#bc of risk i thought

[arqbella]

ik everyone said tsou would be album of the summer, and ur not wrong but i think you meant in a good way, well- its not.

[stealingpotatoes]

i was so shocked when carth revealed he had to be way older than i thought but then i realised the game had also not given me much idea how old i was either

(commission info // tip jar!)

[lordgeneralsix]

i'll never get over how easily istvan laughs off henry's threats to gut him and how easily that confidence dies the moment anyone threatens erik

[dukeofthomas]

I can't find it now but there's a post about suspension of disbelief and how it's broken when the story starts trying to excuse it. "character gets knocked unconscious for hours but there's no further issues from this" okay 👍 "and actually this makes perfect sense because of this and that" um no it doesn't why are you lying to me. like i am willing to ignore the holes and the discrepancies!! all you need to do is let me and not bring unnecessary attention to it!!!

and all that is my issue with the whole robin child soldier argument. like i am willing to ignore it i am willing to engage with the fantasy literally all you need to do is NOT try to convince me that Actually It's Fine Because They Want To Do It or whatever. like literally just shut up about it and i can engage with the fantasy!!

[beneathsilverstars]

i think a fun thing to have happened during the loops siffrin forgot is the party lost some regular battle against a sadness and specifically siffrin was not able to successfully take the brunt of the attack and die first

[lanternlightss]

dewdrop leaves

> this was written for day 3: immortality/corruption! and of course i could not pass up the opportunity to write a corrupted venti, and bard’s reaction to it <3

Though Venti does not necessarily feel the sensations such as “warmth” or “cold,” the sheer thickness of Dragonspine’s chill tries its hardest to threaten that motion. It clings to him, weaving around and through the fabrics of his clothing, wrapping his limbs. Frost dapples at the tip of his nose, extending to his cheeks. It coats his clothing, too, the material starting to crinkle, turn firmer, and rigid.

(During his flight to here, his hat had been tossed off, and his cape’s bow had been torn unevenly….. how he quite liked those….)

When he lands, sprawled out onto all fours, sinking into the snow and feeling how it gives in, the beginnings of ice fall from him in clumps, sloughing. He extends his wings, fluttering them, and watches as even more are flicked off from the action.

Going to stand, a sharp pain pulls at his chest, seeming to bounce off of the space where a rib-cage would be, before it spreads throughout the rest of him, pinpricks of blazing flares. He doubles over from it, his forehead and bangs pressing into sparkly white (his braids choosing to sprawl across them instead.)

Making the decision to fully lay his upper half onto the snow, and partly burrow there, wings folding to slide more onto his form, it—for a moment, upon the first touch—feels almost soothing. Rubs at the itchiness lying beneath this imitation flesh, one that strikes and tears and shrieks at him every passing minute that goes by. Each louder, more vicious, than the last.

Venti grimaces.

With a tremble, he pushes himself up, crawling forward to fresher snow—areas where he did not mess with. Raises his hand, watching as the deep blue (nearly a shade close to the night sky, dotted with small magentas) covering his fingers and palm reaches up, up, up, a little past his wrist, in splotches. Racing alongside the blue, is deep, fracturing golden lines and cracks, painted across in random strokes. He flexes his hand, wincing, and noting he has his talons, as well.

(There is a prickle on his back, too, where feathers begin to sprout, beneath the pair of wings he already has out.)

He huffs a breath and continues to stand, shaking off the snow when completely upright. Crouches slightly, one foot forward, stancing for a flight into the sky once more—for as much as he would like to, Venti cannot stay here, it is too close to Mondstadt still, and there is a concerning pressure building within him, one that he fears may blast away everything here.

Wings flap, he leans. Snow then scatters and sprays in various directions, from his take-off.

The corruption worsens as his journey continues—that accursed statue, but its situation was becoming harrowing—sending shocks so severe that it has his wings beating harshly to keep himself righted. Even more terribly is when the ruins of Old Mondstadt come into view, and the extra wings find this the perfect time to sprout in full, snapping out, and colliding against the ones above them.

