#but i may have fixated on several points instead of all of them

[betweenbreaths]

something to get used to (zoro x reader)

Summary: Both you and Zoro are afraid to lose each other and take too long to finally admit it.

Rating: G

AO3 link is in the replies to this post! I am a complete sucker for character A getting angry and avoiding character B at all costs, so here is an entirely self-indulgent fic and I hope you enjoy :)

***

Zoro had screwed up. Royally. 

It wasn’t exactly new for him, but this time, even he could tell it was a big one, seeing as it had been days since she had last spoken to him. 

At some point, Nami, who usually kept her nose out of things like this, had snapped at him for being an “insensitive ass”. While he certainly hadn’t appreciated the brutal honesty or choice of words, he knew she was right. Even Robin had intervened, telling him in that usual nonchalant tone of hers that he should probably do something about it soon. 

The thing was, he was trying, okay? It wasn’t like he was sitting on his ass and doing absolutely nothing. He had been trying to approach said crewmate for days now, but each time he tried, she would deliberately avoid eye contact, ignore his calls of her name and would be out of his sight within seconds of him spotting her. How big was this ship, anyway? It was starting to get ridiculous, the fact that it was this difficult to track down a single person, even if she didn’t want to be found. 

Frankly, the whole thing was starting to grate on his nerves too. How was he supposed to apologise to someone who was clearly not interested in being in the same room as him? Just this morning, he had spotted her in the kitchen talking to Sanji, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t get annoyed at how she was chuckling at the love cook’s shitty jokes and bad pick-up lines. He’d tried to approach her, but before he could even get close it seemed she had sensed that he was there, and before he knew it, she was already on her feet and scuttling out of the room with her head down. Sanji could only stand there, stunned by the abrupt end to their conversation. 

The cook had promptly shot a glare in Zoro’s direction, which the swordsman returned evenly.

All in all, Zoro was at his wit’s end here, and he was running out of ideas. And patience.  

A sudden jerk on the boat had him nearly losing his balance, and shouts coming from the deck snapped Zoro out of his thoughts. From the crow’s nest he looked out the window, where a huge fleet of navy ships had gathered and which were quickly approaching the Sunny. Looking down, he noticed that the entire crew was gathering on the deck, including her. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, he rushed out of the crow’s nest and leaped down, landing smoothly on the deck with the rest of the crew, right next to her. Again, she didn’t acknowledge his presence, her eyes fixated stubbornly on the enemy in front of them. 

A small sigh escaped him as he readied himself for what was coming. He supposed the apology would have to wait for now. 

***

You were being petty, and you knew it. 

You should have already known the kind of person Zoro was by now: strong, fiercely loyal, and brave in the face of danger. He may be rough around the edges, his words often curt and harsh, but otherwise you knew that he was really a softie at heart and would do anything for his crew.

And it was precisely that part of him that worried you to no end. If it came down to it, you knew Zoro was prepared to sacrifice anything, including himself, as long as his friends were safe. 

That was why you had ended up losing your temper at him, after the crew barely managed to get away from Kizaru and Akainu after a recent brush with them. He had suffered severe burns in his attempt to help the crew escape, and because you hadn’t managed to duck out of the way in time. You should have been the one to suffer those injuries, but instead Zoro’s right arm had nearly been burned all the way through. It would have been worse than that if Franky hadn’t managed to refuel the ship just in time for a coup de burst then, that allowed all of you to narrowly escape. 

Thankfully, Chopper was able to save Zoro and fix his arm — the little reindeer had told everyone that if the injury had been any deeper, he wouldn’t have been able to use his arm like before. 

You had stayed behind in the men’s quarters to wait for Zoro to wake up. You had thought carefully about what you wanted to say, to ask if he was doing okay, to thank him for saving you or you might have been dead. 

But when he woke up and relief flooded you, your thoughts went haywire and the only thing you blurted out was: 

“Why did you save me? You shouldn’t have done that.” 

You hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, or to sound that angry or frustrated with him. Zoro had done you a huge favour, but you were reacting as if he had wronged you somehow. 

It was no wonder the swordsman had responded the way he had: frowning, his tone frigid as he snapped at you to leave him alone and that he could do whatever the hell he wanted.

By then you weren’t thinking anymore, moving and speaking entirely based on the emotions you felt: a storm of worry, regret, frustration, anger coursing through your veins. You had never been one to be able to hide your emotions well, and it all showed in your voice and tightly clenched fists that shook by your sides.

The argument rapidly escalated, and it didn’t take long for the crew outside to hear the raised voices. By then the both of you were going at each other without restraint, and Usopp and Chopper had to hold you back while you yelled at Zoro for being stupid and senseless in battle, for thinking that he could protect the crew all by himself. 

That seemed to trigger something in him, and you could see his eyes turn dark as he went livid. You knew you had gone too far then, and you were about to apologise, except that you were swiftly interrupted by his next words: 

“That’s my business, not yours. Just stay out of my way.” 

Silence. A deep, heavy silence filled the room. 

You knew that it was just Zoro mouthing off in the heat of the moment, but it didn’t change the fact that the words had cut you deeper than any blade could. The inexplicable pain that bubbled up deep within your chest had you flinching, your words dying instantly on your tongue. You knew what was coming when you felt a familiar lump in your throat and moisture gathering in the back of your eyes. 

At that moment, you didn’t really know what else you could do, other than run. So without another word, you had shrugged Usopp’s grip off your arms and fled the room, the sound of the closing door cutting off the cries of your crewmates for you to wait. 

A few days had passed since then, but you still couldn’t bring yourself to look him in the eye, or even be anywhere near him. It felt like you might burst into tears if you did, and crying was the last thing you wanted to do in front of him. 

Deep down, you knew that Zoro was right. What happened to him wasn’t your business at all, and if he wanted to protect his crew at the cost of his own body, it was his choice and you couldn’t change that. Nor was it your place to tell him what he could or couldn’t do. 

The rest of the crew obviously had their share of concerns for him as well, but it seemed they had already come to accept that Zoro wouldn’t change. The stubborn swordsman had his own set of values that were pretty much set in stone and he wouldn’t budge on them. 

So fine. You would stop caring. You would stay in your lane and not give a shit about what he did with his life. After all, that was what he wanted, right? 

Except, you couldn’t, and you knew damn well the reason why. 

Zoro may be dense, but you were no fool. You knew what those butterflies stirring in your abdomen meant whenever you saw that trademark, cocky smirk of his. You knew why you would find yourself breathless and lightheaded when you got a bit too close while training with him in the crow’s nest. And you knew perfectly well the reason you had been so deeply hurt by his words, by the implication that he wanted nothing to do with you, or you with him: 

You had fallen hopelessly for this man. 

…and you didn’t know what the hell you should do with these feelings. 

For now, burying it was the only answer you could come up with. It was clear enough that romance was far from Zoro’s mind. From what you could observe, it looked like the only things he really had any interest in was training, getting stronger, protecting his friends, and his ambition to become the strongest swordsman there was. That, and drinking lots of booze.

Romance? It would only slow him down, no doubt. Serve as nothing more than a distraction from his dream. And even if romance was on the cards, Zoro clearly felt nothing for you; that much had been made clear by what he said to you a few days ago. 

In any case, you had no time to dwell on these things. It was only distracting you from the huge fight at hand. A whole fleet of navy ships had finally caught up to the Sunny, and from what you could tell, Kizaru and Akainu were back, fully intent on achieving their goal of nabbing the crew after failing once already. 

You were occupied with fending off a whole crowd of marines. While they were lower-ranked, their numbers were slowly but surely pushing you back, and before long they had already encircled you, trapping you in. 

No one else was free enough to help, each of them engaged in their own battles at the moment. From the corner of your eye you could see Zoro, struggling to keep up with the pace of Kizaru’s attacks. His movements were duller than usual, no doubt because he still hadn’t fully recovered from the last battle. It was clear that Zoro was losing ground, however, and all you could think of was that you had to back him up as soon as possible. 

Just as you fought off another few dozen marines, sending them flying into the sea with your sword, a bright gleam of light caught your attention. 

You turned in that direction, and instantly the colour drained from your face when you saw Zoro on his knees, bleeding out and his swords nowhere in sight. Kizaru loomed over him, his raised foot glowing with a blinding yellow light. 

Time seemed to move in slow motion then, and the cries of your crewmates of Zoro’s name faded into the background, muffled as if you were underwater. Mustering strength you didn’t know you possessed, you knocked back the rest of the marines in your way, clearing the path towards Zoro.

Your body acted on instinct, moving before you could even think or register what you were doing. All you knew was that you had to get to him, before it was too late. You couldn’t lose him. You just couldn’t. 

Even the thought of it was too much to bear. 

Zoro was the only person in your line of sight as you surged forward, bolting through the air with such speed that the wind fiercely resisted in your face. You dove for the floor then, shoving Zoro out of the way as far as you could. He was heavy, but you managed somehow. 

The next thing you knew, you felt a sharp pain in your abdomen, which quickly spread to the rest of your body and you couldn’t hold back the scream that tore from your lips. You had been hit, your body breaking through the wood of the deck and the sheer weight of the force knocking the wind out of you. 

It felt like an eternity before you finally took in a sharp gasp of air, and when you did, a white hot pain surged through your body and you had to bite down on your lip to keep from screaming again. 

You couldn’t muster any strength to move, only able to let out a pained whimper when you felt a pair of strong arms grabbing you, dragging you out of the broken wood and holding you against a warm chest. 

