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#shame I never finished some of these

realbeefman · 7 months

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i'm a cis woman, but in the past few years i've developed a habit of headcanoning any male character i relate to as a trans women, beginning a fic trying to explore that, and then miserably falling short as i can never figure out how to end the story. i've recently joined a new fandom and started my most recent attempt at writing this ever-elusive character interpretation i've been trying to explain for years. and it occurs to me that maybe the reason i keep trying to interpret these characters i relate to as women and failing to, is because i'm trying to project the wrong experience. because i think that conclusion i can never fully bring myself to write isn't one about coming to terms with womanhood and embracing that identity, but about coming to terms with being a man.

so tldr im a trans man and this is a coming out post.

#shaking a little bit writing this but like. i dont know.#ive felt. alone a lot and ive been very scared of actually doing anything to make myself happy for a lot of my life #and ive felt a lot of shame about particularly. i dont know.#i feel a lot of shame in general #but about my gender. about feeling like i cant transition because i dont want to do it the way you see in media #and that its cool for other people to be gnc and trans and present however they want but #that itd be wrong for me. that id be faking #and i dont know i think im tired of running from it #im acting like this is some terrible truth. like this is an unspeakable evil i would inflict on the world by doing something that could mak #me happy. make me feel comfortable #i dont want that shame anymore #i never deserved it #anyways. i like the name angus. please call me angus from now on although autumn is actually still fine i do fw that name. always have #but i need to say this and put it out into the world and not take it back #this is my experience. this is my starting point. and fanfic and writing have been a big part of that #anyways. shoutout to #james wilson #most recent blorbo ive tried to trans the gender of. i think ill be able to finish this fic though lol.#trans #coming out #fandom #fanfic #personal #queer #lgbtqia

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bucket-of-amethyst · 1 year

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I finished watching Pixl empires season one and oooooh boy how to be normal after that???? The guy's entire thing was a death count monument, created because he felt such extreme guilt about killing five of his friends while trying to get them safely to the end islands on a flying machine. He adds the first candles saying how he was responsible for most of those deaths. And then later- LATER when Jimmy tries to trap kill him and it fails he GOES IN A RANT AND TELLS THEM TO DO BETTER!

PIXL - THE CHILLIEST GUY EVER - GOES ON A RANT!! He tells them to kill better, to be more creative with your traps because you know what's a good way to kill people?? Promise them a safe flight over the void and let them fall...

HE IS BRAGGING! HE BRAGS ABOUT THE EVENT THAT MADE HIM TAKE DEATH SERIOUSLY!! HE BRAGS LIKE IT WAS PLANNED!! HE BRAGS AS IF WE COULDN'T HEAR THE REGRET ON HIS VOICE WHEN HE PLACED THE FIRST CANDLES ON THE VIGIL!! HE BRAGS AS IF IT WAS ONE OF HIS GREATEST ACHIEVEMENTS!! THE COPPER KING HONORS YOUR DEATH BUT HE WILL BE HAPPY TO BE THE CAUSE OF IT TOO

#GOOD LIRD I DIDN'T EXPECT HIM TO GO THAT HARD WITH HUS CHARACTER #specially bc this season his character is not being a character #byt he did some pretty awesome stuff!#shame the phantom thing didn't go anywhere i believe..?#but him exiting himself from the word after the dragon fight... ooooooo #empires #empires s1 #pixlriffs #bucket of ramble #alSo he didn't properly finish his season #never sae the end of his build..#did he finish ..?

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zenmai--jikake--no--komoriuta · 2 months

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MiqoMarch'24, Day #7: - light -

