which made him look at you with recognition. “Thanks for talking to me. It’s been a while.” 

I missed this feeling.

—

After a few moments, the BAU team had captured the man before he could collect another soul. Everything happened so fast. In one moment, you were in a superficially verbal conversation with Spencer. Despite the shallow nature of the words exchanged, digging deeper, the interaction was filled to the brim with meaning, which made you rethink a thing or two. You shared that much with him.

“Goodbye.” He said, simply. To you, he was not one to speak much. “You’ll be home by spring.” I can’t wait ‘til then, he thought.

“Goodbye, doctor.”

Next thing you knew, as you got home, all by yourself, you decided to reach out for your brother. Telling him you needed help, that you were pessimistic but that it would be foolish not to at least try.

Days at rehab went on as smoothly as they could, considering you were suffering with withdrawal. Your behavior and emotions swayed like waves on a lake surface on a windy day. Deeply unstable, your mind was forced to remember all the hell you’ve been through on a daily basis for the last sad months of your life. Grieving for the version of you you could have been, for Renée, for your sense of self, self-respect and whatever you had lost during those dark times. Often, your hands trembled, you felt cold in a warm, cozy room and there were times your skin felt ablaze, not to mention the whirlwind of thoughts that made your head hurt. You missed feeling numb.

And when I was shipwrecked, I thought of you.

Still, there were afternoons that you would sit on the porch of your bedroom and simply take in the surroundings. The green grass that was taken better off by the employees like it was someone’s first born. The other patients who walked around and closed their eyes as they felt the sun kissing their skin for what it felt like the first time in years. The trees that casted shadows on the grass so that some of them could lay beneath them. The breeze that engulfed your figure and gently touched you, unlike you had been treated. The immense sense of belonging to this existence, of not longer being a stranger to your own life. You would take deep breaths and your lungs wouldn’t ache like before. You pictured the two reasons responsible for making you take the decision that brought you to this place sitting next to you. You held what was left of one of them between your fingertips.

The sudden and constant mood swings made your attitude change at breakneck speed.

Tonight, taking a quick break from the notebook you were scribbling on, you took a look around you. At that moment, everything around you was spinning. You couldn’t breathe, feeling as if the hands that touched you in the past stopped you from inhaling oxygen altogether. You shut your eyes closed and tried to breathe in like the doctors had told you to when things got too hard — it was not working. Panicking further, you stumbled your way to the ensuite bathroom and took a good look at your reflection. You felt shivers running down your body, an uncomfortable feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach as you desperately tried to turn on the faucet to splash some cold water to your face. Unsuccessful, to say the least.

The feeling grew as time went by. You couldn’t stand the discomfort and the memories and the feeling of being inappropriate to go back to living in the real world again. For a moment, you quieted your struggle. You gave in. You glanced at the mirror and although the tears blurred your vision, you were able to wonder if that was your opportunity of finally having the control of your life back. Maybe it was for the better, you thought as you reached for the small blade you secretly kept on the bathroom window. As you started feeling dizzy by the lack of oxygen, you couldn’t help but to think back to the interaction you exchanged with Spencer before you thought of accepting your brother’s offer. Picturing his face, of himself as a person and as a professional, you thought that, for a moment, he was a reflection of all that you wanted to be, all you wanted for yourself.

The blood that gushed from the open cuts of your arms, that drained from your body, felt like the catharsis you needed from all the mishaps that had taken place in your life. As you watched it dribble down your skin and as it stained the floor, you took a deep, difficult breath, feeling lightheaded. No thoughts swarmed your mind anymore. A sob, from both the dull sting of the cuts and of your difficulty breathing, echoed through the bathroom.

No!, you thought you heard a familiar voice scream.

In the cracks of light, I dreamed of you.

Finally taking short puffs of breaths, you kept thinking this was it. That it was for the better. That nothing could save you, nothing could stop the blood from cleansing you and taint the floor in the process. You finally shut your eyes as the tears never ceased to flow from your eyes, feeling hands squeezing your arms where you had drawn vertical lines with the blades. From that moment, everything around you felt mixed, the swaying of a vehicle, the alarmed voices, the brightness behind your eyelids. You never opened your eyes. You couldn't bear to open them and still be here, facing the people who were doing their best to help you.

As you lost consciousness, you finally found peace, your mind finally quieted down, the hands stopped touching your body. You thought you managed a weakened smile in your state.

;

Spencer, much like you, didn't keep much track of the time as it passed, for the things in his world happened too fast and burned too bright. As he approached his desk in the bullpen and he was reading through some emails, dread adorning his features and panic setting in the pit of his stomach as he read your brother's name on the screen — whose contact he had gotten after you were admitted in rehab — and the news he was sharing.

;

You didn't know how much time you had spent unconscious. You didn't have any dreams. You didn't have any thoughts. You were completely numb, as if you were surrounded by a bubble that protected you from anything that could possibly happen.

As you opened your eyes, you recognized a hospital room, wires and needles and the unmistakable smell of that place. Looking at your arms, you noticed the bandages that hid the scars that were certainly forming by now, if the dull ache was anything to go by. When you slowly felt reality creeping in, you didn't dare to look up, afraid to find a judgmental or angry look on someone's face. You focused solely on breathing, too frightened of your surroundings.