Your vision was blurry now, everything a haze, but you could still make out green hair, and that annoying face that had occupied your mind for days now. It looked like he was shouting something at you, but you couldn’t really hear him. Your consciousness was fading, and you tasted the metallic tang of blood before spitting a mouthful out onto your shirt. 

There was a hand on your cheek now, and Zoro was shaking you to keep you awake. The jerk was only making the pain worse. Still, it worked for a few seconds. 

Then the exhaustion came like a tidal wave, and you found yourself rapidly succumbing to it. 

Just before your eyes slipped close, through the small slit of light left you kept your gaze on him, offering an upward twitch of your lips — hopefully that would make things right with him, after you had chickened out of a talk with him for so long. He deserved better than this, but this was all you could offer. 

A final cry of your name rang in your ears, and then your world turned black. 

***

It had been two days. Two days since they managed to get away from the navy, and she was still in a coma, showing no signs of waking up. Chopper had to do a blood transfusion for her seeing as she had lost a lot of blood, but for some reason she still hadn’t woken up. 

Zoro was practically losing his mind from worry, and resentment at the fact that he had been stupid enough to give Kizaru the chance to attack him like that, and that she had nearly been killed while trying to save him. 

For all that training, he was still too weak to protect the people he cared about. All he could do was stay by her side while she rested in the women’s quarters, hoping that she would wake up soon. The rest of the crew was worried too of course, but they seemed hopeful enough that she would recover in no time. One by one, they had taken turns to tell him the same thing, and while it quelled his anxiety just slightly, it didn’t take away the heavy, suffocating weight on his chest each time he looked at her sleeping face. 

“Staying here and not eating isn’t going to make her wake up faster.” Nami’s voice came from the doorway, and Zoro frowned in her direction.

“Later. I’m not hungry.” 

He heard her sigh, and then the sound of her approaching footsteps.

“She’ll be worried if she sees you like this too, you know.” She stopped by the other side of the bed, placing her palm on the sleeping woman’s forehead. “I’ll watch her for now. Go get some air, and take a bath. You stink,” she added as an afterthought. 

Any other day he would have barked right back at her for that, but Zoro didn’t have the energy to argue with Nami right then. Knowing there was no way he could out-argue her, he got up and left the room, but not before casting a lingering stare at the sleeping woman over his shoulder.

He supposed he would have to wait a while before making things right with her. He just hoped it wouldn’t take too long. 

***

When you woke up, you were greeted with the familiar sight of the ceiling of the women’s quarters. Your head throbbed with a dull pain, and you winced, trying to recall what had happened.

The last thing you remembered was passing out in Zoro’s arms after taking one of Kizaru’s hits. How long had it been since then? Were the rest of your friends okay? 

Was Zoro safe? 

Remembering the state that Zoro had been in just before you dove and pushed him out of the way, panic seized you and you rushed to sit up. You weren’t able to get up all the way though, pausing when you realised your hand was caught in something.

Your eyes dropped down, widening in surprise when you realised that your fingers were interlaced with someone else’s fingers. Your gaze trailed upwards, and found Zoro resting his head on the bed, sound asleep while seated in a chair that he had placed next to your side. 

What… What was he doing here? And why the heck was he holding your hand? 

You tried pulling your hand out of his grasp, but found that his grip was a little too tight. Had Chopper assigned him here to make sure you didn’t get out of bed? 

You didn’t want to wake the man though; suddenly your bravado from before had vanished. Without the adrenaline, you were back to your pathetic, cowardly self who was too afraid to talk to him, in fear that he might discover your feelings for him. Not to mention, you didn’t want to cry; at least not in front of him. It would only make him feel bad for something that wasn’t his fault. 

Carefully and gingerly, you tried to lift his fingers and extracted your fingers from his hold, one by one. With each finger that you lifted you noticed how calloused and rough his skin had become, no doubt from the countless battles and hours of gruelling training he would subject himself to every day. You were already smiling to yourself without realising it, chest swelling with the hope that he would one day be able to achieve his dream. If it was Zoro, you knew he could do it. 

It took a few minutes, but you were eventually able to get most of your hand free without waking the swordsman. He looked exhausted, and was probably recovering from his own set of injuries as well. 

It was just when you were about to get your last finger free that his hand suddenly grabbed yours again, and then you found yourself staring into a pair of piercing brown eyes. 

Your breath caught, and you practically forgot how to breathe when Zoro sprang up, the sleepiness completely gone from his eyes. His eyes were on you, and his grip on your hand had become tighter. 

“Zoro—” You could barely get a word out, before you felt his arms encircling you, and crashing your body to his chest. 

He was warm. Big. And everything felt right. 

His hold on you was tight, caging you in completely and leaving no room for you to wriggle away. Your hands were on his chest right next to either side of your face, and against your palm you felt his strong pulse, beating about as rapidly as yours was. 

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing he said, and it was the first time you had ever heard his voice waver. Zoro, the man who was always confident, sure and brazen, had never sounded more raw, more vulnerable to you in that moment, and for a while you didn’t know how to react other than to stay still and listen to his shaky breaths. 

“I didn’t understand until you took that blow for me,” he went on, and as he did you felt his arms tighten around you, pressing you closer to him. “I shouldn’t have said that to you. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s… It’s not your fault,” you replied, as tears gathered in your eyes. Damn it, this was why you didn’t want to talk; you just knew this would happen. Thankfully, him holding you meant he couldn’t see your face, but it did mean that he would easily feel your tears through his shirt. It took every fibre of your being to hold them in. 

“I overstepped, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted that way when you just wanted to protect us, and I didn’t have the guts to talk to you about it until now, even though I know you were trying. Sorry.” 

“Quit saying that. I’m trying to apologise to you here.” 

You couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Zoro was just as grumpy as ever. 

“Why’d you do that? I could have taken it.” He was referring to Kizaru’s kick. 

You could only shrug in response. “I don’t know. My body was moving before I could think. I just… didn’t want you to get hurt.” 

“The same goes for me, you know,” he said, and those words filled you with some kind of hope. Hope that maybe he had the same feelings for you. But that was instantly crushed when he followed up with, “We’re nakama. I don’t want you getting hurt for me either.” 

It was like getting a bucket of cold water to the face. Of course, you had known it all along: Zoro only saw you as a friend. Nothing more, nothing less. At least now you knew, so your feelings could stay buried until they eventually disappeared with time. 

“But, it’s not just that.” 

You felt him pull away then, to hold you by your arms and look you in the eye. His expression was serious, and you felt your face begin to heat up under his intense stare. Instinctively, you looked away. 

“Look at me.” 

His words were commanding, and you obeyed, meeting his gaze once more. They were burning with an emotion that you couldn’t quite identify. 

“That day, when I saw you nearly get cut down, I… was afraid.” His fingers dug into your arms, and he looked downwards briefly. “I was afraid of losing you.” 

You swallowed, not quite sure where this was going. In your head, this was easy enough to rationalise. “Well, that’s because we’re nakama.”  

Zoro shook his head, the skin on his forehead crinkling with a frown. “I’ve been with the crew for a while now, and each time we had a close shave like that, I was afraid of losing them too. But this time, it was different.” His eyes returned to yours, locking onto your gaze and your parted lips. “It was different, because it was you.” 

You didn’t know what to make of that. Or rather, you knew, but you were afraid to draw that conclusion on your own, lest you get disappointed once more. 

“What… are you saying?” 

“What I’m saying is,” he responded, his lips turning up into a gentle smile, one so tender that it made your heart melt, “I have feelings for you.” 

Your heart may as well have stopped then. You blinked at him, doing a double take as you tried to register his words. Feelings? You? But what about nakama—

“I don’t expect you to return them, so don’t overthink things,” Zoro continued, cutting off your frenzied train of thought. He must have been able to tell from the confusion written all over your face. “Nothing’s going to change.”

A beat of silence passed, with neither of you saying anything. 

Eventually, Zoro found it awkward enough to clear his throat and to release your arms from his grip. “Anyway, I should get Chopper in here. He told me to let him know when you woke up.” 

The sound of the chair legs scraping against wood was the only sound in the room as he got up to leave, but he was swiftly halted in his tracks as your hand grabbed his wrist to hold him back. 

He watched wordlessly as you got off the bed, and you held back a grimace at the pain throbbing in your abdomen. You’d be an idiot if you allowed him to walk away after saying all that. His confession had been short and straight to the point, exactly the way Zoro was.

And, just like Zoro tended to do, it had also pissed you off a little, and that anger was stirring up in you a boldness that you couldn’t muster before. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

He seemed to be taken aback at the sudden ferocity in your tone, and didn’t seem to expect to be manhandled when you grabbed him by the collar without warning and yanked him towards you, until your noses were barely touching. His eyes were blown wide, and you could see his face begin to turn red from the proximity. Up close like this, you could feel his warm breaths on your face. 

“You didn’t ask me what I think,” you told him in an almost-whisper, and you watched as he swallowed, uncertainty swimming in his eyes. 

“What do you—” 

You pressed your lips to his then, cutting off whatever stupid excuse he had to say in his defence. He always did this, assuming things on his own and jumping to his own conclusions. 

Then again, you had gone ahead and done the exact same thing, so you were probably being a hypocrite. 

Not that you really cared; all that you could focus on then was his lips against yours, gentle and tender and soft. You had released your grip on his collar by then, instead resting your one hand on his hard chest while the other wrapped around his neck to pull him closer. 