That has him stumbling into one of the many strong currents dotted around; where he allows them to spin him in a lift, and he dips towards the ground when they let go, upon where he forces his wings to untangle, opening and catching wind. He twists, pivoting, aiming towards the ground, his surroundings a blur—and lands onto a patch in a cloud of dust. Once it has cleared, he remains in his position, sitting on his knees, hands pressed to the sides of them as he leans slightly forward.

(Belatedly, he realizes he has lost his cape, and shoes.)

Venti heaves. The pressure from before is unbearable now. The blue-gold has creeped up his arm, the splotches trailing off in fading dots when it reaches where his archon form’s gloves would end, and he presumes it is the same for his legs—though, he can feel a weight at the back of his head, half-formed, in what could only be a halo. Go and break him down to his more divine forms, why don’t they!!

Bubbling. Too much of it, his grasp on everything fraying, thinning, even as he scrambles in an attempt to keep it locked shut, fingers twisting and flailing—the threads of wind, patches of time, the weather, it slips, becoming fuzzy. A gratitude undercuts it, a vague thankfulness that the ruins have sunken enough to fit the wrath of a thrashing God, a vague thankfulness that Dvalin had been sent away beforehand, before it is overrun by the thoughts—what if this is not enough? Will they fall, to his hands, just as the tyrant had done to them? Will he lose what he has fought to protect, what he has set everything to prevail for?

He cannot lose anyone again—

His imitation heart splinters and spills, the corruption truly sinking in. His vision blurs around the edges, flashes of gold tracing them, his breaths coming out labored..

(He knew, when Dvalin had been corrupted by the Abyss, that he was hurting—if it was to this extent, he wishes he could have soothed away everything.)

Around him, the wind races, becoming erratic, kicking at any surface it can find, zipping across in uneven lines. He leans further, wings curling, and the distant sounds of this place are doused, muffled, becoming white noise—a consistent ringing, overlapping

Underneath his hands and legs, the ground shrivels. The wind grows harsher, rocks being scraped across, propelling into the air and torn asunder, the glowing crystals diminishing to mere crumbles of rock. Both the dirt and grass are dragged from the ground, plucked and ripped. The intensity continues to ramp, the noises becoming overwhelming, ringing in his ears pitching, finding that his hands have raised to grip at hair, that his wings seem to wrap around him completely as he—

As rapidly as it had seemed to start, it feels as though something grabs hold of him and yanks to a halt. Venti gasps, cut hair strands falling around him.

The winds stutter, and the ringing fades. He jerks up, hands still embedded into his hair, and finds that… the place he landed in was not so deserted. Their tree stands, swaying, waving hello.

And, that everything had truly come to a messy standstill; threads of teals dipped in a bleeding mixture of a blue-gold suspended in a whirling vortex, a few parts of the wreckage they had caused gently floating besides in its grasps. The threads are not all the same, some of them cutting in dotted lines as they zoom, some of them having their lines wavering to point it threatens dispersing, some of them are thoroughly solid, some of them are splitting into branches, teal twisting and curling, and—

And—

And…

Blue eyes blink, fluttering as if just awoken.

He rubs a hand at the right one, brows furrowing at his surroundings the more aware he becomes of them. Pure raven-black braids sway, as he swivels his head, and Venti notes with a whirlwind in his mind, that the locks have stray strands flicking out from not only the braids, but the bangs, and hair that frames the face. Windswept. The clothes, as well, are missing the tear in the bottoms of the shorts, the tops of his boots, and his right sleeve. If he were to turn, there would certainly be holes in his cloak, too.

But—if he does not have those, then how is he…?

A gale is thrown into the cliff, repeatedly, tearing apart the ground, as they respond to Venti’s dread.

His eyes widen, then narrow.

No, no, no, no, no. Stop looking at him like that.

