#so. he has to do work to undo all that harm. to make himself still worthy of that oath without having to lean into the violence of it

[durgewyll]

taking the time to actually write down ajax's paladin arc and how it relates to his dark urge redemption and suddenly nothing is making sense 🥲

[alexanderlightweight]

Hello! I’m a longtime reader of your work and love your writing!

If you are still open to taking prompts love a continuation of the long hair shadowhunters verse. Your work in that universe has left me thinking about what different braids mean and the many ways shadowhunters could potentially use their hair.

No preference on nsfw/sfw and absolutely no pressure at all.

thank you for the compliment and sticking around!

uh this did start from your prompt but may have veered a little off course? I would say it's Magnus' fault but the truth is it's Alec's fault this time.

last bit here and I actually had enough spoons to fill two prompts for this verse, so next bit here

I hope you enjoy!

<3 lumine

my path is set

Alexander’s braids are simple to untangle despite how intricate they look.  His hair slips free as Magnus fingers begin the first process of learning the braids through unweaving.  Undoing the work but learning the pattern of the motions all the same.

Alexander hadn’t hesitated to offer his hair — or his back — to Magnus.  From the moment he’d arrived — climbing up to the balcony rather than using the stairs — he’s been nothing but languid rather than laconic.

His words are few but he speaks without them all the same.  There’s a casualness to the way he makes himself at home, taking up the space Magnus leaves for him and not seeming to mind that Magnus intends to keep him.

As Magnus untangles the last braid and summons a brush, Alexander begins to hum and leans back trustingly, letting Magnus stroke magic bound bristles through his hair. The bristle he made from crystallizing product helping to condition each strand.

Alexander’s hair is always deceptively long.  

Magnus has witnessed it loose and touched it unhindered three times now. And yet each time he sees Alexander’s hair in its full glory is a wonder.  It’s long and thick and viciously dark.  A soft brown that catches the void of the shadow and mirrors it with mocking ease.

Alexander is practically purring.

Arching up and tilting to give Magnus better access to his scalp and he’s so docile, that Magnus isn’t sure quite what to do with him.

Magnus had known what to do with Alexander during the ritual.  

Knows how to handle him in bed and in front of others, but like this? Vulnerable and almost soft, melting for Magnus with an ease that shouldn’t be possible?

It’s a confusing but precious gift and Magnus knows he should tread carefully, but Alexander is a sweet trap.  Too tempting to resist and yet each time Magnus falls for it, the trap remains unsprung and Alexander stays malleable and his.

“Do they have names, these patterns of yours? I know they have various meanings but what of the braids themselves?” 

It’s a question that threatens to shatter the calm yet Alexander merely hums, contemplative and serious.  A little furrow forms between his brows and then he takes four strands of his own hair and quickly loops and interconnects them in something similar visually to fishtail chain, the links small and concise and delicate. 

The word Alexander speaks is guttural, deep and so coarse that it scrapes against Magnus’ ears like sandpaper.

Alexander laughs at his wince, an almost silent whisper of humor at Magnus’ expression.  

“We have no true translation for them in any tongue known to man. Some call the language Enochian or Angelica but that’s simply because like the language itself, the name of it has no true translation.” 

Magnus can understand the idea of what Alexander said and the language itself cannot harm him, unpleasant though it may be to hear.  In fact it’s rather similar in form but differing in dialect to the language of Edom that his own father taught him.

“Well, you say them to me as I learn and I’ll find my own translations then. Deal, pretty boy?”

Alexander smiles at him, the corner of his mouth turning up with delighted agreement.

AN:

Alec: *speaks angel language*

Magnus: ... do you need a cough drop? Or some tea and honey after that? Is your throat bleeding? Because my ears are.

—

Magnus: Alexander, you need to give me some limits or I’m going to start adding my own jewelry to your hair and i imagine there are rules about that.

Alec: there are, but they no longer apply to you

Magnus: ... alexander? Alexander, darling what does that mean? ALEC TELL ME WHAT THAT MEANS OR SO HELP ME!!!

Alec: you have a bracelet made of my own hair magnus. Putting your own jewelry in my hair is kind of redundant and mild at this point, it’s practically the least I’d expect from you

Magnus: did you just imply that i’m tame? Did you just insinuate that i’m FALLING BEHIND IN MY WOOING??? Me, Magnus Bane?

Everyone else seeing Magnus’ jewelry in Alec’s hair: What kind of fuckery is this? This is not normal? Does Bane realize how abnormal this is? Should someone warn him? No, that might draw Lightwood’s attention... no but really, shouldn’t someone warn Bane they’re nearly married at this point? Does no one else see this whirlwind romance?

Mirai: Bane’s smart enough that if he doesn’t already know then he’ll figure it out before it becomes a problem. This isn’t something any of you should endanger... i mean entangle yourselves with

(everyone knowing she said the right word the first time)

Shadowhutners: you could mention it to him. Lightwood wouldn’t care if it came from you.

Mirai: ... why in Raziel’s name would I do that? I haven’t had this much entertainment since Izzy exploded her lab last year and Alec decided that he would take everyone through the safety protocols personally. 

Shadowhunters: we should have remembered anyone that can enjoy having tea with Lightwood is clearly a sadist.

[heathersdesk]

The Crimes of Brigham Young: the Briefest Introduction

If you're going to be LDS long term, one of the facts you have to accept and make peace with never trying to dispute, is that Brigham Young was a horrible person.

We don't openly talk about this as a community, so you can reach adulthood without ever having to wrestle with this too much. But that makes it all the more shocking when you discover how bad he was.

To say he was deeply flawed doesn't do it justice. Your uncle who says hateful stuff at the dinner table and disrespects his wife and children is deeply flawed. Brigham Young is so much worse than that, by several degrees of magnitude. He introduced and was complicit in extreme violence that was unnecessary and unjustifiable. By the standards of his day and ours, from the perspective of those inside the community and outside, he wasn't a good person. If what you imagine a good leader to be is the King Benjamin definition of someone who does good for his people and doesn't enrich himself from their labors, that's not a test Brigham Young can pass. At all. Not even a little bit.

There's too much history to get into, but here are the basics:

Brigham Young enriched himself constantly from other people. He gave himself the largest allowance of any Church leader in our history. He was living in finery when the rest of the Utah Territory was living in deprivation and squalor. He abused his position within the Church/consecration to make sure he never went without. D. Michael Quinn is the best authority we have on church finances and, to summarize his work, Church leadership has only improved over time in terms of leaders not abusing Church resources. But that was very easy to do because of how much Brigham Young abused them for his personal benefit.

The fact that he was openly racist and introduced slavery to the Utah Territory, undoing the work of Joseph Smith to put black and white Saints on more equal footing with each other is no secret. The Church openly admits to that one now, which is good. We need to be honest about the harm the institution has done in the past towards black people, and we're doing better on that front.

Where we still fail is the overwhelming amounts of violence and genocide our people engaged in against various indigenous tribes across the Midwest and in the areas of pioneer settlement in the Intermountain West. You may have heard of the Mountain Meadows Massacre, which is the event where John D. Lee murdered a group of innocent white travelers that were passing through Utah. What you may not know is that skirmish was part of the larger Black Hawk War against indigenous tribes that included over twenty years of violence, in which our people were consistently the aggressors. Mountain Meadows is the one you've heard of because, true to American form, we only acknowledge white wrongdoing when it hurts other white people. The number of indigenous people who were murdered in genocidal violence by the hands of our people, at the express orders of Brigham Young, is undeniable. It's well-documented history.

This is just one extermination order that exists in which senior Church leadership calls for the total extermination of entire indigenous tribes and nations. They used the Nauvoo Legion to do this.

You would think a group of people who were exterminated with orders like these would know better. But that's the trouble with unhealed trauma: it keeps you from learning from the worst things that happen to you and makes you repeat them instead.

Brigham Young didn't want to live adjacent to indigenous people in the Utah Territory and surrounding areas. He wanted their anhialation. He wanted to take their lands and their possessions. That's what he did to indigenous people who helped our people survive in terrain and elements they weren't prepared to live in. He rewarded them with violence, dishonesty, and betrayal.

There are many reasons you will hear me say that I want a one-on-one socker bopper fight with Brigham Young in a Wendy's parking lot. He has a lot to apologize for, to me and many other people. You cannot begin to understand what that means if you've never seen the scope of how much harm he did.

I love y'all. I'm sorry if I'm the one to tell you this, especially if your people were involved and you were lied to about it. You deserve the truth. That's why I'm telling you. We cannot heal from what we don't acknowledge, and so much of the way we are today as a community is a direct result of all this violence. It's why our people mistrust outsiders, attempt to solve problems with unnecessary violence, and discredit any criticism for their loyalties to the prophet and senior Church leadership. It's who our people have been for so long, there is real intergenerational fear in trying to be anything else.

But that healing is necessary so we can stop repeating the mistakes of the past.

The Book of Mormon teaches in 2 Nephi 9:40:

I know that the words of truth are hard against all uncleanness; but the righteous fear them not, for they love the truth and are not shaken.

We are comfortable acknowledging this to be true about outsiders. Do we believe it when it concerns our own? Do we actually care more about what is right, rather than who we want to believe is right?

Such examination requires faith, honesty, and courage. Truth doesn't have the power to destroy faith, only flimsy and undeserved certainty. And if your certainty was based in falsehood, then best to dispense with it so you can live more fully in the truth.

[the-face-in-the-mirror]

Something that endlessly fascinates me about Seven Deadly Sins, which I am 100% applying to the rewrite, is the potential it had to make these characters truly morally grey.

Not that the twist of them being innocent of the crimes they were accused of is bad, I think it worked fairly well for what we got, but it was also a missed opportunity to have the Sins genuinely be guilty of morally deplorable actions. Not because they themselves are bad people or had harmful intentions, but because they were driven by their own flaws; not just victims of circumstance but also their own mistakes, and the journey some of them go on to repent for what they've done and overcome the guilt of things they can't undo.

Ban's was already done the best in this regard, as he's never portrayed as a strictly morally good person (at least not at the start of the series). His original intention WAS to steal the Fountain of Youth, which is exactly what he gets tried for along with murdering the saint that guards it, which he DIDN'T do. But what if he did? What if it was Ban who hurt Elaine while trying to fight the Red Demon? Ban who is cocky before he realizes he's outmatched, before he realizes that he now has someone he cares for who isn't himself no matter how little time they've spent together. And he tries to save her, tries to make it right by giving her the Fountain of Youth, but she gives it to him instead. And he can't possibly imagine how she could think he was worth more than she was when he was nothing, nothing compared to her, especially when he hurt her (it doesn't matter that he doesn't mean to, because he still did, didn't he? And how can he ever explain that to her absent brother who she'll never see again?). And the guilt never leaves, and punishing himself through countless failed executions is never enough, because it's her gift to him that keeps him alive and somehow that makes it worse.

The circumstances behind King's crime always felt like a bit of a cop-out, with him having amnesia and not remembering who he is or the responsibilities he has or the people who need him. What if it was a conscious choice to stay away? Not out of sloth, but out of love? Out of devotion for this little giant girl who's all on her own with no one to rely on, who isn't helpless but is still a little kid. "Tomorrow," he tells himself, "I'll go back tomorrow, just one more day." And he tells himself that every day, and the longer he stays with her, taking care of her, making sure she's okay (because what if he leaves and something terrible happens to her and he isn't there), the harder it is to leave her. And then he does, because he is forced to confront the reality of his absence, and he can't erase her memory like in canon, and it breaks his heart and shatters hers and Diane is left bitter and angry, because everyone leaves and she's never enough for anyone because she's weak, because she's not naturally gifted like many of her other Giant brethren, and she hates herself, hates them for it, because why should they have so much power when she doesn't? Is it not just as much her right as it is theirs?

And Meliodas? Do not even get me STARTED on that little fucker. The series had the potential to do some truly interesting things with him, but it seemed to take on a very black-and-white narrative, more or less, a lot of the time. Maybe he doesn't feel guilt about all the terrible things he's done. Some things, sure, but all of it? No. In some ways he still revels in it. He does not feel guilty for slaughtering goddesses, because his rage against them is unending and "don't you see what they did to us?" Maybe I don't want him to be a wholly good person. Maybe I want him to be a little bit fucked up. Maybe even a lot fucked up. Maybe the threat to him ISN'T reverting back to his evil self - maybe he already is a little evil in some ways. How much moral greyness can I shove into one character? Let's find out.

TLDR; Nakaba fumbled the bag on potentially making these characters morally grey and complex, so obviously I'm going to do it myself.

