#spite isn’t healthy

[mikauhso]

Small fandom rant, feel free not to read.

I don’t really care what an artist has done as a person, unless they’re like literally hitler or someone who you’d punch in public for their crimes, I find it a bit sad and annoying how so many artists online are willing to tear down someone else’s art to say “I did it better.” It’s one thing to give constructive crit in good faith, and it’s another to make an OC-ified version of canon out of your love for something, but creating something out of spite will almost always ring hollow for me. I see so much good art duct taped to posts about how “here I fixed it” or “lol you can’t draw” and I think back to the time when I learned the phrase, “you’ll attract more flies with honey than vinegar.” It disheartens me to see artists and people I’d know to be kind and constructive not extend the same kind of care hey show irl to someone online based on their parasocial relation to them. It’s such a low-stakes game and people will act like a mid show having characters they enjoy is the end of the world, and in doing so will take personal snipes and make insults at the art instead of addressing the actual problem head on, because it’s easier to derail and funnel attention and love towards yourself instead of ask that others improve. I love redesigns born of love. I love rewrites that try to see an artist’s vision, but at a certain point I wonder if people even like what they’re making art about or if they’re slapping something recognizable over top of it in order to ride trends.

The internet normalizes clout chasing to the point where I feel like we do it almost instinctively. That little insult or sly comment at the end of a post, that’ll sway people to your side. Saying why you don’t like some person despite not knowing them. It’s valid to have your opinions but I wish people would act like they would in the real world. You wouldn’t go around and scream at someone who you saw post this one thing one time. You wouldn’t punch someone based on a rumor, or verbally berate them in a restaurant. Yet people post so much shit online and it’s so normalized that we don’t even register it as a sign to log off anymore.

I feel like social media is something incredibly important for communication, but it’s currently designed in a way that centers ourselves and how much dopamine we can get, whether it’s at the expense of others, ourselves, etc. And we’re part of the problem too, we refuse to change and recognize that maybe internet points aren’t worth it and maybe it shouldn’t matter what people think of us. And maybe it’s an opinion I have but I shouldn’t judge someone based on what fraction they put out on the internet of themselves. Maybe I should cook myself a snack or go out for a walk or sit on the balcony or in the yard, talk to a friend face to face. Again, I love what the internet has done for accessibility but every accessible thing is locked behind a service designed to ignore vitriol and anger towards one another.

I guess I fall prey to this too, but I’ve seen this pattern happen again and again and again. There are people behind everything that’s made, and unless it’s ai or something stolen, an artist put their time and heart into it. It’s part of the game to have tough skin but I wish it didn’t have to be a necessity because of spiteful people.

I guess I should add an addendum, this is about a pattern I’ve seen in many a fandom. This isn’t about the morality of a show’s crew or whatever, that’s a conversation for another day that I’m not getting involved in because the personal lives of others are no business of mine. Hah, there I go again. But in all seriousness. I’ve seen it in Hazbin Hotel. I’ve seen it with High Guardian Spice. Velma. Steven universe. The owl house. Any new show I’ve seen come out where someone decides to have a moment and say “I will create out of spite and a need to be seen.” I wish artists didn’t feel the need to ride trends and that we’d value each others’ work as much as something put out by Disney. But that too, is a post for another day.

[literaila]

i suddenly thought of this:

satoru, a 6'3 man, probably lays down on top of reader...

“satoru, get off,” you say, but it sounds more like a bad receiver. you basically can’t breathe.

“sorry?” he hums. “did you say something?”

“i’m going to—“ a puff of breath and your hands trying to push him off. “die.”

“but you’re so comfy. like a memory foam mattress.”

“was that supposed to be a compliment?”

“why are you so warm?”

“i won’t be warm when i die from suffocation.”

he lifts his head to look at your face, your glaring eyes and flushed face. “you look like you’re breathing,” he adjusts himself so his head is against your chest. “oh, yup! there it is.”

“my impending doom?”

“your heart. healthy as a horse.”

“you just keep insulting me with these comparisons.”

“you’re a proudly bred mare. the prettiest of the… band? stable?”

“herd,” you say, huffing again. “now i’m actually going to die out of spite.”

“a dramatic horse,” he adds, pretending like he isn’t actively plotting against you.

“make sure to move my corpse off the couch. i don’t want the kids to see me dead.”

“if you die, i’m dying with you. megumi could probably get his dogs to eat us”

“that’s disgusting,” you say, laughing just a little. “don’t talk about that.”

“you’re the one who brought it up.”

“cause you’re crushing me!”

“but isn’t that a nice way to go?”

“i’ve already planned my death,” you tell him, trying to pull his hair. but he’s got your hands pinned. “i’m going to be executed after i murder you.”

“uh-huh,” he hums, nuzzling his nose into your neck. “let me know how that goes.”

“satoru,” you whine, but you’ve given up the fight. “you know you’re basically a giant, right?”

he shakes his head against you.

“a giant psychopath,” you add, “with tentacles for hands.”

“should we test that out?”

“shut up. get off of me.”

“ahh, can’t hear you. i’m sleeping.”

“oh great,” you deadpan. “it’ll be so much easier to kill you in your sleep.”

he pretends to snore, but you can feel his teeth against your neck as he grins.

“you shouldn’t let your guard down around me, you know?”

“i think this would be a nice way to die,” he says, instead of answering. “as long as you’re the one murdering me, of course.”

“oh, of course.”

[hoodreader]

𝐻𝒜𝐼𝑅 𝒞𝒜𝑅𝐸 𝒜𝒮𝒯𝑅𝒪𝐿𝒪𝒢𝒴

hair growth n length retention infodump xx

each hair follicle is connected to a blood supply. healthy blood flow is partially what stimulates hair growth. that’s why there are so many hair-growth tips that involve increasing circulation to the follicle ( such as scalp massages, warm oil applied to the scalp, or turning ur head upside down ). i used to do the warm oil + scalp massage method n it’s tried + true ! just warm up an oil to a suitable temp, apply to the scalp as a pre-poo, then massage in for at least sixty seconds. but if u can go even longer, that works. do this at least once a day!

edit: i meant at least once a * week * lol but u can do more if u would like. i’d advise a daily massage, with once to twice a week, incorporating a warm oil. x

moisture n oil are key due to the way they keep the hair strands flexible n resistant!!! first of all… blk girls… idgaf what people say. wash ur hair once a week to once every two weeks!!! a proper shampoo n conditioning are one of the main ways we keep our hair n scalps from being too dry. and blk hair has a tendency to drying out due to the fact that blk people produce less sebum. n bc we tend to have curlier / coilier / kinkier / coarser / thicker hair, it takes more work for sebum to travel down the hair shaft. the drier the hair = the more likely u are to lose hair. so keep it washed n moisturized.

then combine w an oil. this can be ur body’s natural sebum production, creams, butters, or oils such as jojoba, coconut, peppermint, tea tree, n olive. 🫒🥥 without stimulating the scalp, oil won’t necessarily promote hair growth but it does promote length retention ! “an inch retained is an inch grown.” most stagnancy in hair growth is due to the fact that hair is brittle / weak / split. gotta remember that hair is dead - so u gotta be gentle with it to keep it lively in spite of that.

what can help w dryness aside from moisture, deep conditions, n treatments is trimming !!! routine trims make the most difference in the growth of ur hair imo. sacrifice half of a centimeter to an inch in order to retain three inches of hair! it’s a very logical trade off. try to trim around once every 6 - 8 wks. don’t gotta be a lot. just depends on ur goal

then ofc, what u consume has a correlation to hair growth. everyone’s body works differently so figure out what works for u :p

astro vocab

blood flow n circulation is martian

skin ( scalp ) n hair is saturnian

hair loss is martian n solar, due to the bilious nature of those planets. there is a correlation between hair loss n bile production

hair loss is also correlated to saturn, due to saturn ruling over dryness ( dry skin + hair )

moisturization is the moon, and so is sebum

remedy mars n sun by eating foods that promote digestion as well as boosting a healthy liver !!! biotin ( vitamin b7 ) can def help with hair growth as well. abstain from alcoholism. this can help with the bilious nature of those planets

u can also remedy mars n sun’s bilious natures n promote healthy bile production by consuming ‘ healthy fats. ’ fat is not bad for u !!! it’s actually very important. u just gotta know which fats. use spices. nd use acids ( such as acv ). u can remedy saturn by being vegetarian. if not vegetarian, at least plant-based n try to abstain from alcohol.

remedy moon by doing ur mother’s hair or a matriarchal figure, if the mother isn’t present. and vice versa. remedy moon by also using familial hair care remedies - blk girls, that mean whip that blue magic grease n pink hair lotion out every now n then!! embrace tradition ( lol ).

make rice milk hair conditioner for a moon remedy as well - milk is ruled by the moon, and rice is a good moon offering. douse the head in it. fair warning tho, rice water can smell kinda crazy lol so maybe wash out with a good-smelling conditioner. do lunar remedies on a monday :p

trim during new moons. this astronomically promotes growth !!! i advise looking at the sign or aspects too - venus n moon, moon in taurus, moon in cancer, etc are great transits to trim under

i recommend making a rosemary oil. it’s quite simple: u mix essential carrier oils with rosemary - infused oil ( such as avocado ). i personally recommend making ur own hair care. it’s very ancestral n i think being hands on with greenery helps with remedying venus, moon, n saturn. 🌱

im restarting my hair growth journey - i’ve been big chopping since 2019, only allowing my hair to grow long once since then. well, 5 / 6 years later, i quite miss my long hair, so im going to restart and really dedicate time into growing it out

both acts - shedding my hair and growing it back - are v spiritual. i wanted to share what helped me in the past for those who may be interested but also to remind myself how i cared for my scalp, hair, n head. plus, the indigenous urges to wear long ass braids is getting too strong

i last big chopped in august 2024. n i don’t really have a picture of that day. but maybe i’ll start posting pics of my hair growth. idk, we gon see lol xoxo thank u for reading

w sm love, hoodreader

[lailols]

TXT as popular tropes!

Soobin: Childhood Best Friends to Lovers

- maybe your moms were close friends so they decided to make their kids of similar ages friends too

- inviting you to each others houses for play dates and cooing over you

- naturally, y’all grew close

- going through life together and growing into the people you are today without losing the other

- genuinely, you know each other so well :(

- having PEAK communication because neither of you are letting small disagreements get between y’all

- as you get older and remain close, your parents start subtly (LOUDLY) shipping you guys

- bin’s family calling you guys a couple because wherever one is, the other isn’t far

- your family definitely calls the other if one’s not answering

- neither of you really put much thought into it, but knew that when imagining your future the other was there

- you both dated other people but never really felt a spark

- the confession comes randomly, just as you guys are talking about your experience with love

- maybe it was always in the back of your mind how you felt

- when it happened, everything felt right

- like every moment in your life was leading to this

“I love you”

“I love you too”

“No, I mean I love you”

“Yeah, I love you too”

- then you make out :D

Yeonjun: Rivals to Lovers

- you’re both gunning for captain of the dance team

- it’s for fun, but you’re both so damn competitive and passionate about what you do that it’s really not

- making playful jabs at each other that never cross boundaries but pushes the other to do better

- truly creating higher expectations for the rest of the team

- in spite of the competition, you both help each other out

- staying later to practice together, watching the others routine to critique, or making choreographies together

- the complements you share feel different because they go beyond the usual “you’re so cool” or “you dance so well”

- it’s deeper than that because you both understand the drive behind what you do

- the desire to be on stage and perform

- you confide in each other because you never fear the other seeing you as less of a dancer or a person

- you also make sure he’s taking care of himself, knowing his habit of prioritizing dance over his well being

- (threats are made to make sure he’s healthy)

- the team definitely placed bets on who they thought would be captain and you guys started your own bet

“Congrats, captain”

“Thanks, co-captain”

“So, what do you want?”

