#she has so so much depth and the writers just wade in the shallow end

[fooltomery]

hate the circumstances for ezri and her entire character. yes its because of all of the behind the scenes stuff but also the fact that the writers absolutely fumbled and dropped the ball with her.

ive said it once and i'll say it again ezri is a good stand alone character. the writers got really lucky that jadzia had to go bc there is so much potential for a character that is dax's new host, ESPECIALLY an inexperienced and under-trained trill. and then they kinda just tossed the idea around like they were playing catch. ezri never got the arc she deserved. look, i get under the circumstances of it being the final season theyve got a lot of loose ends to tie up. but that doesnt mean they cant nix the stupid ass romance between her and julian. that did not need to happen and julian and jadzia literally had no previous romantic chemistry it was clearly a friendship. it wouldve been more believable if ezri and quark got together lmao. its almost like the writers left ezri to develop in a few episodes, some of which contained B plots, and then just did basically nothing else after those episodes wrapped up except go "yup she did that and this happened"

i mean sure its good to see her develop into a more confident person and watch her become more sure of herself. but all in all it was rushed. they would have had more time to work with her as a character if they let her just be a character instead of a love interest.

it really is such a shame to see how they fucked up bc ezri is so intriguing by herself. first of all the entire thing with joran and unlocking those memories from him. it had some of her dealing with urges from another host and her learning to control them, which is something we should have seen more of with ezri. maybe even as a part of her healing journey with him we could see her start to learn how to play the piano to recontextualize how she feels about music and also work on healing that trauma. also not to mention it seems from the beginning she had identity issues and wasnt very sure of herself, and her joining only exacerbated those issues. that could have been so interesting seeing her cope with that in a more prolonged manner. like an episode where she keeps accidentally giving into other host's urges, and her nearly spiraling out of control only to realize more about herself in the end. this couldve been really enjoyable especially with urges coming from curzon. AND we could also cycle back to joran and his urges. that would create really good tension for the episode. (not to mention her questioning her gender and sexuality... which was kind of mentioned in a one off line -_-)

theres genuinely so much wasted potential with her because she was put with julian. i mean for fucks sake shes a therapist. let the audience see her fail and use her practice to help her get back up and cope with her issues.

all in all. she is a fine character. could have been so much better but i genuinely get why shes not given the circumstances. still a shame to see her potential wasted. :/

[bowieandqueen11]

Take Us Back / Izzy Hands Imagine

Request: ahh hope i didn’t miss the izzy request deadline!! honestly just a really fluffy one about what the reader and izzy might do on a day off on land would be super cute , could be either established relationship or the confessions could ensue during! whatever you think would work best, love ur writing sm 💘

Ahh I love this idea so much!! You know me I always love a good love confession. although this one is a little more subtle than I meant it to be!! Thank you so much :) Although this managed to turn more into hurt/comfort, so sorry about that!!

I'm sorry if this sucks ass, writer's block has been kicking my ass and I'm trying to write through it!

Warning: mentions of blood, mentions of child abuse, some strong language!

(I do not own OFMD or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @tinylilvalery.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

Izzy Hands had been seven years old the last time he had sat in the foot of a river's mouth.

Life had felt different then: harsher, colder. Even the sunlight had felt a pale wanton impression of the basking heat the crew lay under now, leaving nothing but pocked scars across his soul and a rigid fear woven through his lancinating ribcage.

But that day- god, that day. It had been one of the rare instances that his mother had been lucid, if not tolerant of the mere sight of him. She had just received news from his brother, informing her that he'd finally managed to wrangle his way into one of the crews dotted around the local docks. He still remembered pattering into their cramped kitchen that morning: remembered crawling into her lap, afraid that the shock slumping her usually sapless face as she leant her elbow wearily on the tablecloth was due to his tardiness, not registering in his tired state the opened letter his mother was clutching in her left hand. He had shut his eyes, expecting the usual sting of reproach to come burning across his backside, but instead he was met with shallow laughter and the feel of his mother's frigid hands wrapping around his spine.

She had carried him the whole way down to the bay, had spent the whole rest of that strange, surreal morning in a trancelike contentment. Instead of going to their usual morning prayers, his mother had taken his hands and had danced with him: her feet splashing across the slivering waves as they bit and hissed and fell in aglow bubbles around her feet. Instead of being sent down to the docks to haggle for some small scrap of leftover meat for him to come back and boil for their dinner, his mother had cupped his cheeks as if, for one glorious, unprecedented moment in his life, the hopeful smile timidly warming his cheeks was the most important thing in the world.