Zoro didn’t show any resistance; in fact, he quite eagerly leaned into you, arms snaking around your waist to press your curves against his body and to deepen the kiss. Things slowly grew bolder, more daring as you felt his tongue sweep across the seam of your lips. You obliged, parting your lips for him and your knees nearly buckled when his tongue entered your mouth, sliding against your tongue and swallowing the soft moan that had unwittingly escaped you. 

“Zoro…”

You felt his fingers in your hair then, and with a soft pull he tipped your head back, angling your face so that he could deepen the kiss with renewed vigour. You couldn’t help but be swept along with his pace, allowing him to kiss you over and over and over, each kiss an affirmation that his confession was real, that he had wanted you just as much as you had wanted him all this time. 

The realisation had your chest swelling with joy, and there was no stopping the big smile that your lips spread into, which forced him to pull away from the kiss. Breathing heavily, Zoro rested his forehead against your head, allowing your noses to touch. 

“So tell me again, nothing’s going to change?” you taunted, licking your lips and smirking at the man. 

“Heh.” With a chuckle and a devilish grin that made you almost forget how to breathe, Zoro lowered his lips towards yours once more. 

“I guess this is something I could get used to.” 

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Am I the only one who thinks that Jamil was being a hypocrite in Chapter 6? Man's really told Leona "nobody understands me" and "you don't know what I've been through" when literally every overblot victim has been through shit.

I’m pretty sure that most agree that Jamil’s being a hypocrite. No one has said he wasn’t one. And you know what? I think that was the point. It was written that way on purpose.

None of us fans really seriously wail on Jamil (or on other characters) for being a hypocrite because that kind of behavior is to be expected of him/them. We were told at the very beginning of TWST that NRC’s students are often self-serving and think more of themselves than of others, and that they don’t care to accept help from their peers. It’s unrealistic to think these boys would be better people when not even a full year of time has passed to allow for them to sit and reflect on their actions. Like… it can sometimes take several years’ worth of therapy to come to that realization of, “oh, well maybe I fucked up in that situation or I said something insensitive to person B”.

This is all a normal part of their journies of self-discovery and growth. Of course they’re going to deflect blame and worry about themselves first and foremost. Those aren’t always healthy coping mechanisms by any means, but it’s been made clear time and time again these characters are still works in progress when it comes to thinking beyond just themselves and opening up to others. A large part of Jamil’s hypocrisy, for example, comes from a fixation on his own past instead of stopping to consider the situation Leona may be in. Trauma can box you in and make you feel like you’re alone, like no one can relate to you. Maybe you fee so defeated you already anticipate not being heard out (which is entirely believable for Jamil, who has been talked down to his whole life and told to be servile). Then when you have nothing else to compare to (I doubt Jamil is cognizant of Leona/the other OB boys’ pasts in detail, nor how much he has in common with Leona until they actually had a conversation), of course his own problems are magnified or seem so much worse.

There’s a lot of different psychological factors entangled in this. What’s most important is to not dismiss the hypocrisy, but to understand it as an integral part of a character and their background and personality.

[drdemonprince]

Dear dr. Price,

A follower pointed out your book Unmasking Autism to me and said it was a life-saver. I have put in on my birthday wishes list.

According to lists on the net, I am supposed to reflect on whether I am behaving in a way that is aims at others' needs or my own and so on. This is precisely my problem. I am closer to 50 than to 40 and have probably been masking for over 40 years. How can I know what type of behaviour is learnt? What is ingrained? Is it possible that I have passed the window where I can still find natural conduct?

If you could see your way clear to answer my concern, I should be much obliged.

Kind regards,

Maarten

Hi Maarten!

Thank you so much for your question. While I understand deeply the desire to try and sort out which elements of yourself are naturally you and which elements are learned behaviors linked to a lifetime of trauma, in actuality there is no separating them. There is only one you. You have only lived one life, and it was the (at times very challenging and invalidating) life that you had. Humans are social beings, it almost makes as little sense to thing of humans in individual terms as it does to discuss ants without talking about colonies. Who we are is social, interpersonal, relational, and interactive.

The good news about that, however, is that who we are and how we feel can change, so long as our circumstances do. To some degree, masking and inhibition may always feel natural to you. I've been utterly fixated on unmasking both personally and professionally for years now, and while I've opened up a lot and learned many communication skills, my default mode of operating is still always to clench up. I will probably carry that reflex inside me for all of my life. That reflex has helped me. That reflex has saved me a great many times. It's just also hurt me and cost me a ton. And these days I try to accept all of that, and accept myself as the mutable, fragile, self-protective, sensitive being that I am.

I think it is far easier to focus on small behaviors and desires (and not-desires) than it is to worry too much about who we "really are" who we "would have been" in a completely alternate reality where we hadn't suffered the experiences that we have. Thinking about a fully liberated and unfiltered alternate self is enticing, I fantasize about who I'd have been in a better world all the time, but that person does not exist, and never did, and never ever would have.

Neurotypical are harmed by neuro-conformity pressures too. Capitalism, white supremacy, and the gender binary restrict how all people behave today pretty severely. Nobody lives fully free right now. This might sound bleak, but it's also a fact that unites us, and thinking about it gives me some hope. It helps me realize that I'm not uniquely boxed inside myself and separated from other people -- I'm suffering from the exact same forces that all people do, just in my own way.

I'm not uniquely broken. Neither are you. But we are irrevocably shaped by our life experiences. Instead of trying to change who we are, or find some inner true self, which is a daunting task, I think that instead, we can just practice saying no to things that make us uncomfortable, asking for the changes to our environment that we do need in order to feel comfortable, sharing what we feel, and taking time regularly to take stock of our lives and figure out what it is that we want and we wish for. It starts small.

Little phrases like "I don't like that," "I don't feel good," "I'm not interested in talking about that," "I'm going to go do something else," "Here's what i believe," "I don't agree with you," "I really need [thing]," and "I want to build a life with more room for [thing] in it" are some places to start. Truly, the more you get in the practice of saying such things, the better you get at noticing how you are feeling, and the more feelings and wants and not-wants you become able to self advocate for. It's not about becoming a new person, or throwing off the mask in one go. It's a skill, and anyone can develop a skill. You might as well make the rest of your life better. No amount of suffering in the past condemns you to needing to feel shitty about your desires forever.

[signiorbenedickofpadua]

"lecturing" for the wip game! xo @hardly-an-escape

Certainly, my dear ❤️ I believe I've described the premise once before, but I'll give you a little recap anyway as well as a snippet! Perhaps this will somehow help this poor fic get out of WIP hell... I know how I want it to end, but I just can't figure out whether to throw some smut in the middle or just...skip it, uncharacteristically enough... A wise reader may at this point ask, "Why don't you just write the ending first then and decide later if you feel like calling it done or if you want to add a sex scene?" Well. That's a good question. Hm. I'll have to think on that.

So, anyway, it's a human AU wherein Professor!Hob (well, lecturer, technically) holds a series of intro lectures on Literary History. A certain tall, dark mysterious stranger sits in the front row every week without fail, watching and listening very intently. Of course, Hob does his best to ignore how attractive this guy is, because god dammit he's trying to be a better person these days and hooking up with his students does not help with that. Except...is he actually a student...? *the soundtrack in the background turns mysterious*

You may find out if you read the snippet below and also PART TWO and PART THREE since several of you asked about this WIP! (List of titles in the og WIP game post here.)

PART ONE

Part of the problem was that the man always sat in the front row, thus giving Hob far too good of a view of his full body, which was just as unfairly gorgeous as his face. His proclivity for the skinniest of jeans did nothing to help Hob in he Sisyphean task of keeping his eyes away, nor did the fact that he kept looking right back.

Of course, Hob was lecturing, and so it was to be expected that his students would look at him when he talked, but he also expected them to look away at least some of the time. At their notebooks or laptops as they took notes, for example, which this bloke never ever seemed to do. Sure, it was not an advanced course by any definition, and he might have a good memory, or was one of those people who preferred not to distract themselves with taking notes during lectures, instead refreshing his memory by studying at home later. Or perhaps he didn’t care about getting more than a barely passing grade for a basic course like this—except he appeared to be paying rapt attention at all times. It was likely this intense focus which made it so hard for Hob to just ignore him. He had taught plenty of good-looking people throughout his career, and it had never been a problem until now. He was quite practised at turning off the part of the brain that noticed such things, and, even when he did notice, it normally didn’t fluster him like this. The man just had a…a weight to his gaze, somehow. His pale eyes were piercing, and Hob could practically feel them boring into him even when his back was turned. He also believed that he had caught them wandering over his body every so often—lingering on his arms when he rolled his sleeves up to combat the heat of a fully packed and poorly ventilated classroom, homing in on the sliver of tummy skin exposed as he had to stretch up to turn the projector on with a pointer when the damn remote control malfunctioned again, and fixating on the hint of chest hair visible that one time he had accidentally left one too many buttons undone on his shirt. He really, really wished that he had not noticed any of this, because the only thing worse than being attracted to a student was being attracted to a student who reciprocated. Fortunately, the man had done nothing to indicate that he intended to actually make a move on Hob, which was some small consolation. In fact, many tortuous weeks passed without him saying a single a word, never raising his hand to answer one of Hob’s questions or ask one of his own, never approaching him after lectures with queries about the curriculum or the final exam, never even talking to his classmates. All he did was sit there, in the same place every time (front row, third seat from the right), silently staring at Hob while nursing a cup of coffee from Bennie’s café two buildings over. Then, every week without fail, he quietly slipped out of the room exactly five minutes before the time was up and the lecture ended, presumably to rush to some other lecture on a tight schedule. Hob could only hope that he checked the information he put up online about suggested reading and the end-of-term examination, since he never stayed to hear Hob’s reminders at the end of the lectures.