You gulped and your throat felt so dry that it almost scratched, which made you erupt in a fit of coughs. That drew the attention of a person sitting right next to you, which you hadn't noticed, too preoccupied with someone's reaction.

Slowly looking up, you found Dr. Reid’s face. You couldn't quite begin to read his expression, as his eyes were full of relief once he saw you were still alive. Hanging by a thread, but still alive. You didn't bother to speak after he silently held a bottle of water with a straw on it for you to drink. Neither did he. At least for some amount of time.

“I didn't know how bad this could get. I mean, I do know, but not because of the reason you probably think. It's not just because I have to study human behavior, but also because I was abducted and drugged,” he started, losing the bravery that it took to look you in the eye. “I know you have nothing to do with this. And that it makes me sound very selfish, because, um, I'm here talking about myself when you are so fragile and so broken, but it's just because I know what you're going through. I know what it's like to not recognize yourself. When we talked in that room, for the first time, I felt alive. I felt seen. I felt like I had finally found a little, small, fleeting piece of myself that had wandered too far once I was… addicted.”

You just took in his words. You already knew why he related to you so much, but hearing him talk so freely and unabashedly about his experience made you somewhat perk up. “I'm in a lot of trouble, aren't I?” You managed to mutter in a weak voice.

“It depends on what you think you're going to do now.” 

“It's a lot of work.”

“Not if it's you.”

“How could you possibly say that?”

“I know a little about your background. My friend looked you up. You looked promising.”

“Yes, past tense. Now I'm just this… vessel of a human. I don't think I have blood, let alone the guts to face the world after this.”

“I'm not calculating your worth on your accomplishments or on the person you used to be.” He sighed, softly.

“Do I even still have worth?”

“Of course you do.”

“Don't waste your breath on me. How could you be so sure?”

“I just do.”

Little did you know, Spencer Reid was not one to pry where it wasn't welcome, but he spent every day letting his mind run to you. He couldn't help but think about you and whether you were actually doing good after the decision you decided to share with him. That was how he found himself having some unsent letters that were soon ripped and thrown away. Telling you about him, wondering about you, wondering if you two could relate on different topics.

“Would it be weird to ask you to trust me on this one?”

“What's the worst that could happen?”

For the first time in years, you had a sincere smile on your face. 

—

The next day, you woke up to a letter addressed to you, which you knew who it was from. 

Your lifeline.

This pain wouldn’t be for evermore.

[dangermousie]

I was chatting about this with a mutual and it made me want to expand this because I've been thinking about this for a bit on and off.

I think the disconnect/arguments between people who watch/read books/shows/movies etc, label things as green flag/red flag and complain when there are "problematic" characters or "dynamics" - both in terms of the narratives and people who enjoy these narratives being targets and people who like me love some intense/fucked up/weird stuff is because these two groups of people approach fiction in two fundamentally different and incompatible ways.

The former view it as a sort of aspirational content or self-insert - they want to watch/read about people/lives/situations they would enjoy being in/with in real life. It's sort of a self-insert wish fulfillment, the way other people watch youtube channels about traveling the world or cooking or home decorating - you imagine yourself in this.

And I think this is where the disconnect comes in - because a decent chunk of them assume everyone else uses fiction for the same reason so if you enjoy e.g., watching a dysfunctional relationship or a bad dude/lady or some world set up that is nuts it's because you think this is all great in real world and that you want to be (or be with) with a problematic partner/in problematic situation and you think it's morally worthwhile.

To that former "aspirational" type of fiction consumer, fiction taste = morality.

But the disconnect is that for that latter "we like fucked up/dark/problematic/intense/whatever" group it's not really about aspiration or self-insert. People didn't love Hannibal because they secretly long to run off and cook humans in a stew. The fans of 2ha don't really want to kidnap their hot teacher and keep them as a sex slave in a palace. Harem dramas aren't popular because women are dying to poison and frame others to get to sleep with a fat old powerful megalomaniac. Most of consumers of mafia romances don't really think it's a great idea in real life to be taken against your will by a hot killer with abs who can't control himself around you and is great at forcing you into orgasms against your will.

That latter group (among which I find myself) likes all that stuff precisely because it's nothing they have or want to have in real life. It's a safe way to explore fantasies that would not be great in real life (I assure you most people who have noncon fantasies don't want to be raped in real life; also in real life no most people don't want to bang a buff but super murdery villain; fiction is a safe place in a way) but also to explore situations and interactions and characters you would never want to in real life from the safety of the page/screen. To use a very easy example - think of the large audience of action movies. I am pretty sure most fans of action franchises don't want to be in car crashes/insane chases/explosions/etc. Any more than roller coaster enthusiasts want to actually be thrown upside down for real or horror movie fans want to either chase someone with an axe or be chased with one. I myself love really intense situations in fiction, ones that push characters to their limits and sometimes beyond, but I cannot imagine anything less pleasant to go through in real life.