A bit of a different take on this prompt, today is all about sin eater D'nyr from the point of view of an alternate timeline where he really did become a Lightwarden!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀- observations log. 1/5/XX, day.?? - ……..thus the creature was bestowed the title of Forgiven Temperance by its former allies, following the meaning of self-sacrifice and asceticism; excessive restraint/repression of one’s self for others benefit. At his core, one can suppose that this was both his fatal flaw and driving virtue! The poor soul… To date, nobody knows for sure what the beast fully looks like, not even those who fled the site of its transformation at the depths of The Tempest! It has scarcely budged from its initial location a few moons ago… obvious logistical reasoning aside, only a scant few exploration teams have had the wherewithal to venture down there past the safety of the Ondo's dwellings. Reports have led us to believe that the creature is covered in sharp spines and has monstrously large "claw-hands" (as it was described), or possibly some sort of scorpion-like tail as well? Its profile is unclear and hard to make out in the murk from such a distance, but one thing is unanimously clear; all of our teams have fled after seeing what they claimed to be "horrifying gold eyes" staring back at them! Yet the beast has not once given chase upon sighting our researchers, which is just as unsettling as it is perplexing… Due to the unique constraints inherent to its location, we are at present unable to cull the Lightwarden and return the night to the region of Kholusia. Mercifully, its light has not pierced anywhere else due to the sheer distance from the water's surface acting as a convenient attenuating filter, but one could surmise that if the beast were to emerge then all of Norvrandt would be under light pall again… its effect on the populace is quite clear: residents have responded with equal levels of fear and also apathy to this situation, as while some are content to live their lives as they had been before (with the beast effectively "out of sight and out of mind" and therefore not a problem), others are starting to become fearful of the ocean entirely (a complicated notion, due to their relative proximity at all times to it)! Disquieting rumors have started to spread amongst fishermen and sailors alike, that if you venture too close to the ocean you'll be dragged under by the Lightwarden, never to be seen again… though one would hope most people would question how bogus this sounds-- if you'll excuse me interjecting my own personal opinion... at this juncture I simply cannot see the Lightwarden ascending from the briny deep just to prey on hapless passersby when it has showed absolutely no inclination towards moving from even just one single spot-- it has nonetheless had a noticeable impact on the region's imports and exports of fish, so now we must find an effective way to quell the people's terror to rectify the economic impacts alongside dealing with the creature too………..

------ (as a bonus, have the rough draft of his Lightwarden trial encounter under the cut! because I am sad it will never get to see the light of day otherwise and I was proud of the concept years ago lmao)

CONCEPT: . Overall theme is “the breaking down of appearances to reveal what was always there, but hidden away”-- stage and boss both change per phase to reflect this, going from a more idealistic “this is what the WoL as a sin-eater would look and fight like” to a “ohhh god what is that that’s not the WoL anymore” . Mechanics are based around D’nyr’s repressed feelings towards others (loneliness, anger/the need to lash out sometimes, not always saying how he feels, his dislike of others putting him on a pedestal, etc.) and the world at large (eg. the fragility of life, futility of some things, etc.) and his unfulfilled hopes and wants (to live unfettered by responsibility to the world, to settle down with a family of his own someday, etc.)

PHASE 1: . Certain mechanics grant a stacking buff to the boss (Fervent Denial), which is necessary to progress the fight! These mechanics have an interrupt bar and represent the feelings and things that D’nyr has repressed-- if the cast is interrupted, the buff will not be given, increasing the flat % of damage taken from the ultimate attack at the end of the next phase [it's calculated based on the damage dealt to the boss in the first phase (% thresholds that indicate how much it weakens the overall ult damage by), as well as the actual phase progress bar (below 80% is no extra damage, at 80-90% it is +3% extra damage, 90-99% an 5% extra damage, and 100% a flat wipe)] . In a meta sense, the only way to put him down for good is to damage him when he is at his most vulnerable (ie, his final form), and the only way to get him to show that is to let him go berserk and not deny him the things he’s been disallowing himself all this time-- as D’nyr at his core would never allow himself these actions, it causes a “breakdown” of the mask (literally, the bosses’ one too [he has a blank slate mask with a golden kintsugi X like D'nyr's scar, for context]) and internal walls holding him back, fracturing his perceived sense of self and causing him to shift into a form that represents all of these denied things, which is what truly needs to be destroyed/purified! . Normal mode has 7 chances to grant Fervent Denial giving some leeway for mistakes (the buff stacks cap at 5 however, so it is not possible to get 7 stacks despite there being opportunities to do so), but Extreme only has the exact 5 chances needed to progress! If players have not let the boss reach at least 5 stacks by the time the hard-enrage longcast goes out, the party will wipe. . Fervent Denial also slightly increases damage dealt by the boss, so he will gradually hit harder and harder over time, plateauing right before the phase change. . After the boss uses its phase-shift move (what would normally be the yet-unnamed hard-enrage longcast), the stacking buff will disappear and the boss will become untargetable, beginning the DPS check phase.