“I want you to treat me to dinner”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because I’m paying for the next one”

Beomgyu: Musician x Muse

- the real loser lover yearners

- every song you write comes back to the other

- but you never tell :(

- you’re one of his biggest motivations

- you hang out once and BOOM three new song ideas

- he’ll hold little concerts for you

- playing songs he’d never share with anyone else

- you def have writing dates

- spontaneously breaking out into song with each other

- it’s like a game

- he “mocks” the songs you write (like he does with jun) but that’s just because you write bangers and there can only be room for one super talented friend in the room

- you’re on the front row for any set he has

- he winks at you while on stage and every around you screams thinking it’s for them but you know

- alternatively, he’s damn near on the stage from how close he is during your sets

- you want to sing? No Y’ALL are singing

- sometimes he’s louder than you even though he’s in the crowd and you have a WHOLE ASS MIC

- you guys cover each others song and it’s so :(

- like wdym the love of my life is singing a song i wrote ABOUT them :((

- the duet you guys release has everyone in shambles

- it’s a conversation between two people and honestly it’s the perfect way to confess

“This song is about someone special to me”

“Or, two special someones”

“It’s a conversation between them which is ironic because we’ve never really talked about it”

“But, you know, right?”

“I know”

Taehyun: Grumpy x Sunshine

- Tae isn’t a grump, he just doesn’t take bullshit

- add that to his generally “cold” exterior, and he’s sending a lot of people running for the hills

- which is exactly why no one can figure out how the literal embodiment of sunshine is his friend

- there is a difference between kind and nice, and you are definitely the latter

- you aren’t necessarily stepped on, but you take a lot more than you probably should

- you guys are basically polar opposites, so how do you fit so well together?

- it’s because you aren’t so different in the end

- in the comforts of your room, you allow each other to break

- to put aside the “characters” you play in the real world

- tae can smile and joke and laugh without having to deal with people gaping at the fact that he has “real” emotions

- you can complain and cry and yell without having people assume that the way you act is a lie

- in the comforts of these four walls, you guys become a mirror of the other

- it’s so sweet to have someone that you can just be completely human with

- no masks, no facades, no faking, just you

- in the beginning, most of your hangouts ended in one (or both) of you crying :(

- but now it’s normal for one of you to pull the other to your room to escape

- it eventually just turns into talking/gossip sessions

“So… how do you feel?”

“I feel like I want to take you out on a date”

“I’d like that”

Hueningkai: Best Friend’s Brother

- when you first saw kai, you’re pretty sure you died and went to heaven

- there’s no way an angel is opening the door to your gremlin of a friend’s house

- there’s no other explanation

- you guys literally just stand there for a good five minutes looking at each other before you’re so RUDELY interrupted

- after that, it’s sneaking glances at the other when you’re both in the same room

- it’s smiles and watching anime together cause no one else does

- kai finding any occasion to buy you a plushie of one character or another

- you suddenly being SO THIRSTY and having to go get water every hour on the dot and Kai just happens to do the same

- you guys get along so well :(

- so much pining between the two of you

- genuinely, your friend must feel like a third wheel even though you came to see HER

- Kai begging to crash your girl’s nights and being refused by everyone

- but then you’re back the next day because you “missed them” and since it’s not technically girls night, he can stay

- the way neither of you know the other’s feelings is so :(

- until his sister suddenly screams for one of you to confess and then storming out of the room

“So… about what she said…. Was it true?

“Yes, it’s okay if you don’t feel the same…“

“Of course, I feel the same! Have you seen yourself?”

————————-

I left Kai’s sister unnamed so you could be older/younger than him

I love txt so much :( I wish there was more writing for them

Please this is my first thing ever don’t be mean, I WILL cry

If you like it, let me know anything else you’d like to see :))

<3

[signanothername]

I was wondering what you mean when you talk about the fact Killer feels nostalgic still for Nightmare, even after being saved by Color

Like do you mean he misses Nightmare, or he think he still deserves to be tormented, or some fucked up mix of both.

I love the timing of your ask Anon cause I literally started making a comic about this very topic just yesterday chhchchc

And it’s a fucked up mix of both

Killer genuinely misses Nightmare, but not in a healthy way where he misses Nightmare cause he was a good influence on him and his life, but rather a sort of fucked up Stockholm Syndrome situation in which Killer has gotten so used to Nightmare’s presence and nonstop abuse that it just feels wrong to him that Nightmare isn’t in his life anymore

But it’s also his self loathing making itself known, Killer doesn’t feel like he deserves Color’s love and Kindness, Killer hates himself and thinks he doesn’t deserve saving, and even it goes as far as Killer believing he deserves to be abused by Nightmare, that it’s just Karma for what he’s done, which is all absolute bullshit, but that’s how self loathing can distort your perception of yourself and what you experience

But it’s important to also understand that Killer went through that abuse for so long that it became the norm for him, where his perception of how bad it is is fucked up, where he thinks Nightmare wasn’t “so bad”

So Killer sometimes tries to do little things that brings back that familiarity, like calling Nightmare still, doing little things he used to do with/for Nightmare, etc

And i’d dare say Killer wants Nightmare to show up and to spend time with him even, as fucked up as that is (Killer will be even more of a bitch towards Nightmare, but it doesn’t change the fact Killer wishes to see him still)

Which is why I want to bring up the “a little life update” comic, like don’t get me wrong, that comic is absolutely wholesome and it’s meant to show how Killer’s life changed for the better after being saved and that will never change

But the thing is, it’s also supposed to show Killer’s inability to stay away from Nightmare in a way

The comic was about Killer making a call to keep going in his healing journey by getting some things off his chest without any repercussions, but it’s also meant to represent some of the deeper fucked up conditioning Killer went through that he isn’t able to get rid of yet

That’s why i have Killer saying this specifically 👇

I mean, why wouldn’t Killer have a “good answer” for why he’s telling Nightmare about his new life?

You see that Killer’s very first thought as to why he’s telling Nightmare about his now good life is that he’s maybe feeling nostalgic

But he also mentions “longing”, “hope”, and “bad habit”

These words weren’t randomly chosen, they were all intentionally picked

“Longing” cause Killer longs for Nightmare’s presence in his life, he misses his presence in his life

“Hope” cause Killer hopes for Nightmare’s approval

“Bad habit” cause Killer used to be the one to give Nightmare all the intel he needed, and Killer thinks that it’s maybe his “right hand man” habit of giving Nightmare info that he’s telling him everything

Only to finally say that it’s “spite”

And that’s completely true, Killer is spiteful and he wants to have Nightmare see that he can live a good happy life

But notice how I wrote “maybe” twice in that page and a “maybe” in the page before it? Yeah that’s completely intentional

Because while “spite” is true, it doesn’t mean that “nostalgia”, “longing”, “hope”, and “bad habit” aren’t also true, they all are true in their own right

Emotions are complicated and Killer lost his understanding of his own emotions, so he can’t truly settle for one answer to the question of why he’s calling Nightmare

But nostalgia is definitely something he feels that prompted that call

But here’s the thing, know how I always say Nightmare has “moments of kindness” (i got an ask about what that specifically means so imma leave the ramble for it for that ask ycfhfh) but Nightmare is almost always horrible in his treatment of Killer, but there are definitely times I like to call “down times” in which Nightmare isn’t an absolute abusive bitch to Killer

Where Nightmare actually treats Killer with a bit of decency, where he lets things slide and leaves Killer alone, or where he and Killer actually spend time together without Nightmare being an absolute bitch about it

That of course doesn’t make Nightmare’s overall treatment of Killer ok at all, but these kinda things also contribute to Killer’s fucked up nostalgia

Like Killer would legitimately tell Color that “Nightmare wasn’t so bad” sometimes cause of those “down times” and Color is working on making Killer realize that no, in fact, Nightmare was so bad

But Color also doesn’t want to push his own ideals onto Killer, he simply wants to help Killer realize it himself, it’s not a good idea to force Killer or to make Killer feel forced to do something cause 1- it’ll make Killer immediately close off, and 2- Color is no Nightmare, Killer had been forced to do things all his life and Color wants to respect Killer’s wishes and autonomy, lest Killer’s fucked up perception of control gets even worse

And god give Color patience cause Killer’s nostalgia is something that’ll take so much time for him to get rid off, if Killer even wants that nostalgia gone

[mohntilyet]

I want you to know you’ve indoctrinated both my friend and I into your path of thinking when it comes to Illario and the Envy demon.

I raise you this, since Illario isn’t even a mage before the Ossuary, consider the fact that Zara convinces Illario into also harboring Envy (like Spite, since Lucanis says he just ate something and he was stuck with Spite after that. Like she tells Illario he needs that dawg in him to become first talon, a double edged knife there (you aren’t good enough on your own you need that dawg in you aahhhh)). That would add a level onto why he kills her, Lucanis taking a crack at Illario and asking if he’s is good enough (I would’ve crashed out too tbh), and the lines in at the party with a romanced Rook (since that man also doesn’t have a healthy love life)

Envy is also twisted form of admiration/generosity/contentment, like how Spite was a spirit of determination, and the freak out Lucanis would have over his little brother’s admiration for him (an admiration he would NEVER admit to his big brothers face) becoming so twisted (by the same person!) that it’s also destroying him from the inside out.

Also Spite and Envy shenanigans would’ve been so fucking funny

YEAH!!!!!! i have been rotating this around in my mind and had the idea of that admiration v. envy thing for illario, especially if we're thinking about wigmaker's job where they cover for each others weaknesses. like a week ago i googled what the corresponding virtue for envy was and it was kindness and i was like yeahhhhh illario does not have that. we're going to have to go with something else. and i was thinking of admiration so this ask kind of made me cheer <3 thank god i am making some sense and someone else agrees because at any point i'm checking myself going 'actually would he do that'

i think they both have some level of 'i wish i could do that like them' but illario's is negatively tinged because their fuck ass grandma is right there saying all that too . like regardless of how great i think my brother is, there is no fucking way his accomplishments don't start looking twisted and unfair if my only parental figure obviously likes him more than me

i also like the idea of in some world where illario is less of a traitor and didn't set lucanis up (i have a rewrite powerpoint going on for my friends. so this part makes perfect sense to me but maybe not as much to you. i'm so sorry), and they both get kidnapped and possessed, spite-envy are the ones with serious beef vs. their unwitting hosts, who would actually prefer not to kill each other.

this messy au i have assumes a very fraught house dellamorte, trying to defend treviso while the crows splinter and follow either son. caterina refuses to let lucanis give up power and names him first talon, while illario has consolidated power in the year lucanis was gone and has several other loyal houses pledging to him instead. spite and envy exacerbate this situation, spite refusing to give up power + envy coveting it. this hypothetical plotline ends with uniting the crows under a single first talon (welcome back bhelen v harrowmont), and reaching an agreement with the others to work together. crow-on-crow violence you cannot be solved but you CAN reach a momentary tense agreement to protect antiva and the world <3

[ghcstao3]

vampire x monster hunter……….i am so respectfully asking for more (im foaming at the mouth)

(original post) i shall do my best. again i got a little out of hand with word count. cw blood (of course)

-

John knows he should be happy about Simon's return.