[angelosearch]

A quick little meditation I wrote on why it is so painful to update my resume. I may delete this later because I might turn it into a larger personal essay piece.

It is 10:35 am and I am sitting in front of my laptop’s brutally large screen, fixating on the thin line the blinks on the document in front of me.

The document is my résumé, circa December 2021.

That was two years. That was one hospital stay, three intensive outpatient programs, and a two month stay in residential care ago. That was two jobs ago. The person reflected in this document represents an ideal self that I no longer aspire to embody: A girl, reeling from the reckoning of her CPTSD, hanging on the vestiges of a career that constantly reminded her of her flaws and insignificance.

And in that torrent of criticism and mistreatment, she felt at home. Her jobs became her family. If she could just be enough, then they would see her, then they would understand that she shouldn’t have to push herself to the brink of mania to earn their love. But even when they did try to claim she was talented, she twisted the words into lies and duties. This was the bare minimum. This is what she had to do. She was not worthy of real admiration.

Yet, she constantly kept trying to outrun one family to try to find one that would treat her differently, somehow without altering the contract of her contact. This document is a map of that attempt of escape, littered with sparkling phrases like “proficient in project management” and “developed effective marketing strategy.” Do any of these phrases truly fit what she has done? Is anything she has ever accomplished impressive in any way?

“Has anyone ever believed in you in your entire life?” One boss once asked her.

The question from the democratic ex-mayoral candidate turned marketing director caused her to spin out.

If they have, I’ve never recognized it—for all words in a language that you do not speak sound like gibberish the first time you hear them.

This man made her feel as though he believed in her, and she said as much on one autumn morning in the lobby of a hotel in Phoenix, Arizona where they had just pulled off a successful presentation as exhibitors at a conference.

But she required too much patience and too much medical leave when her illness reached its peak. He fired her on the phone while a messy medication transition left her unable to move for several days. He did so subtly that she had no idea she had lost her job, her purpose, until human resources called and explained how to return her computer.

That’s the last entry on the résumé.

I am changing this document to capture a version of myself who belongs in an Art Therapy graduate program. It reads like an obituary for a woman who knew nothing of setting boundaries or connecting with her inner child.

If she is not dead, I’d like to kill her.

But how can I shape this disparate smattering of “wear a lot of hats” skills into something that resembles the creativity, compassion, and emotional intelligence required of an Art Therapist?

Résumé and resume are such similar words in the English language that the modern spelling of the former word has dropped it’s accents to be more easily written online. To resume is to pick up after a pause—but I have always been told negative space in your work history is unacceptable.

But despite that, I am resuming. This isn’t even my first period of resume.

It’s funny how those gaps on your résumé are seen as something negative. I’ve learned more, and more valuable, things in the times between my jobs than I ever did in them. I cannot explain it in bullet points or with stop and end dates, but I do have experience with creativity and compassion and emotional intelligence. I’ve sat on a couch instead of an office chair and I’ve grabbed tissues instead of leaflets. I talked a woman, frightened and in chronic pain, through her first few days of residential care. I’ve been told my capacity for vulnerability makes space for others.

Can I list the applause I got from my peers as I left the treatment center as professional recognition?

No. We all must come to our places of work as unbroken things who swear their lives to the job. We get paid to lie about not just being there to be paid. The only true passion you must clock in for is the passion to stay alive.

I hope that the world of Art Therapy is different, but upfront I must pretend that I have an acceptable amount of trauma and valuable work experiences.  It’s makeup over a scar on my neck that looks like a hickey—an undeniable part of me too easily misunderstood to be revealed at the offset.

The true contents of what may make me good at my job may never be revealed to my colleagues, peers, or clients, and certainly will not be quantified on this document.

And so I move sections around on my resume like puzzle pieces and hope it matches the picture on the box.

[lilnasxvevo]

I was on the incel wiki bc one of you losers cross posted a greentext that mentioned negative canthal tilt and I was like “what the fuck is that” and looked it up and didn’t notice that the result I clicked on was incel wiki instead of regular Wikipedia right away bc the themes are very similar. And the article on canthal tilt on incel wiki is surprisingly even-handed so I did a little poking around on the rest of the site to see if it was somehow similarly reasonable and it largely was not.

The reason Toulouse-Lautrec on the homepage made me scream was just. 1) I severely doubt he would identify with incels/as an incel if he was made aware of the movement and 2) I severely doubt he would want That to be the main thing literally anybody on earth knew/remembered him for. Also I am not a Toulouse-Lautrec expert but I don’t think that’s even true. A quick glance at his Wikipedia page shows that he did have at least one legit actual girlfriend in his life. Especially for artists of the era, just because someone hangs out with sex workers a lot doesn’t mean no one wants to date them.

They go on to list Van Gogh as an incel as well which is nonsense. Certainly there was a long period of time in his adult life where he does not seem to have had a partner of any kind but he had so much shit going on that this also doesn’t seem to have been even in his top 20 most pressing personal problems. He may fit some people’s definition of “incel” but the idea that he’d particularly identify with the movement is, again, absurd.

If incels want a poster boy it would be much more logical to find a historical figure who actually wrote or complained about how difficult never being able to find a partner was for them emotionally and the negative impact this had on them. None particularly come to mind, except idk, maybe Petrarch? John Donne? But incels don’t strike me as the kind of people who read very widely, because to me it’s just such an ignorant, self-obsessed movement. I think if incels did things besides thinking about how single they are, they wouldn’t be Like That. For your primary obsession in life to be, essentially, the fact that you can’t control what other people think of you, I think you must be living a life that is tragically very limited, and for most of them I think most of those limits are self-imposed.

This is all speaking about incels as a broad movement and not the very specific Reddit-style incel who are violently misogynist and obsessed with dividing the world into Chads and Stacys and such. I’m just speaking to the very basic definition of making the fact that your dating life is not going well a major facet of your personality.

I think the reason I assume incels don’t read is because many of them act as though they invented loneliness. If they read more widely they would know that pretty much everyone is lonely at least at some point in their lives, and that even the beautiful people, even the rich people, even the charismatic people have significant troubles trying to find someone who will love them romantically.

And like. In my experience if you read ten novels at random, at least three of them will be by profoundly lonely people. And I think that knowing you are not alone in your loneliness makes it much easier to not fixate on it. So I sort of just think that incels should read a book. Nearly any book will do.

[badge-does-stuff]

I rewrote Hades and His Small Friends... 😳

There are some pretty big changes! You can check out the first chapter under the cut :)

REBLOGS + COMMENTS > LIKES

One of our main protagonists, a 41-year-old man named Hades, walks down the street calmly. He’s quite impressed with his look for today—he didn’t shave the stubble and he thinks it suits him (…nobody agrees; don’t tell him). He is on the way to his favourite coffee shop. It’s been forever since he’s seen Cashier Boy and Barista Girl (the brother and sister that work there).

It’s been so long, in fact, that he forgets he has to take a right turn instead of a left. 

He ends up in a wide alley, strewn with garbage. There’s graffiti on the walls of the redbrick apartments that make up the sides, and he can't help but stare at the colours. His eyes soon fixate on a person smoking a Camel.

They look young, and not much older than 20. They are sitting on an old yellow couch someone has thrown out. They seem familiar…

"Hey, kid," Hades calls. The person looks up. "Wait. Rocky?" 

"Hades?" 

"What’s happened to you?" Hades asks, running his hand through his (greasy) black hair. 

"Mom kicked me out," he calls back. "I’ve been here for a few days."

"Hera did what? Why?"

"Well, I got kicked out of uni. And I lost my job. Make of that what you will."

"And your dad was fine with this sudden change of events?"

"I… may have told Mom about his assistant, too."

Hades scoots over and claps Rocky on the back. "I taught you right. Good kid."

He laughs. "Safe to say Mom’s reaction was… a little different."

"Well, regardless, I’m proud of you, kid. You need help, yeah? Place to stay, an’ all that?" 

Rocky nods. "If it’s not too much."

"I got you. Don’t worry, dude. Have you been praying?"

"Nah. I haven’t, for a while. Not since a few months ago."

"No wonder, kid. We’ll work on it." 

Hades takes a second to look at Rocky. He’s in an oversized, yellowy-beige puffer jacket over an Arctic Monkeys t-shirt, grey sweatpants and—are those Crocs? They will be doing some shopping later on.

"Not to mention, you’ve been wearing Crocs for the past week and you’re still spending money on cigarettes? Look at me." Rocky’s eyes reluctantly meet Hades’. "Drop it. You are twenty-three years old and you know those hurt you."

"Fine. And, for the record, I stole a pack from Mom and Dad before I left."

"That’s no better." Hades gestures out to the busy street behind them. Rocky follows hesitantly, wincing as they step out into the sunlight that manages to completely vanish in the alley. 

Hades guides him down the sidewalk as he waves to the regular vendors and neighbours and such. It really has been a while; Joey’s Hawt Dawg stall has moved several feet to the left.

Once they get to the coffee shop that Hades is a regular at, called The Right Stuff, Barista Girl and Cashier Boy wave. They are wearing their uniform; a dark grey collared shirt with a name tag pinned on, a black apron of sorts and a white tie. As always, Cashier Boy has tied his tie wrong. Nobody seems to notice or care, so Hades doesn’t point it out.

