#half of the legacy characters actually

[everything--under--the--stars]

I love comic book logic especially in origins explaining how characters learned to fight or whatever because it's always like:

"We need a safe place to put our one and only child while we go on a dangerous quest for an undisclosed amount of time :( It has to be somewhere that will keep her out of trouble. With a person we trust who will let her live a normal and stable life. Someone that will never put her in any da-"

"How about our best friend Joe the Assassin?"

"Perfect lets go right now"

[woodfrogs]

im rewatching the kenobi show and imagining its the vastly superior version that exists in my mind. such is star wars

[ponchcronch]

I’m back to school so I may start posting more since I’ve been sketching out of pure boredom lol

These aren’t anyone in particular I just really wanted to draw sonic characters without any refs

Lookit this perry the platypus looking ahh

[damnit-buck]

I will accept Chim as Captain, when Hen is so so clearly deserving of it and was Bobbys choice, if and only if he spends 9a trying to persuade Hen to step up and then succeeds at the end of 9a

[geekgirles]

I'm probably only stating the obvious at this point, but have you guys noticed how Huntrix's songs reflect their development throughout the movie?

The very first song we listen to is How It's Done, which does an exemplary job at two things: it introduces Huntrix as characters, and it establishes them how they want to be and are perceived by the audience and their fans.

It's a very powerful song that highlights the girls' double life—they're k-pop idols as much as they are demon hunters—, as well as just how genuinely good and skilled they are at what they do. They're so good they treat a bunch of demons hijacking and destroying their plane as a mere inconvenience that gets in the way of their snack-time. And they easily dispose of them both with and without their weapons all the while they multitask by cooking their ramyeon and singing.

These ladies kick ass and they know it, and they want you to know it too.

"Run, run, we run the town

Whole world playin' our sound

Turnin' up, it's goin' down

Huntrix show this, how it's done, done, done"

But it also introduces the girls and the most basic aspects of their characters.

Mira is the visual lead and choreographer, and the song is filled with powerful, dynamic movements that reflect her influence. But not only that, it also introduces Mira as the more brutally honest member of the group, or in her own words:

"I don't talk, but I bite, full of venom (Uh)

Spittin' facts, you know that's

How it's done, done, done"

Then there's Zoey, the lyricist and rapper whose high-energy yet aggressive style is reflected precisely by the song's boastful tone, but especially during the rap sections:

"Okay, like, I know I ramble

But when shootin' my words, I go Rambo

Took blood, sweat, and tears, to look natural "

And finally, there's Rumi. The leader and lead vocalist. The daughter of one of the Sunlight Sisters who was raised by Celine, members of the previous generation of hunters, and therefore the one who's known her path her whole life. The one who shines the most thanks to her beautiful singing voice and the one Huntrix relies on the most, meaning she gets the most spotlight.

"Hear our voice unwavering

'Til our song defeats the night

Makin' fear afraid to breathe

'Til the dark meets the light"

How It's Done is the girls presenting themselves as they were taught by Celine: hunters don't show their flaws. Ever. Which is why the song only ever shows their good side—the talented and composed kpop stars who double as skilled and confident demon hunters.

How It's Done is the girls doing everything in their power to present themselves as flawless.

Golden, despite its title and in-universe intended effect, is where the cracks begin to show, however.

Each of the individual verses sung by each of the girls reveals their deepest insecurities:

Rumi isn't sure how to live up to the legacy thrusted upon her as the daughter of one of the Sunlight Sisters now leading her own team. Which then becomes especially poignant with the reveal that the member of Huntrix that's most involved and dedicated to their mission is actually half-demon, the very beings she was sworn to destroy. This sets up her inner conflict for the rest of the film.

"I was a ghost, I was alone (Hah)

어두워진 (Hah) 압길속에 (Ah)

Given the throne I didn't know how to believe

I was the queen that I'm meant to be".

Meanwhile, Zoey is Korean, but she was raised in the US, so she had to deal with the baggage of being a child coming from two very different cultures and not really fitting in with any. With the heavy implication that her parents are divorced, and she was in the middle of their game of tug of war. For all we know, maybe she is also biracial, which only emphasises her feelings of isolation because she couldn't find a place to belong: too Korean to be American, but too American to be Korean.

"I lived two lives, tried to play both sides

But I couldn't find my own place."