DPS CHECK: . Unfinished from here on out-- but basically beating up… some kind of add, and while you do that the boss' mask slowly cracks with bright light before shattering into his second form and unleashing his ultimate attack (he becomes more agitated and spiny-looking but I never finished designing any of his forms so just imagine the possibilitiiiiies)

PHASE 2 & 3: . To be continued……. or not! maybe someday :')

#this was SO MUCH FUN #I've had sin eater stuff in the works for years and some finished scraps of info here and there but nothing complete enough to show #it's basically a few pages of bullet points spitballing various ideas but when I went to actually draw out and design the bastard-#-I could never make something I was completely happy with so I kept dropping the idea for later and never really finished it #it's a shame because I can FEEL internally like I have a great design somewhere in there but I can't seem to put it to paper well.......#I figured journal-style prose would be ideal for today bc I can be as vague as I want to explain the lack of concrete design lmao #ALSO I had none of the tempest stuff written beforehand and it all just snowballed and led more and more into itself as I wrote-- fantastic #it just writes itself and I'm so fucking jazzed about that because it's giving me fresh ideas to work with and augfljgfdk I LOVE IT #MiqoMarch2024 #MiqoMarch #ffxiv #d'nyr fellcrest #d'nyr

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theloveinc · 7 months

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I just got the idea for mech pilot au MHA. I was watching Neon Genesis Evangelion and thought of it. Like, young hotheaded pilot bakugo who is skilled in taking down monsters but makes bad mistakes because of his fiery temper. Todoroki is a legacy type of pilot, his dad was one of the best before he retired to head the mech pilot program. Deku is another bright hopeful pilot who has been trained under All Might himself. Maybe readers a pilot who gets teamed up with one of them, idk. I just thought it would be a cool idea — 🚪 anon

I need to re-watch and finally finish NGE bc the first time round I don't think I was ready for it tbh !!!

But yes, I can totally see this, and it's almost leaning into kind of a... Pacific Rim moment, too. Are you imagining it in universe? Because part of me is just imagining the mech operations aspects, and the other part wants to go full in with angst LOOOL.

Like being assigned to live in the same dorm/apartment complex as the boys, being told you need to choose who you want to team up with. Bakugo being one of the strongest but also the most risky destructive, Deku still not fully in sync with AM's Eva, and Todoroki maybe not... agreeing with his father's leadership?

I'm not sure, but I'm just thinking about those first couple episodes when the awkwardness between Shinji and Misato is sort of palpable... you're supposed to live alongside all these random dudes? Cook with them? FIGHT with them???

And god forbid you start to actually... feel things for them and then one of them gets hurt or worse. Or Endeavor doesn't allow relationships outside of ... business. It would be painful!!!

#bakugo #todoroki #deku #for some reason i'm imagining your evas falling in love before u notice LOL #not that that's canon fjkasjdkfnasd #anyway its my biggest shame i never finish nge #so if i only know half of what ur talking abt thats why #my cousin who has a shinji tattoo got mad at me for it LMFAO #anyway #hope this was alright!!!#i didnt wanna diverge away from the subject too much #but thank u for sending <3 #🚪 anon #anon #caitie things

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tariah23 · 5 months

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I know that you talk about antiblackness amongst Asians, but can we step back for a moment and talk about antiblackness amongst Latinos because holy shit

https://x.com/bthetsunami/status/1730731475736375399?s=46&t=QiKHdDdvKoMxWGyakqTvxA

https://x.com/basedvasco/status/1730321408348369358?s=46&t=QiKHdDdvKoMxWGyakqTvxA

https://x.com/basedvasco/status/1730712739503558765?s=46&t=QiKHdDdvKoMxWGyakqTvxA

I know that there’s Afrolatinos, but people act like their existence disproves antiblackness amongst Latinos.

A couple of weeks ago a Mexican classmate dropped the n-word and justified using it because he was Mexican. I hate it here so much.

They’re holding hands and running through a field of colorful flowers when it comes to their levels of antiblackness and it’s not even funny. Sm of them love saying nigga and then when confronted about why they chose to use the word, all that they say is that “they’re Mexican,” or whatever, just like you said, and would be dead serious. Almost smugly. As if being a poc absolves them somehow and it’s just very sad.

