Ghostly

feeling his mouth on mine as he blows smoke into my mouth....

No I can’t and won’t elaborate any further.

Um enjoy @sunsickcrab 😁

but have we considered honey pulling guy by the chain on his neck?

shall we recall baaabe yanking asher by his collar choker?

should we picture angel just going for the collar of davey's shirt like there's no tomorrow?

and let's not neglect treasure tangling their fingers in porter's hair just to steer him where they want

sweetheart has a hyperfixation when milo wears a tie, they like to drag him to the bedroom by it

Annotated for those with comprehension or reading difficulties like myself

People should be allowed to have their opinions about Redacted as a channel. Redacted is certainly not perfect—no form of media ever is—but it exists for consumption, for interpretation, and for enjoyment by those who resonate with it. Media, by nature, invites different responses from different audiences, and that diversity of reaction is what keeps creative spaces thriving (Hall, 1980). Some people may love Redacted for its storytelling and character development; others may dislike it for its tone or themes—and that’s entirely valid.

However, what many in the fandom seem to forget is that everyone is allowed to have opinions. It’s concerning how quickly discussions about preference or interpretation spiral into hostility, especially when nuance is involved. For instance, if I say I like Marcus—not as a person, but as a character—that distinction should be understood. There’s a difference between admiring how a character is written and condoning their actions. My appreciation lies in the complexity of his role: the suspense, the narrative weight, the way his flaws are used to challenge the audience. It doesn’t mean I think he’s a good guy or that I like him—it means I think he’s well written.

And yet, people often take such comments as moral endorsements, which demonstrates a lack of media literacy—a concept referring to understanding how media texts are constructed and interpreted (Buckingham, 2003). Ironically, it’s often the same people who claim to love “morally grey” characters that struggle most with this concept

If someone claims to love morally grey characters but fails to understand the actions of characters like Darlin’, Cutie, or Geordi, they’re missing the very point of moral complexity in fiction. These characters are written with intentional flaws—to reflect the imperfection of real people and to create emotional depth. Liking Porter or William for their moral ambiguity while condemning others like Darlin’ for flaws is inconsistent and, frankly, hypocritical.

Fictional empathy isn’t about excusing bad behavior—it’s about understanding motivation. That’s how complex storytelling works: it invites empathy for imperfection. To reject that is to miss the entire point of character-driven narratives.

The question, then, is simple: why claim to love morally grey characters if you cannot comprehend the Simple concept of flaw in others? To praise one archetype while rejecting a similar for the same narrative reasoning is, bluntly, intellectually inconsistent. Imagine if I said I was obsessed with Vega as both a character and a person, despite his questionable actions—but then turned around and said I didn’t understand how Cutie could still be a good person despite their boundary issues. The contradiction there is exactly my point.

Writers craft morally grey characters to make audiences question their own assumptions. Characters like Marcus aren’t written to be “liked”—they’re written to make you think, to make you uncomfortable, and to make you ask, “Why do I still care about them despite what they did?” That’s good writing—something Erik has done exceptionally well.

To be clear, I’m not saying it’s wrong to dislike a character. Taste is subjective; if a character doesn’t resonate with you, that’s fine. Dislike is valid. But when it comes to claiming objectivity—as in, declaring a character as “objectively bad” simply because they have flaws—that’s a misunderstanding of fiction itself. Characters are designed to make mistakes. Those mistakes are often what make them interesting and memorable. This is foundational to narrative structure and character writing (Booker, 2004).

The inability to separate moral judgment from literary appreciation reflects a worrying decline in critical thinking across fandom spaces. You can acknowledge a character’s wrongdoings while still appreciating their role in the story. You can criticize without vilifying. That’s the beauty of art—it’s meant to be interpreted, debated, and understood from multiple angles.

Enjoying a character doesn’t mean endorsing their behavior. It’s like studying a villain in literature—you can find them fascinating without supporting what they did. In psychology, this is called moral disengagement for narrative immersion—our brains separate fiction from real life because we understand that stories explore extremes safely (Tamborini et al., 2017). That separation between fiction and reality is key to understanding why stories matter.

Fiction allows us to explore moral ambiguity safely. Real life demands accountability, but fiction lets us observe it from a distance. That distance is what makes it art, not advocacy. Condemning characters as if they were real people collapses that boundary.

Of course, emotional reactions to fiction are natural. We connect deeply with stories because they reflect our values. But emotional discomfort isn’t proof that something is wrong—it’s proof that the writing is effective.

Ultimately, stories are mirrors, not manuals. If you only engage with characters who are morally spotless, you’re not engaging with fiction—you’re engaging with propaganda. It’s the flaws, contradictions, and mistakes that make art worth discussing.

Sources and More Below.

I don’t mean something a character he voices has said, I mean something he’s ACTUALLY said, whether it was on the Hewll Yeah podcast or a stream or a Monthly Recap