He knows he should be happy to be reunited with his once-best friend even if it's after over a decade, because all this time he'd thought Simon was dead. He knows he should be happy that Simon would return here, of all places, to make amends, to catch up, to do whatever it is old friends are meant to. He knows this.

And yet... John can't help but feel on edge.

John is happy, of course he is. It isn’t often he’s surprised as he was when the knock at his door had been Simon. It isn’t every day an old friend returns from the dead. But he can only be fed the same excuses over and over so many times before he grows wary in Simon’s presence, which is really, truly the last thing he wants.

Being told I'm not hungry, I'll eat later would only be of any worth if Simon had said it once or twice, and not for every meal offered. It might be a cause for concern if Simon did not still appear consistently healthy and sated in spite of it.

Not to mention the sneaking out at odd hours. New creaks and groans have since developed in John's old house, ones Simon wasn't aware of, clearly, until the first time he makes his mistakes. It all just... worries John. Frightens him. Of course people change, and certainly over thirteen years, but it all seems to raise far more questions than there are answers that Simon is willing to give.

And then all of the sudden it makes too much sense, and John finds himself wishing Simon had never come back.

With the regularity at which people disappear in and around the town, John doesn't notice any difference after Simon's arrival. No increase or decrease, no change in occurrences that might tip John off to a new creature needing to be hunted.

This particular hunt was meant to be carried out like any other; John was heading out alone as the creature he was after didn't pose so much a threat to require help, it would be clean and quick, then he'd return home. He leaves a note for Simon, who may or may not have gone out himself, grabs his gear and vanishes beneath the cloak of a cloud-filled night.

Vampire, is what little information he'd been provided with, and so vampire is what he prepares himself for.

John has long since been a stranger to bloodshed. Really, it's necessary he not be squeamish, especially when so often he comes across scenes like this—this being the messy feasting of what could only be a newer, more inexperienced vampire. The unfamiliar hunger like nothing else usually makes them far more reckless when it comes to finding food.

This fledgling isn't any different, judging by the large smears and smatterings of blood leading right to John's culprit.

A figure sits hunched in the dark, accompanied only by the sound of tearing flesh. When John had first been learning, the lack of breathing that should be present when drinking so fiercely had made him uneasy, but now it merely serves as a reminder that he should hold his own breath, lest he catch the vampire's attention.

John wields a silver dagger, creeping forward as carefully as he might in approaching a wild animal—these monsters are just about the same, anyway.

But John underestimates how elevated this particular fledgling's senses would be. They pause the moment John takes a step toward them, sitting up straighter, immediately alert. Their face remains obscured, but John can see them cock their head, presumably listening for his pulse.

He expects an attack. Expects a fight so as to not become the next course.

What John hadn't expected—or maybe a subconscious part of him had—was for the figure to rise slow and cautious, head bowed in what John might dare call shame. What he hadn't expected was for the vampire to turn on their heel and have John met with none other than—

"Simon?"

His head remains hung, silhouette still impossibly imposing. It's hard to discern much in the low light, but John imagines Simon's irises are currently a scarlet red as opposed to their usual warm coffee brown, if evidenced by the blood that covers his face and drips from his chin.

"Johnny." His voice is hoarse, but it's most certainly Simon's. He can probably hear the way John's heart picks up pace, be it out of fear, or be it out of use of a nickname Simon has so far avoided since their reunion. "Johnny, I'm sorry."

“Simon, wha—“ John frowns and finds his guard falling, yet his grip on the hilt of his knife only tightens. “I don’t—“

“I can’t help it,” Simon rasps, begging. “I can’t… I learned how to control myself, I did, but when I’m around you…”

Simon is directly in front of John in the blink of an eye, frigid hands curling around John's, around the dagger. He allows the tip of the blade to dig into his abdomen, unflinching as it pokes past clothes and just barely breaks skin. John holds steady, more than capable of pushing it further, but unwilling to hurt—or kill—Simon until he's given a reason to.

Never mind the mangled corpse on the ground just a few feet away.

"How long?"

"Johnny—"

"How long, Simon?"

Simon doesn't meet his eyes. They're dark either way like this, in this lack of light, but John still feels like something isn't quite right about it.

"A few months. A year, maybe. Two," Simon confesses. "It's all muddled."

For reasons John can't describe, somehow it stings knowing this... affliction has only been short-term. Because instead it could have been an explanation for Simon's disappearance—let alone that of his family's that he still often wonders about. Because instead it could have been a reason for Simon to have stayed away for so long even as an adult.

But it's not.

"Then why come back now? And why come back here?" John hisses. "You're a fuckin' dafty, y'know that?"

Simon's mouth parts, and for the first time since his arrival John finally catches a glimpse of his fangs; razor sharp and promising a swift but violent death for John should Simon's instincts get the best of him.

He then seals his lips in a thin line, swallowing whatever words he may have had prior. Simon offers a solemn nod of his head, his theme of shame so insistent.

Against John's better judgement, he retracts the knife. Tucks it away, and forces space between them. The overwhelming stench of iron is beginning to make him nauseous.

Softer, much softer than Simon deserves at the moment, and far too reminiscent of a past long gone, John says, "You were supposed to be the leveller-head between us."

Simon huffs. "'Be easier if constantly listening to your pulse wasn't driving me mad."

Oh.

"Oh." The pounding in John's ribcage does him no favours in picking up speed again. Then, suddenly realizing where and why he is, John attempts to steel himself, clenching his jaw and taking deep, slow breaths to calm the flutter of his heart. "Well, quit listenin' then."

Simon regards him curiously, in a way so painfully familiar to a past life.

A silence stretches on between them, tense and riddled with uncertainty. John tries, pointedly, to ignore the elephant still in the room, but between the blood and the smell and the looming issue of them being a vampire and a monster hunter, it's nigh impossible.

But even still—John thinks it'd be less right to kill Simon now, than to let him free. To bring him home.

John sighs, suddenly and immediately overcome with fatigue. He pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger for just a moment, rubbing the skin to unsuccessfully self-soothe. He wishes there was some sort of... protocol, for this. Maybe then things could be easier. Could make more sense. Just for once.

"I'm not—" John pauses, takes a breath, shakes his head. "I won't kill you, Simon. Not... now, at least."

Simon nods. "That's all I can ask for."

"Good, because that's all you're getting." It's a lie, and they both damn well know it, but just a little longer would John like to linger in ignorance. "Now just... clean this up before anyone sees. We'll talk about this more in the morning, alright?"

"Alright."

John offers a tight smile, whether or not Simon can really see it.

"Right. Goodnight, Simon."

"Goodnight, Johnny."

John hovers only a second, hooked on that nickname as he's always been, before he finally pivots on his heel and starts off the other way, turning a dutiful blind eye like he really shouldn't be doing.

He had missed Simon, he really had—but he's afraid to start wondering if this will all be worth the trouble, in the end.

[fadedin2u]

hi rose toy, could you write about ellie comforting reader with body insecurities? love your writing and have a good day!!

here’s a little drabble!! this was super therapeutic to write, thank u for the lovely request anon!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“i just- i don’t like myself, ellie. i don’t like anything about how i look,” you finally admit, sick of your own thoughts plaguing your mind.

ellie’s eyes are full of heartache as she says, “but i do. i like everything about how you look.”

the response makes your heart bleed more, and your lip trembles.

“you have to say that. you’re my girlfriend.”

ellie shakes her head, “hey. that’s not true. i’m not gonna say anything to you that i don’t mean, you know that.”

you look down, not wanting her to see the tears building in your eyes. “i just… i can’t help but notice how many fucking things are wrong with my body. with my face. with me.”

ellie frowns, “what makes any of it wrong? where’s the guide book telling you how you’re supposed to look?”

you get irritated in spite of knowing ellie’s good intentions, “everything tells me i’m supposed to look different than how i do, ellie. you’re the fucking beauty standard, no offense, but you have no idea what it feels like to not be.”

ellie’s eyes flash with hurt from your words, but she covers it well.

you sigh, ashamed, wiping your face, “i’m sorry, els, really. i’m not trying to pick a fight with you or make you feel like shit too, i just hate living with how i look everyday.”

ellie smoothes her hands over your sides, “do you want to know what i think?”

you take a breath and slowly nod.

“not everything about you fits the beauty standard. that’s true. but the beauty standard was created by rich, white men who are trying to make a goddamn profit off of women fucking hating themselves. so women just perpetuate this bullshit standard, because they feel like it’s attached to their worth as a human being, and everyone feels like shit, except for the dudes who’s pockets are getting fuller each time someone goes in to get a fucking lypo treatment or a nose job.”

you stay quiet, listening, even though this isn’t necessarily new information to you.

ellie takes a breath, “so, maybe not all of you fits into that stupid model of a fake woman, but how the fuck does that make you less beautiful? i love how you look naturally, because you’re fucking real, gorgeous, and human. i don’t want a fantasy girl that fits perfectly into a porn-brain infected, white, straight, limp-dick’s wet dream. i want you. i want how you look naturally, when you’re healthy and happy. because that’s when you look the most beautiful to me, no matter what.”

you take a breath. “so you’re honestly saying you wouldn’t prefer if i was more stereotypically attractive?”

ellie rolls her eyes, “that doesn’t fucking mean anything to me. i’m very fucking attracted to you, and that’s all that matters. i wouldn’t change a thing about how you look, ever.”

you nod slowly, and she pulls you into a tight hug.

“it makes me sick that you feel like you’re innately wrong in some way, because that couldn’t be further from the truth. if you’re giving yourself enough food, taking care of your body, and you’re happy, that’s exactly how you should be looking. okay?”

you know that ellie’s words don’t take away your feelings of insecurity, but it helps soothe some of the sting, the hurt.

“i’m sorry for making you preach self-love to me,” you say, smiling a little, trying to lighten the mood.

ellie looks serious as she says, “i will again. anytime you need it. i cant stand the thought of the most perfect thing in my life hating how they naturally look. i’ll say it a billion times if you need it, i promise.”

she kisses your forehead.

“do you think take-out would help you feel better? because i think it would.”

[red-doll-face]

Snow Angel 11

Chapter 11: fevered Series Masterlist

low - medium honor Arthur Morgan x fem. Reader

Arthur has been living by himself, laying low (for real this time) somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. After the whole Pinkerton and Micah debacle, he has been hiding away, waiting for it all to blow over, occasionally getting letters from the people who still know that he’s alive. He’s been alone awhile and at first, he thought he could handle a little loneliness. He has been wrong before. Lucky for him, you look like the perfect thing to break up the monotony.