#I’ve always cringed having to witness black folks have arguments about who can say the n word #‘idc just as long as they aren’t white lol-‘ as if it’s some sort of joke #it doesn’t help that black men and biracials let nbs say nigga because they personally don’t find it offensive to themselves and so on so #I won’t get into that rn but yeah #just because you layed down and had a kid by someone black doesn’t mean that you’re all of a sudden not racist but when relationships like #these are formed antiblackness is never a thought to begin with #the most the nb mother would hope for is for their child to have lighter skin and ‘delicate’ hair/features #it’s just a shame that the children have to grow up into this #who is sending me all of this it’s kind of blowing me actually 😭 don’t want to talk about this stuff rn I just finished watching goodfellas #man #like I KNOW how much Hispanics and Asians hate black folks I get it #this is nothing new to most black folks so #antiblackness is worldwide so they are not the only ones for sure #just look at the whole recent disaster regarding affirmative action 😭…. yeah……..#i just feel bad for the other poc who will go through even more hell because of that shit #tkf replies #anonymous

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irregularbillcipher · 9 months

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was going through old files and found the start of a resident evil village fic... idk if i'll ever finish it, so here's the start for posterity. maybe i'll finish it someday if there's any interest warnings for descriptions of animal harm, gore and surgery, along with some emotional abuse also also, if anyone here speaks french and would be willing to tell me if the tiny bit of french in here sounds correct, i'd appreciate it! i went through a few channels that were more advanced than google translate, but i don't speak the language myself and didn't really have any way to verify

Salvatore Moreau was a very good doctor. At the very least, his mother had always said so.

To be fair, she wasn’t the only one who said so, but she was always the one who was the most adamant about it, even before he could speak.

Stories fed to him when he could barely hold his head up of his grandfather, his namesake, who had left Italy for France to study under the Louis Pasteur— or at his university, at least— and Salvatore had learned by age two and a half that he should always pretend that he understood why that was a big deal.

By age four, he really did understand why that was such a big deal, and by age five, after lengthy stories from his mother of his grandfather’s most gruesome surgical endeavors and hints that his namesake had been prepping since he was half Salvatore’s age, he had started performing medical experiments of his own, shaking, pudgy hands rifling through his father’s tackle box, taking out the worms and insects, using a hook to open them up and see how they ticked.

His father never liked it, seeing the boy tear his bait apart on the docks of the reservoir, but his mother was thrilled, and tutted away his father’s concerns.

“It’s a surgeons instinct,” she would coo, pressing a kiss against the boy’s cheek and placing a needle and thread in tiny hands, so he could stitch everything back together. “I just want him to have a head start. He’ll need hands-on experience before he goes to Paris!”

“Of course,” his father would say, never one for arguments, “but couldn’t we stick to creatures that are already dead?”

“He’ll have plenty of time to work on cadavers in school,” she would retort, and sometimes the discussion would become a bit more tense, a back and forth babble of French and Italian that Salvatore could make out if he focused, but rarely bothered to focus on. The Italian always won, anyway.

“Just…” he would finally hear in tired French, “nothing that feels. Nothing more than bait… Nothing with fur, or a real brain…”

And Salvatore was happy to agree with that— bigger things would squirm or scream, and he didn’t like to feel like he was hurting anything. He was practicing being a doctor, he wasn’t trying to cause harm.

But by age seven, his mother started handing her little surgeon field mice and toads from the lake, speaking breathlessly about how his grandfather had once amputated a leg in five minutes flat, and he knew she wanted him to try to do it in four.

A mouse’s leg was so much thinner, after all.

She was ecstatic when one of his tiny patients finally survived the night, and had gleefully told him that his father wouldn’t have to know they were expanding their medical practice.

“He’s a sweet man, your father, a good man,” she would say, with genuine fondness, patting her son’s cheek, “just…not ambitious. We both want you to be the best you can be, tesoro, we just don’t agree on how to get you there…”

And Salvatore wasn’t sure how he felt about her dismissing his father— he seemed happy with his life, after all— but it was hard to act as if he was living up to his potential.

He was sure, after all, that when his father had told his mother he had a Lordship waiting for him if his family ever returned to Romania, she was not expecting the man to remain a fisherman after he had accepted it. A Lord usually made more of himself.

When he asked his father though, on one of the quiet, early morning boat trips he took his boy on so often, the man had simply laughed quietly.