Unlike with the self-insert group, this is actually the very opposite. It's like a game of what-if, a glimpse into an alien world fascinating precisely because of its difference with my life. An exploration of aspects of life/relationships that one could never safely or happily do in one's life but are interesting at a safe fictional remove.

This is getting repetitive so I am going to stop but I really do wish more people would understand that enjoying X in fiction does not mean enjoying X in real life (or approving of X in general.) I mean, I love period epics but you'd pry antibiotics and rule of law out of my cold dead hands.

The moral panic over fiction reminds me both the old "video games make you into killers" panic of a few decades ago and the much older belief that reading novels would wreck morals of society especially by those weak women since the novels' (lack of) morality would warp them. Most people have brains and use them and can distinguish between fiction and reality. I wish people would accept that.

P.S. A corollary is conflation of morality/quality/enjoyment. By that I mean I wish more people would accept that moral message, quality, and enjoyment of work are all three separate things. You don't need to prove that some fictional piece is immoral and/or badly made to justify you not enjoying it. It can be well done and just not for you. And conversely, you do not need to prove a work having societal value or being high quality to justify enjoying it. It's fiction. Just enjoy it or don't.

[girl4music]

They’re titanium individually and titanium together.

It’s always a great thing when you realize that shipped characters don’t make each other what they are because they’re together but they still become more as together. I’m used to that dynamic. And I always love it!

There’s so many heterosexual dynamics that are not like that. And they make it a point to show you that the only reason why they are the way they are is because of the influencing of each other. I just don’t like that at all.

People are whole on their own. They are already enough individually. They’re already capable individually. They’re already strong individually. Love or a romantic/sexual relationship doesn’t make the difference BUT they can bring out the best in each other all the while and become better people because of being together.

That is love. That is romance. That is a partnership.

When TV art/entertainment can represent that regardless whether the ship is straight or queer…

Then that is worth watching and worth shipping.

If you just include a romantic/sexual relationship and only ever show that the influence on each other is the only reason why they are who or what they are…

That’s just rubbish lazy crap.

Showing how these characters already are and what they already do makes them a natural match for who they’re shipped with is what the the goal really is.

Opposites attract is usually the best way to do it because you can do SO MUCH with that kind of relationship or that kind of dynamic. It’s profound.

CaitVi definitely has that about them but showing that they’re strong and capable characters on their own and how that is both a positive and negative progression for them is what makes them the ship they’re hyped to be.

That representation is at a level that you don’t often see in TV art/entertainment and I mean that regardless of the sexuality or gender identity. There’s usually not that much depth to it. So that’s what sets them apart right now from pretty much everything else. Their multi-dimensionality as individual characters and as a ship.

caitvi + matching scars

[discofama]

Was thinking about our Pineses different styles of comedy and I realized Mabel's and Ford's are kind of the same in a way.

Originally was thinking of who of the 4 of them was the funniest for me, and I decided it's Dipper. I can't express how much I've laughed with him. Or more like, AT him, i realized. Unlike the others, most of the comedy that involves him is at his expense. Almost every character thought bad things of him at the very least (including Ford! In his first impressions in Journal 3) and the way he's so insecure and awkward and weird, and that almost everybody bullies him, is just so funny to me. God forbid me lmao.

Stan's comedy is more aimed at how shameless he is with his criminal activities and kind of fucked up stuff he says, like "finally a good reason to punch a teenager in the face!". Most of the times the jokes that involve him are simply funny because they're sudden, mean (him to others, which feeds the kind of humor that involves Dipper and a variety of other minor characters) and/or unexpected of someone as rough as him, like crying at a telenovela. Of course we also laugh AT him many times just like we do with every character, but the fact he is so shameless, unlike Dipper, makes it very different.

Mabel and Ford are funny just because they're both insane and have extremely weird interests. You could say it's also laughing AT them but this feels of a different nature than laughing at Dipper. So i'd say it's more like laughing WITH them, like we usually do with Stan. What's funny (in the strange sense) is that Ford did share Dipper's awkwardness when he was younger, but as far as I remember, it was never played for laughs like it was for Dipper. Mabel and Ford both are reckless, absentminded and go extra on everything, which is very amusing, but they also have a riddiculous taste in everything. For example, Mabel likes toothpaste and Ford likes human blood. Mabel bedazzles her face and Ford sets it on fire. They use grappling hooks and jump out of windows epically. They are shameless too, but while Stan is unabashedly greedy and his comedy usually intentionally harms others or their property, they unabashedly just are their own strange person from start to finish. And the result is pretty funny.

[artbyblastweave]

To be honest, while I know that you've discussed a Worm/Marvel "crossover" before, considering how unusually different both Ultimate Universes are from mainline Marvel, how would a crossover with Worm go for those?

(Side note: I'm mainly asking for the potential thought experiment of: what if Cauldron met the Maker and all of the immense bullshit that would result from that.)

I don't think I'm totally capable of answering the back half of this ask because I haven't read The Maker comprehensively- Aside from his pre-heel turn stint in Ultimate FF, It's basically only Secret Wars, a couple of the times Ewing used him, and the current New Ultimate Universe.