Warnings: dubious consent, arthur’s mental health is kind of not so good…VERY low honor Arthur, darkish fic, a bit of naive reader. Reader has dated and period typical ideals, not very good ideas about men and marriage… if you want reader to be strong and a fighter… this is not for you sorry. suggestive themes. Huge HUGe Voyeurism bit, arthur being a perv 🤨👀 huge weirdo energy LMAO small mention of wanting death, WC: 7780 Hello snow angels : ) here is chapter 11!!! this chapter will be from arthurs perspective so very exciting 😳 i had a ton of fun just getting nasty with him and writing his fucked up little thoughts 😈 arthur inner monologue was a bit weird at first but im sure ill get better at it by actually attempting to do it LMAO i hope you guys enjoy and pls let me know what you think!!! i wanna thank everyone who has left replies and asks about this series, all of you have been so supportive and amazing, couldnt do it without you guys 🥹🥹💖💖💖 also this ended up way too long so sorry Tags: lots of angst todayyy, no TB, weird but not that toxic relationship, Arthur being a menace.Arthur being rude as always just… low honor arthur as a warning lol - What does it matter if the man who saved your life is a little strange?

It must be dusk falling too soon. Slow deprivation of heat and light; does things to his head, as if that wasn’t half screwed off already. Arthur’s fingers clutch the dusty curtain in front of one of two main windows at the front of his cabin; his eyes swear they can see…something out in the treeline. At first he thought of Pinkertons; to collect that bounty they were on about. Why they would follow him to the ends of the earth for that would be beyond him but Arthur had been known to do stupid things for a big payout. And of course, he hadn’t lived this long without a healthy amount of paranoia. Or what he called caution. Or perhaps Charles should have left his ass at the nearest asylum.

But he can sense that he’s wrong when nothing comes of it. No gunshots, no desperate shoot out for his life. Just the quiet again. In a minute, he’ll look out the window and watch the figure disappear. And he’ll shake his head, rub his calloused fingers over his tired eyes. He drops the curtain, pouring another cup of coffee at the silver percolator in the kitchen. He is not losing his grip; he isn’t. He’d leave that to Dutch. 

It’s gotten worse with the winter; those strange things he sees from time to time. They make him feel more out of place than he already does. As if there’s something wrong with him, wrong with this moment. The frost grows over the windows like mold.

The summer sun kept the darkness from slipping in and leaking into his vision. But that’s long gone, been gone for a month. Shit weather up here, long dragging winters. Summers that were too short for his liking and an autumn that was beautiful but also short lived. The winter is too heavy now to do much of anything but loop out to the stable and back. Not much sightseeing to do, the same shock white landscape to see everyday. 

In spite of how beautiful the mountain is; with its sprawling forest, creeks like liquid glass, the fresh winter air… Arthur finds it arduous to see it. Closing himself inside his cabin is easier. He could go and hunt something, draw the scenery. But was that any better than the fireplace? The comfort and simultaneous unease of staying inside the confines of his new home drag him in opposite directions. And even if his paranoid visions are just residue from another time in his life; he knows there are people who could be still searching, who might remember his face. Bad things had a way of following Arthur wherever he went. 

Even more loathsome is the lack of sunlight. The sun disappears around 4 or 5 and it feels like it was midnight by 6. The windows of his wooden cabin blacken like soot, leaving him tired and groggy. 

Arthur tries to keep himself going with bitterness like always. Coffee, cigarettes, and alcohol. He thinks the lack of light plays with his head. It’s easy to mistake shadows for ghosts, trusting himself was hard as it was. 

Damn snow, cuts to the bone.

The stunning silence surprises him still at these odd moments in the day. Arthur thought that maybe the peace would do him some good. But there was a need that scratched incessantly at the front of his skull. Over and over and over. 

He spent a long time being needed by other people. Dutch made him feel needed at the very least. Like he was part of something that symbolized how free a man could be. And he had devoted every shred of himself to the vision that Dutch had for the world. It was all that mattered to Arthur. His fealty was really all he had to give and so he gave it. 

God, had he felt the fool on the last day he saw him, when Dutch walked away, as if everything Arthur had ever done was nothing to him. Twenty goddamn years of his life. If he was being honest, he knew that his loyalty was wasted before that day but he had waited to see if the man he knew would emerge. If he could kill that gutless rat and show Dutch the truth but he refused, leaving Arthur with nothing to show for it. Helping John, Abigail and Jack to safety was barely a comfort when he thought of all that he wasted. All he did was hand another man a chance at the life that he wanted. 

But it was too late. As always with Arthur. (Everything was always too little; too late) Providing for others was embedded deeply in his being. It was something he had done for years, especially when he decided to get his shit together. He might have dallied, thoroughly enjoying his youth. But he learned (through several extremely painful lessons) why it was important that he pick up the slack. Loyalty isn’t represented by inaction. He hadn’t been all too kind to people but he had kept his comfort that in some part, his work was what kept that camp running. And when that fell apart; he really did try to help the less fortunate.

Really, he was making up for his failures to the people he cared about most. Arthur questioned if he had cared enough. If he did, maybe things would have ended differently between him and the people he harmed by being selfish.

Maybe Dutch put some modicum of power in his hands and Arthur had wielded it badly, went around acting like the cesspool he felt like most of the time. But at the end of the day, the camp ate because of him, they had medicine because of him, hell, they even drank because it was him that brought back more money than anyone else. 

There is no one who needs him now. Arthur scrubs his hand over his face then down to rub over his shoulders. Leans his head back. At first it was nice. The independence. No more debt collecting for Strauss, no more worrying if there’s enough food for Pearson, no more looking out for O’Driscolls. He thought he would like only having one person to worry about; he had been lying to himself. Although he still had other things missing from him. They’re like phantom limbs. He can feel where they were supposed to be but when he looks down they’re gone. Hosea’s guidance was missing from him. Even if he was terrible at following it. The sound of the girl’s giggling and gossiping. Even Uncle and Swanson ambling around, drunker than he thought was possible. Dutch looming, watching through his haze of maduro sweetened smoke. He keeps looking down but they’re gone.  

The fire crackles and the wind howls; picks up the silence. Sometimes the wind from the flue sounds like the breeze over Flat Iron Lake. The fire doesn’t sound any different than it did when it crackled warmly around a circle of a mismatched band of criminals singing songs together, alongside the chatter and the drunken crooning. When it was the background noise to thick Irish blabbering. The poor kid. He was going places, as most of the younger ones were, he and Lenny would have run that gang when they got past their growing pains. He could have told them that when they were living, that sentiment would have meant something then. 

It’s been a year or two, the days sort of connect like train cars and chug along, not because he wants them to but because that’s how life goes. It’s an endless drag, an endless struggle. He can’t see how this is much better than being dead. Arthur Morgan is one of the few people who knows how precious life can be, he spent a lifetime taking it away from people as he pleased. 

He tries to savor this peace (as if he knows how to). Tries to remember what it was like, not having any time to himself, always at Dutch’s beck and call. Barely any time to take a piss, let alone really rest, really give himself room to be anything but what others wanted. How he loathes those memories. The years he spent dedicating himself to another man's dreams. Watched all those years slip away, ashes in a smoke stack, rising forever upwards until they’re forgotten. 

Arthur refuses to recall how many things he gave up for that life; down to the simple pleasures. Love, privacy, a family. He convinced himself that anything else wasn’t living, that he couldn’t ever be tied down. That old life was just… what he had. There was nowhere else to go and when he was old enough to go his own way, there were kids like him with nothing left; nothing to return to, no one to look after them. He might not have been anyone to look up to. Maybe he was a shining example of what not to be. It was Arthur who was there to keep people in line, to show them how to be killers for Dutch’s aspirations. He’s sure he ruined lives more than he taught them anything useful.

Nothing about that life was rooted in anything real, substantial to the world. Pipe dreams. Vague imaginings of living free in the west or some such tropical paradise. What a waste. Just the thought of a secluded island with palm trees on it summons a bitter laugh. 

He sits and watches the fire. Tries to ignore the shadow in the corner. It's thin and wavering. Today, it looks a bit too much like Hosea for his taste. Especially when the log on the hearth cracks, it sounds like that ominous cough that followed the graying conniver everywhere he went. 

Arthur lights another cigarette. He’s been making (quite frankly, just awful) attempts at rationing and this is his allotted second cigarette of the day. He’s two for five. He curses himself every time he forgets to take the drags and it crumbles to ash too quickly, landing on the rug beneath his boots. He hisses, a singe on his fingers snaps him back to the present moment. It burns his fingers when he forgets that he’s holding one entirely, too busy drilling holes in the walls with his eyes. He can’t stand it but he doesn’t have another choice. The silence has the mysterious property of making Arthur lose track of himself. He should have listened but he never learns. 

This deep into winter, not too far from the base of Mt. Pàtu, he can’t just head out on the road and get more cigarettes. The nearest town is a six or seven hour ride and that isn’t happening, not in this weather. He might take Currant out for a light trot so he can get some exercise but he can tell something big is coming soon. The bellows of air from the west have him readying for storm weather. Best to get a move on now if he were to be going out. 

It’s dinner now. He’s not sure where the time went but he doesn’t mind too much. He’s got coffee and he’s got hot food. Salt pork with potatoes, boiled in the salt water from soaking the corns of salt off the meat. He’s gotten better at cooking at least. Arthur scoffs at the thought of the slop he used to be eating. He takes a glass out and sets it on the counter, along with his fifth bottle of Kentucky bourbon. He’s allowed 6 bottles a month. By anyone else’s standards it might be a lot but where he spent most of his time; around other drunkards and degenerates, it’s not enough. 

The storm hits full force now, there’s gonna be snow all the way up to the porch by tomorrow morning. But the air inside of his cabin is still and smoky. From the window, he checks the stable to see if the doors stay closed. It’s well insulated so Currant should be fine. The storm will have scared most of the game into hiding away, he contemplates when he’ll head back out for hunting. He takes a seat at his plain dining table, spends a while on the same glass of bourbon. The smell of cedar and salt is nice.  So is the warmth of his cabin but it’s all lost to him. His sense for how fortunate he is to be here and not dead in a ditch is dull. Only he could be the man to crave chaos and blood and the sound of gunshots while sitting on his ass all day, sipping bourbon. 

He thinks he’ll read a boring book or pretend to keep busy by stoking the fire. Arthur listens to the silence, waiting to hear something but the crackling and the draft from a small crack in the wall. But there’s nothing. He should have listened to Charles. But he insisted that he would be fine. He can’t go back on that now, he’s always been fine by himself. He’ll just wear the groove into his leather chair even further like the sorry bastard he is, trying to ignore how small and stiflingly warm the room feels.  

The blizzard gets louder and louder. Dozing off on the sofa or in his chair sounds like as good a time as any. But he isn’t exhausted, just annoyingly groggy. Bouncing his knee does not count as activity. Neither does all the fidgeting he does, twitching his fingers, putting his legs up and bringing them back down. He tries to pace a little but wearing treads on the floorboards isn’t doing any good either. He puts his hands on his hips. 

 He grabs his journal but he doesn’t have much to write. What would he write about? Surely, the exciting things he experiences everyday. Waking up feeling like hot shit on a platter after having too much whiskey was not the kind of thing worth memorializing in his journal anymore. He’s a little past the shame now too, the embarrassment. He lets his fingers feel the blank page, the tooth of the paper. 

He lets his hand form images of spring, the point of his pencil worn into a dull tip, recollected as best as possible. It’s nothing but a pale comparison. 

There’s a pat on the door. It’s soft and weak. And just as softly, there’s a voice pleading for help, asking if anyone is inside. A light shining in through the cracks of his world. 