Venti hunches into himself, talons clenching and shredding more strands of hair. The gale intensifies, lashing behind him, carving out chunks and causing the ground to rumble in its fury. He bares his teeth—wanting to shriek, to grab at his head and!!!!

Stop looking at him like that!

(Why wouldn't he?

A wind out of control? A wind that slices, destruction in every path? Why would he not back away from it?)

He tilts his head, starting to stand, and his expression shifts at Venti flinching away from his approach, the wind whipping to a higher degree with the flinch. He goes to take a step forward, the grass he steps upon having a simmering, bubbling line of a thread hovering there—and there is a quiet screeching as the threads are forced away, unraveling in spools and flinging out towards the cliffs; it has him jolting away from it, one step taken back, boots hitting the ground and kicking up dust.

His gaze snaps up to Venti’s.

(He has a fleeting thought, a moment where the minuscule inch of himself that the corruption has not touched speaks; that he should fix everything, that this mess has gotten severely out of hand, to fly off deeper into the ruins before he does something truly regretful.

But it is just that—fleeting.

Because at the attempt to follow through with the ideas laid out, the corruption rushes to overtake that last final inch, smothering and snuffing it out without regard. It halts Venti’s hands when he tries to wave them, refusing to let them budge the Bard in front of him, dark blue and gold chaining them to remain where they currently are. You do not truly want that, do you? It whispers, false care and comfort in its voice. You wish for him to stay, so here he will stay.)

That gaze of his shifts once more, briefly scrutinizing, then the ever so slightest of widened eyes, before reaching a blankness. It seems that something has clicked. He tries again, purposefully angling his path to the swirling threads, and Venti grits his teeth as he moves them away, hooking a finger round them and pulling, so that no interactions happen between them and him.

(And, how during this, he sees—for a moment—a glimmer of something magenta across his form.)

And blast it all—

Venti raises himself and situates his legs into a crouch, his wings flaring unraveling from around his form. And bounds.

He crosses the distance between the two of them in seconds. Nose mere centimeters away from his, Venti grits his teeth, watches as the other blinks owlishly at him, as if not expecting to be approached so suddenly, especially not like this, Venti poised in a manner similar to that of a cat pouncing still.

“Keep off from those,” he nearly growls, “Can you not see that they—”

Hands shoot out, to place themselves on his cheeks. Venti falters, words dying in his throat.

“What has happened to you?” He murmurs, gently tipping Venti’s head up, to the side, checking the dark-blue that has climbed up to his face, “Your teal… where has it gone? Have you always had gold?”

He swallows. A twitch goes throughout him, one that does not go unnoticed by him.

And, oh. That was what had clicked.

The words build, his tongue bubbling, bitterness and sweetness coating it. A name he has not said for centuries, a name he has kept clutched close to him, hidden in the palms of his hands, in the place where a heart would be beat.

Venti’s mouth opens, and croaks: “Cecil….?”

He pauses, meeting Venti’s eyes.

“Hello, little bird,” Cecil replies, softness in every feature of his. “Ah—I suppose you would be an angel now, hm? How much you have grown…”

The softness does not last long, his brows knitting as he thinks, a frown replacing that wondrous smile of his. His fingers trace the edges of the colors, outlining them, almost, a silent fury and puzzlement to the actions. “But, my friend—why are these… like veins? Why do you hurt? Did someone else do this to you?”

(I will hurt you, I will hurt you, you need to get away from me—)

“No one. This is my own doing, you see,” he says, offering a reassuring look, “I am not hurting at all.”

And—that is true, if partly. There is no stabbing prodding at him any more, attempting to wrench him towards the ground so he stays there. It aches most certainly, however, the wind underneath his skin thrumming as it races incessantly.

Cecil’s brows scrunch.

He steps forward to pull Venti closer, his right hand falling down to his waist, tracing a tear in his clothing, and… ah. Ah. He revokes everything he had said about snow and their so-called “soothing effects” beforehand, this is so much better than it, he curses them and nearly purrs at the feeling of his friend being a breath away from him, his touch curling into his bare skin so softly, lovingly.