"Mr. Hades! It’s been so long!" Cashier Boy calls from behind the counter. He has light brown, floppy hair and a piercing in his left ear. 

Barista Girl and Cashier Boy both got their jobs at the same time a few years back. Their first customer was Hades, and he is also their favourite. 

"Yes, yes. Work has been busy recently, so I haven’t got the chance to step out for a walk. I’ve brought my nephew today, though. His name is Rocky. Rocky, Barista Girl and Cashier Boy. Barista Girl and Cashier Boy, Rocky." 

Hades was never the best at introductions.

"Hi. I’m Rocky. Or Rocky." Rocky waves. Cashier Boy waves back. 

"I’m not really named Cashier Boy. My name is Lionel. This is my sister, Eleanor." Cashier Boy gestures to a girl who’s just returned from the coffee makers, matching his brown hair but hers is chin-length and curlier. She also dyed it pink, but it is fading, and barely visible. She waves as well. 

"Wonderful. I can already see you becoming the best of friends. I will have a vanilla latte, extra whipped cream and- do you still do the little sprinkles? The chocolate ones?" Lionel nods. "Those, please. Rocky? Your order?" Hades gestures upward toward a screen displaying an array of fancy, caffeinated drinks. 

The 'Fresh Fruit Juice' section appears to be more appealing, however. "I’ll get a strawberry lemonade, please," Rocky decides. 

"Alrighty." Lionel taps the cash register and goes to serve another customer.

"Rocky, let’s find a table? Is right here okay?" Hades gestures to a nearby table that seems significantly less sticky than the other ones available.

Rocky nods and sits down. He watches the customer Eleanor pauses to greet, who happens to be a regular with whom she went to school and "hasn’t seen in ages." 

Hades flicks a spare crumb from the cool black metal. 

A few minutes later, he checks his watch and sighs. "Hey, kid. The plan is to head back to mine, but I’ve gotta go back home tomorrow. You wanna come and see Seph?" Hades starts to stand up, prodding Rocky’s arm lightly. Rocky startles, blinking back into reality. 

"Aw, yeah, definitely. It’s been way too long since I’ve seen her." Rocky leads Hades over to the counter, where their orders are ready. Rocky takes a sip and sighs. "Wow. Good job. I see why Hades loves this place. Whoa." He turns back towards Hades. "Right, Hades, how often do you come here?"

"It depends on work. Most of the time ends up being a couple nights every few weeks. I’ll let you know whenever I’m heading over." Rocky seems more relaxed with this, so Hades takes it as a sign to say goodbye and head out. 

[weirdthoughtsandideas]

Which DCLA character would you say is neurodivergent?

I've always been unsure if I could say a lot about it, as I am what I know, neurotypical. However, I have a lot of research and knowledge about the topic, as I've for quite a long time wondered if perhaps I am neurodivergent (it would explain a lot of things). I also know a lot of neurodivergent people irl and online, and I've related to a lot of things. However, with that in mind, I have had thought about several dcla characters possibly being neurodivergent.

First one is Jade. The way Jade always gets treated like she's dumb. Like she doesn't get it. Like she can't take care of herself at all and everyone else needs to tell her what to do. Just because her brain works differently than most, just because she takes longer to understand, just because she has a hard time reading social cues... she's not stupid! Her interests are also treated as stupid, "oh she doesn't know anything but fashion and makeup" I just??? Remember when Jade had her nail art business? SHE WAS THRIVING. Stupid Matias is like "you gotta find a good job" and Jade is treated as "lazy" for not having a job (as if he didn't even try to search for one during an entire season). But hey dude, have you heard that, perhaps not everyone can work a full-time job, cause it gets too overwhelming for them? Of course, this does not necessarily mean they're neurodivergent, but in Jade's case... she works a lot better with her part-time job as a nail artist and she's GOOD at it and she makes people HAPPY - not to mention when she starts working as an opera singer. The real stupid and lazy one here is Matias and he should get tf away from his sister. Idk if this was a good explanation to why I like the neurodivergent hc on her, as I just kind of went on a rant.

Ofc we have Ludmila too. Astronomy hyperfixation. Can and will infodump about stars and space every day all the time and that's so slay of her honestly <3

Can not go without mentioning Luna, obviously. I fully support the hc of her having ADHD. Not only with her hyperactivity and extreme fixation on roller skating, to the point where she somehow falls asleep with them despite having her room on the top floor, but also the way she out of nowhere switches subjects and is shown at times to have signs of hypersensitivity (I don't have concrete examples right now, but I thought about it when watching the show)

Both Andres and Jazmin are presented more neurodivergent-coded, and sadly it's another case of them being treated like they're dumb. I don't really like that the shows are doing stuff like this, tbh the dcla shows do have a problem with ableism. Not only with neurodivergence, but also with characters having dementia, schizophrenia, etc. Even if it's just coded or canon, they're played for laughs.

A Bia character I wondered might be nd is Zeta, Pietro's cousin. He's presented as being addicted to video games and being on his phone. But it may be more than that. The way he doesn't like to to talk to the others, the way he feels very uncomfortable when his devices are taken away and just how no one seems to truly get him. They try to get him to act like them instead of, perhaps, trying to see more of his perspective. Honestly, the way the show presented it, and the way he even got a psychologist, I thought they were actually gonna do some kind of nd storyline with "oh, he acts like this for a reason, he acts differently than everyone else cause of this". But then it was just an "oh he's addicted to video games and we need to stop his addiction" storyline instead?

There's also some characters that are more of "they don't necessarily have to be nd, but I did notice some signs".

Like how Nina is infodumping a lot of whatever she has read or heard. A lot of statistics, a lot of "it needs to be logical". Also I like the idea of her and Luna being nd besties.

Ámbar I remember once starting to explain how she has a system to make everything work in her life. She needs to roller skate, cause if she doesn't, she might not be as focused in school, which means she might not be able to get top scores. Everything in her life needs to have a structure and if it doesn't, she can't function. This is a little harder to pinpoint and doesn't necessarily mean anything, but I thought of it.

There's also Camila. With her it's legit just vibes, not any real explanation to why.

So there you have it. I don't know if I explained well, or if I perhaps can't say as much about it, but as I have thought about it I figured I could share my thoughts.

[wickedanddeadly]

Sam Winchester's Bio

" You want to know what I confessed in there? What my greatest sin was? It was how many times I let you down. I can’t do that again. "

Sam is usually kind, empathetic, intelligent, and independent. He is often the exasperated voice of reason in his relationship with Dean, who in turn sees him as a geek or prude, and teasingly calls him "Bitch," to which Sam usually responds with "Jerk." He doesn’t drink alcohol as much as Dean does and has a much healthier diet than his brother. Sam also has a phobia of clowns, due to his brother often leaving him at Plucky Pennywhistle's Magical Menagerie when they were children. This is not helped by the fact that every time they have encountered a clown, it has tried to kill them.

Because of his intelligence, Sam is usually assigned the role of researching information for hunts - he is the "brain," whilst Dean is the "muscle." He normally remembers details that Dean overlooks and is prone to make connections quicker than his brother. He also knows a great deal of information that causes Dean to label him a "walking encyclopedia of weirdness." In college, Sam scored a 174 out of 180 on his LSAT. Sam has looked up to Dean since they were children and knows him better than anyone else. He tries to get Dean to open up about his emotions and problems, encouraging him to take care of himself - on several occasions, he has even been frustrated by his brother's fixation on placing Sam's well-being above his own. However, Sam shows similar protective tendencies towards Dean, particularly after Dean makes his deal and returns from Hell as a shadow of who he used to be, to the point that Sam's memories of Dean allowed him to regain control of his body while possessed by Lucifer. Sam tends to be driven by feelings of anger and vengeance.

As a teenager and even as a young man, he argued with his father constantly whenever they were together. Sam wanted to live a normal "apple pie" life instead of continuing to hunt, which led to most of his arguments with John and his estrangement from his family. However, Dean once stated that despite his own best efforts to be like John - liking the same music, clothes, and cars - being the good son, the soldier, and the Hunter - Sam always has been and always will be more like John than he is. Sam and John clash and argue so much because they are so similar. Sam does not take this as a compliment, and it is clear that while Dean truly idolized his father, both boys are not always overly fond of their father due to his secrets, mysterious actions, and his strict treatment and upbringing of his sons.

After Jessica's death, Sam became fixated on vengeance but still held out hope for eventually returning to Stanford. Sam was more focused on finding Jessica's killer than he was on following John's instructions on which hunts to take, something that often put him at odds with Dean. He was obsessed with revenge and was even willing to sacrifice his life to kill Azazel, although he ultimately proved that he valued Dean's life over the demon's death.

After John's death, Sam focused all his attention on hunting instead of returning to a normal life. He felt guilt for angrily confronting his father in his final moments and for not realizing that he had been planning on sacrificing himself. Sam put all his energy into doing what he thought John would want him to and kept trying to get Dean to deal with their father's death in a healthy way. After the reveal of John's ultimatum to Dean and the discovery of the other "special children," Sam became terrified that he would somehow turn evil. He made Dean promise to kill him if anything were to happen. Sam was killed (metaphorically and literally stabbed in the back) because he refused to murder another human being, but when Dean brought him back to life by selling his soul, Sam killed his murderer without hesitation. Azazel implied to Dean that since he was resurrected by a demon deal, he may not truly be "100 percent pure Sam," which Dean would also come to question himself when Sam killed Casey when Dean told him to stop, as he wanted her alive. After finding out Dean had made the demon deal, Sam declared that he would save his brother no matter what.