[thatgayunoriginalbastard]

Diomedes in my vampire AU:

Diomedes has been pretty anti-monster his whole life. Not nearly as much as Odysseus, of course, but still hasn't liked them and holds no affinity or affection towards any of them. But from Odysseus' point of view they were on the same wavelength because Dio exaggerated his hatred while around Ody out of a sense of both loyalty and affection. He also didn't really see the problem with the kinds of anti-monster actions Ody made like the public execution of any vampires that got found in the camp. He was even certain that Ody had at least something to do with Palamedes getting turned, but still stuck by the Ithacan king.

By the end of the war, all the stuff he did as exaggeration has embedded fairly deep inside him and he can hardly remember that his hardcore hatred used to just be an act to stay close to Odysseus. Which made it very unfortunate when, shortly after having to leave his kingdom of Argos due to all that drama, he gets attacked and had his leg bitten by a wolf while trying to leave to Italy. And to make matters worse, that wolf turned out to have been a werewolf and the bite infected him.

Diomedes was, to put it simply, not thrilled about the whole werewolf thing because werewolves are supposed to be monsters. He tries to do any research he can to try and see if he can undo the effects but by the time the first full moon rolls around he figures out that that's not going to work. He learns about the creatures, runs tests on himself, but all the while as he learns he can't help but think about just how much Odysseus would hate him for being such a vile creature, a vile creature that will outlive the great king he once held so close and dearly. Yet at the same time he wants to go seek out Odysseus. Instead he travels and starts to find more and more freedom as a wolf, especially compared to his mess of a human life. So he spends more and more time as a wolf until it hit the point where he's only a human when he absolutely has to. He still hates himself the entire time but treats it like an addiction of sorts. His travels take him all over until one day he settles in the woods on an island near Ithaca, eventually reaching a point where he'll go without being human for days, weeks, months, or even years. He figures that if he's a monster then there's no point in pretending to be a human except for the one night a month where he has to be a monster. It gives him control and agency over something that he never wanted to have to deal with.

He doesn't even know how long it's been since the war, since he settled on the island he can't even remember the name of, when he's on a hunt and hears the strangest sound. The voice of a human. Normally people don't wander where he lives as he lives far from any towns and the rumors of a supernaturally strong and fast wolf that lives in the woods and will protect its territory with lethal attacks keep him alone. So to hear someone around was already crazy. Then he heard a second voice. He decided to go to them and scare them off so he'd be alone again. He finds an older but still strong looking couple walking though the woods, talking very lovingly as if they aren't holding incredibly crafted hunting weapons. Worried that they'll take away the prey that are rightfully his, Diomedes jumps out in front of them and starts growling to try and scare of them off. But unfortunately they look surprised, but not scared. Worse yet, they looked fascinated by him. The man tried being nice, setting down a bow that filled Dio with a strong sense of protectiveness and calmly approaching him, assuring him that he meant no harm towards such a beautiful creature like himself. Diomedes was oddly flattered but didn't back down, snapping at the man. That made the man fall backwards and the woman rushed closer, checking on him, before looking directly into Dio's eyes, examining him, before softly saying his name. Diomedes was very confused but then the old man started staring at him, getting him to nervously step back, and after a moment the old man chuckled and says that he never thought he'd see a fellow former student of Athena back down so easily.

It was Odysseus and Penelope.

Odysseus reached out to Diomedes and he slowly approached the man he loved more than anything followed and trusted for so many years. He lifted up one of his paws towards the man's hand. And by the time they touched, he appeared to be a human again. After staying in his wolf form for so long, something actually managed to draw him back to humanity. And as he looked into the eyes of his dear old friend who somehow wasn't killing him for being a horrible monster, Odysseus only said one thing.

"Huh. You looked better as a dog."

[rei-ismyname]

The (character) assassination of Wanda Maximoff by the coward Joe Quesada

Charles Xavier is not a psychotherapist

After giving her coworkers some unwelcome feedback, Wanda Maximoff is in a bit of a state. For some reason Xavier thinks he can help by shouting at her. He's a PHD in psychiatry but his record in nurturing the mental health of others is ... shit. He's really bad at this okay. There's a whole thing with Wanda's kids not existing and it doesn't make a lot of sense tbh. Whether by magic or reality warping she's not allowed to create kids for reasons unstated.

This back and forth goes on for a while but Chuck deems no progress made. Just ... Let her have the kids dude. Wanda reality warps to undo tragedy, harming nobody, and Chuck just yells at her to stop. It's profoundly cruel and unproductive. Marvel events play fast and loose with narrative causality and characterisation but House of M is so fucking egregious. The misogyny and ableism behind it is still felt today. Ironically, Charles Xavier is probably the worst parent on the island.

Generally speaking Magneto is a terrible parent but here and now he does want to be there for Wanda. When it was just him being supportive he read to her and spent time with her while she slept. As much as you can help someone with grief that's about all you can do. Now Wanda's powers are ... making her crazy? I guess? Let's not beat around the bush - it's ridiculous framing. House of M contains oh so much man pain compared to voicing the pain of Wanda.

Chuck has been telepathically drugging and sedating Wanda, and he's baffled as to why she's not magically getting better. Sounds like torture to me, frankly. Classic Chuck to first present it as inhumane, then not foolproof, then admit it's not working. If it was working you bet your bottom dollar he'd continue with what he's already doing. He says Magneto shouldn't blame himself (he should) and that she's a grown woman. That sounds like blaming Wanda to me. You'd think he'd have learnt his lesson from sedating and drugging his son David for years without improvement (by his metrics.) Nyet.

That's a pretty reductive summation of their history but the broad strokes are there. Mags was an abusive maniac to the twins before they knew they were related, and his behaviour since then has been... mixed, at best. His culpability is severe but it's often used to minimise anyone else's. The Avengers have been pretty awful here and there as well, especially here reproductive autonomy is concerned. Ask Carol about that one.

Mags casually walking on the sky is pretty damn cool and he should do it more often. IDK why he's doing it now, but good for him I guess.

Sometime shortly, The Avengers and X-Men get together to 'decide the fate' of Wanda. It's like they know they're in an event and dutifully summon everyone they know to argue. Their sources for this decision are not especially reliable, and a lot of people that should know better are either silent or absent.

Pietro knows what's up. The gathered heroes are just giving off that vibe. He's obviously not happy about the prospect at all, but Magneto is not much help. I find it hard to believe he'd think they may be right. He's a terrible father but he's not an idiot. He asks 'what would you have me do?' as if there aren't hundreds of options that don't involve killing Wanda. Let her have the kids! Take her to space or something. Isn't there a mutant cure kicking around ATM? None of these are mentioned.

Back at the brain trust zero progress has been made. Emma has Logan's script and advocates for killing her, and Logan obviously callously agrees. This frames the argument as 'kill Wanda: Y/N?' and magic/telepathy the only possible solutions. Pietro was right, honestly, but Wanda doesn't even get a voice. Cap insists that there's always another way, but nobody has one. In the end, everyone heads to Genosha to talk to Wanda but we'll never know how that would have gone. House of M isn't interested in asking those questions at all.

I'm skipping the entire event here because the focus is Wanda and she's not a character in the House of M reality. She's barely a character in 616 at this time, simplified into 'crazy mother.' I certainly blame Brian Michael Bendis, as the writer of this event, but it was Quesada's decision and the buck stops with him. Mutants (allegedly) needed to be decimated and Wanda was the means. After using her similarly for Avengers Disassembled it's wild in retrospect that they doubled down. Not surprising, of course, but considering how many people would have had the chance to say 'this is sexist and ableist garbage' before it went to print...

Worst of all, 'no more mutants' defined and derailed Wanda Maximoff's character for decades. I'd say she's only escaped the shadow of it in the last few years, but her peers never had to face their part in the tragedy. I was glad that she was being used as Krakoa's boogeyman because it highlighted how ridiculous the whole thing is. It also led to her reclaiming her narrative, which needed to happen but it's not a good look. I will do a part 2 covering that end soon.

[stellargh0ul]

Dom!Perpetua using the safe word part was through a BDSM scene because he realizes that his sub is pushed themselves too far to try and please him. And if they won't safe word, he will.

(can you tell that everything I know about BDSM is from fiction and I have very little idea what I'm talking about?🫣🙂)

doms can definitely safeword if they get uncomfortable about a scene or notice a problem! always have your rope shears handy if you're doing rope work.

(my husband had to safeword once bc there was a sewing needle on the ground and he stepped on it in the middle of a scene we were doing.)

“and what color are we feeling, little one?” Perpetua murmurs as he leans down to whisper in your ear, his hands stroking up your back. you give a little shiver as you feel his gloves run over some of the new bruises you were sporting on your ass, pressing just hard enough to draw little sounds of pain from your lips.

“g-green, papa,” you answer, closing your eyes to better savor the feeling. there’s an odd sort of burning in your arms, the chest harness he’d tied on you taking most of the pressure off of them but some of your weight still dangling from the hook in the ceiling. your shoulders are starting to ache, but you don’t want to stop this— don’t ever want to give up on the feeling of his hands on you.

he pauses anyway. you hear him ’tsk’ quietly before his voice gets a little loud.

“pineapple,” Perpetua says and you feel your eyes open as you hear the safe word. you’re nearly instantly rocketed out of headspace as he busies himself unhooking the ropes from their holder.

“what is it, what’s wrong?”

“your hands—“

he lowers you to your feet, one arm around your waist, supporting you until he can tell that you’re able to stand on your own. you feel slightly wobbly but manage to stay upright as he practically dives for the shears on the table nearby. with your eyebrows in your hairline, you try to crane your neck to see what has him so concerned but can’t manage to turn that far.

the rope shears make quick work of the bindings and you nearly yelp aloud as you feel all the blood rush back into your hands at once, not realizing how much your circulation had been cut off until it was restored. bringing them around from behind your back, you see that your fingers have turned somewhat purple, the skin of your palms angry red.

“why didn’t you say your hands hurt?” he asks as he reaches out to grasp your wrist gently, inspecting the deep marks the rope had left behind.

“they— I think I was deep enough in subspace that I could barely feel an ache, to be honest,” you say, flexing your fingers. you’re not getting tingling pain or hot and cold sensations, so you don’t think there’s any nerve damage or anything permanent done, but they do hurt now that the circulation has been fully restored.

“I must have messed up the harness somehow. most of your weight was supposed to be carried on your chest, not your hands. i’m sorry, lamb.”

“don’t be, it’s fine. you caught it in time, no harm done.”

Perpetua purses his lips as he looks at you.

“anything else hurt? here, let me undo the harness.”

“other than the obvious? my shoulders ache a little, but that’s normal for what we were doing.”

he nods, turning you around so that he can unpick the knots on the chest harness— no need to cut up more rope than you had to.

“i’m really fine. don’t beat yourself up about it, alright?” you hear him click his tongue but he doesn’t say anything else as he works on the knots, and you just know you’re going to have to spend the rest of the night assuring him that he hadn’t almost killed you. it was a little bit of tight rope, caught in time.

you tell him as much, turning around in his arms to press a kiss to his lips when he’s finished with the harness and Perpetua sighs into the motion.

“a bath and a movie…?”

“sounds perfect."

[sameschmidtdiffname]

Hey I love your work so much!!

I was thinking of maybe a Mike Schmidt x reader where the reader is all like “I’m not good enough for you, I don’t deserve you” stuff and then like Mike makes it up to the reader to show them that they are more than enough 🫶

Sure, but it's gonna hurt!

Blue Sunrise

Mike Schmidt x Gender Neutral! Reader

Summery: All is well, yet you aren't. A fact that disturbs and irritates you so, even if it shouldn't.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no use of gendered pronouns for Reader, SFW with brief mentions of smut, pre-established relationship, set during the movie but that's honestly not very relevant, hurt/comfort, Reader and Mike both have PTSD, this isn't projection, bed rotting, depression, self-loathing, night terrors/nightmares, panic attacks, sleep deprivation, mentions of medication, lack of self care, slight self-harm (scratching), breakdown, nosebleed.

Notes: *in sonic snapcube dub voice* heyyyyyyyyyyyy what's upppppppppppppp it's meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee (STOP!!)

                     ▪︎◇{¤♧■♧¤}◇▪︎

6:34 A.M.

The dawn is gentle, the sky a soft blue behind the thin, cheap blinds that cover the bedroom window not that far in front of me. If I wanted, I could get up and open the window, revealing the surely beautiful and gorgeous sunrise that waits for me just outside the blinds.

But I don't. And I won't.