So what I find interesting about this prospect is that Worm and Ultimate Marvel are very aesthetically compatible, right, you aren't going to drop one character into the other's setting and have them constantly going "what the fuck is going on" the way you would if we subbed in 616 Marvel at it's most four-color. But the worldbuilding and themes are actually very divergent in ways that are interesting to look at. Namely-

Worm is a grim, grim setting, but it's also attempting to replicate the status quo at Marvel and DC where, despite occasional attempts at government sanction or integration, there's fundamentally a weirdly high cultural tolerance for independent vigilantism as long as the person doing it is wearing a costume. Their version of Registration- The Protectorate- is a very carrot heavy initiative, when we see Kid Win making the recruitment pitch to Chariot it's all about the support you get, the funding, the backup, the PR help. Individual street level heroes get nailed to the wall or hung out to dry all the time, but collectively, they're granted a lot of discretion in that they're allowed to exist at all. And the fundamental reason for this is that the government is scared of them. They might be able to smack down individual upstarts who try to go full warlord or revolutionary, but they don't control the overall distribution of powers and there are so many of these assholes, three-quarters of whom go career criminal due to some combination of trauma, material want, neuroticism or ideology. So any set of norms that gets as many of these people as possible to behave in a slightly-less-antisocial manner is something that they're going to roll with. Worm is a world held hostage by the typical superhero paradigm, buckling under its weight. Crucial to this dynamic is that powers aren't a man-made phenomenon, and they're barely a man-influenced phenomenon via Cauldron.

But with the Ultimate Universe, a major pillar of the deconstruction and the worldbuilding is that superheroes would not be allowed to operate in the typical wild west paradigm. There's a much stronger divide between sanctioned heroes (The Ultimates, The Fantastic Four), grey-zone heroes like the X-Men, and then the out-and-out outlaw street level heroes like Daredevil and Spider-Man. A major plot point is that Nick Fury and his spooks very predictably figure out who Spider-Man is almost immediately; he's only able to continue operating as a street-level hero in the usual manner due to Fury's implicit sanction, because Fury is trying to groom him to eventually join The Ultimates. Moreover, a lot of the rest of the street-level capes (as depicted in Millar's Ultimates) are cast as genuinely incompetent puds, only not cracked down on because there's no real reason to. (Note that I have a seething hatred for this particular beat in practice because it deprived us of an Ultimate Luke Cage worth having, but I get what Millar was gesturing at with it.) All of this, likewise, is downstream of the fact that powers are almost totally a man-made phenomenon, with almost all superhumans being downstream of Military-Industrial Complex attempts at reproducing Captain America; it's not an out-of-control supernatural phenomena that they're trying to get in on, It's a government-made phenomenon that leaks like a sieve and eventually spirals out of control. The Ultimate Universe is fundamentally about Hubris in a way that Worm isn't.

Both settings converge on a state of societal collapse due to the advent of superpowers; Ultimate Marvel was gesturing at an impending superhuman-driven World-War Three for a while before things spiraled into the comparably destructive nonsense of Ultimatum, The Maker, The (partial?) balkanization of the U.S. and the rest of the crisis cavalcade that led into the 2015 Secret Wars and the total destruction of that universe. Worm suffered the much more tightly-directed Apocalyptic Bad Time with which we're all familiar.

As for a crossover premise, I'd have to say that post-gm Taylor getting marooned on 1610 and winding up in the orbit of 1610 Peter Parker specifically- as opposed to the MCU or 616 versions, with whom I've seen this done- is an underexamined hook. Ultimate Spidey represents a deft integration of Peter's best and worst personality traits. The early-run ditko-style dickishness is recontextualized as an anger about the state of the world, the crazy-making sense that bullies and dictators appear to have free run of the world and nobody but him is doing anything about it. Which, given the state of The Ultimate Universe, falls in the middle ground between typical teenaged myopia and a sober assessment of what he's up against.

Remind you of anyone?

[mllemaenad]

Huh. Well, now I'm very annoyed. Bioware couldn't be arsed to keep track of the world state changes anymore, so they're just torching everything. And the thing is, this is exactly what those world state imports are for.

You can certainly critique Mass Effect 3, but I've always felt it used its save import well. The world is very literally ending in that game and any reasonable player is immediately going to ask: where are my friends? Your companions foremost, obviously, but also NPCs you've helped or who helped you, or even just random people you encountered. You start doing a head count day one. Some characters made actual appearances, but there were also emails and ambient dialogue. Sometimes you found out that a character was fine – and that was a delightful relief. Sometimes you found out that they weren't – and that hurt. The point is, it made it feel as though your world was ending. Not just a world.

This is the moment where every change you've saved across the previous three games comes into play.

I'm certainly not saying this must be the last Dragon Age game. But it does feel like the end of an arc. We're answering all the big questions first posed in Origins: where did the Blight come from; what became of Arlathan, why are the dwarves in a constant apocalyptic state? Any new game will be about something else.

And here, as in Mass Effect 3, we are facing the end of the world.

The thing is. The thing is. I did not explicitly prep for this scenario. But bloody hell am I prepped for this scenario.