And finally, we have Mira admitting her rebellious and independent personality alienated her from her own family. The very people that were supposed to love her no matter what. Already suggesting that, much like the others with their own family baggage, she is also looking for a place to call home and for a family that will accept her for who she is.

"Called a problem child 'cause I got too wild

But now that's how I'm getting paid, 끝업시."

Deep down, what Golden does is reveal that, for all the girls look and act flawless, deep down they are all outcasts in their own way, looking for a place to call their own, free from judgemental eyes and hurtful words. And they all found it in Huntrix and each other.

At least, that's what it does at first.

Because as early as Mira's second verse, the girls double down on Celine's teachings, on how they're actually doing amazing now and on focusing on achieving the Golden Honmoon instead of embracing who they truly are. Because no matter how they insist they're done hiding, they still very much are hiding who they are, especially Rumi.

"Waited so long to break these walls down

To wake up and feel like me

Put these patterns all in the past now

And finally live like the girl they all see

No more hiding, I'll be shining

Like I'm born to be

'Cause we are hunters, voices strong

And I know I believe."

In the end, Golden, while incredibly soulful and uplifting, is just yet another mask Huntrix hides behind to avoid facing their own demons. They're using their goal of creating the Golden Honmoon to stall dealing with their actual issues.

Things run their course with Takedown, only taking a turn for the worse.

As the girls eventually come to understand, they deviated far too much from their original goal in their anger at the Saja Boys' upstaging them and stealing their fans. They let their anger cloud their judgement and jeopardise their mission more than the Saja Boys and their music ever could.

Zoey said it best, Takedown couldn't even bring Huntrix together; there's no way it would have been able to unite their fans and create the Golden Honmoon, as the girls actually lost sight of their teachings with it.

Hunters are supposed to ward demons off both by fighting them and by igniting hope in the hearts of their fans through their music, thus powering the Honmoon. But Takedown...

"'Cuz I see your real face, and it's ugly as sin

Time to put you in your place, 'cuz you're rotten within

When your patterns start to show

It makes the hatred wanna grow outta my veins

I don't think you're ready for the takedown

Break you into pieces in the world of pain 'cuz you're all the same

Yeah, it's a takedown

A demon with no feelings don't deserve to live, it's so obvious"

It's not a song meant to uplift anyone, but to tear them down. Catchy as it is, it only serves to emphasise the growing distance between the girls, especially when Rumi starts having second thoughts and questioning her nature as a half-demon and if maybe they've been wrong this whole time.

Which is precisely why Takedown being played during the Idol Awards as the Saja Boys attack and expose Rumi disguised as Mira and Zoey led to Huntrix temporarily breaking up. It's a song born from revenge, deceit, and miscommunication.

It was never going to get them closer to their goals, only drift a wedge between them.

And then, finally, finally we have What It Sounds Like.

"Nothing but the truth now

Nothing but the proof of what I am

The worst of what I came from, patterns I'm ashamed of

Things that even I don't understand

I tried to fix it, I tried to fight it

My head was twisted, my heart divided

My lies all collided

I don't know why I didn't trust you to be on my side"

"Why did I cover up the colors stuck inside my head?

I should've let the jagged edges meet the light instead

Show me what's underneath, I'll find your harmony

The song we couldn't write, this is what it sounds like"

Where the girls show they've come full circle by admitting they have flaws, they have fears, they have been lying and hiding things from each other. They are not perfect, but they have each other, they love each other, and that's enough.

They have finally accepted themselves and each other.

"We broke into a million pieces, and we can't go back

But now we're seeing all the beauty in the broken glass

The scars are part of me, darkness and harmony

My voice without the lies, this is what it sounds like

Why did we cover up the colors stuck inside our head?

Get up and let the jagged edges meet the light instead

Show me what's underneath, I'll find your harmony

Fearless and undefined, this is what it sounds like."

That's the song meant to unite them and their fans. The song that allows them to defeat Gwi-Ma and to create a new, better Honmoon that is actually worth protecting.

I love this movie and these girls so much. Thank you for coming to my TED-Talk.

[iydiamartinx]

A STUDY OF RIVALS

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 4.7k synopsis: Damian meets his rival but perhaps he doesn't hate her as much as he thought. a/n: This one took forever!

Damian Wayne was infuriatingly brilliant.