The thing Izzy remembers most, though, was the magical way his mother had sung. How the sound made his knees grow weak, tears collecting in the crinkles of his eyes as she sang a strange song about finding beauty in the mundane: of rosiness the shade of his cheeks, of the end of grief, of embracing the beautiful imperfection of our mistakes.

He was almost inclined to believe her. But even at that age, he knew reality was far crueller than her. Because even though she was still humming into the shallow depths, she had refused to even once meet his desperate eyes.

He knew the song wasn't for him. He knew, as he glanced down at the lonesome creek that he suddenly realised was bitingly cold against his waggling toes, that his life was resigned to one of subordination. How she had walked him into the water until their ankles were coated in a fine line of salt, clutching his hand to her heart as the invocation began to wear off. That this grandness, this gloriousness, was to be found inside the soul of others. As his mother began to lug at him again, drawing him further and further into the benighted depths he suddenly didn't want to wade into: was suddenly afraid to approach, he finally understood the truth of his life.

He knew he was just there as collateral to her joy. And as he began to cry out in fear, feeling that all too familiar burn against the ruddiness of his cheek, he realized that hope was created to dwell within other people.

'See child, I told you. Change comes with the tide. Fortune comes to those of us who are deserving of it', she took a deep breath and darted her eyes down to him in antipathy, before digging her spindly fingers into his wrist until they drew blood. She didn't even blink as she used her free hand to pull the letter out of her pocket, kissing its inked lines and clutching the crumpled parchment to her chest. The dying light of the day seemed only to coat her in cerement as she sobbed silently, Izzy too afraid to move in case the sallow light entombed him as well.

He hadn't allowed himself to feel the sunlight since. Instead, he shrouded himself in Stygian shadows, stifling himself under their abhorrence: he had tried to cage his heart to keep it safe. Little did he know, that instead he had created a shroud, and left the shredded remains of what was left to shrivel in the darkness.

You. You! You, god, oh you. Coming swanning into his life with the rest of Stede Bonnet's infuriating little toy miniatures, cresting with graceful consideration along the sinews he had long locked away, with a determinant hankering for his heart. Every look his way just to try and catch his wandering eye: every shit-faced smile in defiance of his crude orders and the callous bite of his words was exhuming an anguishing pain within his chest.

Which is why he found you so fucking obnoxious. Insubordinate. Just as obdurate as him. You seemed to make it your life's mission to get the tomb holding him captive to crack open.

And by god, if it wasn't about to.

He was almost embarrassed by how quickly he had agreed to join you on the shore during the crew's solitary day off that month: his head had nodded as if a screw had come loose in his neck, and although he had to punch Lucius in the stomach for guffawing at how absurd he looked from where he was pretending to mop by Stede's cabin doors, it was worth it to be able to spend some blessed time alone with you.

Which is how he found himself perched on the shallow end of a crag: the sand sifting off his boots and the midday sun burning a white-hot hole into the top of his head that even the nearby leaves of the shimmering banana tree couldn't defend him from. He kicks lazily at the water, scaring away a few darting fish as you finally give up your wrestling match with Jim and come to sit criss-crossed next to the rather forlorn looking man. He does his best to raise his frown once he feels your fingers poke at his stiff shoulder, but even you're able to see the way the smile barely makes it past the top of his stubble, let alone his crestfallen eyes.

'So...', you start with a twist of your lips, an idea suddenly popping into your head as you catch sight of a few lengths of haggard bark popping out of the mud. 'You ever fish when you were younger?' You pull some of the twine out of your makeshift rope belt, looping a knot around the cleanest ends and handing one of the makeshift poles to the first mate.

'Fish? Did I ever... fish?', Izzy asks incredulously, tilting his head at you as if in disbelief. He had fished before: in fact, he was actually rather good at it. When his mother's health began to fail and the poor relief filtering into their household in drips and drabs began to be unable to keep dire poverty from banging at their door, Izzy had taken to smuggling onto the back of boats and fishing out of barrels to get food.