Venti chases it.

All but lunging into him, Venti dives his head into Cecil’s chest, careful of the halo behind his hair—do not want to slam it against him. The rest of his body follows suit, his arms encircling around Cecil’s torso (with his hands carefully closed, knuckles pressing into the fabric of the green vest), knocking their legs together so that he can hook it around one of his dear’s, and his wings complete it all by flaring out to then snake around and envelop them both. Feathers brushing against skin and cloth with every other breath.

(The wind has gone still.)

“Oh,” Cecil gasps, startling at something, “you have six wings? I only saw four… have your limbs been multiplied, too??”

Does he? Venti thinks dazedly. It must have happened when the pain was ramping up, he could not distinguish it under all the other sensations attacking him. He had wondered how far the transformation would go—his most divine form has much more than four wings and a halo.

He does not give Cecil a response. Choosing to nuzzle into his clavicle instead, head going even fuzzier, thoughts narrowing to Safe safe safe, stay stay stay, love love love, here here here.

And—what an idea.

Cecil’s chest expands, as he inhales, exhales. It takes a moment, but he begins to reciprocate, an arm going around Venti’s back, between the middle wings and bottom ones. The other arm lifts to the space above Venti’s shoulders, near his nape, pulling him further into himself. He rubs at those places, in small, circle-like motions, and it has the God wholly melting in his arms.

“Is this alright?” He asks, “Is this helping?”

“Mmmmmhmmmm…..”

Gradually, the threads dissipate, dropping closer to the ground, and having the wreckages they carry collapse against the water around the tree, the dirt and rocks. Twist higher into the air at the end, then wobbling, and falling apart. He watches it all, a steady thrumming sounding in the air the longer he holds onto Venti. For one of them, he tests, to see; what would happen if he nuzzled into Venti’s cheek, patting at his back? The answer: it causes the threads to speed up, swooshing so swiftly, that he hardly has time to blink before the teal is fading.

Eyes wandering, they slide to—

Ah! Cannot have that, can we? Venti blocks his view with his right most top wing, fluttering the appendage to truly catch his attention, making his dear jolt in surprise. See, if Cecil is to stay by Venti’s side, then it should be away from here—the safest spot is the Tower, but he would not like that very much. Perhaps they should cross to the Dandelion Sea?

“Venti?”

“Hmm..?”

Cecil raises his hand up, to tap to the back of his head, his knuckles briefly brushing against the halo. He lets it stay there, for long enough that he can weave strands of hair around his fingers, to light tug at them—a non-serious scolding, for the blocking he did. They drop to rubbing circles on his nape after. “How are you feeling?”

Right, right—conversation happening.

He shuffles backwards, only a few inches, so that his dear is not forced to let go of his grasps—skin still tingling and fizzing with that loveliness. Tilts his head, then, to where Cecil gazes at him, a quiet concern and pure curiosity to his eyes, now.

Another wave of winds zip by them, these ones far lighter, livelier, and peppy than the others from earlier were—however, still the same mix of colors, if slightly more solid, slightly lukewarm in temperature. They swirl around them, teasing at hair and cloth, dancing in chiming sweeps and dives; that of which distracts Cecil for a moment, his hair blowing into his face, a muffled sound of a “wuh” escaping from him when it has strays loosing from the braids he wears. He shakes his head to rid of them, glaring halfheartedly.

A beaming grin tugs at him, at the sight. One that lifts the bottoms of his into soft crescents, slowly revealing how his teeth have grown sharper canines. His pupil—still a lovely teal, though, now captured around blue-gold—shines, constricting to a thin slit, as a glittering gleam dances across his gaze. He hums, unclenching his hands from fists to press the palms of them more firmly into Cecil, scraping the talons across his vest.

“Much better,” he says, a lilting, distorted pitch to it. Extends his right’s hand index finger, while he talks, to prod at his back—tracing a symbol there, one that causes Cecil to minutely shiver from it, unexpecting the action. “Thank you.”