Birds sing gently outside, waking up and fliting about here and there. It's my favorite part of the day, quite frankly. When I can, I open the window to allow in the fresh, cool air, moist with the morning dew, unmuffling the bird's songs as I drift off to sleep, my schedule mostly in tune with Mike's for his night shift. Sometimes I manage to stay awake to greet him when he returns home. It's always nice when I do. His smile is lazy, his strides long and slow as he makes his way to the bed, peeling off his work clothes and crawling under the covers with me. Sometimes he'll press himself against me, his lips finding my neck as his hand dives between my thighs, his fingers trained on one goal as he murmurs against my skin how much he's missed me. Sometimes I wake to this.

There's a part of me that wishes he'd do this today just so I wouldn't have to think.

The lock on the front door rattles as someone attempts to insert a key into the hole. It doesn't matter how long he's lived here or how he uses those keys every morning, he still takes a moment to make sure he's using the right one, and on the first try he usually isn't. So it takes him a solid minute to unlock the door and enter the house. If we had dogs, they'd surely drive us insane from his routine. It slightly drives me insane already. But I'm technically not even supposed to be awake, so I never mention it.

When Mike finally enters the house, the first thing I hear after the satisfying break of the doors seal ringing throughout the living room is a deep sigh as Mike's backpack lands in front of the coat rack. He should be quieter about setting it down. I would be. But I think he assumes we should be so deep in sleep it really wouldn't matter, and it honestly doesn't make much noise. Just a slightly dull 'thud' against the thinly carpeted floor.

Next I can hear his car keys land in the bowl they're meant for. Again, he's a bit too loud with it all. At least, while people are sleeping. But it's not really a bother. In a way, I like it. It gives me a routine to memorize, his sounds before he'll trail to our room and come press himself against me.

The rocking recliner creeks softly as he sits in it, lazily undoing the laces on his boots before he tosses them towards the coat rack. And next he'll duck his head into the fridge I'm sure and look for the leftovers I put into a big bowl for him to warm up - which he won't, because he's a psychopath who likes cold food. - and then when my alarm goes off, he'll come to wake me up, rising from the old couch where he's very quietly reading his book while he eats and do whatever he has to do to prevent me from slipping back into sleep. He's very good at that job. Especially when he uses his tongue.

But today there's a break in the routine. Today, his footsteps are padding towards our room, the door quietly opening as he slips in. I can hear him let out a soft sigh as he tugs on his hoodie, pulling it off and then discarding of his jeans, which muffle the clack of his belt buckle as he slips them off. Left in his undershirt and boxers, he crosses the room to open the blinds and the window, letting in the fresh air and leaning against the thin windowstill for a moment. Now, I can see him.

He looks rested, a little more than he should for having just finished a night shift. I keep telling him he's going to get fired, but he always wiggles his way out of that conversation. The bags usually under his eyes aren't too deep this morning, which while problematic is relieving. His skin is pale blue from the dawns light that pours into the room. His dark curls are more thick on the top of his head, clumped together from him not brushing them after his shower. He must've used too much conditioner, because his hair also looks thicker than it usually does. The breeze blows his oversized pale blue shirt against his chest as he leans forward, allowing his eyes to close as he takes in a deep breath. It feels like an overly private moment. Like I've intruded by watching him. I don't see him like this much when he isn't alone. When he's with me or Abby, he's alert. Somewhat on guard. It's like he's watching us to make sure we're okay. He's too used to things falling apart in an instant. But when he's alone, physically or emotionally, the walls crumble away to reveal a man who enjoys peace. Who smiles softly as he bends down low, resting his chin upon his arms, letting the dawn greet him and being the supposed first in the house to greet the dawn. And I feel like a stalker for watching him. A scene that feels as if I've stolen what will now only exist deep in my mind for when I want to remember one of the few times he has truly ever looked at peace with the world. It's a scene out of a painting. As private as a prayer. I should grant him more privacy, but I don't. In a captivated and enchanted way, I can't.

I'd never tell him this, but in this moment he looks like his mother. And not in the sense of him being her son. No, based off of the few photos I've seen of her in more private, intimate instances, like when she was holding a very small Mike on her lap on his second birthday, or when Mike's father had stolen a photo during their honeymoon when she wasn't looking, Mike looks just like her. Quiet, serene, not hiding anything from anyone because there's no need. At this moment it is just him and the gentle, late winter breeze that makes my nose begin to sting. He's beautiful. Just like she was.

The moment comes to an end, and now it is just a moment that exists only within my mind as his eyes open. The blue dawn brings out the green in his eyes that's usually hidden by artificial light that overpowers the amber, turning them mostly black in some instances. That's the color I thought they were until I saw him in proper daylight. His long lashes bat once, twice in an almost sleepy manner as he shifts his focus, now turning his head to look at me. I shut my eyes quickly, my canines biting into my tongue to force myself to keep a straight face. But it's too late. We made eye contact, even if it was only for a second, and now he knows I'm awake.

"Sweetheart?" He whispers softly, his voice low and slightly gravelly in the way it always is. His 's' and 't's just a tad sharp, clear as always when he speaks. I hear the floor groan as he pads towards me.

I don't speak. I'm not supposed to be awake. I should be asleep, he would rather I was asleep. I tried to be asleep.

He stops in front of me, I can hear the floor groan louder as he crouches in front of me. He's trying to decide if I'm awake or not, if maybe he'd been tricked into thinking we made eye contact. But something convinces him he hasn't, and the bed sinks as he places a hand upon the mattress to support his weight while he kisses my temple.

"Hi," he whispers against my skin, placing another kiss just above the curve of my brow. "Good morning." He places another kiss on the space between my brows, his lips now trailing up to the middle of my forehead. "You look so pretty like this."

Like what? My skin shining with oil, my nose dirty, my body heavy from not having moved?

Something makes him pause when his lips find my cheek. He keeps his lips pressed against my skin for a moment before he pulls away, licking his lips as he looks closer at me.

"Hey," he whispers softly, a finger finding my chin. "Open your eyes."

I don't want to. When I do he'll instantly know what I've been doing, and I don't want to handle it. I don't want to deal with it.

His hand slips under my head, between my cheek and my pillow.

"Sweetheart, your pillow's wet," he says in quiet surprise. "Open your eyes, talk to me."

Hesitatingly, I obey. Cracking my eyes open and trying not to reveal how horrid the dryness in them feels after allowing them rest for a few moments after keeping them open for what could have been hours at this point. Mike's face is inches from mine, his brows furrowed in concern as his eyes scan for other obvious signs of distress.

"Hi," I croak in a tired, unused voice as I try to pretend all is well. Mike unfortunately knows better.

"What happened?" He asks concerningly, taking in the tone he does whenever Abby is upset, fretting over me like I'm an injured child as both of his hands cup my face, his lips finding what he's confirmed are thin, itchy and salty tear tracks, placing several, feather-light kisses along them.

"Nothing," I answer honestly, my voice still cracking. "I'm fine."

"Your eyes are red, baby," he says softly, pulling away to look at me again while his body inches closer. "You look like you've been crying for hours."

Ha. I wish. If I had been, maybe I'd feel better about everything. But instead, I've been lying here since Abby went to bed, feeling numb and dead internally as I willed myself to be upset about anything. Work, bills, the color of the walls. I'd succeeded maybe twice, little tears streaming down my face for a minute or two. But then they would stop, and it would feel as though I couldn't cry. Really cry. Like there was some emotional, maybe physical block preventing me from just truly letting all of my emotions out in a possibly hysterical fit. One that would mean I could connect to my humanity. I don't know what's wrong with me. So, instead I just say "I haven't cried."

Mike opens his mouth to call bullshit, but his brow furrows tighter as he thinks. "What's wrong?" He asks again, now lifting my head to allow one arm to slip underneath so I can lay upon it.

"Nothing," I answer again, truly unsure of what to say. "I'm really okay."

And I am. Work is fine, I am fine. Friends are fine. I don't have entitlement to be upset.

"Is it another episode?" Mike asks softly, now pulling his body onto the bed to lie next to me, fully committed to being partner of the year over here. Ugh. Great.

"No," I answer quickly, averting my gaze. Mike's hand cups my cheek, his body cool compared to mine. I'm soaked in sweat from sleeping - read: laying motionless on the bed since 9:30. - in too warm of clothes in too warm of a room under too warm of blankets. I probably stink. Meanwhile the morning air makes Mike feel refreshing. He's perfect. I'm a mess.

"It's okay if it is," Mike says softly. "It's nothing to be ashamed of if-"

"I'm not having an episode," I say firmly, cutting him off as though it will solidify my statement more than his if I finish mine first. "I'm just not."

I don't pretend to be perfect. I'm not, and I never will be. I know that's okay. I know episodes happen, and that I'll be okay. I've been so much better lately on my new schedule. I'm working, I'm happy.

I have absolutely no good reason to be in the midst of a depression episode. One where the memories won't leave my mind, where I can't sleep, can't think about anything but the past. It plays in my head over and over again, and I can't stop it. Even though I try. I read, I journal, I bathe. But I don't feel real. People don't feel real. Mike is disorienting in the sense that he is the only thing that truly feels real. Where the pale color of the sheets seems hypnotic, his slightly tan skin contrasts to remind me this place really does exist. The furniture and details of the room seem as real as something from a video game, renderings that aren't as realistic as they could be that blend into the wall more as you look. Flat. Nothing. But the freckles on his nose are real. Strikingly real. Overly real. It's as though someone took their time to place each one, carefully deciding their color, their opacity, their placement. I want and love each one, but at this moment they slightly torture me by drawing me into a comforting trap.

"I haven't had an episode in over a month, I'm better," I attempt to say in a firm, solid voice. But I'm too tired, too worn out. My chest burns both from anxiety induced heartburn and how shallow my breathing has been for the past several hours. Mike looks sad, and I hate that. Deeply.

"You have been doing better," he says softly, like a reassuring parent. "I've seen that. And I'm so proud of you."

But I still have this. I'm still like this. I still can't have people wrap their arms around me from behind because I'm instantly taken back to when it would end in me collapsed on the ground, panting, crying, calling out for help that just wouldn't come. I still can't wear shirts with too tight of collars because it always end with me half naked, ripping the shirt off while hyperventilating. That was how I had to tell Mike. For our first Christmas together he bought me this beautiful turtleneck, knowing I liked the style but didn't own many. A dark evergreen color, affordable but a lovely tight-knit material, I adored the thing. But the moment the shirt was over my head, the neck felt like a hand suffocating me, and though I tried to tolerate it fie as long as I could, it only took one casual graze of his hand along my back to send me reeling into a corner, hyperventilating, sobbing, blubbering like a terrified child as I clawed at my neck while he tried to get it off of me.

'I'm so proud of you.' The statement feels like a backhanded reward. It feels as though I'm an idiotic child who just can't learn their ABC's or basic fundamental math. It feels like I'm a small toddler surrounded by adults looking at me full of pity in their eyes while they think 'well, you'll never be normal by any means. But maybe one day if you're lucky, you'll work in a Subway.' But they don't tell me this. They just praise me for existing. 'You woke up today! You put on clothes today! You didn't kill yourself!' It makes me want to scream. Yes, even at him. I want to grab him by his shirt and scream until my voice is shattered 'don't praise me for the bare minimum! I'm not a child!'

But I know he's not. I know he feels the same way when he slips back in progress as well. There was a solid month last year where Mike's insurance refused to pay for his sleep medication due to some paperwork slip and such, something they eventually realized was a complete blip on their end. But that month was hell for Mike, who could barely sleep well even with the medication. His easy smirks were replaced with cracked lips, skin raw from constant biting. His eyes were filled with paranoia from lack of sleep, and worse were the night terrors. Mike didn't even know he was still capable of having them, usually sedated by his meds well enough that if there was a nightmare, he just stayed asleep. At worst he'd wake up in a haze, maybe a very short yelp if anything. But without his meds, it was screaming. Constant screaming. There were nights he would wake after only an hour and he'd start, his voice shrill and reverberating off the walls as he thrashed in the bed. You couldn't console him, touch made him worse. When it happened, you simply had to leave the room and pray he would be okay. The episode could last anywhere from five minutes to an hour, and you would know it was over when all you could hear was broken sobbing, quiet and childlike in nature. Then I would return to the room, and there he'd be. Sometimes wrapped in blankets, sometimes his shirt torn off of himself. Usually sitting either in the dark corner of the room or on the floor of our closet. Red, angry marks would trail along his skin from clawing at himself with his uneven nails, some of them being actual cuts he'd managed in his terror. I'd carefully clean his cuts with cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide while he silently stared ahead, too ashamed to speak or make eye contact with me. And too terrified to sleep again.

