#amcracchius

[Meme I Can’t Find for @amcracchius​.]

“That is … literally illegal. You’re describing something illegal.“ ------------

youtube suggested I watch a clip of Thorin’s death...

//well now i’m sad too ��

There are few things I’m in as much denial as I am in denial over the death of Thorin, Fili and Kili.

It’s not necessarily a sexual insecurity, but it comes up most during sex, since that .... sort of for most people involves taking off your clothes.

Leonard has scars. Lots of them. A particularly bad one over his right shoulder, halfway down his chest and nearly all the way down his back. Now, nearly 35 years later, it isn’t much more than a pale, silvery patch against the natural tan of his skin, but it’s large and clearly visible. There are multiple smaller ones, badly healed cuts along his back and shoulders, too. There is a collection of others, like the three inch long one on the left side of his abdomen, the gnarled round one on his thigh that may or may not have been a bullet wound. But that first one, the patch of scar tissue along his shoulder and back? That is the one he is most ... hesitant about being seen.

It’s the one he really can’t easily explain away with “Got shanked in juvie” or “got shot on a heist” or “asshole cut me with a broken bottle in a bar fight.”. Because that one is clearly a burn scar.

His father dumped a pot of boiling water over him when he was thirteen, because Leonard had wanted to make Spaghetti for himself and his little sister. He’d expected his father to be out all night, drinking, but Lewis returned home early because he’d been kicked out of the bar for not having settled his tab in too long. Ergo, daddy dearest was in a mood. And he didn’t think that his son should cook, because he was too young to operate the stove or he was still mad about catching his son kissing another boy a few months before and thought cooking was too effeminate or ... a myriad of other ridiculous reasons. In the end, the reason doesn’t matter, because Lewis decided to pour the scalding water, pasta and all, out over his son’s back, before leaving him to clean up the mess.

That’s the scar people will usually ask about when they see him shirtless for the first time and Leonard hates it. 

Not necessarily because “Oh, poor abused me”. He’ll tell you that he hates it because it kills the mood to think of his dad when he’s supposed to get frisky, but in reality, it is because every time, without fail, they’ll look at him with pity.

"please don’t lie to me."

Then DON’T ask.

That was the first thought to pop it’s way into Harry’s mind, threatening to spill from scowling lips. Somehow, in some inexplicably ‘unHarry’ way, he withheld the urge and bat it back down until it dissipated instead into an erratic pacing about the room. Like it was the only thing he could do to prevent a dangerous bubbling over. 

He wasn’t even sure why he was there to begin with. 

Michael, a retired Knight of the Cross, who had paid a permanent price for serving a ‘greater’ power, didn’t deserve any more drama from him or anyone else. Not only that, he was one of his truest friends, him who had taken on the responsibility of looking after his daughter Maggie.

Maggie was there, somewhere in the house. He shouldn’t be there.

Harry knew that part of his current aggression wasn’t him.

... or was it? It was a symptom of the Mantle, a hard responsibility he had accepted to save his daughters life.

He felt more animal than man some days, only just barely managing to peel himself from the brink before he pushed things too far. But what happened when, one day, he did go too far??

“Sir? Are you all right?”