And perhaps it is that, that has Cecil truly understand what has happened; that Venti is really not so much hurt as he is a far, far worse thing, that there is something gripping at him. Or perhaps it is the way he looks upon him, as though he were the sun, a gleeful, thrilled and eager gleam to his gaze. Or perhaps it is the way his wings gradually tighten around his form, not constricting him, yet he suddenly feels the reason they continue to be folded (and twitching, fluttering, so often) is not that Venti just wishes to hold him with everything he has.

Whichever it is, whether it be a combination of all of them, it has him widening his eyes, a near whisper of “Oh,” trailing into the winds. Winds that take the words greedily into their hands, rolling them over—winds that tell him murmurs, almost frantically, a gentle urging in the way the threads crowd further around them both, hushed jingling of bells accompanying it: stay, stay, stay, stay?

Oh.

[skunkes]

can i ask why ur getting the surgery? /gen curious /no hate

i am getting a bi(lateral)salp(ingectomy) bc i never want to be pregnant or be a parent!

Even if i do change my mind later about the parent thing (not super likely but things can change, sure) theres noooo shortage of single parents lmao

And even if I never End Up In The Circumstance(s) Where I COULD Become Pregnant in my life, I'd want the peace of mind anyway...

I've always felt disgusted that this is something my body is capable of. I want it to be MY body and not a site and vessel for potential tragedy in any direction. And I want it to be something permanent and not dependent on access to services/medicines or even laws!!! Dis is a gender affirming surgery for me honestly...

[kkaimmri]

on one hand i feel like none of the bats would do drugs or let themselves get inebriated to make sure their physical capabilities are never compromised and on the other hand i could totally see tim doing meth.

[hergrandplan]

You're the Risk I Want to Take

Oh... hello! well, no sunday snippet from me today, also because it's not Sunday anymore, but I do have something else to offer?

Inspired by a prompt by the amazing @dreamyelectronicmusic and after a month of teasing it (sorry about that) I give you: Chapter 1 of the editorial assistant AU (WIP, part 1/3, rated M)

When Simon, an editorial assistant at one of Sweden’s most prominent commercial publishing houses, stumbles upon a manuscript sent in by a mysterious W. Viklund, he doesn’t expect it to be any good. He certainly doesn’t expect to fall in love with it, or that the author is kind, and funny, and witty and keeps distracting him from his work.

Read it here on ao3

[saintcarrionn]

past me could not even comprehend the scale that is max verstappen's goathood

[bikefuckersoftheworldunite]

Vale on his rivalry with Sete [from an interview post phillip island 2004; autotranslated from spanish; source: as dot com]

[chirpsythismorning]

Just watched Brokeback Mountain for the first time and I need to talk about it.

Throughout the movie, we see Ennis experience a lot of intense discomfort and fear at the idea of being intimate with a man, despite it becoming abundantly clear in the details and based on his actions that that is indeed what he wants. He even admits to Jack that this fear stems from an experience he had at a young age, when his father showed him two men who were presumed to be lovers (they were roommates vibes), murdered and castrated, with him basically using it as a lesson to show Ennis that being gay was wrong and would get you killed.

Jack on the other hand was a little less discomforted or fearful at the idea of being with a man, in that we actually saw him return the following summer to Brokeback Mountain hoping Ennis would be there, only for him to show up alone. We saw how after this he confidently approached a man at the bar hoping to get to know him, only to get rejected and risk getting hate crimed (foreshadowing 😭). And we saw how, over time, Jack’s struggle had more to do with being hurt over Ennis’ unwillingness to commit or even just consider the possibility of them being together long term, even despite the risk of being gay in the 60’s.

Near the end of the film, upon Jack’s death, Ennis discovers from his father that over the past 20 years since they met at Brokeback Mountain, Jack constantly brought it up to his folks, how Ennis, his friend, was going to move up to their ranch and they were going to build a cabin and live together and take over for the family.