“A Lordship is just a title, Salvatore,” he’d said, wrapping another blanket around the boy’s shoulders— Salvatore always forgot how chilly the morning mist on the boat was, and his father always kept spare wool blankets by the tacklebox, so the boy wouldn’t have to remember. “I’m sure some old Moreau was great some hundred-odd years ago, or at least found a way to make some money somehow, but it doesn’t mean much nowadays. A bit of land, a crest…”

“A boat,” the boy had giggled, kicking the bottom of the old thing, and his father had laughed.

“No, no, the boat I built.”

Salvatore had squirmed a little, confused, hands gripping his fishing rod. “We… we owned a reservoir, but not a boat?”

And the man had chuckled again. “Your brains come from your mother’s side of the family, mon chou. Not the Moreau side, even if someone long ago managed to be great on a reservoir without a boat.”

“Well. You were smart enough to build a boat.”

The man had hummed softly and nodded in humble agreement, standing up to cast his line out again.

“… So if we’re Lords here,” the boy continued, gnawing on dirty fingernails, “why did you ever live in France?”

“Well, we have family there, of course,” his father had said, chewing on his cigarette, eyes glued to the lake, “but it was mostly the weather.”

“… Your family gave up being Lords because of the weather?”

“We’re cold-blooded creatures, us Moreaus,” his father had whispered conspiratorially, piling another blanket on the shivering boy and sticking out his tongue when he snorted. “We do better where it’s temperate.”

“But it’s still cold here. It’d be nicer in France. Or Italy.”

“Hm, it is, but your mother’s enough of a firecracker to keep anyone warm,” the man had said, half exhausted and half lovestruck, and Salvatore really couldn’t argue with that. “And besides. She liked the idea of being a Lady… found it romantic, you know.”

The boy had nodded again, kicking his legs and reeling in experimentally, just to see if he could catch any fish’s attention. It didn’t work.

“But there’s no expectation for you,” his father had said, tugging on his own line. “There’s no, ah… role you have to play, because of my family.”

“Mama says being a doctor would be be-befitting of a Lord.”

“And it would be if that’s what you’d like,” he’d said, patting his son’s shoulder. His jaw had set, just a little, and Salvatore regretting bringing it up. “We both want you to be happy, Salvatore, we just—”

“Don’t agree on how to get me there,” he’d finished quietly.

“No, we don’t,” the man was reeling his line in now, having felt a tug. “But nobody does, really, for anybody. Ready with the net now.”

The boy had nearly dropped his own pole in the water in the rush to get the net for what ended up being a much smaller than average fish, but his father never chided him for that sort of thing.

Despite his mother’s aspirations, stories of how his parents met never included the Lordship.

“We met at the market,” his mother would say dreamily, whenever her son asked. “He tried to sell me a tiny trout for three francs…”

“And?” Salvatore would always prompt giddily, despite knowing how the story went.

“And I told him that for that price, I’d better get it fully cooked with wine and dessert… and he was happy to do it.”

“The dinner,” his father would always add from his armchair, “was more than three francs—”

“And the trout was very good,” she would concede, kissing him on the cheek and patting his arm as he blushed furiously.

“Was it worth it?” Salvatore would ask his father, as if he didn’t already know the answer, as if he weren’t essentially reciting a script, and he was never surprised when mother would reply instead.

“Was a wife worth three francs?”

“I think I could have spent less on the dinner if I’d thought it through more,” his father would always say, smiling the whole time. “But the date was well worth the seven francs I spent.”

There were many stories like that, back and forth skits of things his mother had already told him— everything from his grandfather’s most harrowing surgical endeavors to the hectic day that he was born— but the day his parents met was always his favorite. It was the one they seemed the happiest to tell, the one they always remembered new details of.

His mother would always tell him later, while tucking him in, that she would have insisted on dinner with his father even if he’d charged a single centime for the trout, because her demand for dinner and wine hadn’t really had anything to do with the trout itself, and his father would always tell him the next morning on the boat that he’d deliberately overcharged for the trout just to have an excuse to haggle with a pretty girl, which had worked out far better than he ever could have imagined.

“So, it was love at first sight?” he would ask them both, without fail.

“Of course it was, tesoro,” his mother would sigh, brushing his hair out of his eyes and taking off his glasses, setting them on his bedside table. “Why else would I have made him take me to dinner?”