The King of Ferelden and the White Divine are both veterans of the Fifth Blight. The Hero of Ferelden is alive and well (since they have not told me otherwise) and well prepared at Amaranthine – and her sister is queen in Orzammar. She also has Awakened darkspawn allies to call on. The Grey Wardens were not expelled from the south, so should be on hand to face the crisis. And hey – the leader of the newly freed College of Enchanters is herself a former Warden. We are as Blight ready as it's possible to be!

I want to hear about how the king worked out that Denerim was beyond saving in time to evacuate the civilians because he could sense the oncoming horde well before anyone else could.

I want to hear how Warden-Commander Brosca, flanked by Nathaniel Howe and Sigrun, came out to lead the refugees to safety.

I want to hear that Prince Endrin led the Orzammar reinforcements that saved Redcliffe, and his aunt beamed with pride.

I want to hear that the Divine herself took command of the defence of Val Royeaux, and that the mages came out in force to assist the woman who backed their fight for freedom.

I want to hear that the Champion of Kirkwall returned with her Warden lover in the city's darkest hour, defending the people as they fled, and that with Merrill's assistance the alienage elves made it onto the last ship to escape the harbour.

If we're going to bloody Starkhaven, of all places, I want an acknowledgement that the Blight has forced a reconciliation – because last I heard Sebastian was getting his arse handed to him by Aveline.

I want to hear that the Grey Wardens are everywhere, because they never left.

I want to hear about intelligence gathered from Awakened darkspawn, and their bewildered frustration that these new invaders are different.

I'm not going to work out who lives and who dies right now, because this is new information and I'm still processing it. And in any case, it's not my point.

If they're destroying the world, I want it to be my Thedas, not a Thedas. I want these stories to have mattered.

[asneakyfox]

this DOES make it really interesting when they DON'T react this way. when a creator gets asked about a fanon ship and they react negatively you can assume they feel REALLY STRONGLY about it, because they have a very strong incentive to just smile and nod.

i'm not entirely surprised con said no to canon steddyhands at this last event - he clearly and understandably does not like it when people try to get him to agree that david jenkins should have ended s2 differently, and he also seems to sincerely ship ed/stede in a very sweet way, so of course he doesn't like it when people try to make his own character a reason to not appreciate the happy ending djenks gave to his otp. it's a bit weirder that it sounds like con and nathan were both pretty negative on sprizzy, though. i have had a vibe for a while that nathan seemed increasingly uncomfortable with it, although i couldn't say if it's because fans have been weird to him about it or if he just doesn't like seeing lucius' canon queer romance ignored in favor of shipping lucius with a guy who was homophobic at him.

i wish i had time to go dig up my previous post on this but i am once again begging fandom to remember that when a fan at a convention asks a creator about a fanon ship and they're like "yes, you're absolutely right, those two characters have a deep and compelling emotional and sexual compatibility that was never fully explored in canon but could have been great if things had gone differently, it's so clever of you to have noticed it" you should interpret it the same way as when you ask a retail clerk's opinion on an expensive item of clothing you're trying on and they say "yes, you're absolutely right, that shade of red is uniquely flattering on you specifically and i'm so impressed that you had the good taste to choose it"

you shouldn't treat it as a serious confirmation of your beliefs if you agree with it and you also shouldn't be disappointed or mad if you disagree with it. these just are not serious meaningful statements at all. they're the polite thing to say about something that doesn't really matter. please understand that

[princess-charlie-of-hell]

Me: Everyone should be allowed to have their own opinion in fandoms even if I don't personally agree with it

Someone: Alastor would be a better partner to Lucifer and parent to Charlie than Lilith!

Me:

I don't understand how people can say that. I can understand seeing Lilith as a bad parent and partner because she left 7 years ago for heaven despite me hoping that she has a good reason but acting like Alastor is better than her in comparison?

He straight up is trying to manipulate Charlie for his personal gains that doesn't sounds like something a good father would do.

And the only interaction Lucifer and Alastor had were them fighting which also doesn't sound like a healthy couple thing to do

Also We still don't know enough from Lilith actually to judge her character and if she is a good or bad person but from what we have seen and heard from her doesn't sound like a terrible person

And If we compare the painting of the goetia family to the Morningstar family we can see a clear difference between the families

Where Stella looks like she wants to kill Stolas on the spot and doesn't even touch Octavia from what I can see , Lilith looks happy with her family and has both Charlie and Lucifer in her arms.

Despite it just could be a red hering to make the reveal of bad guy Lilith even more shocking, right now we just can make just Theories about Lilith being a abusive person and don't really have a proof except that she left to be in heaven for selfish or selfless

And even if it turns out that Lilith is a terrible person, that doesn't erase the fact that Alastor is a bad person himself

[alpoocka]

After roleplaying with different perspectives on the character, I realized I wanted to talk a little about my vision of Vanessa

I think these two were very anxious, but it manifested itself in different ways. They both want to do the best, but if Prince tries to explain everything as specifically as possible, talking a lot and gesturing, to avoid misunderstandings with the interlocutor, Vanessa simply does not start a conversation. She feels that she will ruin everything by her intervention, so she just keeps quiet. Once she was told that she was a bad speaker and she believed it, sat alone and read novels. Because of this, there were times when she enthusiastically began to tell Prince about something, temporarily forgetting about the barrier and opening up to him. He answered something like: wow, it's like you've been replaced. She interpreted this negatively and fell silent again.