Jack was often the one in the moment taking the chances for them to be together. He was the one who mentioned that they could go to Mexico, with Ennis furiously rejecting it saying ‘you know what happens to people like you there??’

But what’s even more painful, is that in this same scene, Ennis’ acknowledges the truth more directly, and why it’s so painful is because it ends up ironically coming true:

Here, Ennis is basically saying that if he decides to be with Jack for real, aka faces his queerness head on, that’s going to be the thing that gets them (Jack) killed. Shortly after this, Jack loses it and has that infamous ass monologue, followed by Ennis breaking down over how it’s Jack’s fault that he’s this way in the first place.

In the end, when Jack dies, Ennis finds out about what happened from Jack’s wife, Lureen Newsome, who said Jack was pumping up a flat out on a backroad when his tire blew up, with the rim of the tire slamming his face, breaking his nose and jaw, and knocking him unconscious on his back. By the time someone drove by on the deserted backroad, he had drowned in his own blood.

The audience might’ve believed this story, if it wasn’t for how rehearsed it sounded coming out of Lureen’s mouth, but it also doesn’t help that images of Jack being hate crimed as his true cause of death are flashing across Ennis’s mind in real time while Lureen is telling him about the ‘accident’.

While it’s left up to interpretation, it’s implied from what his wife and father said, that Jack was hate-crimed by his father in law, with it being covered up.

Broken nose? Broken jaw?… Those are the kinds of wounds someone endures after being beaten up. And if it’s happening to the point of death, then he was essentially beaten to death.

This then fits into what Jack’s father said, because apparently, shortly before he died, he’d told his father he’d found a different friend that was going to come up there to the ranch with him. And so it’s very likely Lureen’s father caught wind of this as his plans to leave neared, leading to his murder (Jack also bitched his father in law tf out in an epic way, which on its own felt unnecessary in the moment, but within the context of this makes a whole lot more sense).

Either way, it seems Jack waited for Ennis to change his mind. 20 years he waited, and when Ennis didn’t, Jack finally moved on with someone else who made an offer of his own years before, only to get murdered just as Ennis feared he would if he decided to live his life authentically.

Ennis initially found out like this, in a postcard that bounced of him inquiring Jack about seeing each other again after that last massive fall out where they had, only for Ennis’s worst fear to be realized:

Nov 7th with deceased stamped across it has me spiraling 😭

Now, obviously Brokeback Mountain is one of the most well known queer films of all time, like there’s no denying that. So it’s fairly easy to assume ST could be taking some inspiration from this film just like they have with hundreds upon hundreds of other films. But especially if they are planning to go the queer route, homage to this film is pretty much guaranteed (there’s also one more reason it might be guaranteed, but I’m saving that for the end 🤣).

Regardless, as you can probably already tell, it’s very easy to see similarities between Ennis with Mike and Jack with Will.

Mike getting the ‘you see Michael? You see what happens?’ treatment from his father, in the first episode in the series, is very Ennis coded in that this is a TV show that follows that up with seasons of Mike pushing Will away from him, with it leading to a boiling point where he says, ‘What did you think? Really? That we were never gonna get girlfriends? That we were just gonna sit in my basement in play games for the rest of our lives?’ with Will responding, ‘Yeah. I guess I did. I really did,’ aka extremely Jack coded.

The really epic thing about this though, is that ST is clearly going on a different journey than Brokeback Mountain did, in that it’s simply subverting the bury your gays trope. While they are acknowledging the risk of being queer in the 80’s, they’re not letting it end ‘realistically’ like many people have insisted it must because that is the only option. And this will be a satisfying ending because it’s coming as a response to all those heartbreaking stories before it that have reinforced this idea that happy endings just aren’t an option for gay people who simply want to be together.

While Ennis and Jack didnt get their happy ending like they wanted, Mike and Will on the other hand 😏

And last but not least, on a more hilariously ironic note, the guy who Jack was going to settle for in the end instead of Ennis, was a guy named Randall Malone, played by none other than David fucking Harbour.