His father would always be asked the next morning, back on the boat, and he would breathe air out of his nose and smile softly, shaking his head.

“I wouldn’t call it that, Salvatore… love takes time, work, you know? It’s a… process,” he would say, baiting his hook. “But I knew I wanted to know her better.”

Salvatore decided from an early age that he liked his mother’s answer best, but he never said so, at least not to his father on those frigid, foggy mornings.

“He changes the story, doesn’t he?” his mother would ask, needle and thread and a rabbit bundled into her arms, and he would relay the conversations on the lake, to drown out the rabbit’s screams. To stop his hands from shaking.

“No,” he would say, hoping to avoid the inevitable. This was another script, but one he liked much less, and it was hard to recite his lines when his hands were slick with viscera.

“He doesn’t say it was love at first sight,” she would sigh, looking intently at her son’s handiwork.

“He says love takes time,” he would say, wrist deep in gore, “and work.”

“So it takes work to love me, does it?” and the teasing note in her voice would never be enough to stop his queasiness from building.

“No,” he’d say over the rabbit’s screeches, or mouse’s, or the toad’s, “of course not.” And his voice would quaver even though he’d mean it.

She never noticed the hesitancy, and he was glad, because the minute his patient was stitched up, that nervous note in his voice would wash over him in a wave of shame. He’d shake and snivel after every procedure, and he was convinced it had to be because of that hesitancy over the woman convincing him to tear apart the local fauna, and not the act of tearing them apart. He refused to entertain the idea it could be a little of both.

Her son’s trembling was something she could not ignore, and she’d take his hands, still dripping from surgery, still pudgy with baby fat, and smile softly. “A surgeon’s hands,” she’d sigh, squeezing. “You’ve done such a good job, Salvatore, you have a surgeon’s hands.”

It was almost enough to make him feel better.

“Now, let’s get you cleaned up before your father sees.”

That was what really made him feel better, at the end of the day, wiping off the gore. He tried not to think about it too much. There wasn’t much use for a squeamish surgeon.

Even as he got older, as his hands started to shake less, as he learned how to quiet the animals’ screams and as he developed an appreciation—or at least a fascination—with the work his mother was pushing him towards, he was still relieved every time he got to clean his hands and be done with it.

He was ten when his father found him, halfway between the makeshift surgical center and the lake, rushing to dip sopping red hands in murky water. His father had looked at him, hunched over and bloody and crying, and his face had gone gray, and he’d docked the boat and headed up to their house without a word.

The din in the house started almost immediately and for once, the French overpowered the Italian.

He tried not to listen, as he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and tried to drown out the noise, washing until his hands were sore to try to feel clean, to avoid going into the house.

The yelling carried, though, no matter how loudly he splashed, no matter how much he muttered to himself. The only sound he could hear was his father, angry like he’d never heard before, so angry Salvatore was sure he was sobbing, refusing to back down for once.

Vous pensez que c’est ce qui est le mieux pour lui? Vous pensez que c’est ce qui le rendra heureux? Il est trempé de sang, il tremble! Mon Dieu, il n'a que dix ans!

Dear God, he’s only ten!

When he pulled his hands from the lake, they were still bloody, and it took a good few seconds to realize that this time, it was his own blood. From the state of his hands, raw and cracked and trembling—God, he wished he could stop the trembling-- scrubbing any more would only make things worse, so he just sat on the dock miserably, holding his fingers above the water and waiting for them to dry.

#this fic is just the emotional equivalent of kicking salvatore moreau in the stomach repeatedly #it was going to be about this theory i have that sal was the village doctor when the spanish flu hit so miranda like.#blames him for eva's death. which is why he's treated so badly even compared to his already mistreated siblings #while also being sort of a study about his relationship with his biological family and how an unhealthy dynamic there #sort of led him into the unhealthy relationship he has with miranda and the lords #but i never quite got the motivation to finish it #idk if anyone here even likes resident evil but this has been sitting in my files for so long #and i want it out in the world in some way i suppose #there are a few other scattered scenes i've written but. whatever #anyway sal is the most potentially interesting lord imo it's a shame his siblings took all the fandom's attention #not that i don't LIKE his siblings. i do!!!#i just think it stinks that moreau is so overlooked

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