Sleep deprivation didn't help, either. One day I saw him with a Redbull stuck in his hand, seemingly never empty despite how much he drank from it. At first I thought it was one, than I realized it was three, then I realized I didn't really know what number he was on. It was surprising how well he could take the new, unusual load of caffeine that tastes sickly sweet without so much as a twitch of an eyebrow. I didn't realize he was trying to starve off sleep until the next morning when his leg was bouncing a mile a minute and he was snapping at every little thing. That day he had a breakdown over dropping an unpeeled onion. And that's when it slipped out.

I didn't judge him. I was terrified for him, but I didn't judge him. And I could tell the same was true for him when I would have my slips, though mine looked different. Mine looked like a lack of self care and rotting in our bed, staring pointlessly ahead until he would lift me off the bed and carefully guide me to a warm bath, where he'd gently wash my skin with a soft rag like I was a newborn while I stared ahead at nothing. At this point we had learned to tell the oncoming signs of each others episodes, and how to starve them off. And if we couldn't, how to help each other through them.

Usually, I don't mind. But today, it hurts. It all hurts.

"Have you eaten?" Mike asks me gently, his thumb gliding over my cheekbone as he wraps me in his embrace, careful of where he places his hands on my person. Like I'm a bomb.

I don't want to be treated like this anymore.

"Yes," I sigh in an irritated voice, like it's the most inconvenient thing he should ask me such a question. But I haven't. I feel empty and yet too full at the same time, and guilt pounds behind my left eye with the ferocity of a headache that I can't just mother myself.

Mike doesn't believe me. He'll pretend he does, but the press of his lips betray him as he takes a deep breath in like he's trying to tell what wire to cut next.

"Would you like to have breakfast with me?" He asks softly, his thumb still stroking just below the raw corner of my eye. It burns. All of it.

'No,' I snap in my head. But I just tighten my jaw and press my own lips together.

"I'm not really hungry, but thank you," I say in a tight voice. Now he's going to pretend that's okay, and he'll go get his breakfast. Then he'll pretend he can't finish it all, joke lightly and say I gave him too big of a portion even though he eats like he's still a growing teenager, and offer me little bites as he "tries" to finish the rest, then eventually trick me into finishing it. He isn't slick, and I'm not a child.

"Hey," he says in a light whisper. "I was thinking maybe we could go out today? All three of us? Or I could call Max, see if she'll watch Abs for a little bit so we can get away?"

Distraction. Cute. I don't need it.

"That could be nice," I admit through half gritted teeth, not meeting his eyes. "Where to?"

"Anywhere," he says too quickly, obviously relieved to have a straw to grasp at. "Your choice."

Guilt twists in my chest like an alien creature settled in my lungs, burning as it begins to slither its way towards my throat to suffocate me on its wrath. He doesn't need to do this. Can't he see how well I'm doing?

"How was work?" He asks me in an attempt to keep me talking. Mike doesn't like silence, not like this. Not really any time. There's always noise throughout the house, whether it's a show on in the background or white noise from his cassette player. He can't stand silence. Especially from people.

"Work was..." Fine? The usual? Non-eventful?

"Good," I decide. Mike presses his lips together again. Stop doing that.

"Yeah?" He asks in a slightly tight voice.

"Yeah," I confirm in a tighter voice.

"You didn't... call out or anything?"

My bottom left back molar feels like it might snap from how tight my jaw is. "Why?" I ask, venom unintentionally creeping in.

"Just asking," he says quickly.

"Why?" I press harder, wanting to know who told on me. Abby hasn't even had the chance to speak with him.

'It's because he knows your patterns,' I think. 'He's trying to gage how serious this is.'

"Maybe we could go out for breakfast? We can wait until Abby wakes up, go get some Waffle Hous-"

"I'm not having an episode," I snap quickly, more harsh than I intended. My tone makes him flinch slightly, his eyes shutting for a moment as he takes another breath in. Now I'm scared he'll pull away.

"We... don't have to talk about this right now," he says softly, opening his eyes again and wrapping his arm around me tighter. "Let's just focus on breakfast."

The guilt pounds in my kidneys, which are sore since I haven't left the bed since I laid down after putting Abby to sleep, but I did have a full water bottle around 3:00 in the morning. It's not Mike's fault I backtracked. He's just trying to be nice. I'm the asshole here.

"I'm sorry," I say in a small voice, dropping my gaze and biting my tongue between my canines again to stop the tears that are now willing to come freely to burn my eyes during such an inappropriate moment.

"It's okay," Mike says softly, placing a kiss on my forehead. "Don't even think about it."

'Don't even think about the fact he's just trying to be a decent person and you can't even say 'thank you,'' a grating voice in my head chides me. 'What, you're too good for a free meal?'

"I'm sorry," I repeat softer, my nails digging into my wrist that I'm holding to keep control over myself. Mike's hand is searching for mine, ready to pry it away to prevent me from doing what I need to to prevent the waterworks.

"Hey." Stop with the 'hey's. "I said it's alright, you're okay."

It's all bad. Everything's bad, and it's not going to get better. I keep thinking I'll get better, I keep thinking I'll be okay. But every two steps forward is one step back and I can't keep doing this redundant bullshit for the rest of my life. Am I going to be 40 at the office Christmas party sneaking off to freak out in the bathroom because something triggered me and I just can't get a grip on things? Am I even going to make it to 40?

Mike is comforting me, cradling my head to his chest and rocking me back and forth. And his shirt is wet. I don't like that his shirt is wet, it should be dry. Why is it fucking wet?

"It's okay," he's whispering in my hair while horrid choking sounds come from somewhere around us. Maybe the other room? "You're alright, it's okay."

I'm aware it's alright, I'm aware it's okay. Why are you wet? Why does my head hurt?

"I can't- sleep," my voice chokes out between guttural sobs, my face pressed into his chest. "It's all nightmares."

Oh. Shit. That's me. The wetness, I did that. My bad.

"I know, it's okay. How long?" Mike asks softly. What, are you gonna call my therapist?

"A week," I moan into his chest. My ribs expand with each recycled breath I steal from against his chest, and I can feel him trying to gently tug me away so I can get one with fresh, cold air instead. I don't let him. My lungs burn more. "They just won't stop."

"It's okay, it's only temporary," he says softly, his hand pushing away some of the blanket to relieve me of the boiling warmth underneath. The cold air is refreshing against my skin, even through my clothes are soaked with stinking sweat.

"No, it's not!" I cry hysterically into his chest. "They don't go away. None of it goes away. I want it to go away!"

He's nodding, rubbing circles on my back as I grip his shirt hard enough it may stretch.

"It'll get better. It did for awhile," he reminds me.

"But I'm back here. I always end up back here. I was doing so good!" I sob, feeling the wetness on his shirt begin to slightly thicken, probably due to snot. I try to sniff it back into my sinuses, but I think that just draws his attention to the new fluid he's covered in.

"That's okay. You'll do even better next time. And if you don't, that's okay too." Don't say what I think you're going to say. Do not. Michael, I'm serious, don't- "I'm still proud of you."

Fuck. Ooooooff!

This is the real release of my emotions. Now I'm gasping, choking, sobbing, making horrible sounds that sound like a European ambulance siren wailing through the streets to announce someone's dying on the way to the hospital. My head throbs with the pain from the heavy crying, and I may give myself a nosebleed from the passion of it all. And Mike, his patience thick and durable, just holds me through it all. Letting me soak his shirt, dirty his skin, grab at him blindly while I wail like a spoiled child, just repeating the phrase over again. 'Proud.' What pride. What honor to be had at such a breakdown. Yes, very understandable.

"I should be better," I sob into his chest. "You deserve better."

"What?" He laughs lightly, and at first it feels mocking, but then he's pulling my head away fron my soaked enclosure and his eyes are so gentle for a moment I know the light laughter is simply from surprise. Then his eyes widen and he's back in parent mode.

"Don't leave me. Don't leave me!" I choke out while gripping his shirt. At first he thinks I'm talking about our relationship, then he realizes I'm not letting him pull away.

"Sweetheart, you're bleeding," he gently explains. "Let me wipe your face. I just need tissues. I'm not even leaving the bed."

But that's too much. Let me bleed, let my head throb, let this headache take the vision away in my eye from how bad it hurts. Let anything happen so long as I can stay in this moment. Don't break the spell. Don't let me go numb again.

"Don't leave me," I cry pathetically, my eyes all scrunched together in the same manner as wailing infants, my grip on his shirt not breaking. Sure enough, there on the wet spot of his shirt is a dark stain of blood that should hopefully come out if we wash it fast enough.

"Let me do that," I'm saying as I try to peel off his shirt now. "Let me wash it."

He's gently guiding my hands away. "Don't worry about it," he says gently, kissing my hands and wrists like they might break even from the delicate graze of his lips. "Let me take care of you."

He does this all the time. He always takes care of me. I should do more. Be more. For him.

"You deserve better," I choke out, feeling like I may suffocate from the tears. Mike's brows furrow in concern, and he grips my chin very carefully as he makes me meet his eyes.

"Hey, no. Get that out of your head, it's all okay," he tells me softly, staring at me like if he can't verbally convince me, his hard stare will do the trick. "I don't want to hear you talk like that."

"I should be better," I repeat, my crying lessening slightly as I try to hold eye contact.

"You're getting better," he reminds me. "This is the happiest I've seen you since we met. You'll get back to that. Hell, you could feel the same way tonight. It's okay. Take a day off. We all need one, even normal people," he says softly, stroking my hair as he kisses my forehead. "Can you just let me take care of you in the meantime?"

No. Go away, let me rot.

"We can still go out for breakfast," he offers gently. "I can still call Max, or we can all stay in. I'll set up a nest in the living room so you can watch TV. Works you like that?"

Stop. Stop being nice to me, stop trying to make me feel better. It all just feels awful. I don't want this guilt, someone takes it away.

Mike must sense my overwhelmed emotions, because he places another kiss on my forehead before asking if he can clean my face again, and this time I say yes. He pulls away, which is still upsetting but less so. I don't make a deal out of it this time at least. He opens a drawer, searching for wipes and pulling them out before turning back to me.

"Do you want to sit up?" He asks gently. I bite my tongue to prevent another mocking thought directed towards me and nod. Bones crack as I do, my kidneys hurt worse. But at least I finally moved.

Tears still streak down my face as Mike wipes away the snot and blood, his large hand gently cupping my face as he does. There's a soft smile on his face, though I'm not particularly sure why. And when he's done, he runs his thumb along my bottom lip before placing his own lips on top of mine. They're chapped, one spot raw from excessive biting. But there's still some leftover chapstick on them, and it tastes like grapefruit.

I tug on his shirt, one hand sneaking under it to feel his cool skin underneath. He gently takes my wrist once more, then pulls away. A silent rejection. He knows that I'm just looking for a distraction from my emotions, and in a moment he'll offer a much healthier one. He does discard the shirt, leaving his chest bare, but only so that he doesn't smear my fluids back onto me as he pulls me in for another embrace.

"We'll be okay," he promises. "Everything will be okay."

"What if it's not?" I ask in a quiet, strained voice.

"Then it'll be okay later. You can take time to not be okay," he says.

There's a short silence before either of us speak. And when I hear his voice hitch in the way it does when he's about to say something, Abby's alarm rings crystal clear in her room. Then the sound of a truck rattles by on the road in front of the house. Birds continue to sing. And my pours feel so clogged I'm sure my skin will be lashing out for days.

But it'll all be okay.

                             ¤▪︎{♧}▪︎¤

"Can we have some fluff to reco-" no. Suffer.

Taglist:

@cassiecasluciluce @gh0u1ishly @joshhutchersons-slut @schmidtsbimbo @sugarevans @wompwompwomp57 @jhutchissupercool @laurrrelise. Thank you for your support pookies!!! <3

               •▪︎Masterlist▪︎•

[scarletttries]

What One Piece Characters Are Like In A Relationship...(Part Two)

Request: "Greetings, could I ask for headcanons of what Buggy the Clown and Dracule Mihawk are like in a relationship?"

Pairings: Buggy x Reader, Mihawk x Reader, Shanks x Reader

Part One (The Straw Hats) here / One Piece Masterlist

Buggy the Clown:

- It's impossible to overestimate the sheer vulnerability it took for Captain Buggy to speak genuinely and honestly when he finally confessed his feelings for you. A man who's spent so much of his life hidden behind a painted facade and a wicked smile, he tried to fight his truth for so long, forcing himself to treat you like just another pirate on his ship when there's nothing you could do that wouldn't stand out to him. The sincerity with which you speak to him, the way you don't gawk at his appearance, the fact that you never engage in the mutinous whispers of those around you. It wasn't long until you became his most called upon ally on the ship, through genuine appreciation for your insights but also his intense need to have his eyes on you at all times.