Following Dean's death and condemnation to Hell, Sam became so fixated on avenging his brother and killing Lilith that he almost turned himself into a monster. Due to his grief at Dean's death, the demon Ruby was able to manipulate Sam into a sexual relationship and convinced him to start drinking demon blood, claiming it was the only way he would be able to avenge his brother. Sam drank so much that he became an addict. Even after Dean returned, Sam was unwilling to let the desire for vengeance go and he continued the affair in secret. Sam was repeatedly warned by Dean that he was making mistakes, but he disregarded their advice, believing that he was the only one who could stop Lilith from releasing Lucifer.

Sam felt extremely guilty over his role in freeing and spent a large portion of his time trying to make amends. He also took responsibility in his part of starting the apocalypse. Sam confessed that he always felt angry and he didn't know why - as well as the fact that he tended to blame other people for his anger , instead of accepting it as a personal flaw. Sam's desire to set things right finally culminated in him sacrificing himself to save the rest of the world, throwing himself into the Cage with Lucifer and Michael in order to protect his brother. It was thought that Sam would be trapped in the Cage forever, but Sam didn’t remain in the Cage for long before he was pulled out by and Angel and placed back on earth, alive… but without his soul.

Sam reveals himself to Dean, and they begin hunting again. However, Sam's behavior markedly deviated from what was typical for him - he leaves Dean to live with the Braeden’s while he hunts with Samuel Campbell for a year, letting Dean think he's still in Hell, spends the night with a prostitute, and most peculiarly, lets Dean get turned into a vampire to find a nest. Even his overall demeanor is different, being much calmer and more collected than before, even when greeting Dean after being separated for a year, he did so as if he just saw his brother the previous day. This leads Dean to momentarily believe Sam was still possessed by Lucifer. It’s then found out that whilst Sam’s body and mind are not in the Cage, his soul is. During the time that Sam was soulless he lacked empathy and behaved like a sociopath. Without any emotions or sense of morality, he was often willing to overlook the deaths of civilians as collateral damage, such as urging Dean to snipe the Skinwalker pack leader despite there being innocent people in the way and killing all the Arachne victims with the rationale that it would take too long to get them to hospital, which was an extreme departure from Sam's normal desire to help people and protect the innocent. He was also much ruder and snarkier than. He was reckless and impulsive, and in turn being more seductive than before, sleeping with a lot more women than he typically would, as well as being more aggressive, killing a demon aiding them solely on suspicion of his possible betrayal and beating Sheriff Atkins upon being caught out for impersonating FBI. Sam also felt nothing for any of his loved ones, telling Dean point blank that he didn't care about him, he even tried to murder Bobby in an attempt to prevent his soul from being returned to his body. After his soul was reunited with him, Sam again felt great remorse for his actions and spent the rest of the time struggling to make up for what his soulless self-had done.

Sam decides to pray to God for guidance. When struck by visions of the Cage and of his dead father Sam becomes heavily determined to seek Lucifer out, against Dean's better judgment. He even goes to Hell without waiting for Dean to join him. Sam briefly expresses horror when Lucifer reveals that he was the origin of the visions, not God. Lucifer goes so far to point out that from the time they fought at Stull Cemetery, Sam has grown increasingly weak, citing his decision not to seek Dean out when the latter was trapped in Purgatory. Lucifer reveals that Sam's guilt over abandoning Dean in Purgatory for a regular life with Amelia Richardson has filled Sam with such guilt that he can't bring himself to lose Dean again which is why he allowed Dean to talk him out of "boarding up Hell." Sam later admits to Dean that he agrees how he should have searched for him and is surprised to learn that Dean has long ago forgiven him for his actions.

Sam is unable to brush aside Lucifer's various lies and not say "yes." Sam’s guilt over him constantly disappointing his brother was eating him alive him the inside out. He couldn’t live with the thought that his stupid actions and mistakes were going to end up getting Dean killed that he could no longer live with himself. No matter how much shit he got himself into Dean was always there to pull him out of it and that was the very thing that was going to get Dean killed – cleaning up after Sam’s messes. Behind Dean’s back Sam went back to the Cage and struck a deal with Lucifer. Sam agreed to say yes and let Lucifer jump back a board as long as he promised Dean’s safety – that Dean would be able to go on and live a normal life without the worry of his little brother getting him killed and Lucifer happily agreed because once again freed from his cage.

As of December 2021: Sam has fallen back to his demon blood drinking ways, but tries to keep it underwraps from everyone, while trying to balance a "normal" life for himself and his loved ones. He's also cut loose and indulged in more dangerous types of activites due to hanging out with the Lost Boys.

Powers and Abilities

Master Hunting Skills Master Hand-to-Hand Combatant Master Marksman Master Swordsman High Level Intelligence Intimidation Leadership Qualities Multilingualism High Pain Tolerance Exorcism Archangel Containment Top Physical Conditioning Weaknesses

Teleportation Mortality Magic Basic stats

Height: 6'5" Hair: Dark Brown Eyes: Hazel Relations

Marie Morningstar-Winchester ( Wife ) Luke Mendoza ( Stepson ) Zoe Bryce ( Sister In Law ) Tatum Bryce ( Niece ) Leon Hawthorne ( Future Nephew In Law / Hunting Partner) Zoey Dolan ( Sister In Law ) Colin Mason Bryce ( Brother In Law ) Sonya Alexander Logan ( Mother In Law ) Gunner Logan ( Father In Law ) Judas Logan ( Brother In Law) Drake Alexander ( Grandfather ) Dean Winchester ( Brother ) Face Claim: Jared Padalecki

[gergerfdgr]

The rotten core of gun violence in America

As I was leaving this year’s Super Bowl parade in Kansas City, I debated whether to attend the rally afterward. Because I had gone to the rally last year, I stopped by my house to see my mom and watch the parade coverage on the local news.

In the hours that followed, I watched in numbed horror as a space of joy and celebration, one I had just been a part of, devolved into panicked chaos. Multiple people exchanged gunfire, wounding several and killing Lisa Lopez-Galvan, a local mother and DJ.

I received multiple messages from friends asking if I was safe and alive. I want to say I couldn’t have ever fathomed receiving such messages, but I had fully anticipated it to happen at some point in my life. I expect to receive more at some point in the future.

The community conversations that followed served as the next iteration of the same tired conversation about this crisis we have been having for years. Some blamed it on the guns and their defenders; others blamed it on gangs and stupid choices; others still blamed it on mental illness, and so on.

If we’re still having these same conversations, this problem isn’t reducible to any one combination of these things. If we are to make progress on gun violence in this country, we need to interrogate the core of this crisis.

America has a disturbing fixation on guns. We have nearly 400 million of them in civilian hands alone – more than one firearm per person in America.

What many fail to consider is that, historically, as with many punitive laws, gun control legislation has been disproportionately applied to Black people and Black communities.

Still, we do have a profoundly bizarre attachment to our weapons. This attachment is unique amongst our economic peers and supported by our powerful gun lobby, preventing even the most basic regulations — but only to the extent that it affects white people.

Others argue that guns don’t kill without someone there to pull the trigger.

There are roughly 21,000 gun-related homicides annually as of 2021, showing petty gun crime, even among registered firearm owners, kills.

The solution isn’t more punitiveness. That created this problem in the first place.

Rhetoric about gangs and gang violence is often an excuse to warehouse Black people in prisons rather than to protect people in communities with significant gun violence.

After all, there are plenty of legitimate reasons someone may want to acquire a gun.

Others still will call mass shootings the work of sick individuals and call for more mental health treatment.

This isn’t a crisis caused by the pathology of just a few people: sick individuals don’t exist in a vacuum outside of the conditions that created them.

Even then, people with mental illnesses are often more of a danger to themselves than others. It is important to remember that more than half of gun deaths in the U.S. annually are suicides.

If the solution to this crisis were reducible to any one of these dimensions, we would not be stuck having the same cliché conversations every time a massacre occurs.

This crisis is not the product of something on the surface; it is attributable to a deep rot within the system that produced it. Our gun culture is a direct product and extension of our broader culture.

To solve the crisis, we need to ask ourselves uncomfortable questions about what could enable and empower someone to justify a shooting, what has been normalized that should not be, what is a given person’s relationship to guns and what structures of power allow this crisis to continue unabated.

Without directly addressing the individualistic, avaricious, crumbling society in which these massacres take place, we are treating the symptoms, not the infection.

I am tired of bearing witness to these massacres. If you are too, the next time news of one breaks, rather than put it through the motions and move on, instead, if you can, take the time to consider how such a thing is made possible. Dig out the rotten core and end our perpetual massacre.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I thought Rook's personality is what caused him having not much appeal and on top of that his haircut was just ugly... Idk, if he wasn't so worshipful towards Vil (and anything beautiful for that matter) and so freaking stalk-ish/creepy maybe he would have more appeal and we could look past his haircut... At least this is why I don't like Rook 🥲

[Referencing this post!]

In the original post, I was strictly talking about Rook’s looks contributing to why people don’t like him. Of course his personality is also a large part of why he isn’t super well liked, but again, I purposefully only discussed his looks in that context. His appearance is the first thing fans will see, and it contributes to their perception of him as a “silly” character before he even opens his mouth.