He pushes himself up. He knows he hasn’t had that much to drink tonight. The worst possible outcomes play in his head. A ruse from bounty hunters, a local gang taking advantage (not a whole lot better than he would have done only 3 years ago), or another ghost from his past (the ones that play at the corner of his eye). His chest gets a little tight but he’s been good at keeping unease from holding him back. Arthur shakes his hand out, placing the book on the mantle of the fireplace.

“Who’s out there?” It’s an oddity. To hear another voice. One that isn’t his own. It’s a beautiful noise, a pleasing beckon. But he’s no fool. He doesn’t even particularly want to be here, why would anyone be here if they didn’t have to be? He grabs his revolver from the small table next to the entrance, one of the only loaded guns in the house. “Please, sir, I promise it’s just me,” and the earnestness in that voice, he has to believe that promise is true. He has to open the door. With a deep sigh, he stuffs the gun away after a second thought. 

The figure is much too bundled up to gather any immediate details. She’s not very much, standing there out in the cold icy fluff. It isn’t until he nods his head to direct her does she realize she should probably come in. He peeks out at the tracks, just one long line of horse tracks in the process of getting blown over by the harsh wind and the lashing ice. Her struggle up to the porch marked in snow. Arthur scans the tree line for any of those dark silhouettes but they’ve blown away in the wind, they’re pushed from his mind when he turns back and closes the door shut behind the both of them. 

He turns to her, he doesn’t mind the way she shrinks away from his body, skittish and slight. Such a small girl, alone in a snowstorm. He can’t think of a single good reason why she would be going it alone and what she could possibly need more than a night in. She should be warming her hands next to a fire. He could do it for her, could gather them and breathe on them. He tosses that behind him like an empty tin can. He has other things to focus on, mostly trying to get a better look at her and prying an answer out of her as to why she’s out here like this. 

He’s more rude than he intended to be but a little rudeness is nothing new to him. “What the hell were you doin’ out there?” He has been described as coarse. Intentionally and unintentionally. He’s a little bit like a puffed up rooster when he catches her looking him over, marveling at the size of him. But he lets that fall away, surely she needed no old man assuming things on her part. He knows he ain’t much to look at. At his gruff tone, she has no response. The poor thing is so cold, her teeth chatter, whatever she mustered up to yell at him over the storm has run out. Arthur feels a little of his hard veneer chip away. 

He thinks to take her coat, covered in frost and not nearly as insulated as he had hoped, it’s damp with melting ice now that she’s inside. But he feels like he’s dreaming again, peeling her coat off and hanging it on the rack, a faux gentleman. He doesn't know why he’s trying to impress but there’s a chance that she’d like a man like that. So he plays, pretends. He’s surely done that before.

When her coat is shed, all of those visions he’s been having must have caught up to him. 

Jesus, Morgan. You’ve really lost it now. 

This disease of loneliness he’s been given has surely destroyed the vestiges of his sanity. He must be imagining some young soft handed girl with warm bright eyes and vibrant, shiny hair. Face of an angel, looking hopeful; grateful. Her eyes on him burn like hellfire. He feels strange, watching much too close at how her tongue wets her lips; chapped from the cold. Beautiful; she must be someone’s girl, he hopes for a widow who had lost her husband to the winter frost. He’d gladly pick up where the fucker left off. Pry her from his cold hands. Could just be the loneliness talking. He can’t bring himself to care all that much about it. 

Arthur can feel shame eating away at him, like ants at the corners of a scrap fallen off the table. He could have found himself sick to his stomach not too short a time ago. A girl as young as her and he, an old dog with even older tricks have no business together. He knows it too. But he was done with that crushing feeling of dread that ate away at his very soul some days. He had enough of his life to feel awful about. Blood on the floorboards, forgotten promises, disregarded words of affection. Just these moments, where he can hoard the vision that is this girl to himself after so long of giving pieces of himself away. 

What has that shame ever done but made you worse? 

If there isn’t the will to keep his eyes off the girl then there’s the give in him. Like a levy, it cracks a little, breaks into a million pieces of splintered wood for her. It’s been too long since he’s seen something so pretty. All flesh and blood. No graphite on paper; recollections of the women from his past, no Gem of Beauty cigarette card. She carries the smell of soap and perfumed cotton. He thinks it's geranium scented or another delicate flower crushed to pieces to make her smell like she came from heaven too. It’s a weakness he hadn’t culled. 

This girl of his; she must be something quite real. His wishful daydream would have diverted to more intimate topics by now, and he’d probably imagine a woman he’s at least met before. Deciding if he’d prefer her to be real or a misty figment of his imagination; he can’t make heads nor tails of it. Arthur knows he’d probably end up disappointing a real person more than he could offend a figure cooked up in his mind. He sighs. He turns to the iron stove beside the dining table. There’s still coffee and he can distract himself from his ridiculous train of thought by clumsily pouring it out for her. 

Hopeful bastard.

“You mute, girl? Asked you a question.” He knows she isn't but he wants to hear her talk some more. And maybe if she hears what a brute he makes himself out to be most of the time, she’ll turn her nose up at him the way she’s supposed to. Lots of women have, she wouldn’t be the first warned away by his attitude like a bad smell. He could almost let that temptation win. To change who he is at this moment. If only for the selfish purpose of luring her further into his home. However, he’s too impulsive and his tongue is too practiced at offending. He has words that are about as gentle as a fist to the nose. 

He sets her cup down on the table. Arthur doesn’t wait for her to figure herself out, grabbing another cigarette, swiping them off of the coffee table in front of the fireplace. To hell with the rations. It was a special day after all, a goddamned holiday. He strikes the match on the table, lighting it as she tentatively steps forward. Nearly singes his finger on the match he forgot to put out, wincing and waving it out to put out the flame. 

She’s a pearl, surrounded by the ugly oyster that is the less than stellar home he keeps. Carefully, she steps into his space. Suddenly, he’s hyper aware of every thing she could find awful or garish; his hunting trophies or the weapons or the wall. Or the mess of papers on the desk in the corner. It has him gripping his cigarette a bit too tight. Her face hardly moves in any particular reaction, as if used to him already. A simple neutrality is what takes her as she looks at some of the things over the mantle, then her eyes track over the small hallway, leading to the bedroom and some storage. She’s quick to bring her attention back to him, a soft smile that stuns him graces her face, kicking up some long buried hope of his.

 If there was a woman who should be a lady, it’s her. She sets herself down on the sofa, neatly keeping her hands to herself, reaching for the cup he set out for her. But first checking to see if it wasn’t for him with a nervous flick of her eyes up to his own. He can hardly ignore how it pulls at him. She holds the blue speckled cup on her thigh. 

“No, I…was getting something for my granny…” She explains she couldn’t make it to the doctor in the almost fatal weather outside. He has a humorless laugh. How could anyone send her out for the sake of some old hag; already knocking on death's door? Selfless girl but stupid. Defenseless. Her own mother, too. He supposes he can relate. The man he regarded as his father had been the one to let him down the most.

 It’s always the ones you trust. 

He makes his opinion known to her, maybe he can talk some sense into her. 

“I can imagine. What kinda mother sends a pretty thing like you on a fool's errand? You really thought you was gonna bring your ol’ granny a doctor in this?” He reprimands her, she might need it. 

Little girl gone out by herself. Needs you, don’t she?

What she probably needs is someone to keep her from doing things that risk her life for nothing at all. Doesn’t have to be him but he won’t turn the thought away. Breaking her open on her marriage bed. Such a pretty thing, a distracted smile into her cup of coffee. Lost in a snow drift because no one cared enough to keep her inside. 

And she does nip back. Trying to give a rebuttal but he won’t have it. He knows he’s right, giving his idea of a light hearted joke, his particular brand of poking humor. Heavy handed as always. 

“Your granny probably already kicked the bucket while you were out here, damn near gettin’ yourself killed.” 

 Perhaps insinuating her grandmother was already dead wasn’t the best attempt at familiarizing her with himself, her face tinges with an expression he’s used to seeing. Dutch said he had a sharper tongue than people thought. Hosea said it was too blunt. 

“And if it weren’t for me, well…” she’d be dead. Forgotten somewhere in the snow with a dead horse for company. Such an image should hopefully be sobering for her. It’s a harsh reality but one he would prevent from happening.  His hand comes up to scratch at his brambly jaw. She probably thought his slightly overgrown beard was ugly and unkempt. His fingers raise the delicate rolled cigarette to his lips. A nice calming drag helps his nerves calm down, they quit jumping under his skin every time her eyes pull over him, over his scarred face and his crooked nose and his gnarled hands. She looks like she holds something back. Her tongue, he thinks. He wished she would have just come out and said it. 

But she’s a polite little thing, stifling herself with another drink of the coffee. The satisfaction on her face and the small droop in her shoulders now that she’s warm makes him smile. 

She speaks up with a tremor stuck to her words. “I’m sorry mister,” her nose scrunches a little, doesn’t even know how darling he finds it. “but I don’t think you gave me your name…” 

In a well practiced motion, he leans and ashes his cigarette. It took him a while to remember that he can’t just ash them on the ground anymore. He had floors and a permanent roof now. He tends to get the hang of things at some point. He kicks his legs up on the table, gently so as to not frighten the girl on his sofa, warming herself by his fire, and drinking his coffee. The thoughts tickle that provider’s instinct so deeply embedded in his being. His name, he almost forgets all about that, looking into her pretty eyes, blinking curiously. Right. 

“Arthur. You married?” He never liked small talk too much. Never one for the surface level bullshit people put on. He watches each of her features form into something like a smile but not. Too nerve-y, falls into something else when she presses her lips together, her brows twitch as they pull together and her fingers scrunch in her gloves. 

As if she’d marry you, ain’t exactly the pick of the litter, are ya?

His fingers twitch, squeeze his short nails into the give of his palm. Then why does she call him? So enticing, then, looking at him with soft eyes, her legs pressed together and slanted. A real proper girl. Cute thing. Naive enough not to recognize someone like him at first glance. He’s something to be avoided. He wishes he could see a ring glittering on her finger, to ward away the seething heat in his head and his gut. Like a prayer muttered in the presence of evil but he doubted it’d be strong enough. 

“No, I’m afraid not,” her voice is like velvet, the rub of a rose petal between his fingers. Her eyes flick away and her teeth press gently into her bottom lip, sweet looking. No man to look after her besides her worthless father, left her out here to freeze. Alone, really. Or she might as well be. The world has been known to be cruel to women. To his mother, to a woman whose life he had ruined, to Mary even, to Susan and Molly. Well, most every woman he knew. It wasn’t fair but many things in their lives were disparagingly slanted away from them, scales always uneven. 

“Young lady like you, unwed and caring for your Ma, Pa, all by yourself?” Arthur scoffs, even as he points out her tragedy. “Now that’s just sad, is what it is,” His fingers push his cigarette into the ash tray a bit too hard, twisting it. And he looks at her blouse, drawing the outline of her with his eyes. He’d put it to paper later. She has a small nod for him. A shining opportunity. But he has to introduce his own dingy reality. The one where he was probably old enough to have been able to hold her when she had just been born. 

“You are… a sight, for an old ugly bastard like me is all,” Honest words slip from him, too loose for him to keep them behind his teeth. The bashful look crosses over her face makes his lip curl up just a little. She deserved to have someone tell her how pretty she is, who wouldn’t ever let her forget for a second how lovely she looked. Where all of these sappy things come from is beyond him. They ooze into his mind anyway.