- With his feelings out in the open, Buggy is still conflicted in the way he showers his affections upon you. Behind closed doors the man is your personal jester, cracking jokes and using his gifts to keep you smiling and entertained constantly. Honestly that man would do anything to keep you looking at him, the warmth of your gaze enough to undo decades of cruelty and ridicule.

- Around the crew though, your captain likes to keep his adoration discrete. There are a lot of people out there that would love to have something they could use against him, and he knows deep down he'd surrender everything he's ever worked for if it stopped a single hair on your head being harmed. So despite how Buggy feels like he is bursting at the seams with joy every time he sees you, he insists on keeping things a secret for as long as the two of you can, lasting on longing looks and subtle contact for the price of your safety.

- That does add a certain desperation to the clown's behaviour towards you though, not that you mind. The moment you close a door he'll be on with you in a flash, all hungry lips and pressing his chest flush with yours to bathe in your warmth while he still can. He needs you overwhelming all of his senses, to fill his heart back up before he has to face the day without you again. Sometimes when he knows you'll be apart for a while, he'll tell the crew he's lost a hand somewhere on the ship so he can leave one tucked securely in your pocket, subtly interlacing his fingers with yours whenever the day gets to be too much; the powers he once feared made him a devil, now giving him the chance to stay by an angel's side forevermore.

Dracule Mihawk:

- A life as the world's greatest swordsman can be a lonely one. Going wherever he's paid to go. Never putting down roots. Knowing that one day he might just find someone desperate enough for his title to kill for it. Mihawk had accepted this life with a certain pride, until he found something else he wanted to be the best at.

- Another night in another island bar had his path crossing with yours, the briefest of exchanges leaving an aching hole in his chest like he'd never experienced before. It was like your smile sent a spark his way that had his whole body going up in smoke, a fire lit inside him that he had only felt once before; for his pursuit of swordsmanship. He knew nothing would quell that desire except giving in fully to the devotion.

- Dracule is extremely attentive to your every whim. He's never really been tied down before he enjoys the grounding that comes from having someone else to influence each of his days. Nothing fulfils him like making one of your wishes come true, his dedication to your partnership unwavering no matter what the world throws at you both.

- He would take enormous pride in teaching you a few of his sword-fighting moves, framing the sessions as just a way to share in his two favourite things (swords and you), but in the back of his mind also very conscious that a time may come when you need to defend yourself from his enemies. Naturally he'll find a way throw your practice fights so the two of you end up on the floor together, his sword cast aside as he exclaims that you are the only person in all the seas that has ever disarmed him so. Don't be expecting to leave that floor for a while once he has you in his grips.

Shanks:

- When you work in a popular port town you see a lot of pirates come and go. So it's pretty noticeable when a certain captain seems to do all his supply runs in your specific shop. Shanks is not at all subtle that he's continually coming to town for you, your first conversation enough for him to reveal that you might be the only person he's ever met that could convince him to give up the pirate life and settle down.

- You don't ask him to do that, instead the two of you settle for frequently being apart, but relishing in every second you get to spend together when you can. Every moment that Shanks is in your life is filled with fun, whether he's just dancing with you in your lovely little home, or convincing you to come with him on this next adventure, heading to a beautiful island where for once he's confident there's no risk of danger to you.

- When you have to be apart, Shanks will call you late in the night, narrating the view from his perch on the figurehead of his ship. He'll describe every detail of the stars glistening on the waves until the peachy rays of the sun trickle across the horizon, all while knowing the far superior view is wherever you are. He'll never reveal the true danger of his journeys to you, instead giving you joyful reimaginations of the troubles he's faced that day. You can tell when he's had a hard week from the pain in his voice though, so you take the chance to regale him with the softness of your peaceful day, recounting your every step and listening to his breathing slow as a weight lifts off his chest. He tells you how one day he can't wait to dock his ship one final time and fall in step with the life you've built, never having to hear your voice from so far away again.

- He lets that hope carry him through the most tempestuous nights at sea, through all the near misses at the hands of his enemies, through every day spent hiding from a bounty hunter and aching to hear your voice again. He finds himself picturing the two of you raising a family, a tiny crew of your own that will always unite you, the ultimate adventure Shanks can imagine, and one he never thought he'd long for until he thought about living it hand in hand with you.

One piece requests still open!

[mad-not-disappointed]

I hear people point out that Catra's redemption arc is 'incomplete' as a means of excusing criticism.

Which, is the exact OPPOSITE of how this shit works?

We are taught this in FIRST GRADE. If you write something, you have to wrap it up! Like. A. Bow.

If Catra's redemption is 'incomplete' that means it was poorly written, and combine that with the other consequences of her arc's bad writing and you can see why people dunk on her character.

There is the option of an open-ending for a character but that requires you to do your damndest, which evidently is something that the writers didn't do, and something that 90% of the fandom doesn't realize.

i agree and disagree with this. i do think that some arcs can be left open-ended, but you have to show the beginning, at least. you can't leave an arc open-ended when there isn't an arc to begin with. you have to write some of it effectively so that the audience knows that the arc has begun and will likely have a successful ending, even if the ending is not shown on-screen.

(pardon me as i go on a long tangent about my favorite show. infinity train spoilers ahead!)

the best example of this that i have is Grace from Infinity Train. her redemption arc was definitely incomplete because by the end of the season, she still had a high number that she had to slowly work on reducing so that she could get off the train. she was by no means a fully redeemed character.

BUT we actually see her putting in effort to change! we see at least 50% of the process as she slowly begins to warm up to Hazel and Tuba, as she begins to realize how wrong her worldview was and the harm that she's been doing to the denizens, and as she starts reprimanding Simon and trying to motivate him to redeem himself like she was doing.

the other thing is that Grace doesn't get forgiven by her victims. Hazel leaves after Grace lashes out at her, and the narrative doesn't act like Grace is entitled to forgiveness as soon as she cries and apologizes. she has to deal with the fact that she hurt Hazel and there's no undoing that.

Grace: (...) Hazel is part of that group now. We don't leave Apex behind.

Grace: Hazel, you're sticking with us.

Hazel: I don't want to go with you.

Grace: Huh? It's okay. We can work around the denizen thing.

Hazel: I'm not going with you!

Hazel: You said the Apex is supposed to be brave. But if that's true, why are you all so... scared of me?

(...)

Amelia: (...) but I am not your caretaker.

Hazel: Grace and Simon weren't either.

(...)

Grace: Hazel, it's not too late to change your mind.

Hazel: Good luck, Grace.

keep in mind, this was a child. probably about 8-9 years old. the writers could have just made her forgiven Grace and said “well she's young, children don't hold grudges”. but they didn't. they acknowledged how much Grace hurt Hazel and they allowed Hazel to stay upset at Grace.

same goes for Simon. while Simon became the bigger villain in the end, Grace was the one who instilled the cult mindset in him in the first place and he never forgives her. he does eventually cause his own demise in the end, but we're not made to believe that Grace was entirely blameless in all of this.

in short, Grace doesn't get a happily ever after, but her arc does end on a hopeful note. regardless of whether people forgive her or not, she decides to continue working on improving herself.

this is how you write an incomplete redemption arc. you have to make the viewers believe that this character wants to change, and you need to hold them accountable for their actions. you can't just have all their victims forgive them despite the fact that they're still an asshole, and then tell us that their arc isn't over yet. how would the arc be over if it hasn't even started?

[thesakuragarnet]

Shower Arguments (A Dabi Angst Oneshot)

Summary: Dabi has a much-needed conversation with the mirror while cleaning his wounds in the bathroom.

Dedicated to my fellow Touya kinnies. May we all win the shower arguments and may the Endeavors in our lives face justice.

This work is rated M for strong language and blood/Dabi-typical body horror.

Word Count: 2,063 words

Tags: implied/referenced ab*se/CA/DV, implied/referenced self-harm, mentioned s*icide attempt (on a technicality), swearing, angst, blood and injury, wound care / cleaning, Dabi has psychosis, Endeavor as a hallucination, Dabi-centric, Dabi & Toga are lowkey found family siblings

AO3 link

“I said I was extra sorry!” Toga whines, tears pricking at the edges of her eyelashes as she follows Dabi like a lost puppy. 

“Fuck off!” Dabi scoffs, storming down the hallway of the Gunga Mountain Villa toward his bedroom, clutching his arm. 

“It’s what you get for scaring me! You should know better!” Toga pouts. 

“The normal response to someone jumping out from behind a corner is NOT to stab them in the arm!” Dabi shouts angrily, holding the pressure to the gaping wound in his forearm. It isn’t deep - thank God - but it still hurts like a bitch. 

Toga chases Dabi all the way to his bedroom before he promptly slams his door in her face, locking it before shuffling off to his private bathroom. 

“Fucking crazy,” Dabi shakes his head as he winces, shrugging off his jacket so he can get a better reach to his wound. 

He doesn’t need to go to the infirmary despite Toga’s begging. Dabi throws open a cabinet to find his backpack. It has everything he needs to clean his scars and prevent himself from going septic. There’s also a suture kit in addition to his surgical staples. He grunts as he hefts the backpack onto the toilet lid. 

“Touya…”

Dabi’s head whips up, and he looks around. 

SCHHH! 

The sound of the shower curtain being flung to the side echoes in the small bathroom…but no one’s hiding in the tub. 

‘That voice.’ Dabi shivers, shaking his head as he unzips the backpack, digging through it until his fingers wrap around his box of suture and his needle holders. He needs to focus. That thing isn’t anywhere near the Gunga Mountain Villa. He would know. He always knows. Dabi’s kept tabs on him since he ran away. Dabi sets his supplies on the counter before running water over the wound, washing it out. 

“Touya…please…listen to me.”

“What the fuck?!” Dabi gasps under his breath, looking up again. It’s just his own reflection. “Get out of my head.” Touya snatches a packet of antibiotic salve, tearing it open with his teeth before squeezing it into the slice. He manages to fumble with the suture, getting it between the needle holders, and starts the grueling process of sewing his own wound shut. 

“I just…want to atone.” 

Endeavor’s voice rings in Touya’s brain, making him grit his teeth. That stupid word that he keeps using…does he even know what it means? 

“Atonement? What the fuck are you even talking about? You can’t atone for something like that. You can’t undo the damage that you’ve done. Nothing will ever fucking make up for that. Do you not understand that? Can you not get that through your thick fucking skull?!” Dabi hisses under his breath as he threads the suture through the tissue, completely numb to the physical pain. 

“Please, Touya. I just want peace.” 

Touya looks up into the mirror, seeing Enji Todoroki staring back at him…seeing that thing staring back at him. His reflection is gone. Dabi points his finger at the mirror.

“No. No, you don’t get to find peace. You should never know peace. Do you wanna know why? Because you have never given anyone around you peace. The people who trusted you most. The people you were supposed to protect first . Your own fucking family . You let them down. You let us down. You let me down. Every. Single. Time. Every. Single. Turn. It’s disgusting . It’s pathetic ,” Dabi’s seething so harshly that he has to wipe the spit from his mouth with his uninjured arm before he finishes the stitch, returning his attention to his wound. 

“Touya-”

“Stop saying my name!” Dabi screams, eyes glaring back up at the image of his father in the mirror. He knows it’s all in his head…but…damnit if letting out all of his pent-up rage doesn’t feel great once in a while. This isn’t the first time this has happened, and it certainly isn’t the last. Touya feels the dull sting and tightness beneath his eyes…he’s going to start crying soon. “I did nothing. I was a kid. I just wanted you to look at me. To make me feel like I was wanted . Like I was worth a shit. And you…you just threw me away!” Touya sobs out, grabbing his suture scissors once he finishes tying it off to snip the thread. The blood runs down his face, dripping onto the sink counter. “Fuck, look what you did, you bastard.”

“Son, I-”

“Fuck you!” Touya coughs out, chest heaving as he sobs, choking on air from his inability to cry. It makes him sound even more pathetic…he can’t even cry properly. He digs through the bag until he pulls out a tub of light blue gauze. 

“I’m sorry.”

Enji’s voice feels like nails on a chalkboard to Dabi. 

“And you think simple words make up for all that? You think apologizing over and over changes anything ?” Dabi stammers, wiping the crimson from his eyes. 

“I don’t know what else you want from me,” That thing whispers.

“I wanted you to fucking look at me ! If you listened instead of beating your wife and kids, maybe you’d know that! You’re so dense !” Dabi rants, unable to feel the burn of the chlorhexidine-soaked gauze on his face as he blots the burst section beneath his eyes. 

“I know I wasn’t the best then, but I-”

“No. No, you need consequences. That’s not good enough,” Dabi cackles, throwing the dirty gauze into the sink before waiting for the antiseptic to dry on his face. “You never had any consequences, and that’s half your problem. No one put you in your fucking place .” He pauses, checking to make sure his face is dry before he heats up his finger, “And I’m gonna be the one to finally do it.” Dabi slowly cauterizes the skin flap back down to his healthy flesh; the blue glow faintly reflects in the mirror.