'No. No', he lies. 'I'm not a fucking fisherman, I'm a fucking pirate-'. He didn't know why the memory was making him so irritated. Maybe it wasn't the recollection at all, he thought in a stricken horror, but the way you turned your full attention to him. That- that swinging gaze, that coy smile lifting your cheeks as you try your best to read every microcosm that flashes across his panicking face. That- that kindness in the furrow of your eyebrows, that forbearance as you gently took his shaking first and unfurled it, placing the fishing rod in his palm.

Your fingertips tenderly swirl against the seamed linen of his wrist before you let go. Izzy blinks unsurely, something akin to trepidation making his breath choke in his nostrils, making them flare uneasily.

'I know you're going to be a natural', is all you whisper, sensing his alarm and placing the man's hand back onto his knee with great care. With a final nod, you turn your head back to the sea line.

Fuck. Fuck. How could you read him so easily? How could he, a man so ruthless in his faux arrogance, be laid so bare before you, when he had spent so many years devotedly poisoning that part of himself? He was about to fucking burst, and if you even fucking dared to place your warm fingers against his bare skin him one more time, he was going to draw his scabbard loose and lacerate his billowing heart himself.

The feel of you sitting next to him, holding your own fishing pole between relaxed fingers was almost enough to make the sound of Frenchie hollering in the distance bearable: the man trying to do half-crab like 'somersaults' across the sand. Izzy sighs, pretending the screaming cackle of Roach as he chased the Swede with one of his juggling pins was just the faraway caw of some mythical seabird. Even though the sound of your cheerful hums were sending spears of a long buried fear deep into his stomach, he was content to let the memories of his mother wash over him, to be instead overlapped with his rapt ruminations of you.

'Am I... am I doing this alright?', he asks, daring to break the silence, although his hoarse voice barely seems to penetrate the gleaming air at all. Thankfully, you have your ears finely tuned to hear both his scolding remarks and tender confessions, and so your reply is both astute and quickly timed as you whip your head to take an enthusiastic look at his pole.

You dart a finger out before he even has time to prepare for your approach, drawing his thumb further up the stick. 'That's it... that's it! See, I knew you'd be a natural at this!' It takes all of Izzy's self-control not to whip out his wrist, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to instead try and alleviate the way his cells seemed to catch alight every time your skin brushed against his.

'Although', you start, poking your pointer finger against your chin and looking at him in contemplation. 'Your angle is a little wrong. Do you know how to fix it?', you ask, not wanting to offend him and have him scuttling off like a snow crab when you had put so much effort into getting him to trust in your company.

'I- I don't know', he lies, already moving his torso so you would have easier access to wrap yourself around his tensing shoulder blades send ripples spreading across the back of his vest.

'Here-', you reach an arm out, palm spreading against the rigid meat of his lower back as you turn the man to face you more directly. He jolts, and for a second you're worried that you've accidentally brushed against an old injury, but then the man unconsciously mewls, his thighs bucking forward against the sand grains.

'Like this', he asks breathlessly, knowing damn well that his posture was absolutely perfect.

'Like that', you reply with a smile as sweet and meek as the champagne bubbles lapping hungrily at his feet. It was almost enough to blow away the cankered cobwebs encasing his heart: almost enough to flood the chambers of his heart with a child-like resurrection, if he only wasn't stubborn enough to keep the latches of his heart's coffin lid closed.

'I'll tell you something, you're far better company than Ed', you say to alleviate the tension, feeling sorry at the way the man seems to be cursing himself with thick, inaudible swears. You let your fingers dart across the last few vertebrae's of his spine, enjoying the way his whole body seems to convulse like an electrified eel once you let go. 'The last time I tried to teach him to fish, I swear I was two seconds away from kicking him overboard. That man genuinely does not know how to stay quiet for two seconds.'

He grabs onto your wrist, so desperate to retain every ounce of your attention. So desperate to feel you set him aflame, without the embarrassment of having to ask. For the first time that day, he stares deeply into your eyes, his thick eyelashes flickering back and forth as if searching for something.

'You don't have to tell me. I very unhappily managed to overhear him talking to himself this morning about all the ways Captain had used his fingers last night-'

You clasp your hands to your ears, a high pitched giggle pealing out of the back of your throat. 'Oh god, please! Just stop! Whatever the hell our dads do, I don't want to know!'

God, you were bewitching.