Delicately, she sets the cup down on the table littered with other cups he had forgotten to put away and empty packages of cigarettes. He rolls his eyes at himself, of course he doesn’t clean up the day he has company.

“I left my horse in the stable out front, I hope you don’t mind,” her hands pet at her thighs, he can see where the fabric is damp. Immediately, his mind clicks into place, thinking on how he can fix it. That’s what the fairer sex truly craved, wasn’t it? Not some puffed up egomaniac. A fixer. A solution. His hands itch to move. To pick up the pieces of her problems and push them back into the shape of something whole. “Ain’t no trouble,” the relieved sag in her shoulders tells him that she actually worried about it. 

So Arthur does, he’s nothing if not a man of action. “Why don’t I get you somethin’ dry to wear? Should be turnin’ in soon. Gettin’ late.” He’s up before he can hear a protest. But she doesn’t give much of one. In his bedroom, his hands swipe his hair backwards. The small mirror he usually keeps around strictly for shaving catches the light of the small oil lamp. 

God, his best years are way behind him. So say the lines at the corners of his eyes, the gouges of his age on his forehead and the delicate webbing of wrinkles under his eyes. All of the evidence of his lifestyle glares back at him. There’s a ruddiness over the higher planes of his cheekbones from burning them under the sun. Some of the fist and knife fights from his youth have left permanent evidence of his misgivings on his face. Mostly in the form of scars and his odd nose. 

You disgust her, don’t go kidding yourself. 

If he ever told her the truth of himself, he’s sure a girl like her would go running, suddenly not minding the cold. He never was good at keeping beautiful things by his side. They rotted or wilted, or blew away with the wind. His rough fingers rub at the back of his neck. He stares deep into his own eyes. Trying to force some normalcy, some sense into himself but it’s all in vain. He grunts, paying mind to other things. 

He opens his cabinet, all of the simple clothes he keeps. Something new and not so weathered, or dirty, something clean. Like her. Some nice cotton knit union suit, something he bought when he was preparing for winter. He grips them tight and hesitates at the door. 

Just go n’ give it to her, and try not to be an idiot; for god’s sake. 

And the sweet smile he sees knocks whatever sense he had gathered out of him, he can hardly form a word. He just holds the fabric out to her like an oaf. And she rises, as to keep things comfortable, good at reading his brutish signaling, taking them gently and skirting around him. And then she’s in his bedroom. With a mental cuss, he realizes that he forgot to clean the room before he left. 

Ah, she’ll find out how pathetic you are at some point. Just a matter a’ when… 

All those empty bottles and habits he’s formed from living alone. Dirty clothes piled somewhere and sheets that probably smelled a bit too much like sweat. Christ. He sighs, pinching his nose. He’s not sure why he’s putting so much thought into this. He doesn’t care. Not a care at all. Right…sure.

At first, he distracts himself with preparing food, his leftovers, hopefully enough for her. Doing this is an action which is perhaps a bit selfish. He wants to make it clear that he can give her things she needs. He could figure out wants later.. Typically, he hadn’t thought too much of what women wanted but with her he makes lists, takes out the fine brandy. Sometimes he took after Dutch more than he would like to admit, the man was all too good at forgetting about a woman’s wants and needs.

The food hasn’t gone too cold. His hands look for things to do, stirring unnecessarily. Fumbling the dish he places it on. However, the little comfort he gains from activity fades. He can only grip the counter like a vice while staring out the window above his sink for so long. The shades of brown and orange that make up his cabin blur into nothing, the wood grain isn’t as grounding as he wants it to be. 

But then his legs drift in the opposite direction, He can hear a soft sigh and the rustle of clothing behind the door. He wets his dry throat. Arthur shouldn’t salivate. He does anyway.

You’re a creep. Something in his head laughs at him. 

Been too long since you had a woman this close to your bed and she ain’t even in it with ya…c’mon. C’mon, just open the damn door. 

His heart is about to pound his ribs into dust. He’s among the worst of the worst but this… pushes boundaries. Lines drawn in the sand. Peeping on women wasn’t something he was raised to do. And if he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, it was an accident. 

You ain’t that bad.

He’s used to letting the tide wash those out so he can draw new ones. And here is a new one. When his fingers push at the door and he can see the sliver where she bares her own flesh. Rubs her hands up her thighs, stepping out of her clothes. His throat goes dry, his teeth bite bluntly at the tip of his tongue as his jaw gets tense. 

His eyes follow the natural plush curve of her body, pale yellow lamp light glancing off of her. He’d kill a man to touch her and he’d kill a man for touching her. Devouring every inch, his eyes soak it all up, dedicating her to memory. 

 And then she’s stepping into the creamy cotton of his clothes. Doing up the buttons at her front. Unbidden by him, his cock fills out, half hard, pressing uncomfortably at just the sight of her. The perfection of her hips, her hair brushing over her back. 

The guilt is chewing a hole in his conscience. It’s like there are termites gnawing away at the foundation of whatever restraint he had. He’s felt less disgusting after killing a man, making him choke on his own blood as it fills his lungs. But the reward had never been so delightful. A sweet girl, so trusting, putting her hand to her chest and smiling as she realizes he’s there. It doesn’t feel good at all, the realization that he’s drooling over her like a mutt. All she has given him is reluctance, nervous glances. She doesn’t touch him or leave her hand to linger. A sweet-as-cream smile is all he has, enough to tide him over. He wants her anyway, needs her to stay. Letting her walk out after this will be next to impossible. 

“You scared me, Mister…” Mister. So polite, an angel delivered unto him. He can feel how his body is tense, tight like a spring. How she doesn’t notice the evidence of his wrongdoing, pressing at the front of his pants is luck or her naivety. His expression must be dazed, a foolish look because all he can do is stare, unable to stop himself. Observing the way his clothes drape over her, exaggerating how much smaller she is in comparison. How stunning she’d look, sprawled over his bed sheets. Precious girl; struggling not to cry when she gets all stretched out on something wholly too big for her. In his mind's eye, she mouths his name, looks at him like all she wants is him inside of her. Right. His name again. 

He dips back into his own ease in which he controls all of himself with. He is self assured and well handled. And he certainly doesn’t curl in on himself. Lets her see how big he is, slips back into old habits with the ease that comes with capability. “Morgan, Arthur Morgan,” his real name, no Kilgore’s or Calahan’s. She should know it anyhow, if he has any real intention in giving it to her.

It’s dangerous and it’s like she can feel it, somewhere in her body is that base instinct. One she was born with to protect herself from people with bad intentions. But she has another instinct, bares her neck to him. Arthur has always been good at suppressing his hunger, desire for soft pretty things. Settling like sediment on them was the control he had, buried them and buried them and buried them. She's a rainstorm, flooding his mind, washing out his carefully maintained resistance. Leaves his want raw and exposed and actionable. He wants her too much, wants her more than he has any right to. 

He feels what little control he has over his urges begin to slip with that thought.  Usually, he let them take over. Let whatever pain and anguish in him manifest into pure rage, cold and unadulterated. At first, it revolted him, his actions. And the reputation he built to go along with them. But they began to grow over him like a second skin until they encased whatever hope he had for a better life completely. His self induced hatred hid whatever pieces of him weren't supposed to be his to have and to share. The things he had to hide from himself even to feel like a whole person at any given moment. And he let himself be that awful thing people thought he was. Arthur Morgan. A force of nature. 

But he deserved it, didn't he? Everyone should keep their distance anyway. He has a habit of making things worse than when he found them. But all he wanted was for her to be close. Sure, he could play the vulnerable man who could pine after his sweetheart, go out riding after her, guide her home where she would forget all about him. Just a kind man out to help the world.

That's not what he wanted. He wanted her to stay here. Can’t bear the thought of being a good man, sending her away when the storm blows over. In sickness and in health, til’ death do us part. That’s what he sees when he closes his eyes. She’s standing in the kitchen, turning the spoils of his hunts into dinner. With that easy smile. His too empty house just wouldn’t feel like a home without her in it. He’s sick, he knows; but he’s sure she can cure him. 

Arthur Morgan has always wanted more than he could have. He chews on the thought like tobacco. Bitter but eventually he begins to need the taste, to crave it. 

“Put somethin’ on the stove for ya, man can’t leave no woman hungry…” God, his tongue feels too thick in his mouth and his jaw aches from gritting his teeth too hard. And of course, he lays all his cards on the table. Man can’t leave his woman hungry.

Every little gesture she makes, wrapping her arms shyly around herself, the gentle tilt of her head and the small affirmative gesture she makes is in no way unordinary. But they’re all dripping with her appeal. How can she smile at him like he doesn't look the way he does? Like he hasn't made the world worse just by existing in it?

 He soils her just by laying greedy eyes on her neck, on her nipples which he can make out through the fabric of his union suit. And when she opens her mouth, he knows he’ll end up calling her what she is. Sweet and syrupy, soothing on his throat. 

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I really appreciate your kindness,” Arthur is convinced he heard her wrong. But her honesty is in those radiant eyes, in her easy posture. It must be meant to be, it’s not every day a woman talked to him like that. Or talked to him at all. He was perhaps too busy making sure they knew what they would be getting into; dealing with him. 

It may just be the respectful manners instilled in her. He supposed her parents had given her that; mannerisms that made her quite the catch. Utter perfection. But really, even that was a disservice. They damned her to him. Makes him see glimpses of a life he could have. Hundreds of conversations, every iteration of the precious babe they'd have together with his hair and her eyes, a son or a daughter. Two of each perhaps. Hours and hours of her gentle, refined voice taking up the empty room. He bows his head as if he can keep his disbelief and joy under the brim of his hat, currently hanging by his front door. 

She comes nearer. He can smell her cotton scent, can see the way the light casts around her hair, feathering over her, turning it into gold. His body moves to make the smallest space for her. Hoping she’ll nudge against him. He doesn’t even realize the way he’s formed himself to keep her here for just a moment. So close, Arthur nearly loses track of what he was supposed to be doing.  

“Been a long time since somebody called me a kind man, usually it was the opposite,” apprehension floods her body, her features. Her eyes focus on him, waiting for something terrible to happen. Arthur sees how she bristles. He only meant to be honest but she’s already read between his lines. Smart girl. 

He shows her just what he means. Even when he knows better, even if he’s never been this far. It’s like he has to touch though. No where uncomfortable, just to be sure she isn’t a sign that he’s truly gone from this world. 

“Please, I-” 

Her plea goes down his spine. It rakes its teeth over the parts of him that are wrong. That weren’t formed with gentleness, aren’t intricate. Just instinct that he’s indulged. 

He may not be a good man. But he can behave well enough to keep her. Now that he has the room for her. He doesn’t live in a drafty tent. He’s not a dog chained to the hand that fed him too many years ago. He would never treat her like an object to display or a mistake made in a drunken night of pleasure. He wouldn’t throw this away, this one chance at having something real. Wouldn’t lay waste to this opportunity to fill a hole in him that yawned empty for what felt like eternity. She’d be his wife and he; her man. A husband. Mister and Missus Arthur Morgan. A crock of shit, he would have said a month ago.

That ain’t the hand you been dealt and you know it. You’ve made a mess of things enough.