But even more infuriating? So were you.

From the moment you stepped through the wrought-iron gates of Gotham Academy, you were a headline. The only daughter of your mother—billionaire philanthropist and formidable tech magnate—you had been raised in private academies scattered across Europe and Asia, groomed for excellence in spotless marble halls and classrooms with vaulted ceilings. You returned to Gotham only when your mother decided it was time to come home, bringing her empire and her heir with her.

You arrived polished and composed. Impossibly articulate for someone your age. And intelligent—almost scarily so.

The paparazzi did anything to get a photo of you and your mother

Despite transferring half way through the school year at Gotham Academy the prestigious school was more than happy to take you in. By first period, your name was already on everyone’s lips. Teachers adored you and students all wanted to be your friend. They whispered about your legacy. Your net worth. Your wardrobe. Your private driver. You were the closest thing to royalty Gotham had since the Waynes.

At first Damian didn’t bother to pay attention, you were just another socialite in designer shoes. However, that changed by second period when you dared to challenge him in literature class.

The teacher had called on Damian, who, without looking up from his annotated copy of The Raven, delivered a perfectly adequate—if not slightly bored—analysis of Poe’s narrative technique. He’d spent enough time reading Jason’s battered paperbacks to be familiar with Poe’s rhythm.

That should've been the end of it but then you spoke up.

“I actually disagree,” you said, your voice calm and clear for someone your age. There was no malice or the intent to belittle—just the unwavering tone of someone who had never once been taught to doubt herself. “I think the narrator’s unreliability was intentional. Poe used it to emphasize the descent into madness, not obscure it.”

The room had gone quiet. Even the teacher blinked, caught off guard by your boldness. No one ever dared to disagree with Damian, usually because he was always right, or because they were terrified of the consequences that would come from doing such a thing.

Damian turned in his seat slowly, regarding you like a hawk sizing up competition.

Your eyes met his calmly.

He stared back, impassive. “It wasn’t meant to obscure, no. But emphasizing madness through unreliability can still hinder clarity of narrative. The reader is left unanchored—intentionally.”

You tilted your head slightly. “But that’s the point, isn’t it? Poe wanted us to feel disoriented. He wasn’t just telling us the character was unraveling. He was making us experience it.”

From the back of the classroom, someone muttered under their breath, “Uh oh.”

The teacher cleared his throat, clearly unsure whether to intervene or just let the exchange continue. “Excellent… insight,” he offered cautiously, glancing between the two of you like a man tiptoeing through a minefield. “Both of you. Let’s move on, shall we?”

But you and Damian didn’t move on.

From that moment on, it was war.

The rivalry began innocently enough—almost imperceptibly at first.

He completed a pop quiz in twelve minutes. You finished it in ten.

He aced the physics lab. You beat him in algebra.

He turned in an essay on ancient warfare quoting The Art of War. You cited Thucydides, pointed out a flaw in his argument, and corrected his citation aloud when it came to peer editing them.

By the end of the week, you’d tied his calculus score. By the next, your name appeared beneath his on the school’s academic leaderboard. Only one point behind. The following Monday, it was on top.

Damian hadn’t lost a ranking since he started at Gotham Academy.

“Tt,” he muttered under his breath, glaring at the board.

“She’s impressive,” one of the teachers had said offhandedly. “Such a brilliant student. She reminds me of you, Mr. Wayne.”

Damian had scowled. You were not like him. There was no one like him, he had been raised to surpass excellence—to conquer it. Trained since birth by the League of Assassins, tutored by the world’s brightest minds, fluent in four languages by age six. He had Sun Tzu memorized before most children learned to read. And you? You were just some rich girl in a perfectly pressed uniforms.

Meanwhile, you couldn’t figure out what you’d done to earn his scorn—but his snide remarks and condescending tone had begun to gnaw at you. Irritating you to the point you made it a personal mission to beat him at everything. 

One afternoon, after an especially gruelling debate in History, the two of you were called to stay behind. The teacher then turned to face you both with a look that fell somewhere between exasperation and reluctant pride.

“I’ve never had two students correct me in the same breath,”  he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re both brilliant, but maybe next time let me finish the sentence before starting a turf war over Napoleon.”

You cast a sideways glance at Damian, only to find that he was already looking at you.