Many people portray her as a hot-tempered person, but I think she wasn't, she used the diary to at least express her thoughts, fears, anger somewhere, while remaining outwardly calm. Most likely, she manipulated softly, slowly but surely, but most likely not consciously: "I suffer so much when you are not here, if only you came more often", "I don't like the bacon from the new supplier lately, maybe you shouldn't order it until we find a new, better one? I'll take care about it, really", "you spend too much time studying, I see how tired you are, you need to come to her classes less often, for your own health."

The hair dyeing incident was one of those times when she lost control of herself and brought the obsessive thought to life.

Vanessa is the personification of the phrase "still waters run deep", but she skillfully suppressed this part of herself until she saw the "betrayal". Sometimes she was told that she was naive, she tried not to pay attention to these words, but when she saw "irrefutable evidence", she thought too much without asking for an outside perspective.

Because of loneliness and introversion, as it seems to me, Vanessa tends to wind herself up, come up with hundreds of possible reasons for any actions, but she tried to push the negative ones into the background. Everything accumulated like a snowball in the depths of her mind and exploded that day. Usually a quiet and silent girl exploded.

I think she was absolutely distraught with loneliness when Hat Kid arrived, but she tried to maintain the illusion of normality: "I want a nice bathroom, a fridge and a modern stove" (I'd like to see the faces of the workers who installed all this), she constantly giggles under her breath and talks to herself. She doesn't care about Prince anymore, she won't trust anyone anymore.

[abuddyforeveryseason]

You know, I feel the same way about superhero stories as OP does about vampires. It's usually pretty annoying when a zombie story gets all meta and has characters go around talking about how "this is just like my survival fantasy animes", but it's also iffy when everyone just pretends they never heard about zombie apocalypse stories, and refuses to even say the world "zombie". Sure, they're "walkers", or "shamblers" or whatever.

And the meta thing's not really an issue with stories where someone gets a superpower. In fact, it's really welcome. Because there's both this immediate contrast (real superpowers aren't like the ones in the comics!) and a handy justification for a lot of the characters (I've seen superhero stories my whole life, so I want to act out my own, too.)

I think the reason for that is, even though superhero stories precede zombie apocalypse ones for a few years, the genre is less calcified as one single thing. That's not to say I don't like zombie stories, but they feel less diverse when it comes to setting.

When a ficitonal character has a superpower, it's just something that's happened to them. They might think they're in a superhero story because they've read many before, but that's not necessarily the case. They might turn out to be Ben 10 or Danny Phantom, but they might also be Brightburn or Inuyashiki. They might even just be Alex Mack. Something different happened to each of these characters, and they're trying to fit the "superhuman abilities" peg into the "crime-fighting hero" hole with varying degrees of success.

Zombie stories, on the other hand, work by a different set of rules. Even if they're not just Dawn of the Dead. Planet Terror is a very different story from The Last of Us, and they're both different from Zombie Strippers or Fido, but despite the rules in these stories not being the same, they're pretty much about the same thing happening, and the consequences are similar, even if the tones aren't.

I can't really think of a way of making a zombie story that changes the foundations of the genre the way metahuman stories do, while still being identifiable as a zombie story. But that might just be a "me" problem.

Zombie fiction has a problem, which is that in the real world, zombie fiction exists.

So you have two basic approaches: either you have the protagonists and general public say "what's happening, why are the dead rising, I got bit but I'm going to be fine", or you have the protagonists say "this is so weird, it's just like in all that zombie fiction!"

These are both annoying in their own way, but I find the latter approach to be more deeply irritating, personally, the kind of meta that's just lazy and overdone in spite of not having been done all that often.

This is a problem that notably doesn't exist in most other genres. People go to look up vampires on their computer all the time, and they say "wait, the legends are true??", and the vampire says "I did like like our depiction in Nosferatu very much". This is totally fine, the legends bled into popular culture or whatever. But zombie fiction is among those that can't do this, because it's a different kind of story, and there's no hiding it, no covering it up. If zombies were in any way real there would be mandatory training on how to kill them and CDC warnings and structural responses, which does substantially take away from the genre.

Now, would I read a zombie story that took place in a world where zombie outbreaks were a semi-regular occurrence with policies and procedures and discourse and training? Yeah, I guess, if it was well-written. But most of the long-running zombie stories get there eventually, once all the survivors have been doing the survival thing, and I can think of a few examples. It's hard to get right, much harder than the "what is happening, what is this" sort of story.

[aabluedragon]

Parity on Don Quixote and Sancho

I’d like to first establish that she appears to be ambidextrous, showing equal dexterity on each hand throughout her different IDs and when she emulates Bari’s moves as Sancho. Below are my observations on parity (handedness) across my gathered IDs. I may follow up with her EGOs later on.