 But now… it's a dreamy reality. It hasn’t quite taken shape but he can get it there. Determination starts to crystallize over the idea. She’s something good; doesn’t need him. He could try to make something better too, could make the best of a situation, try to show her the best in him. But he knows it’d never be enough for her. He always throws these good things away, always ruins it somehow. But he grips and shakes like a mutt at this idea, gnaws it until it's raw. He can just take what he wants. Done that before, hasn’t he?

Just leave’er alone. God, you never learn, goddamned fool…

His fingers graze over the skin on her neck, uncovered by the collar of the union suit he lent her. Here in the dark of the small hallway, he can swear there’s something in the way she breathes, shudders. “I think you need a man to take care of you, honey, need a man to keep you inside- wouldn’t let you go out alone like this if you was my woman… Lemme show you how a man looks after a girl like you,” He’s aware that he sounds like a right bastard but he’s only telling the truth. His hand settles at her back, like it’s supposed to be there. They’re meant to be, all he has to do is show her. 

ok yall how we feeling LMAO i think his perspective was interesting and fun for me to write but idk if its any good, but i hope with practice ill get more confident 🥹🥹 bro is a freak sooo yeah it was fun to write him as a freak he is very conflicted about everything and he is super weird but also sexy sooo😳 i hope you guys enjoyed this lil backstory on why arthur is a weirdo 😊😊😭😭 lmk what you guys think !!

[merwgue]

Nesta and Cassian's relationship in A Court of Silver Flames is often painted as this passionate, enemies-to-lovers romance, but beneath that surface, it’s built on a foundation of toxicity, manipulation, and emotional neglect.

1. Built on Spite – A Relationship Fueled by Anger Their entire dynamic revolves around anger and spite. From the get-go, they’re constantly at each other’s throats, and while tension can create chemistry, their relationship is more about hurting each other than actually caring. Cassian treats Nesta like she's an obligation—a broken project that he needs to fix, but never with genuine understanding or empathy. It’s all about power plays and asserting dominance, not love or mutual respect.

2. Cassian Doesn’t Actually Care About Nesta Let’s be real: throughout the 800-page book, Cassian does very little to show that he actually cares about Nesta beyond her physicality. Sure, they have sex, but that’s pretty much the extent of their intimacy. There’s no real emotional support, no moments of genuine care where Cassian steps up to help her heal in any meaningful way. He just lets the sex cover up the massive cracks in their relationship and then moves on like nothing’s wrong.

For someone who’s supposed to be Nesta’s “mate,” Cassian does nothing when it comes to helping her through her trauma. When she’s at her lowest, when she’s literally crying out for help—like during that hike where she straight-up says she wants to die—what does Cassian do? Absolutely nothing. No aftercare, no emotional support, just a brush-off like her pain is irrelevant. It’s not just neglect; it’s downright cruel.

3. The Lack of Aftercare – Sex as a Band-Aid Speaking of sex, it’s almost always presented as a way to diffuse tension between them, but Cassian never offers Nesta the emotional aftercare she so desperately needs. It’s one thing to have a physically passionate relationship, but when there’s no care or connection after the fact, it starts to feel like Cassian is just using her body to soothe his own frustrations, while completely ignoring her emotional state. There’s no intimacy beyond the physical, no moment where he checks in on her feelings or offers her genuine support. It’s just sex, and then he leaves her to deal with the fallout on her own.

4. Emotional Manipulation – Cassian’s Power Over Nesta Cassian’s treatment of Nesta is manipulative in the sense that he uses her vulnerability against her. He knows she’s struggling, knows she’s dealing with massive amounts of trauma, but instead of actually being there for her, he pushes her to “get better” on his terms. He’s constantly throwing her failures back in her face, making her feel like she’s unworthy unless she falls in line with what he (and everyone else) wants her to be. It’s like he’s trying to mold her into someone more palatable, rather than accepting and helping her for who she truly is.

5. A Toxic Cycle of Hurt and Neglect Their relationship just repeats this toxic cycle of hurt—Nesta lashes out because she’s in pain, and Cassian either ignores her emotional needs or meets her anger with his own frustration. There’s no real communication, no attempts at understanding where the other person is coming from. It’s just a constant back-and-forth of anger and sex, with no actual healing or growth. That’s not love, that’s emotional neglect.

6. Cassian’s Role in Nesta’s Breakdown Ultimately, Cassian’s actions—or lack thereof—contribute directly to Nesta’s breakdown. He does nothing to help her when she’s in pain, when she’s literally begging for support. Instead, he’s more interested in their physical connection and getting her to conform to what the Night Court expects of her. That’s not a healthy relationship. That’s toxic, manipulative, and damaging to both of them, but especially to Nesta, who’s already battling so much on her own.

In the end, their relationship isn’t built on mutual respect or understanding; it’s built on spite, power, and neglect. And that’s what makes it so damn toxic.

[flower-boi16]

A defence for Stolitz I’ve seen is that the relationship is supposed to be toxic at first, but eventually grows into being healthier. There are three reasons for why this defence doesn’t work.

This isn’t what the show is framing it as. Season 2 makes Stolitz into an UwU childhood friendship with the premiere, and the show frequently coddles and absolves Stolas of his mistakes as an artificial way to make him look sympathetic, while demonizing Blitz for not loving Stolas. If Stolitz was still portrayed as toxic in season 2 then why would the show constantly insist that Stolas did nothing wrong?

If the show really is trying to have Stolitz be unhealthy at first then have it get healthier over time, it’s doing an absolutely piss poor job at it by having the victim and and abuser roles SWAPPED in season 2, where Stolas is constantly UwUifed by the narrative while Blitz is portrayed as the abuser, when in fact the opposite is true. The show constantly victim blames Blitz for not loving Stolas in spite of Blitz having every reason to hate him, while Stolas is portrayed as an UwU soft boy who did nothing wrong. If the show is trying to make Stolitz healthier than it should actually pin the problem on the REAL abuser here; Stolas.

And this leads me to my last point; how exactly can the relationship “get better”? Stolitz was never a relationship based on a mutual affection between two partners, it’s a completely one-sided pairing with one of the partners being absolutely infatuated with the other while that other partner doesn’t show that same affection. Not to mention that Stolitz is a sexually abusive relationship. Stolas directly forces Blitz, Simone on a lower class than him, to have sex with him for his own pleasure, and the only reason why Blitz accepted it was because if he didn’t he’ll lose the thing he needs for his job to provide for himself and his daughter. In other words, Stolas is coercing Blitz, forcing him to sleep with him otherwise he’ll lose the thing he, again, needs for his job. THEN there’s the unhealthy power dynamic between the two with one of them being a noble and the other being a lower class imp. This was the foundation that Stolitz was ALWAYS based on. You CANNOT salvage a relationship like this. There’s no way you can make it become healthier because a relationship with this foundation can NEVER work. And the writers had to retcon their way into trying to make this direction work but it still can’t. Stolas showed no interest in Blitz beyond having sex with him in season 1, yet season 2 tries to push this idea that Stolas genuinely loved Blitz all along…? It makes no sense. Stolitz can’t get better because a relationship like this can’t possibly be healthy in the slightest. Plain and simple.

[madbard]

“Ford is irredeemably self-centered” this, “Ford’s a bad person” that, etc…

Alright. Tell me then.

What was he supposed to do?!?!

Be a better brother? Ford loved Stan! When they were children, Ford took care of his brother as best he could. But Ford was also a kid in a bad situation, and there were limits to what he could do. Not to mention that Stan relied so heavily on Ford that it honestly wasn’t healthy for either of them. Stan couldn’t stand by himself and he wasn’t trying. They were both struggling; maybe pin that on the parents instead of the kids.

Not be angry at Stan for messing with his experiment? Of course Ford was angry! This was his dream college; in that moment he thought his entire future was crumbling. I assure you, if my sibling had ruined my chances of getting into my dream school I would have been more than a little upset, and I’m sure the same goes for most of the people reading this. Of course, Ford did hold onto that anger for considerably longer than was justified, but in this case I would argue that Ford less “held a grudge for 10 years out of spite” and more “never got the chance to make things right with his brother and held onto that anger because it was better than the nauseating guilt over that final argument, the uncertainty at times that his brother was even alive.” (Which is not to say that Ford isn’t spiteful. Our man has plenty of spite. But him being spiteful is not the only thing going on here.) Which brings us to our next point.

Stop Stan from being kicked out? How?! That household does not appear to have been a safe place for either of the brothers. Should Ford have gotten himself kicked out too? Should he have known exactly what to say to talk his father down - the man who just violently threw his twin out of the house? Ford didn’t kick Stan out. He just wasn’t able to stop it from happening, and that’s not something any teen should be blamed for.

Behave himself when reuniting with Stan at the culmination of the worst period of his life thus far? There’s stress. And then there’s being dangerously sleep-deprived and at the mercy of a horrifying demon that betrayed you, leaving you alone in a shack in the woods with no one to call for help except your estranged brother, who’s complaining about a mullet, of all things. Yeah, I’m not going to say Ford’s behavior was anything other than atrocious here. But really. How well would you handle that?

Thanked his brother? Stan could have destroyed the universe; it makes sense that Ford’s upset! He’s also had literally decades to stew in the terror and fury he experienced in those last moments before falling through the portal (something which almost certainly would not have happened if it weren’t for Stan). Again, Ford’s not acting like the world’s best brother here, but it’s understandable.

Ford’s not perfect. He can be arrogant, spiteful, and bitter. He makes serious mistakes (often due to his own hubris) that put himself, his loved ones, and sometimes the entire universe in grave peril. Ford is, in fact, deeply flawed. That’s part of what makes him a fun character! It’s also what makes him a well-written and believable character. Yes, Ford acts like a jerk. He does so quite often.

Ford also spends nearly the entire narrative bouncing from one deeply toxic situation to another, desperately trying to survive and make life better for himself and his family and watching as his brother makes mistake after mistake - sometimes making choices with severe, negative consequences on Ford’s own life.

Ford is doing the best he can. He’d not a bad person. He tries to be good. He tries to do the right thing.

He just fails sometimes.

Don’t we all?