I think having a character that is “obsessed” with another one is… very risky for any writer. There are very real pitfalls associated with these kinds of characters, such as the audience finding them annoying, or the characters being perceived as solely defined by their overattachment to another person. I believe these are big reasons as to why Rook and Sebek are not that popular; there are many that claim that their devotion to Vil and Malleus (respectively) is irritating to read, and that they have nothing else to their personalities other than worshipping the ground their dorm leaders walk on 💦 It's this type of aversion that doesn't make people want to see beyond what Rook and Sebek initially present themselves as (ie hardcore "fanboys"), sometimes even assuming the worst of them due to this limited perception. For example, it's a commonly held sentiment in the fandom that "Vil and Malleus are annoyed by/hate Rook and Sebek" when the lore doesn't really indicate that this is true. At best, Vil and Malleus may be mildly annoyed by things they do or correct their manners when they act out in public--however, this is not equivalent to hate.

Another thing that sometimes gets mentioned (and was brought up in the ask as well) is that Rook has an obsession with "all things beautiful", which... is both true and not true. Rook is fixated on beauty, yes--but he doesn't find interest ONLY in beautiful things. Rather, he is able to see everything as beautiful, even tough situations or things traditionally considered ugly or negative. This is a strength of his that often gets overlooked, either because he isn't taken seriously ("haha funny French man") or because the immediate trait people notice isn't this but instead his habit of stalking. Rook definitely has his own unsavory characteristics (and there are times when his devotion is waaay too much), so I understand why he's considered so off-putting. I was in that camp myself for the first several months playing TWST! However, I do urge you to try and see his positive points as well! You don't have to necessarily like him, but I think it's really important to see both the bad and the good in characters.

[jonathancruzshi]

#GunSafety The rotten core of gun violence in America

As I was leaving this year’s Super Bowl parade in Kansas City, I debated whether to attend the rally afterward. Because I had gone to the rally last year, I stopped by my house to see my mom and watch the parade coverage on the local news.

In the hours that followed, I watched in numbed horror as a space of joy and celebration, one I had just been a part of, devolved into panicked chaos. Multiple people exchanged gunfire, wounding several and killing Lisa Lopez-Galvan, a local mother and DJ.

I received multiple messages from friends asking if I was safe and alive. I want to say I couldn’t have ever fathomed receiving such messages, but I had fully anticipated it to happen at some point in my life. I expect to receive more at some point in the future.

The community conversations that followed served as the next iteration of the same tired conversation about this crisis we have been having for years. Some blamed it on the guns and their defenders; others blamed it on gangs and stupid choices; others still blamed it on mental illness, and so on.

If we’re still having these same conversations, this problem isn’t reducible to any one combination of these things. If we are to make progress on gun violence in this country, we need to interrogate the core of this crisis.

America has a disturbing fixation on guns. We have nearly 400 million of them in civilian hands alone – more than one firearm per person in America.

What many fail to consider is that, historically, as with many punitive laws, gun control legislation has been disproportionately applied to Black people and Black communities.

Still, we do have a profoundly bizarre attachment to our weapons. This attachment is unique amongst our economic peers and supported by our powerful gun lobby, preventing even the most basic regulations — but only to the extent that it affects white people.

Others argue that guns don’t kill without someone there to pull the trigger.

There are roughly 21,000 gun-related homicides annually as of 2021, showing petty gun crime, even among registered firearm owners, kills.

The solution isn’t more punitiveness. That created this problem in the first place.

Rhetoric about gangs and gang violence is often an excuse to warehouse Black people in prisons rather than to protect people in communities with significant gun violence.

After all, there are plenty of legitimate reasons someone may want to acquire a gun.

Others still will call mass shootings the work of sick individuals and call for more mental health treatment.

This isn’t a crisis caused by the pathology of just a few people: sick individuals don’t exist in a vacuum outside of the conditions that created them.

Even then, people with mental illnesses are often more of a danger to themselves than others. It is important to remember that more than half of gun deaths in the U.S. annually are suicides.

If the solution to this crisis were reducible to any one of these dimensions, we would not be stuck having the same cliché conversations every time a massacre occurs.

This crisis is not the product of something on the surface; it is attributable to a deep rot within the system that produced it. Our gun culture is a direct product and extension of our broader culture.

To solve the crisis, we need to ask ourselves uncomfortable questions about what could enable and empower someone to justify a shooting, what has been normalized that should not be, what is a given person’s relationship to guns and what structures of power allow this crisis to continue unabated.

Without directly addressing the individualistic, avaricious, crumbling society in which these massacres take place, we are treating the symptoms, not the infection.

I am tired of bearing witness to these massacres. If you are too, the next time news of one breaks, rather than put it through the motions and move on, instead, if you can, take the time to consider how such a thing is made possible. Dig out the rotten core and end our perpetual massacre.

[aerhteaew4]

The rotten core of gun violence in America #GunViolence

As I was leaving this year’s Super Bowl parade in Kansas City, I debated whether to attend the rally afterward. Because I had gone to the rally last year, I stopped by my house to see my mom and watch the parade coverage on the local news.

In the hours that followed, I watched in numbed horror as a space of joy and celebration, one I had just been a part of, devolved into panicked chaos. Multiple people exchanged gunfire, wounding several and killing Lisa Lopez-Galvan, a local mother and DJ.

I received multiple messages from friends asking if I was safe and alive. I want to say I couldn’t have ever fathomed receiving such messages, but I had fully anticipated it to happen at some point in my life. I expect to receive more at some point in the future.

The community conversations that followed served as the next iteration of the same tired conversation about this crisis we have been having for years. Some blamed it on the guns and their defenders; others blamed it on gangs and stupid choices; others still blamed it on mental illness, and so on.

If we’re still having these same conversations, this problem isn’t reducible to any one combination of these things. If we are to make progress on gun violence in this country, we need to interrogate the core of this crisis.

America has a disturbing fixation on guns. We have nearly 400 million of them in civilian hands alone – more than one firearm per person in America.

What many fail to consider is that, historically, as with many punitive laws, gun control legislation has been disproportionately applied to Black people and Black communities.

Still, we do have a profoundly bizarre attachment to our weapons. This attachment is unique amongst our economic peers and supported by our powerful gun lobby, preventing even the most basic regulations — but only to the extent that it affects white people.

Others argue that guns don’t kill without someone there to pull the trigger.

There are roughly 21,000 gun-related homicides annually as of 2021, showing petty gun crime, even among registered firearm owners, kills.

The solution isn’t more punitiveness. That created this problem in the first place.

Rhetoric about gangs and gang violence is often an excuse to warehouse Black people in prisons rather than to protect people in communities with significant gun violence.

After all, there are plenty of legitimate reasons someone may want to acquire a gun.

Others still will call mass shootings the work of sick individuals and call for more mental health treatment.

This isn’t a crisis caused by the pathology of just a few people: sick individuals don’t exist in a vacuum outside of the conditions that created them.

Even then, people with mental illnesses are often more of a danger to themselves than others. It is important to remember that more than half of gun deaths in the U.S. annually are suicides.

If the solution to this crisis were reducible to any one of these dimensions, we would not be stuck having the same cliché conversations every time a massacre occurs.

This crisis is not the product of something on the surface; it is attributable to a deep rot within the system that produced it. Our gun culture is a direct product and extension of our broader culture.

To solve the crisis, we need to ask ourselves uncomfortable questions about what could enable and empower someone to justify a shooting, what has been normalized that should not be, what is a given person’s relationship to guns and what structures of power allow this crisis to continue unabated.

Without directly addressing the individualistic, avaricious, crumbling society in which these massacres take place, we are treating the symptoms, not the infection.

I am tired of bearing witness to these massacres. If you are too, the next time news of one breaks, rather than put it through the motions and move on, instead, if you can, take the time to consider how such a thing is made possible. Dig out the rotten core and end our perpetual massacre.

[lihu658]

#CIA #GunSafetyThe rotten core of gun violence in America

As I was leaving this year’s Super Bowl parade in Kansas City, I debated whether to attend the rally afterward. Because I had gone to the rally last year, I stopped by my house to see my mom and watch the parade coverage on the local news.

In the hours that followed, I watched in numbed horror as a space of joy and celebration, one I had just been a part of, devolved into panicked chaos. Multiple people exchanged gunfire, wounding several and killing Lisa Lopez-Galvan, a local mother and DJ.

I received multiple messages from friends asking if I was safe and alive. I want to say I couldn’t have ever fathomed receiving such messages, but I had fully anticipated it to happen at some point in my life. I expect to receive more at some point in the future.

The community conversations that followed served as the next iteration of the same tired conversation about this crisis we have been having for years. Some blamed it on the guns and their defenders; others blamed it on gangs and stupid choices; others still blamed it on mental illness, and so on.

If we’re still having these same conversations, this problem isn’t reducible to any one combination of these things. If we are to make progress on gun violence in this country, we need to interrogate the core of this crisis.

America has a disturbing fixation on guns. We have nearly 400 million of them in civilian hands alone – more than one firearm per person in America.

What many fail to consider is that, historically, as with many punitive laws, gun control legislation has been disproportionately applied to Black people and Black communities.

Still, we do have a profoundly bizarre attachment to our weapons. This attachment is unique amongst our economic peers and supported by our powerful gun lobby, preventing even the most basic regulations — but only to the extent that it affects white people.

Others argue that guns don’t kill without someone there to pull the trigger.

There are roughly 21,000 gun-related homicides annually as of 2021, showing petty gun crime, even among registered firearm owners, kills.

The solution isn’t more punitiveness. That created this problem in the first place.

Rhetoric about gangs and gang violence is often an excuse to warehouse Black people in prisons rather than to protect people in communities with significant gun violence.

After all, there are plenty of legitimate reasons someone may want to acquire a gun.