His sharp green eyes narrowed slightly. You looked away, lifting your chin and straightening your shoulders as you turned your gaze back to the teacher. You weren’t about to be caught admiring his infuriatingly handsome self. 

Once you two were dismissed, he turned to you in the nearly empty hallway, brushing nonexistent dust off his blazer.

“You know,” he started, voice dry, “you talk too much for someone who’s wrong half the time.”

Your eyes narrow. “Funny. I was about to say the same about you.”

And with that, you turned on your heel and stalked away—head held high, heels clicking, and more than ready for a Damian-free weekend.

Only… that wasn’t the case.

Not even twenty-four hours after your latest victory in the history debate, you found yourself being pulled from the backseat of your town car in front of Gotham’s most exclusive ballroom. Cameras flashed. Paparazzi shouted your mother’s name and yours. Your jaw locked the moment you stepped out, heels clicking sharply against the marble as you followed her up the steps.

“This is a waste of time,” you muttered under your breath, gaze fixed ahead.

“Nonsense,” your mother replied without so much as a glance over her shoulder, her tone breezy and clipped, laced with that ever-present note of amusement. “A little public goodwill never hurt anyone. Besides, it’s good to make connections. One day, you’ll take over my legacy.”

Inside, the venue glittered. Filled with polished chandeliers, soft golden lighting, and murmured laughter. Gotham’s elite mingled beneath banners for children’s hospitals and tech-forward philanthropy. Champagne flutes sparkled between manicured fingers. A string quartet played something classic in the corner. And you stayed precisely half a step behind your mother as she navigated the room like a queen surveying her court.

At some point, you stopped paying attention.

Your mother flitted between conversations with years of practiced charm. Making the rounds as she talked to important investors and socialites. It wasn’t until she said your name that you blinked back to the present. 

“Y/N.”

You looked up. Both your mother and a tall, dark-haired man were watching you expectantly. 

“Bruce, this is my daughter, Y/N,” your mother said smoothly. “Honey, this is Bruce Wayne.”

The name instantly grabbed your attention. You knew who he was, of course. Everyone did.

Bruce Wayne offered you a hand and an easy smile. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Y/N. I’ve heard impressive things.”

You returned the gesture with one of your own—polite but not quite warm. “Likewise, Mr. Wayne.”

His eyes, though friendly, were sharp—like he saw more than he let on. You recognized the look. You’d seen it in boardrooms, in interviews, in your mother’s own reflection when she touched up her lipstick before a negotiation. It was the look of someone sizing you up—measuring your potential. 

“My youngest son is about your age,” Bruce commented casually. “Perhaps you know him—Damian?”

Before you could respond, the devil himself materialized like he’d been summoned by name. “Father—”

“Ah, Damian, we were just talking about you!” Bruce said, his entire expression shifting as he reached to pull his son closer with a fondness that Damian met with stiff resistance. “This is Ms. L/N,” he added, gesturing to your mother, “and this is her daughter, Y/N.”

Damian’s sharp green eyes landed on you, his mouth tightening ever so slightly. “Yes. We share classes.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” your mother said smoothly, her voice laced with that signature diplomatic charm—the kind designed to make people feel flattered, even when they weren’t. “She’s spoken so highly of her classmates. I’m glad to know she’s surrounded by such… driven young people.”

You caught the subtle pause. Driven, not kind. Not friendly. Your mother had no patience for meaningless social niceties. She reserved her praise for those she deemed worthy, and the way she was now sizing up Damian said it all. Just like Bruce had done with you, she was assessing Damian with the same calculating precision she used on CEOs across glossy conference tables—because like you, he was a legacy.

“Likewise,” Damian said smoothly, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed any sincerity. “Y/N is… competent.”

You turned to him slowly, one brow arched. “Just competent?” you echoed, voice as sweet as honey, but the edge beneath it was razor-sharp. “Funny. I seem to recall consistently scoring higher than you on every major assessment.”

He scoffed. “Then perhaps your memory is askew.”

Bruce let out an awkward chuckle, and your mother’s brow lifted in amusement as the tension between you and Damian practically crackled.

“It seems our children have a bit of healthy competition,” Bruce remarked lightly, though his eyes flicked to Damian warningly but also filled with new understanding. So that was the reason for the sudden uptick in academic ambition. Before you, Bruce had to practically hunt him down and threaten to ban him from patrol to get him to go to school. “You’ll have to forgive him. Manners are still a work in progress.”