Left-Handed Don Quixotes

LCB

Shi South Section 5 Director

W Corp L3 Cleanup Agent (via sheathed knife on belt)

Right-Handed Don Quixotes

Just about every other ID

Please note that the below sprites have been mirrored to be viewed from the ally side. Both Bari and Sancho fight from the right-hand side of the screen in-game. I will be tracking parity using Sancho’s boa to denote her left side.

Sancho’s Left-Handed Attacks

Odachi

Falchion

Double Straight Swords (all scabbards are left-handed)

Sancho’s Right-Handed Attacks

La Sangre

Thousand-Pound Bow and Arrow

Sancho’s N/A Attacks

Punching us (ow)

Analysis (the yappening)

I first noticed the discrepancy in Don Quixote’s handedness when I looked at her Cinq ID’s UT3 art shortly after looking at LCB Don Quixote. At first, I thought that she fenced right-handed to offer a fairer duel to most denizens of The City. It only makes sense. However, I soon noticed that she fights right-handed in IDs that don’t call for that kind of accommodation such as Lobotomy EGO Lantern (her right arm anchors her grip). N Corp Mittelhammer follows the same trend despite their religious discrimination not extending to parity, seeing that Guido is openly left-handed.

Maybe, then, right-handed is her rule rather than an exception in most mirror worlds? I can see that, given the prominence of parity as symbols of good and evil, sword and shield throughout literature. Which, given Don Quixote’s record, she may very well fight right-handed to emulate that common image.

So why does LCB Don Quixote joust left-handed? It might be as simple as Don Quixote wishing to fight at her best with her limited combat experience, seeing that she spent most of her known life in a tower like a waiting damsel.

Or, well—

Anyways.

Sancho, and by extension Don Quixote’s EGO La Sangre de Sancho, jousts right-handed. For Sancho, I hypothesize it as a matter of convenience since she prefers to wear her Armadura over her left shoulder. Therefore, left-handed fighting would block her vision and she has little reason to fight so seriously given her immense Bloodfiend strength and experience in war. When Don Quixote dons her armor to charge for justice in La Sangre de Sancho, I imagine that her reasoning for switching hands is both to emulate the knights of old and to entertain an old habit she doesn’t consciously remember.

In IDs such as Shi and W Corp Don Quixote, their deviance from other mirror worlds may be tied to a breaking dream. As a director of the Shi Association, Don Quixote beaming smile and quick blade is the difference between life and death for her exhausted subordinates. She cannot afford to play a character when she is so intimately and viscerally aware of the doomed path her section has been assigned to. As a W Corp L3 Cleanup Agent, her spirit is quite explicitly broken as she witnesses what she is meant to accept as her daily routine aboard the WARP trains. Where another Don Quixote may believe in the inherent and all-surpassing goodness of humanity (the Fixers merely haven’t gotten to this evil yet!), this one has been shown time and time again what humans will do to themselves and each other when time and consequences no longer exist. Righteousness does not eventually overcome cruelty when both are immortal.

As always, feel free to reply if I’ve missed something or you have something to add. Discussion is a fruit of community.

[cripplecharacters]

Hey folks, fully abled writer here! I've got a question about nicknames/descriptive names related to physical differences and abilities. I write a lot of fantasy fiction with differing name and language systems than the real world. I'm also fond of using compound names, such as "Dawnbringer, Hardcutter, Bluemark, Bearhunter, etc." So in a fantasy world where much of this society has given names and clan surnames following a specific theme of strength and durability, I have a character that has both his given name but also a nickname many people call him. This nickname is "Firebrand," and I invented him many years ago when I wasn't very critical of my writing or biases and just wanted a cool-sounding fantasy name. He is is a city guard in a city that is regularly attacked by fantasy animals for plot and environment-related reasons, and as I developed this character more I decided that rather than his original dark edgy backstory where he was called Firebrand because he was tortured, he now gains the name Firebrand because he survived a dragon's fire breath and came out of it with burn scars up his chest neck and arms, particularly on his hands that limits some of his movement and dexterity. I intend to make it clear in the story that it isn't a derogatory name, it's part of their society's theme of having names that signify how people survive things.

He likes the nickname and the meaning it has in his culture, because to him it means he's good at his job and he has survived hard times. Right now, the story is told through third-person P.O.V, and he is primarily referred to in non-dialogue narration as his nickname. In dialogue, he usually introduces himself with his given name and surname, but many people including the rest of the city guards refer to him with the nickname . His family and boyfriend will use either name for him depending on the context and company. At a later point in the story, when he and some others end up in a situation where they are dealing with fairies and the magical rules about giving them your name, his nickname gives him an advantage against the fairy rules.

Is this a reasonable concept at all, or is it all very weird to use an injury and acquired physical difference to identify someone with? Or, if the concept is alright but the name itself is bad, do you have any suggestions for how I might want to come up with a different nickname? I'm thinking if the use of the word "brand" in the nickname has too much of a negative connotation, I could try to replace it with something like "Firehand" or "Firebrave" that might have a clearer positive connotation to readers as well as his in-story society.