Others still will call mass shootings the work of sick individuals and call for more mental health treatment.

This isn’t a crisis caused by the pathology of just a few people: sick individuals don’t exist in a vacuum outside of the conditions that created them.

Even then, people with mental illnesses are often more of a danger to themselves than others. It is important to remember that more than half of gun deaths in the U.S. annually are suicides.

If the solution to this crisis were reducible to any one of these dimensions, we would not be stuck having the same cliché conversations every time a massacre occurs.

This crisis is not the product of something on the surface; it is attributable to a deep rot within the system that produced it. Our gun culture is a direct product and extension of our broader culture.

To solve the crisis, we need to ask ourselves uncomfortable questions about what could enable and empower someone to justify a shooting, what has been normalized that should not be, what is a given person’s relationship to guns and what structures of power allow this crisis to continue unabated.

Without directly addressing the individualistic, avaricious, crumbling society in which these massacres take place, we are treating the symptoms, not the infection.

I am tired of bearing witness to these massacres. If you are too, the next time news of one breaks, rather than put it through the motions and move on, instead, if you can, take the time to consider how such a thing is made possible. Dig out the rotten core and end our perpetual massacre.

[demonic-silver-and-gold]

Have a piece of writing, all drawn from the past 4 hours of my life ✌️reblog if you know exactly what I mean.

~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~

Memory that Haunts You

Sometimes it’s late, you just got home from work, and you remember a fanfic you read a while ago that you never got around to finishing because of life. So you decide to go find it. You remember the base plotline, what ship it is, other details that cancel out most aus or divergences, all you are missing is the title.

You search in your AO3 history, realize you don’t quite remember the date or even month you read it but not to worry, you remember what stuff you hadn’t dived into. You can’t find it.

At this point you go “okay, maybe it’s even further back than this but I’m likely to miss it jumping backward, let’s just search the fandom and the tags.” So you do, excluding every tag you come across that has absolutely nothing to do with the fic you’re searching for. You get down to 55 fics but it’s none of those.

So you go back to the beginning — maybe the poly 3 person ship you know was THE ship was tagged as three pairings instead of the one. So you add those instead, remembering other details and fake-out ships that were tagged, almost excluding other tags one by one until you’re down to 13 fics.

It’s none of them.

So you become frustrated. It’s been three hours since this search began. Hours of remembering most of the fic but not any significant sentences that you could just plug into a search engine to maybe get the fic. It’s now a matter of pride, how dare it not be there from all that you remember except-

You begin doubting yourself. Was it actually the poly ship? Were the fake-out relationships tagged? Was it a superhero au that you forgot was part of it? Was the rating actually marked as General and not Teen, Mature, or Explicit? Did the details you remember so clearly happen or were they just references? Was the fic a part of a oneshot collection?

No, you tell yourself, of course not. You know you read it sometime before November, before a hyperfixation kicked in and right after one waned off, no further back than June. You know it was the poly ship because that’s how you found the fic in the first place, by going through the relationship tag for either the poly or one of the pairings. You know it’s not in a oneshot collection because you haven’t read those in forever. And you know it’s the right fandom because it’s the one you always fall back to in between fixations.

And the dread fully sets in now.

You scan page by page of your history, occasionally judging yourself at the stuff you’ve read out of obsession or desperation that no matter what you remember enjoying enough to keep it there. And you go from page 1 to page 56, more than 500 fics, and it’s not there.

So maybe, just maybe it was a different fanfic site — except you know damn well you haven’t been out of AO3 in three years and you know you read the fanfic sometime from June through November of this past year.

And then it hits you.

It was most likely deleted. Gone forever.

But you’ll never know for certain that it was, after all humans are fallible creatures — maybe you missed it several times, maybe you didn’t check the right collection, maybe there wasn’t a description or descriptive enough title that you skipped over. But you know what else it could have been? It may have been all in your head.

But you’ll never know for certain. All you’ll remember is grief over a body that you’ll never know was ever there.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Goretober 2022 Day 7

Prompt: Candy Gore

Summary: Storybrook is overtaken by a curse that turns the townsfolk into candy-craving zombies. Emma and Henry are quite adamant about getting Regina to join them.

Warnings: Gore, death, and body horror

Emma sets a bowl of candy corn on the table. Evidently, Regina is getting sick of it all. Of she and Henry begging for candy and more candy even though they have bowls of the stuff at home. “But it’s Halloween!” They insist. 

She doesn’t care if it is Halloween, Christmas, or the self-invented ‘Emma Apprication Day’, she refuses to buy them even another gumball more. 

Evidently, she is beginning to think that the whole town has gone feral. Candy crazed. They fist fight over a dropped packet of skittles and shout over the last MnM. 

Just a week prior the local general store had seen a riot akin to that of King’s Under The Dome. Regina, though a fan of his works, hadn’t intended on letting her town become another horror story set in a small town in Maine. 

She is finding quite quickly that, her wishes are–as per usual–forsaken by the universe itself, or whatever powers have compelled the townsfolk to flock to candy as zombies shamble to living meat. 

“Come on, Regina, just one more of those family sized bags.” Henry pleads. Regina’s stomach turns, she has never been so angry at Henry, so aggravated by the very sound of his voice. There is a deep sense of sorrow that comes with her building rage. 

And yet, the boy who looks about her just doesn’t seem right. 

There is something in his eyes…

Or maybe there is an absence of something?

Or something in place of something else?

Hunger instead of humanity. 

It is the very same thing…lack of a thing? That she has been seeing in eyes all around town. Henry no longer looks at her like a mother. He looks at her like a provider and nothing more. It is rattling close to the old days. The days when she had more or less deserved to be looked at with ambivalence at best and resentment at worst.

But she has been good to him. She has been good to Emma. Her only crime this time around is withholding them from obscene amounts of candy. 

The quantities that had lead several townsfolk already to gorging themselves to death. 

“Just one more!” Henry repeats. 

She has long since stopped acknowledging the pleas. And has longer since stopped listening to Emma cuss at and insult her over a lack of chocolate bars–kit-kat bars to be specific. And lately the woman hasn’t even been eating those right! Instead of breaking the sticks apart she has been biting them from the corner. 

“Have a piece of candy corn.” Emma insists, pushing the bowl over to her. She does have more humanity left in her eyes than Henry and maybe it is because she is a grown woman. “You’ll understand then.”

“Swan, I don’t think I want to understand this candy fixation. You all are like vampires. Nutritionally challenged vampires.” She is well past the point of caring who she offends. “And you’re rotting your fangs.” She thinks that she is rather funny. She needs something to make her laugh these days.

“Try one little piece.” The expression that Emma tries to imitate is that adorable puppy-eyed pouty face that Regina normally can’t resist. Today is grotesque, uncanny. And maybe it is because her lips have been stained a neausiating blue from fruit roll ups and gushers.

She half expects Emma to start oozing the same fluid in those candies. Her cheeks are puffy enough. 

Regina wanders away from the kitchen with a knowingness that Emma is one of the most present of the townsfolk, so to speak. She can still hold up a conversation that doesn’t consist of grunts or chewing noises. God, Regina hates that sound. That sucking and smacking. She hears it in her nightmares. 

And she can think of only one culprit for her woes.

But she could have sworn that the Blind Witch has taken up a permeate residence in the Underworld.

Whatever the case may be, whoever might have caused this, she is rather humiliated to be losing her town to this. She wonders if Snow and Charming are embarrassed to be taken down in such an absurd fashion. 

She steals a glance out of her window.

She is not unfamiliar with angry mobs.

Hungry, needy mobs are another matter.

Are they really going to claw her apart for the sin of not bulk ordering copious amounts of Halloween candy to replace that which they’ve already ravenously devoured. God, they are looking at her as though they might chew on her limbs instead.

“Just one more…” Henry requests, punctuating the pouding at her door. He girns at her. His smile is decaying. Discolored and rotten. Chipped and broken. There are bits of gummy candy stuck in his gums. 

.oOo.

Most days, Regina wakes up hoping that this has all been some sort of sugar-coated nightmare. Today she wakes up bound. 

It had been foolish to let Emma and Henry go about unbound. She should have kicked them out of her mansion before the candy corrosion had completely rotted their brains as surely as it had their teeth. 

“Just have one bite and you’ll understand.” Emma insists again. 

But Regina doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to be in anyway understanding of the sort of cravings that have stolen most every portion of the people she had loved. 

Fleetingly she wonders just when she had stopped thinking of them as Emma and Henry and started think of them the way she thinks of Daniel. 

The way she thinks of zombies–of grotesque imitations of the real people. 

But they aren’t dead. 

They aren’t undead. 

Hook is dead, his stomach had ruptured days ago.She’d seen the blood bubbling between his lips. Grumpy is dead, suffocated by chewing gum. His eyes had bulged and his face had bloated. Belle is dead, jaw fractured by candy that lived up to its name. It hangs askew with shattered teeth–Regina had the misfortune of stepping on one of the ones that had fallen out. Henry and Emma are still alive. In theory they could be saved. 

But they seem keen on resisting.

Preventing, in fact, if her bindings are anything to go by. 

Just as she had wanted everyone to suffer with her, they apparently want her to suffer with them. Emma crouches down in front of her and takes her hand. Regina shudders, the hand that holds her’s is sticky. Her grimace is just the opening that Henry needs to pry her mouth the rest of the way open.

It has been ages since Regina has had candy. She’d stopped eating in years before this epidemic. Maybe that is exactly why that very tiny square of chocolate had tasted so powerfully rich. 

So dreadfully irresistible.