“If you weren’t so difficult. If you could just remember the good times that we had. Remember when you were younger?” Enji urges desperately. Touya feels his heart sink. 

“You…That…That doesn’t matter! What does it matter? Before you told me to stop? Is that what you’re talking about?” Dabi stammers, staring dumbly into the mirror.

“Yes! We had such wonderful times together. It seems so convenient that you forget that.” Enji’s voice is dismissive. 

Touya’s reaching a breaking point. 

“You mean before you drove me to kill myself?”

Enji’s form goes still, and he remains silent; his face is frozen in shock. 

“Y'know, that’s basically what happened. I almost killed myself. By accident,” Dabi says flatly, his tone dripping with hate. 

“Touya…” 

“I wish it was you. I wish it was you who burned to death,” Dabi mutters under his breath. “It would’ve been better for us all if it had been you.” 

“You don’t really mean that.” Endeavor’s voice trembles. 

“Do you know what it’s like to wake up and not even recognize your own voice? Do you know what it’s like to be a homeless kid living on the streets? When you look like somebody’s science project? And you have to steal to survive?” Touya wipes his hands on the counter, leaving bloodstained fingerprints.  

“I don’t know why you didn’t stay.”

“How could I? What difference would it have made? Nothing changed! Nothing changed in the years that I was gone. After you killed me !” Dabi feels the burning tightness again under his eyes. 

“I didn’t know how to be a father. I-”

Touya cuts him off. 

“I was a kid ! I just wanted you to look at me! I loved you! You were my Dad! I wanted to be like you! And you-you just-” Touya’s sobbing again. “You fucking ruined everything ! FUCK !” He swears. He’s going to have to change out all the staples under his eyes at this rate. He grabs more of the gauze, slathering it on as he frantically plucks out the staples with the staple remover. “You always. You always fuck everything up. Stupid.” He doesn’t know if he’s talking to Endeavor or himself.  Touya's covered in blood and antiseptic at this point. His hand wraps around the staple gun in his bag, and he stares into Endeavor’s eyes as each gut-churning click rings through the bathroom. Dabi’s so used to it at this point that he doesn’t even flinch. 

“I hate that I caused you any pain. Please, believe me.”

Dabi sets the gun on the counter with a deep breath.

“Death is too kind for you,” He whispers, his eyes shimmering brilliant turquoise, almost as if the flames are dancing within his irises. The flames are threatening to spill out.  “You don’t get to decide to finally change after you get everything you’ve ever wanted. That’s not atonement . You should’ve started changing years ago. You should’ve started changing AFTER MY DEATH!” Touya’s voice rises, cracking as he feels the familiar heat boiling in his blood. “I was dead ! And you didn’t think twice about doing anything. Did you even care? Did you care that I died ?!” 

“I pray at your altar every day-”

“Oh, you pray at my altar. How cute,” Touya spits, mocking and cold. “Did you even tell Mom what happened? What really happened?”

“Of course, I did! How dare you bring Rei into this?!” Endeavor thunders, his face contorting into the disgust and rage that Touya’s so used to seeing. 

“How dare I? How dare I ?” The side of Touya’s face bursts into flames. “You made me think she was useless ! And I never got to say sorry! YOU REAP WHAT YOU SOW, YOU SICK BASTARD!” Touya’s scream is primal as he punches the mirror, his fist connecting with Enji’s face and shattering. The glass cuts into his hand, but Touya barely even feels it…what he does feel isn’t far off from a sweet, sharp sting. 

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

Flames lick out of Touya’s mouth, and he violently throws open the bathroom door with a rasping:

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?!”

Toga’s standing small, staring up at him with a first aid kit in her hands. 

Touya's eyes flicker from her tear-stricken face to the medkit. The fire dissipates. 

“The hell is that?” He snaps, his voice softer before adding, “How’d you get in?”

“I-I picked the lock,” She sniffles, rubbing away tears with the sleeve of her cardigan, “Heard you screaming. Wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

Dabi’s breathing hard, coming off a psychotic episode, trying with what little self-preservation he has to calm himself down. He doesn’t even know how to react. 

Toga brought him medical supplies?

Why?

She doesn’t owe him anything?

She stabbed him, so what?

“What did you hear?” Dabi blurts, fear seizing his throat. 

“I don’t know what you were saying. I just heard screaming. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, honest,” She insists, rolling her shoulders back. 

‘ Maybe Giran was right…maybe I should’ve kept those pills he got me all those years ago.’

Toga gasps: “Dabi, your hand!” 

Dabi vaguely registers the wetness dripping from his knuckles. 

“S’fine. Uh…” Dabi’s voice trails off. He’s confused. How the hell did Toga manage to extinguish his anger that fast? By what? Some stupid kind gesture? It’s like something his sister would do…

Dabi’s chest tightens. 

'Fuyumi-chan.'

He blinks back to reality, nearly flinching when he sees Toga catching the dripping blood into one of her vials. 

“For later,” She grins, though her normally demented smile isn’t as bright; her eyes are calculating, like she’s trying to figure Dabi out. That’s never gonna happen…not until Touya’s ready to reveal himself to the world. 

Touya steals a glance behind him, looking into the fractured mirror. It’s empty. That thing is gone. 

Dabi releases the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, oxygen flooding his lungs once again as he inhales deeply. 

“Fine. You can walk me to the infirmary. Might as well give you more vials of my blood if I’m gonna be losing any,” Dabi begrudgingly scratches the back of his neck. “They’ll have a better way of bottling it for you.” 

“Okay!” She beams, grabbing Dabi’s wrist before dragging him out of his room and into the hallway. 

‘Maybe…maybe I can see if they have Giran’s meds, too.’

[mirageofadesert]

Give me more morally gray characters ...

Let me interrupt my regular program for a brief rant about Downton Abbey and Thomas Barrow… well, not really regular as I've been too busy to watch anything with subtitles for the past few weeks. Instead, I passively binged on Downton Abbey while working.

I love morally gray characters, be it Tantai Jin from TTEOTM or Spike from Buffy. One of my favorite characters is Thomas Barrow from Downton Abbey. (Spoiler Alert, TW // suicide, homophobia, conversion therapy)

Thomas is everything I need in a character ... unhinged, angsty and gay.

I loved him from the first rude line to the last. He starts out as a delightful troublemaker with a cruel streak born of fear, hurt and the desire to be respected, fit in and belong. He is, as Baxter understands so well, his own worst enemy, having perfected self-sabotage over the years.

A supporting character for most of the show, the footman-turned-butler's story is usually prioritized over his character development - meaning the writers know where they want him to end up each season, even if it contradicts previous characterizations. This leaves the audience with a character who can be hard to follow at times.

The writing really got on my nerves at times. From conveniently forgetting his medical training when they want him to despair during his job hunt, to pulling any kind of cunning out of him when they want him to appear changed (and depressed), Thomas is always what the showrunners need him to be, but not necessary what would make sense for his character. I'm still annoyed that they made him go through medical torture in the form of conversion therapy and a suicide attempt, and then glossed over these traumatic incidents in favor of boring other storylines. Or how they portrayed his war injury as an act of cowardice rather than desperation.

What I love about him is that he was still a coherent character who remained a morally gray character (the last film aside, because they sort of forgot to give him any of his character traits back). Thomas would still lash out when he was angry or hurt, would still manipulate others for his own gain, and would still feel wronged by the world. Once the world has brought him to his knees, he understands that he has only himself to blame, and he tries to do better - which has its ups and downs. The Thomas we see in the final and in the films still wants to belong, is still a desperate romantic, but he is also so incredibly insecure in a rather endearing way.

Younger Thomas was rather stiff but dignified, trying to appear immaculate, trying to hide the fact that he felt he was anything but. Once the mask comes off, he goes from being a reluctant cat to being full of nervous puppy energy. As a neurodivergent person who has recently struggled with not being able to masks well, I can relate a little too much to this version of Thomas.

Most characters, that start out as villains, either change completely (like Tantai Jin), their behavior will be excused (like Mo Ran or Spike) or they sacrifice themselves for the greater good to redeem themselves (like Spike). Thomas stays more on less morally gray. We understand the reasons better, why he would lash out at others, and we can feel sorry for him. He had a harder life than most, but that still does not undo the harm he has done to others.

All in all, the last film was a bit of a disappointment for me, mainly because a lot of the characters felt a bit off. I had to watch the film twice to get behind the romance with Guy Dexter. What Guy meets is Thomas desire to be respected as a person, to be seen as worthwhile, to escape the life as decorative wallpaper and to finally have a romantic relationship with someone that is rather enthusiastic about him. A lot of their relationships seems to have developed off-screen, based on Guy knowing who Carson was during his proposal and understanding how uncertain Thomas still feels about his role in the household. I wish them well - but not at the expense of Thomas being excluded from the rumoured 3rd film. I hope it takes place in the USA and we get to see him again!

I really wish we would see more morally gray characters like this, even through a quick look into the fandom of Downton Abbey shows me, that not everybody can handle it.

[vintageromanticfic]

🖤 Unhinged Severus Headcanons 🖤

If you read Obliviate, you know how obsessed our Sev gets with YN...

1. He still brews her perfume.

After he Obliviated her, he kept making the scent she wore during their summer in Bulgaria. It clings to the halls of his quarters, infused into the pillows, folded into the collar of his robes. When questioned, he says it's for "sensory potion research." It's not. He breathes it in like penance.

2. He speaks to the memory of her.

Sometimes late at night, when the dungeons are quiet and the fire burns low, he murmurs things aloud to her—as if she's still there. Apologies, sharp observations, confessions. He knows it's insane. He doesn't stop.

3. He rereads her translation notes.

He kept the annotated pages she worked on during the Bulgaria project—each scrawl of her handwriting. He touches the ink like it's skin. When he's drunk, he answers the margin notes out loud.

4. He has her wand movements memorized.

Not just her brewing style—he's memorized the way she casts even basic spells. He recognizes her from across the Great Hall by the flick of her wrist. When she duels, he watches like a man seeing his lover dance with death.

5. He sabotages anyone who gets too close.

He has interfered with at least two budding relationships she didn’t know about. Snide remarks, House point deductions, intimidation. He rationalizes it: "They weren’t worthy of her."

(Especially not that floppy-haired Ravenclaw who dared ask if she’d study with him.)

6. He keeps her blood.

When she cut her hand in Potions, he healed her... and secretly bottled the blood. Labeled it clinically, as if for “experimental properties.”

But sometimes he just holds it. And wonders how something so small can undo him.

7. He wanted to erase her memory of him—and keep all of her.

He dreamed once of a spell that would remove himself from her mind, while preserving every other aspect of her life. He practiced versions of it, ruined three test subjects, and nearly Obliviated himself.

8. He would kill for her, without blinking.

He doesn’t think it’s romantic. He thinks it’s inevitable. If someone ever truly harmed her, he would act before thought could intervene. He has already considered the logistics.

9. He writes her.

Not letters. Whole pages—essays, essays upon essays—detailing why he cannot allow himself to want her. He burns them all. But he always keeps one. One page. Folded. Hidden inside a Defense textbook she once touched.

10. He once tried to remove the memory of their kiss—from himself.

Just the kiss. Just that moment in the dark, that heat. He brewed a memory extraction and sat for hours with his wand to his temple… but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t lose it. It was the last thing keeping him warm.

@Vintageromantic (Severus 🖤):https://archiveofourown.org/works/66580699/chapters/171743566

[wetcatspellcaster]

For the ask game ✨

✨⭐9, 13, 35, 51⭐✨

9. in an ideal world where you’re already super successful and published, would you want to see a tv or movie adaptation of your work? why or why not?

it's not really a dream I have... but I also know it's one of the primary way authors make money off their own work. so I wouldn't be averse to it lmao. I think the best tv/film adaptations give the author some creative power, but I'm not a script writer nor have any professional experience, so I think I'd just want to be able to say "please stop" if they got anything terrible wrong.

13. talk about a writing experience that has pleasantly surprised you.

um.... all of it????? if you'd told me that writing a silly fic in 2020 would get me here I don't think I'd believe you???

but for a more specific one: book bindings. book bindings are things I've seen posted on the internet and thought "oh, that's so neat!" and the idea that there would be any for my own stuff felt like a pipe dream. the fact that anyone has made bindings of my work still floors me to this day.