And although it's not the purpose of this question, I have been doing research about burn scars and treatment; this blog has been helpful! Since the burns were deep and he has limb tremors and cramps as well as scars, he has exercises and ointments to keep his scarred skin flexible, and he takes care not to take long tasks that will strain his hands with fine motor skills or whatnot. When on duty, his uniform includes gloves and a high collar for protection, but in casual clothing his hands are bare and his clothing doesn't hide his scars unless it's for weather protection. I may come back in the future with more questions about that, but I've determined what I need to start with about the physical effects his injuries have on him.

Thank you, and I hope you're all having a good day!!

Hello!

This sounds fine and pretty cool to me. The most important part is that the name isn't intended to be derogatory and that he actually likes it.

As a different disability-related example, "Wheels" and all its variants is a surprisingly common nickname that wheelchair users use (mostly younger guys). Sometimes you have a few of these dudes in one group and three people look at you when you try to call for one of them, it's just a fun nickname. Could it also be a cartoon-bully level derogatory insult if it was used for a character that hates it? 100%. It's very context dependent.

That's the same sentiment that's crucial here I think. Your character likes it and is proud of it? Go ahead. It makes sense in his cultural background and his nickname falls under a similar naming convention so it fits. I like the mention of how it reminds him that "he has survived hard times", since it's something that I've heard from burn survivors who explain why they choose "survivor" over "victim" to refer to themselves.

To answer your actual question: yes, I think it's a reasonable concept that makes sense in the character's setting. In another context yeah, it could be weird to identify with an acquired physical difference like that, but other people will do it anyway, you could as well make it "yours" and be proud of it, wear it as a positive. I don't think it's something that is an automatic "no" even if kinda weird. I'd go case-by-case and in your character's case it seems great.

As for the actual name, I agree that "brand" does have a negative connotation in English, all the criminal/cattle/label associations are less than ideal. I don't think it's detrimental to the concept like some other potential nicknames could be (looking at all the No-Faces and Half-Faces, which I do think are strictly derogatory) but if changing it to something less loaded wouldn't be an issue I'd probably do that. Both -hand and -brave are pretty awesome (the latter kinda reminds me of a warrior cat name but that's definitely a me problem), since they're either neutral or very positive in their connections.

Personally I care more about the fact that you're researching your character thoroughly, don't think that him being a burn survivor comes with some intrinsic negative traits, nor seem to put him in one of the Four Boxes. That's more important than terminology and vice versa - one could use the most up-to-date correct terms to refer to their OC and still make them into an offensive nightmare with bad execution. It doesn't mean that specific words aren't important but they (generally) aren't what breaks or makes representation that people want to see.

You seem to be doing good: my advice is to rethink the -brand part due to its connotations, and just keep researching as you write him.

Hope this helps,

mod Sasza

[maxdibert]

i saw that you used to read dramione fics and cool with hermione/krum

do you think that as a romantic ship ron is not a match with hermione? or any thoughts on ron weasley in general?

For me, the dynamic is everything in a ship. I have very specific preferences when it comes to the kind of dynamic that hooks me between two characters or the types of personalities I like. Enemies to Lovers has always been something I really enjoy, mainly because I’m a sucker for drama. I mean, I love the hard stuff: different worlds, countries at war, opposing political/social positions. The characters don’t necessarily need to be enemies, but there has to be some element that puts them on opposite sides and creates drama.

I also really love power couples—characters who are both A+ in the same field, complement each other to become even more brilliant, and have this push-and-pull dynamic with unresolved sexual tension.

In general, I’m very into the idea of two characters who have lived a lot, come from vastly different backgrounds, have been through a lot of crap, and then suddenly meet, and bam! It’s almost like a coincidence because they wouldn’t normally have crossed paths, but they do, and something unexpected comes out of it. That’s the kind of feeling I just don’t get from childhood friends to lovers. It’s something that bores me so much. I know it’s a trope many people enjoy, and I understand why, but to me, it feels super bland. Even more so if one of the characters doesn’t seem to deserve the other, like Ron, who, to me, acts like a jerk to Hermione several times. Plus, his family feels like some kind of cult.

Honestly, I think Hermione should’ve married someone in her 30s—maybe a politician or someone highly intellectual who could challenge her mentally. I picture her as a modern 21st-century woman, not just another Weasley baby-maker. I really can’t stand the Weasleys in general; they seem super toxic and have this traditional family dynamic that repels me. I firmly believe Hermione and Ron would have ended up divorcing before their 40s, once their two kids were at Hogwarts and they were left alone at home without them.

But to answer your question more directly: No, I think Ron is a boring match for Hermione. There’s no tension, just silly and childish arguments. There’s no passion, no je ne sais quoi. At least Viktor/Hermione is cute. I like it for that reason. Krum is this international star but super introverted, chased by all the girls, and suddenly he notices the one who doesn’t care about him and asks her out before anyone else. I think it’s adorable. A wholesome teenage romance that makes you smile. But honestly, since the fourth book, Ron has grossed me out in general. I see zero chemistry between him and Hermione. I imagine them having super mediocre sex, honestly, lol.