[aniseya]

i’m teetering back and forth between how helaemond was dealt with in the finale.

on one hand, i hate that they made him go there and yank her around. it’s not what i consider the same domestic abuse as daemyra, but it’s a form of abuse that is expected when a man descending into madness from trauma, power, grief, and the hunger to be good enough. he tried to drag her in a fit of rage and then the next time she threatened him with accusations and told him of his death, he couldn’t even bring himself to show the same rage.

i never expected helaemond to be healthy, because incest is NEVER healthy. but i feel like with the way they’ve been treating aemond this season to seem like the true villain of team green, it just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. like i love toxic pairings, but this just isn’t something natural for aemond to do, so it feels disappointing. it’s just there to reinforce that aemond is now the big bad and everyone else on team green aren’t as bad compared to him now. helaena is by the general audience’s opinion the purest character, so to have aemond hurt her feels like a way to hammer that home to the audience. not organic at all, not something in his character, just there.

which is why i’m thankful ewan played into helaemond in that moment on the balcony. aemond seems to regret what he did and the only time he’s shown properly crying is when he’s begging her to come with him. trying to appeal to the fact that they are same blood, that they understand each other when others might not. it’s acted and written like a proposal to fuck off to the ends of the earth together, phantom of the opera, anakin and padme, and gothic romance and all. and even when helaena refuses he still is crying, giving paper thin threats that he doesn’t mean, but just because he’s hurt by her rejection.

istg that balcony scene was perfect imo, in the sense that if it was just written a little bit better and didn’t have the looming connotation that aemond is mr villainous prototype used to make everyone who loved aemond from s1 feel humiliated for loving him and poke fun at helaemonds for enjoying their pairing. and now aegon is being propped up for god knows what, whitewashed in the sense that he’s given more development than aemond, helaena, and more characters above all. like nothing is coming from this, i don’t expect the writers to touch upon helaemond and that scene going forward whatsoever. it all felt like a way to get aemond stans to finally turn against him and to make helaemonds feel bad for enjoying the pairing to the point of making it popular. i’d say helaemond deserved better, but truly the entirety of the characters and the show itself deserved better.

so in the end, i may ship helaemond out of spite for what feels like a slap, simply because ewan delivered so hard for it. and i might not, because my efforts feel just so dull and fruitless that idk if i have the will to carry this energy and love for something that went so so wrong. it feels like got s8 where i needed time to recuperate and process everything before deciding what i wanted to take from it as a fan.

[attorneytrash]

pure, concentrated spite for elon musk is a valid reason to vote btw. hatred isn’t always a healthy motivator but in this case i, a moral authority, think it’s fine

[cotl-eyesofdeath]

What went wrong the first time around with the kids? What was narilamb's fatal flaw as parents?

Short answer:

Lambie’s manipulative with a need for control even when it comes to their loved ones, and while Narinder tries his best he’s still kind of a mediocre dad that let Lambie do whatever they wanted to their kids as long as it wasn’t physically traumatizing

Long answer:

After like a thousand years of being a cult leader Lambie starts thinking that they want a break from all their responsibilities, and so they decide to try having a child with Narinder to see if they can keep the cult leading in the family. On account of their… eldritch-ness, Lambie’s unable to have children the regular way, so they needed to use a ritual that would actually make it possible. Use your imagination for that part.

They didn’t expect it to work since they kinda just bullshitted it, but somehow it did work and so Narinder ends up carrying their firstborn, which they name Yarna. From her birth Lambie has groomed Yarna into becoming the perfect cult leader, just like Narinder did with them, but there were still a few doubts in their mind. They decide to have another child, Chanto(Narinder carried a him too), and raise him as a sort of back-up plan. They also decide to raise backups to the backup but with children of their followers instead of having another of their own, starting a sort of cult leader/disciple school. This along with Lambie’s selective shows of affection breed jealousy and rivalry between the two siblings- Yarna believing that being the next cult leader is her rightful place as the firstborn and afraid of losing her position, and Chanto just wanting to prove himself to Lambie and get the same treatment that Yarna gets.

Narinder notices the growing tension between the siblings and does his best to teach them to cooperate with eachother and keep a healthy relationship, but his idea of a “healthy sibling relationship” isn’t the best to begin with… still, he warns his kids of what happened with his own family with stories of the past, but that’s pretty much all he does. Aside from keeping them apart so they don’t fight, he doesn’t do anything else, and the kids have heard his stories so many times that they start to tune them out and forget- retreating into their own world of spite and jealousy. This is all made worse by Lambie deliberately stirring up trouble between them, seeing them as in competition with eachother and their schoolmates and making no effort to hide it, believing that if they’re in competition with eachother then they’ll strive to be better and pick off the weaker ones.

Jealousy runs amok between them. Yarna has always had an advantage with being the firstborn and first student, giving her more time than all the other kids to learn and hone her skills as a cult leader. This obviously makes her the biggest source of jealousy for everyone else since they’re basically playing catch-up and hoping that she’ll get behind somehow to actually give them a chance. Though this also means that there’s extremely high expectations put on her to be the most model student of the entire cult, causing her punishments to be even more extreme when she does make a mistake, and Lambie’s punishments for her are the worst of all. Since she’s the most promising student, she’s the one that Lambie pays the most attention to and that’s an extremely sharp double-edged sword- not just for her but for everyone else too. Lambie pays the most attention to Yarna, so she gets most of their affections, leaving everyone else basically in the dust. Nobody else gets as much of their attention and praise as Yarna, but this also means they’re allowed much more freedom and their punishments for mistakes aren’t as severe.

Chanto as the second born is at a disadvantage with their studies that they try their hardest to overcome, and though the hard work does pay up and they inch ever closer to Yarna, in the end they feel like they could never reach her- not only in their studies but also personally. Both of them want affection from Lambie, their parent and beloved god, but Chanto also wants Yarna’s affections too, at least at first. They believed that if they caught up to Yarna then they could both have fun as siblings while also getting Lambie’s attention. Yarna, of course, only sees him as a rival. What he gets praised for is something she’s expected to do without it, and when he does something bad he’s punished with a lot less severity than a small mistake that she would make. Not only that, but he has a freedom that she craves. Yarna is constantly on edge and acting perfect all the time, studying 24/7 and doing it all with a forced smile she’s perfected to look natural all while her own brother is allowed to play around outside in the trees and with the other kids. She believes this is an injustice, and so every chance she gets she “disciplines” Chanto herself, using his naivety and craving for affection against him, becoming his biggest bully. She would berate him, steal his food, destroy his things, and spread rumors about him all around the cult in hopes of getting his reputation so low that Lambie will finally discipline him the same way they discipline her.

Years of bitterness, jealousy, anger, hate, and routine neglect pass by and Yarna is still the first in line for cult leader status. Lambie’s attention has turned solely to Yarna after a while, practically ignoring all the other students in favor of constant monitoring of her to make sure she doesn’t mess anything up. They’ve gone from grooming her into the perfect cult leader to instead turning her into a mini version of them, feeling that they could only leave the cult in her hands if she did everything as they would. This has led to them ignoring even Chanto, their other child, who has started defecting against their leadership due to this neglect without them even noticing. Their plans of pitting their kids against each other in order to make them better leaders has failed, turning one into a constantly stressed internal mess and the other into a secret dissenter that slowly blooms a rebellion in the dark of night, growing it steadily for years. Chanto has realized that Lambie has been abusing him, his classmates, and most of all: Yarna. He tries to help her out of the situation several times but she never lets him- she’s too deeply brainwashed and still resents him for what she couldn’t have. She’s going to follow the path that’s been laid out for her like the obedient half-sheep she is or die trying- and, well… Chanto will free them both from their lifelong misery, by any means necessary.

A few more years pass and Yarna has finally taken her place as the new cult leader while Chanto and half of the original cult have dissented and split off to live somewhere else. This, in theory, should make everyone happy, but… neither Yarna nor Chanto are at ease with the other group’s existence, and so there’s still friction between the two, but a war wouldn’t benefit anybody as of now and so they’re just keeping their distances for now. At least, that is until the dissenting group settles into a place with an abundance of a specific resource, causing them to thrive more than the original cult.

I’m gonna speed this up because I’ve been writing this over the course of several weeks and I’m tired but basically:

Trade negotiations are started but eventually fail so bad that it snowballs into a war, Yarna and Chanto leading their own respective armies

Lambie leaves the two groups to fight amongst themselves believing that it’s just another one of their kids’ sibling fights while Narinder is freaking out knowing that this will kill both of his kids. He attempts to convince Lambie to join the fight only to protect the kids and make sure that they don’t fucking die even if it means killing everyone else because he doesn’t have any power in this situation. It works but way too late

Lambie goes to the war site and finds their kids. Dead. They stabbed each other in the heart and died at the same time, the consequences of Lambie’s actions being this. They kill every single cult member- old, new, dissenting and loyal, deciding that starting from complete scratch with only Narinder is the best course of action.

This isn’t the first time they’ve had to start over with only Narinder, but while the first time was accidental this one was on purpose, and it hurts a lot more. Lambie truly is devastated at the loss of their kids but it’s Narinder who took this the hardest. He will always love the lamb and how ruthless they can be, but this… this made him realize how much more evil they could be. However, what hurts the most is just how complicit he realizes he had been.

The whole situation changes them both but mostly Narinder, leaving him in a state of shock for so long before he finally starts to grieve.

5 stages of grief and all that, shit gets really weird between the two of them for a long time before they finally start to mend their relationship again because they’re bound to each other no matter what so they might as well keep their relationship amicable at least. After like a thousand years of self reflection and improvement(mainly Narinder but he has the lamb change a bit too) they decide to have another kid, but just one this time, and they name her Mary(the little lamb). Narinder is more present and active and the lamb isn’t trying to mold and manipulate her into the perfect cult leader so she grows up into a pretty decent and happy person, even though she can see the dead and is haunted by her parents’ past mistakes in the form of her dead siblings trying to steal her life. She has a bee boyfriend and likes poetry.

[sassypeacock0501]

I was going to save posting these two being so happily in love, intimate, and vulnerable with each other for down the line. But I feel like sharing this clip now, especially since things didn’t quite work out this way for Grier and Davrin in the end.

Also, WOW, was it a treat to watch this scene after the first run. *Starts playing “I Can’t Hear it Now” from the Arcane soundtrack.*

Enjoy my first attempt at a fanon codex. Be kind!

Codex Entry: Heart of a Hala

A crisply folded letter stuck between the pages of a monster hunter’s manuscript.

Davrin,

I really don’t know how I’m supposed to start this. What am I even supposed to say. Emmrich tells me it’d be healthy to get my feelings out, but damn if it isn’t hard.

I doubt you’d want me to apologize a thousand times. Started that count already anyways. And I know you’d want me to stop taking on the blame, but it’s a hard habit to kick. Going nowhere with this.

Guess I could fill you in on what you’ve missed.

Neve and Lucanis are doing great. Gallus has really stepped into her own as the new head of the Threads. Kinda scary honestly, but it’s working for her. And Lucanis finally made the split with Spite. I miss the weirdo a little. I’m talking about Spite, just to be clear. I know you’re probably thinking of a comeback. Well you would’ve, I mean. Anyways, it’s gonna be great for the both of them.

Bellara is doing better. Evka promises me that things are looking up. I just hope they’re not holding back around me. (Furiously scribbled note on the margins: Damn it! He wasn’t there for that. Idiot!) Anyways, Bel’s off working with the Jumpers. They’re trying to get every bit of info they can pry out of that artifact, the Nadas whatever. Thought it was a good idea to keep the knowledge stored in something that doesn’t talk at you like you were born yesterday. The Dalish get talked down to enough as it is.

And Taash and Harding are going strong. Lace ran off with Taash once things quieted down around here. They both needed the escape after everything. Lace writes a lot though. I think she’s picked up some of the overbearing qualities that Varric sometimes had.

I know you’d ask, but I just haven’t really thought about taking a break myself. I’m used to keeping busy so it just feels right to keep that pace going. You’d understand.

And I promise I’ll go and see the other griffins when I don’t think it’ll hurt as much get the chance. Assan would want me to. Miss the little guy, wherever he is.

Anyways, I

You meant the wor

You’re gone. We’re Wardens, so this should’ve been easy. But we caught a glimpse of a future for us. It was so close. And then it slipped away.

I can’t say goodbye. Not now. Probably not ever.

But I want you to know that I’ll keep living. For you. For Assan. For us.

Whatever it takes,

Rook