35. tell us about a character who’s very different than you who you love a whole lot

i mean, unfortunately for me the answer is obvious and it's Astarion. I gravitated towards him bc I like flirty, charismatic archetypes, which is already so far outside of my own wheelhouse. then the depth that full access added to his character also lies beyond my realm of experience - except for the idea of performing/masking, which I think it is pretty clear is the route I tend to use to get into writing him across projects. it's not so much the trauma i don't relate to (lol), so much as the hypersexuality and the amount of anger the writers allow him to have while him still remaining a very compelling character.

for me, I think writing someone with that much resentment and selfishness on the surface is just very interesting, just because it's not that socially acceptable to act that way in real life. but on the other hand I think that's another route by which to easily access his character, as a lot of people have that same pain, even if it's just on the level of 'my life should've gone differently than it did and I deserve better'. but they never allow themselves to be so very vocal about it. I actually think that might be why Astarion reamins so sympathetic, bc he gives voice to a spectrum of feelings a lot of people have but then feel 'bad' having. having Astarion's newfound freedom express itself as a single-minded focus on protecting himself at the expense of others is a really rewarding, crunchy thing to write about in all honesty.

51. share the synopsis of a story you work on that you haven’t published yet

original fiction: a woman in her late 20s returns to the portal fantasy world she fucked up monumentally when she was isekaied there at 16, and didn't know what she was doing. she's been summoned there by the remaining survivors of the ongoing apocalypse she caused, bc only her powers can undo the harm that world is experiencing. the survivors include her best friend, who isekaied with her but chose to stay (she is a hot, widowed warrior Queen now), and the sad boy villain man who got her to cause the apocalypse when he was 17 (also being manipulated by the adults around him, now deeply regretful).

ask game for fanfic writers!

[ace-does-stuff]

we might just bite underneath the moonlight

Summary: Chilchuck can't help himself from helping Marcille on the rebound of Falin's death, even if he knows that's all he'll ever be to her, the rebound

Tags: heavily suggestive themes, wound cleaning, the hot springs itself isnt sexual but the making out is, complicated relationships, check Ao3 port for full tags

Authors Note: "Ace write a normal fic for dunmeshi please" fuck ya life, femme4butch lesbian marchil with a brief meijack cameo at the start. in all seriousness the marchil fanart is fucking fire and i had to write *something* for ya'll, it ended up much longer than it was meant to be. hope ya'll enjoy and if ya do consider dropping a reblog or checking the Ao3 port, it really means a lot

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56221963

"Being butch is being chivalrous," Chilchuck explained when his first daughter was old enough to ask why he never dressed like a gal and always wore tape around town.

"Right..." Meijack said, only a hint of confusion on her voice.

"It's like an honour code," Chilchuck said, a bit firmer this time, "A way to confirm that you'll always be the fists they need in a fight, or the one to foot the bill on a date- you're too young to get it."

"Dad, I asked a question, now answer it." It's almost a demand, proof that she is old enough to get it. Proof that she could leave any day now if he wanted it or not, which he really doesn't.

Chilchuck sighed, "It's not something I can teach, it's something that you fall into if you're meant for it."

-/-/-/-

Taking the hit is a reflexive thing, he still hates himself for it. Throwing himself in harms way for the femmes and letting the men take it head on is how he is whether he means it or not.

Blood bursts from the wound along his shoulder but he tries to strafe back into the dodging regime before anyone can register he took a hit for Marcille. He wipes down the wound and oh, yep, that's an arrow lodging itself in his spine. It has enough force to make him stumble and trip and fall, banged against a column and ears ringing.

Death by living armour.

This one is new.

He can hear it clunk as it steps ever closer and closer, fun. He sacrificed himself for Marcille, the girl who wouldn't even spare a second glance at the butch who won't see sixty. Humorous. Ironic. Tragic...?

No, no, not tragic, not tragic for Marcille. She couldn't care less about him, she couldn't care less about men. And to her, he's part of men. He's something so well disguised he'd never be clocked as anything but another dumb guy.

And he can live with that, that might just be the pre-death clarity talking-

A scream is ripped from his throat with the sword plunging deep into his flesh. As mortality is ripped from his body his hands fly to the blade and then he's gone.

-/-/-/-

The bandages wrapped tight around his chest are stiff now, he supposes that they've been down for long enough without a window to change them that they would get nasty. He's pretty sure it's giving his clothing the funk what with the sweat and blood seeping into it that he can't wash out while still wearing it.

He hitches his backpack a little higher up as they reach floor four. Cool air washes over him comfortably as the slow and lazy flow of the water bounces back and forth. It's comforting, he never thought he'd yearn for floor four. Full of sirens and kelpies and deception galore, seemingly calm but full of danger.

Senshi's laying down a pot already and Laois is probably drooling over whatever it is that their latest companion is cooking. And Marcille is brushing her hair, undoing the braids slowly and letting it fall down over her shoulders and Chilchuck isn't allowed to stare.

He wouldn't dare stare, not without her permission at least. That's sacred to her, her hair, her magic, it all ties into one thing that's the core of her existence. It'd be kind of obscene to catch a glimpse of that without her permission, even if Chilchuck is a rogue, a thief, and a cheat he has standards.

"I'm gonna wash off!" Before he gets a response he's trudging over to a sharp corner to slip behind.

The ledge sort of crumbles off the further he strays from the initial landing of the floor. Turquoise glow casting up from the water below, it's scary to expose himself in a false isolation. No one is watching, it's fine, no one is going to walk on over. Well, maybe Laois, but Laois is a dumbass who absolutely would.

First the scarf comes off and his breath hitches as it rises over his head. He should've changed his wraps before coming down to the dungeon, he should've known better. He's been doing this adventuring shit since he was a kid how did he not figure something so simple by now.

He kicks off his socks and shoes next, lining them up next to his bag. In an effort to avoid the inevitable, he retrieves his towel and fresh bandages. They're dropped near the edge as he proceeds to disrobe.

The leather armour slides off much easier then the scarf did, so much easier. With the first step taken, everything afterwards becomes so much easier and he supposes it's that way with everything. Even so he's hesitant to slide off his gloves and reveal scarred flesh to no one but himself and the gentle glow of the lake.

He'll never be able to tell what's harder to take off be it the pants or the shirts, but he still shucks off his pants first. He's starting to feel the nausea, the insecurity, the fear. Of what? He's not quite sure but he swears he's breaking a code of conduct of some sort by stripping down and washing off to save himself from potential infections.

Chilchuck steps down from the ledge onto a raft before taking off his shirt, only then does he dare even think about the bindings wrapped so tight around his chest. He doesn't even have anything to bind, god, why does he even bother. His ex-wife was the only one who could see through the facade and want for what he is anyways, not like he'll luck out with some bi chick again.

Slowly he sinks into the light blue waters, arms rested on the planks of the raft as the stiff gauze soaks. He's slow to unravel the binding and he can only give a stiff exhale because wow, he forgot what it's like to have chest weight. Familiar but foreign, something he barred because he was sure he didn't get as many jobs looking like a girl.

A cigarette would go great with having a soak and relaxing a bit despite all the stress. He doesn't have any of those so instead he dunks his head and washes off, same refreshing feeling. It's nice to get off a couple days of grime, just relaxing enough that he zones out to the point he doesn't register the outside world until Marcille drops her staff.

Oh, fuck.

"Marcille," Chilchuck begins, back still turned to her.

"Y-Yeah?" Marcille asked, trying desperately to beat down the red up to the tips of her ears.

"How much did you see?" Chilchuck asked.

Marcille doesn't answer.

"How. Much."

"Enough." Marcille choked out.

"Look, just toss my down my clothes to the raft and I'll get dressed. Let's act like this never happened, for both of our sakes." He's screaming at himself for saying that. This is his chance, his one, singular chance, and he's butchering it.

Marcille does as told and averts her eyes.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you that it's rude to peep on a lady?" Chilchuck has the gall to ask it as he drags himself out of the water and towels down. He hears a small squeaky sort of sound from Marcille in response, he shrugs it off and tugs back on his pants.

"Well, yeah, of course they did."

"Lemme guess, you didn't think I was this?"

"Yeah." She tugs down the hem of her sleeves a bit, "Did you properly disinfect any wounds?"

"Don't be an idiot, I don't have any wounds to disinfect, and I would've if I had." He's lying, he didn't have the time to reopen a scabby one that had bits of gauze stuck inside, merely skin deep but still an issue. His gloves slide on back with ease but he has to tug just a bit to ensure that they cover all the scars properly.

"Are you almost done? Senshi sent me to get you for dinner." Marcille tapped her foot anxiously on the ground. Very briefly, she wonders if Chilchuck can hear the fact that her heart is racing. She wonders if her heart could just stop right here and now to save her from the shame of it all.

"Hold your horses," Chilchuck answered with. He hisses as gauze comes to lay atop the wound again, he'll tough it out.

Before Marcille can stop herself she whips around to face him, "I knew it! You are hurt..." Her enthusiasm peters off and the red on her face intensifies as Chilchuck scrambles to cover his chest.

Chilchuck's sputtering a bit, scrambling for words to try and get across the exasperation, "I told you to be patient!"

For a brief moment there's silence.

And then.

"Do you want me to clean the wound?" She speaks almost too quietly for even Chilchuck to hear.

"It's fine, I'll manage." He keeps wrapping the gauze as he speaks, when Marcille steps closer he stops. With a heavy sigh, he speaks, "Look, you weren't supposed to find out, no one was. So let's forget about it. Let's both just forget this ever happened so you can go live your good life with Falin, sound good?"

Marcille shook her head, "I can't, I can't let you risk getting an awful infection and dying a slow death."

"Oh yeah? How come?" Chilchuck questioned as he watched Marcille step forward again. He tries to step back but he's been thoroughly cornered to the ledge, he knows that if he steps any further he'll fall in.

"You're my teammate."

"You never spared a glance at me once."

"I didn't know you were, were, you were-"

"A woman?"

"You weren't supposed to be."

"Yeah, I don't get as many jobs with my tits out."

The crassness makes Marcille go even brighter red, it makes Chilchuck smirk. She waves it off, "Just! Let me help."

He hesitates, "Fine."

And with slow motions he undoes the wraps just enough to let the wound be exposed. It lays below the clavicle and Marcille's hands are soft as they trace over his skin far too slowly. He tenses as well kept nails brush over the edge of the scab and pry the bits of gauze and discoloured dry blood.

His blood is red and her hands are pale. The contrast is staggering and he tries his best not to watch because this isn't right. Something is screaming at him that this isn't right or good or lawful because she wasn't supposed to know unless she asked. And he wasn't supposed to be walked in on while he was washing off and changing his wraps-

"Do you want me to call you she?"

Chilchuck goes rigid, shoulders raising and eyes widening.

"Got it, not she."

"You're the second person to ask me that after my wife."

"Oh."

"You haven't earned the right yet." A choked sound slips out as the magic weaves through his flesh and purges it of the potential infection. She retracts her hands and he tries not to reach out for them in response to the motion, "Not yet at least."

Her eyes aren't on his, he can't tell if they're cast to the floor or not. He reaches to fully wrap his chest up again, gauze unfurling to lock himself back up again. The way he should be, it's safer, it's better, it got him three kids who he misses dearly and more jobs than he'd ever needed.

"You look pretty," Marcille confessed, ears drooped just a bit. She feels like she shouldn't be saying it.

Chilchuck gives an amused huffing sort of laugh, "Ya think?"

She nodded.

"It's not just because I'm shirtless is it?" As he speaks he tugs his shirt back on, along with his scarf. He just stuffs his leather over armour in his bag, too stuffy to wear it now that he's hot under the collar.

That gives her pause, "Well-"

Chilchuck sighed, "Think before you speak, don't give an older gal hope."

-/-/-/-

There's an undeniable itch deep inside of Chilchuck's bones and he can't place his finger on it, can't tear himself open to satiate it. He just feels nauseated, vaguely dizzy, and his stomach is in intensive knots no matter what he does to quell it. Cramps? No, no he took his contraceptives.

Did he?

Fucking hell, did he?

He can't remember and he can't ask Senshi to cook up something that'll help with cramping because he'll lose respect if he's outed as a woman. He thinks. He presumes. Senshi's a nice guy, has lots of respect for Marcille, a classically womanly woman.

Chilchuck? Not a classically womanly woman. He'll be disowned, or called a fraud, something awful is bound to happen. But someone is bound to notice that he's lagging behind and in what can only be described as agony, and if its Laois, he'll definitely be diagnosed with a deadly disease of some sort.

Please let there be a natural hot spring somewhere, anywhere nearby. He won't be able to actually have a soak if the guys insist on joining but at least the heat would be a comfort.

Chilchuck dropped down next to the fire, "Hey, Senshi, what's for dinner?"