'What about your father', you ask suddenly, raising a curious eyebrow at the man. 'I know that you, Israel Hands, must have had a phenomenal upbringing to turn out the way you did.'

'I can't fucking tell if you're being sarcastic or not', he replies curtly, but the edges of his lips are curling up despite of himself.

'Come on', you prod at his side with the jut of your fishing pole. 'I have to be completely honest, I've been dying to know your story ever since you got on the revenge. Until today, Mr. 'I'm god as far as you're concerned', you've been a bit of an enigma to me.'

He looks at you sharply, his lips lingering upwards and making the warm glow that followed through into his eyes paint him as an angel against the goldenrod hues of the sun’s rising throne. 

'Until today?'

You can't help but match his bashful smile.

'Something tells me you've fished before', you reply smartly, nodding your head down to his tugging line.

It seemed to come to him then, that hope he had long forgotten: reverberating through his already troubled mind like a deafening echo, screaming and writhing and cacophonous as it pierced every fragment of his brain it could, begging him to remember the days when love had been true. Pleading with him to allow veracity to forburn the self-inflicted death he had allowed to coat his now pounding heart.

His mouth twists, unsure as where to start. It had been so long... so long since he had been truthful with anyone, let alone with himself. He swallows thickly, eyes roaming over the scuffs of his boot that are sliding further and further into the chilled depths of the shallow water, before he curls his fingers into a fist and goads himself into being compliant.

'I used to... I mean, I used to go down to the river with my mother, when she could be bothered. Which wasn't very often.'

He prays that you won't notice the faraway look in his eyes. How they begin to cloud over with unshed tears for a life he should have known. Should have had. For innocence robbed, and exasperation capitulated into its place. How his hands were now beginning to jolt so harshly, he nearly sent his fishing role flying into the ocean with one particularly intense heave.

'My mother always used to tell me, that you could begin your life again if you could pinpoint the exact spot where the rivers began to merge with the sea', he seethes out through gritted teeth, a low whistle sliding over his tongue as you reach your hand out and offer him the only form of solace you can think to give. 'She used to say that this is the spot where Calypso fell after Odysseus left her. That if you sing to her, her face will appear within the waves and grant you immortality.'

'Did you believe her?'

'I didn't before.'

'Hmm, what made you change your mind?' You entangle your fingers messily with his gloved hand, allowing both your poles to clamber noisily into the rugged pit chipped out by the toes of your feet. You knew if you broke the spell, interrupted this moment, it might never come again for him.

‘It was you, for fuck's sake!’, he wanted to shout. It was the truest thing he had ever known, plain and so soul crushingly simple.

Instead he flops his head back, and looks dead-set into the blinding light of the sun. 'I heard you singing. Heard you with Frenchie earlier, when you were singing shanties on the deck. My mother also used to sing to me', he warbles, voice hoarse.

The swallow tattoo scored onto his neck seems to thrum to life with each pulse of his juddering arteries.

'Ah-', you frown, 'I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up all these... memories for you. That's why you've been brooding so much today.'

His head darts to the side to scrutinize you, but when you mumble another sweet apology he finally stops scowling. If you hadn't been so lovestruck yourself, you might have found the courage to tear your head away from the horizon in that moment to meet the look of gut-wrenching devotion that brightened the man's widening eyes, a vestige kind of hope widening the gloam of his pupils.

He tilts his head to the side: towards you, eyes dipping down to almost imperceptibly gaze over your pursed lips.

'Don't be sorry'. His bottom lip trembles as he heaves a breath and squeezes your hand tight against his own. He felt like he was falling onto the cusp of something dangerous, but he refuses to allow his obduracy to suffocate the words.

'You sounded...', he grits his teeth, trying to bury his words by seething them into his skin instead. You watch him shove his chin into the side of his shoulder with humoured curiosity, giving him the time, the space, the security to finish his thought. He buries his eyes into the water, watching the rippling reflection of his face wallow into the shoreline. 'You sounded beautiful. It was nice to hear music again. I haven't in so long.'

'Well, Israel Hands', he trembles at the feel of your warm breath brushing against the tip of his ear. 'Good thing I'm immortal now.'

He smiles at that.

'Looks like I have all the time in the world to sing for you, if you'd like.'

For the first time since he was seven years old, Izzy Hands felt like he was allowed to live again.

'I'd- I'd like that very much.'