[rintinningvt]

Do not talk to me, I'm not over the fact that Betty's existence really revolves around Simon. They both love and care for each other, and grow obsessed when separated, but goddamn- When he told their love story to Fionna, she asked him "So you got on the bus with her?" and he replied in surprise "Why would I-?" Betty Grof's life revolved around Simon, before and after they started a relationship. Heck, even before they officially met. She dropped everything to be with him, losing her sense of self in the relationship. Simon loves her but he didn't (and still doesn't, debatably) have her wants and best interests in mind. They could have gone on that trip together, she could have gone alone but they could've shared some time together on the bus and gone long distance for a while. But they didn't. They were both so enamored with each other and both lost themselves in different ways to their relationship. They were doomed from the start.

[skunkes]

at dis point when i hear about a game i like coming to the switch (very rare occurrence) my only thoughts are damn thats going to be really awesome to play once the switch is old enough to be hackable with little to no consequence like the 3ds

[bloomfish]

so I like the concept of the cookie dough speech. I think, independently, it's a good conclusion for buffy to come to by the end of the series. However, the context... look, it's been pretty thoroughly established throughout the series that buffy and angel will never work. can never work. is it a great romance, does it make me feel for the characters, do i love the angst of it? yes absolutely. but why am I being told, despite being shown the opposite, that there's a chance in hell that buffy will end up with angel? why am I being told continually by the writing across both shows that a codependent teen romance between two people who like... barely know each other is what buffy should aspire to? for the rest of her life?

this insistence is such a detriment to the characters of both buffy and angel. each grew so much on their respective shows. i love both buffy and angel as characters. I love what their relationship means for their past and how it informs their characters moving forward. but god, just leave it there. framing buffy/angel as the truest love that will ever be, automatically eclipsing any other relationship either of them try to have, is honestly not great messaging. personally i will always be affected in some way by my first love, I think that's a normal, relatable experience. But there's no way that love is a viable part of my future, and it wouldn't be healthy for me to think so...

it also takes away from the meaning that people like spike and cordelia might have in their lives because whatever they do, however they grow to love each other, they'll always be 'consolation prize' to... what? buffy's high school relationship with an older guy? no thx

[smooodles]

good evening daet fandom. anyway i was going through my old scribbles and i found these that i did about a year ago.. where i thought about what a sequel to dust could look like: an unstable dust having to fight his other halves for control a lot more than in the first game. i think i posted a little bit about it a long time ago but i figured i'd post these too.

i just keep coming back to this little blue guy. its been over 10 years now i can't escape. for more ramblings go below the cut

i like the idea of jin when he shows up is a bit more.. like. not as willing to get things done and is a bit more of a pushover. like he was kind and willing to help but the extreme he was pushed to in order to avenge his parents is more of an exception and not the rule OR if you're not a fan of that jin interpretation i could see he over-corrects in his interactions with other people in fear of slipping into the person he became when he lost his village. plus if he gets angry he fears thats when cass can wrestle control from him and dust

cass is aggressive. he's angry. he lost the one person he probably cares about in this world and he plans to make it everyone's problem. fortunately ahrah has a mind of his own and whenever cass tries to use him in a way that's not self-defense he can just. stop in midair and cass can't do shit.

that doesn't mean dust never shows up, he just has less of a wrestle on the two souls than he had before because of the whole dying thing. it gets exhausting managing his emotions and two entirely unique souls yknow? him and jin do kind of team up to keep cassius from yknow. killing people but jin also doesn't have dust or cass's strength so in life-threatening situations he's kind of useless. and i think dust has a lot of strength and is resilient but he can only handle so much and he's one of three sharing a body. its probably mentally and physically exhausting.

anyway sorry if you read this far its almost 2 am and i dont really feel like proofreading too much. if u like this maybe i'll draw more and if you wanna send some asks about it you can