"Sautéed vegetables, it's a simpler dish compared to what we usually have. But sometimes a light dish is good after excessive amounts of complex dishes." As he speaks he tosses in a handful of diced herbs, "I might check for mushrooms around the springs once Marcille is done in there."

"There's actually a spring down here?" He sounds a bit more excited than he should, not even a floor back did he take a soak. But he yearns for the warmth like a cat yearns for the sun.

Senshi gives a nod, "Yep, great place. Two pools with a bit of a stalagmite barrier between them, quite nice. I set up some lanterns a while back, it's a quaint little section."

"Call me when dinners done, I'm taking a soak." He hiked up his backpack before trotting off to where he can hear Marcille's heartbeat and the slight ripple of water. Sure, he has to strain to hear it a bit, but he picks it out.

-/-/-/-

"Chilchuck, is that you?" Marcille asked from behind the stalagmite wall.

A pause, "Yeah."

"You don't have to be on that side, what if Senshi or Laois comes by?"

"I still have my shirt on, I'm just enjoying the heat."

"Oh."

"Lemme tell ya one thing about being a butch, Marcille." For a moment he wonders if he should give her the spiel he gave Meijack, but he chooses against it. No, no Marcille would know by now. Surely she's met normal butches before? Regardless, he sits against the stalagmite border and speaks, "After sixteen plus years of keeping your real self effectively hidden, you learn better than to make such basic blunders."

She sinks below the water briefly and the silence makes Chilchuck almost uncomfortable.

"I appreciate the concern."

"You can do that on this side of the divider."

"But what if Senshi or Laois arrived? Wouldn't look very good if I was peeping on ya, that'd ruin my reputation."

"But-"

"Marcille. I'm fine not getting in the water."

She stands up and ah ha, she's taller than the divider. And when Chilchuck tilts his head back to face her he can see so much of everything above the belt. Red rises to his face faster than it should and for some reason he can feel his jaw go slack as he stares.

Before even more precious seconds can pass he's jolting away. She leans on the border as best she can, arms crossed over her chest. He swallows thickly as he glances up again to meet her eyes.

"You're in pain," She declared.

"So what if I am?" He countered.

"Look, I read somewhere that Half-Foots get it particularly bad compared to other races due to their size influencing pain tolerance and durability. I've seen you hobble and you curl up in a ball and grovel when you're trying to fall asleep."

"Are you asking me to get naked and take a dip with you?" He tries to cut down his own embarrassment with vulgarity that usually makes Marcille squirm.

"So what if I am? It's only to try and help you out, I'm a girl too ya know."

"I know."

"Then how come you're so hesitant?"

"Reasons."

"You're still not over your wife."

"Don't pry, Marcille, it's rude."

Marcille steps back and sinks back into the water, "Whatever."

Only a brief moment of pause has to pass before Chilchuck stands up and walks over to the divider. He leans on it for a moment, "Look, I guess I could join you."

Marcille spins around to face Chilchuck, "Really?"

"Yes, really. Just, don't make such a big deal out of it."

-/-/-/-

It happens so much faster than he can keep track, maybe he's getting too old for this 'falling in love' thing. He's got three kids, he's definitely too old for this.

Maybe the heats clouding his mind, the temperature a comfort soothing his frayed nerves. His wraps are still on but they're coming off, slowly unfurling as the heat threatens to suffocate him with the way it's tied too tight. And Marcille is staring, mostly submerged, but eyes just above enough that she can watch.

"Marcille, don't make it weird." It's more of a demand than a plea but he can't tell if the heat on his face is from being perceived or from being in the hot spring.

"Sorry," Marcille mutters the word as she presses herself against the ledge, hair scattered around her like tentacles or silk woven from gold.

Chilchuck can't decide which comparison works better.

...

. . .

Marcille gives a short hum, "You look pretty."

The heat is stripping away his inhibitions.

"You look pretty too, unfairly so."

She edges ever closer to him, not sliding along the rocky bench-like formation of the spring, but pushing off.

"You think?"

Chilchuck nods, watching as Marcille glides closer with the grace of a mermaid.

"I don't think," He said, voice slow, voice low. Dropped lower than usual, a slanty smirk on his face. He leans forward a bit, "I know."

"You know?" Closer, closer, closer. She's so close but she's so far and the clock is ticking but time is coming to a screeching halt.

"Oh believe me I do, Marcille." He slinks down from where he sat to meet her halfway across. It's a small basin anyways, but it feels so much larger when the tension and the steam blends into one and he goes blind. He keeps his hands to his sides instead of reaching out because if he missteps with his motions then everything will go downhill.

She isn't afraid. That or she's just not thinking properly. Her hands are soft when they come to rest on his shoulders, one sliding up to the side of his neck. He leans into it a little bit, "Then that would make you one of the hottest ladies I've met."

Chilchuck laughed, "You thought I was a guy, do I really count, Marcille?"

"Now you do."

As she leans forward her hair falls, caging Chilchuck in and locking the door but hey, who is he to complain when it feels so good to give in? To get what he wants, it feels so good. Like fire. He's drowning in flames.

Her other hand works its way to the small of his abdomen and slides up to unfurl the gauze fully. It shocks a gasp out of him and further she presses onward, no inhibitions, no fear, no hesitance. What is she running on right now? What is in her head? What the fuck is making her do this, but holy shit, he does not want her to stop.

Eventually her hands are in her hair and pulling just a bit but her hands stray just a bit and he lurches back. Shoving her off at the shoulders and stumbling, he scrambles to retrieve his wraps.

"What the fuck, Marcille!" Maybe he's a bit louder than he needs to be but he needs to get the point across, "There are, there are boundaries."

It takes her a moment before her face goes bright red and her ears droop, "Oh god."

"It's not fine, but, it's not bad either." Chilchuck is rebinding himself as he speaks but he's still trying to ease the shattered mood, soften the blow. Don't be a douche, you can turn someone down nicely, but he isn't trying to turn her down either. He just needs to slow this down, way down, to a snails pace.

"I don't know what got into me, Chilchuck, I'm so sorry-"

"Marcille! It's alright." He steps close enough to reach out, hands held above the water. He gives a small nod and she places hers atop his, "It's okay, I don't mind fucking, but can we not do it right now with zero warning?"

Marcille nods, "Sorry."

"Stop saying sorry, it makes you sound like a coward," Chilchuck said, voice firm but with a hint of affection lacing it, "And you're not."

A small smile tugs at Marcille's lips, "Alright, thanks, Chilchuck."

-/-/-/-

Chilchuck sleeps without his wraps that night because they got soaked and he was running low anyways. When Laois asked Chilchuck didn't answer, when Senshi asked Chilchuck didn't answer. He didn't owe them an answer even if their assumptions would probably be way off.

They just come up to him one morning and offer to cut his tits off, he'd probably keel over laughing if that happened. His wondering of what's going to happen is very brief when he finds Marcille standing next to his bedding. She drops down to her knees, fingers curled to press nails into palm.

"Yeah, Marcille?" Chilchuck asked gently as he sat up. He stretched his arms over his head and fuck, his spine hasn't felt like that in years.

"Could we share a sleeping bag tonight?"

"What?"

Marcille stands up, "Nevermind."

"No, Marcille. What's wrong? Tell me what happened," He speaks sluggishly, a tired inflection to his tone.

"It's dumb."

"We almost had sex in the hot springs, that was dumb."

Marcille drops to sit down next to Chilchuck, "It was about Falin, we couldn't save her."

"It'll be fine, we're gonna save her. I promise." He's making wild promises. Ones he can't pull through on. But ones that he needs to make to get through the night breathing easy.

He places his hand on Marcille's back and she leans heavily into him, "I miss Falin."

Oh.

He's a rebound.

That's... fine, he knew from the start it'd never work out anyways. Why hope that it might because she kissed him? Why hope for something farther out of reach than the stars? He's dumb, he's an idiot, he isn't even a hopeful one.

This dungeon is getting to him, to fall for Marcille and be stupid enough to think that she'd mean it in any way more than deprived desperation. He still steels himself and hums along, "I miss her too." It feels like he's being stabbed as a much delayed realization hits him, the words falling out of him feel like blood being hacked up.

[rollercoasterwords]

ugh!!! different anon but i just read your thoughts about everything r is thinking and feeling and i canttttt, and it also hurts bc from s perspective, the feelings and developments he thought they had for so long were a ruse!! so on both sides we have them fighting their feelings and denying the reality of their connection :(((

one follow up question i have is, how does r (and really the whole gang) reconcile this initial distrust and subsequent shock (that s is Becoming Good) with the existence of reg? bc like on the one hand yes s represents so much evil shit to them, has done so much evil shit, but his redeemed brother is right there as well. so i’m curious about how these characters marry those feelings

yeah <3 i mean 2 clarify it's not so much that r thought s was like. actively tricking him like he believes what s was feeling was real too it's just that s knew before they kissed etc. that he was going 2 be obliviating himself so the idea that those feelings could become something was, at that point, a lie, and that's where r feels betrayed.

and that's an interesting question!! re: reg (and re: s) all 3 of them have v different perspectives. like for james reg chose on his own 2 betray voldemort, and even tho reg kinda dismisses the idea that he was rebelling 4 some noble reason etc james still like...kinda gives him that credit & sees him as someone who organically came 2 this position that was at least somewhat aligned w the values & goals of the order, whereas s did not do that; hence, james cuts him way less slack. s was also a lot more active in the d.e. & actively harming order members + allies in ways that reg was not, which also makes james like him less to begin with. but james has also grown up pretty separated from broader society, so even tho the d.e. have always been his enemies, he hasn't been like...quite as subjected 2 their reign in his daily life the same way r has, and bc james has been raised as like a soldier in a war he views voldemort as his ultimate enemy & the d.e. as like enemy soldiers, so there's overall less of like...this personal hatred 4 them as individuals. which makes it easier 4 him 2 accept that people like reg & s can grow & change if they demonstrate they're willing 2 side w the order + work towards order goals.

for lily a lot of this is similar 2 james--she views reg as having made his own decision 2 leave the d.e. + s as being forced, so trusts him less 2 begin with, etc. but lily, unlike james, has spent even less time actually like...directly interacting w d.e. like she's spent most of her time in order bases + hq working behind the scenes on potions etc, so she's even further removed from the personal aspect of all this & has an easier time accepting that both s + reg can become good people (tho at first she dislikes reg bc james is tutoring him + flirting w him lmao). lily also sees a lot more gray area than james, who tends 2 view the world in black & white terms (if you're fighting for the d.e. ur bad, if you're fighting for the order ur good, etc). for lily, everyone has the capacity 4 both good & evil, and a person's life is largely shaped by conditions outside their control, so her worldview + relative distance from the whole conflict makes it easier for her 2 accept that reg + s can change.

but remus has grown up as a werewolf under voldemort's government for most of his life, not in order bases, and so he has a very acute sense of the ways in which individuals make up + perpetuate these systems of violence, and is not particularly forgiving towards them even if he recognizes that yes, people can change and yes, that's probably a good thing--it doesn't undo the hurt they've done and it doesn't mean he's going to forgive them. this is why r + reg aren't friends, even tho lily + james are friends w both of them; r didn't really like reg from the start & basically just avoided him as much as he could, which wasn't hard bc he was out doing work 4 the order + reg was working in potions labs w lily. so even tho r could recognize that like, ok i guess it's good we got a reformed d.e. working 4 us, he never had 2 go through like a personal struggle of actually feeling friendly towards the guy & basically just kept disliking him lol. so not only does he already hold these grudges (understandably!), he also doesn't think of evil in the same way as the others--whereas james views voldemort, the figurehead of this entire system, as the Ultimate Evil, and lily can understand how people born into these violent systems would perpetuate them but thinks that's usually more from being misguided than ill intent, remus views this as a structural issue in which people like s, who (from r's pov when they first meet) think of themselves as generally 'good' people, still justify their role in these systems of violence because it benefits them, which is much more insidious and infuriating than someone like voldemort, who is just pretty straightforwardly a Bad Guy. and that's what i mean when i say r views s of representative of like, everything wrong w society--bc the vast majority of people in society are like s, who view themselves as good people and blame all (or at least most of) the bad on figureheads like voldemort without recognizing their own role in structural violence. and his whole relationship w s & feelings for him just make it way more difficult 4 him to watch s change + grow & to accept that that's possible, even though, theoretically, he should want it 2 be possible, bc there's this more personal level of pain...someone who views themself as a good person hurts u & u want 2 go "hey!! ur not a good fucking person!!" but then they actually become a good person (or at least a better one) so then what do u do w that hurt, y'know?

anyway. this got v long but yeah have actually spent quite a bit of time thinking about these 3 characters & how their different worldviews + experiences shape their attitudes towards the black brothers!