“I don’t know,” your mother mused, taking a slow sip of her champagne. “He reminds me a bit of you when you were younger. All sharp eyes and sharper opinions.”

“Mother,” you warned under your breath.

“Oh, come now,” she said with a smirk, eyes glinting. “I’m simply saying it’s nice to see you have a rival to keep you on your toes. Bruce and I were much the same in our youth. It’s good for you.”

Something unspoken passed between them, buried under years of power and poise. They stood too close for it to be entirely innocent, their glances too measured, their silences filled with unspoken words. You weren’t sure if you wanted to roll your eyes, gag, or start backing away before things got weird or well…weirder.

“Well,” Bruce said at last, raising his glass in your mother’s direction, “I’m glad they’re getting along... sort of.”

Damian let out a scoff beside you.

“Mmm,” your mother hummed, clinking her glass to his with a knowing smile. “Let’s just hope they’re nothing like us in our youth.”

You finally chose option three—and it seemed so did Damian.

Without a word, the two of you turned on your heels and made a clean, silent escape. You didn’t need to say anything. The moment your mother started reminiscing about her and Bruce’s youth—with that knowing look in her eyes—you knew it was time to evacuate.

You didn’t so much as glance his way as you moved, but you could feel him beside you, the stiffness in his posture betraying his quiet irritation.

The ballroom opened into a quieter hallway off to the side, lined with towering windows and heavy velvet drapes that muffled the noise from the main event. It was cooler here, the lighting softer, almost reverent. You paused near one of the window alcoves and plucked a glass of water from a tray left on a pedestal, the crystal catching the dim light as you took a slow sip.

Damian stopped beside you, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Does your mother and my father know they’re insufferable?”

You took another sip before replying. “I don’t think they care.”

He gave a soundless huff of agreement, eyes scanning the crowd judgmentally. “How long do you think they’ll keep us here?”

“Long enough to secure five new investors and two photo ops,” you muttered, setting your glass down.

He absentmindedly nodded. “An accurate assessment.”

You tilted your head, giving him a slow look. “Careful. That almost sounded like agreement.”

He scoffed without looking at you. “Statistically speaking, even you were bound to say something useful eventually.”

Your eyes narrowed, a sharp retort already forming on your tongue—but you didn’t get the chance.

“Y/N!” a shrill voice called, honeyed and eager.

You turned just in time to see a well-dressed socialite approaching, eyes alight with recognition. “I just have to say, your mother is such an inspiration—I’ve followed her work for years! And you’re her daughter? My goodness, the resemblance is uncanny…”

As the woman launched into a full-blown gush fest, you fought the urge to sigh—and instinctively glanced to your side.

But Damian was gone. 

Meanwhile, Damian had taken the opportunity to slip away, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease until he rejoined his siblings near the bar. Jason, leaning casually against the counter with a glass in hand, raised a brow and nodded subtly in your direction.

“Who was that you were talking to?”

Tim glanced up as well, curiosity piqued. “Yeah, I didn’t realize you had any friends, Demon Spawn.”

Damian rolled his eyes, arms folding across his chest in irritation. “She’s not my friend,” he muttered. “She’s an infuriating enemy I unfortunately cannot get rid of.”

He exhaled sharply, his gaze cutting across the ballroom to where you stood at the far end, still trapped in conversation. You nodded politely, offering a rehearsed smile while yet another socialite praised your mother’s latest tech innovation. Damian looked visibly annoyed just watching it.

“What’d she do?” Dick asked, genuine interest threading through his voice. It wasn’t like Damian to fixate on anyone who wasn’t a threat—or family.

“She exists,” Damian said flatly. “And insists on doing so at the top of every class ranking I hold.”

Tim let out a low whistle, dragging out the sound. “Ah. Academic rivalry. That explains the tension. Thought for a second you were flirting.”

Damian’s head whipped over to look at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “Don’t be stupid.”

Jason grinned behind the rim of his glass. “You mean to tell me someone’s finally smart enough to challenge you and you don’t like it? You’ve been whining about your classmates’ IQs ever since Bruce made you go to school.”

“They are stupid,” Damian snapped. “And she’s not a challenge. She’s just—annoying. Always has an opinion. Always needs to correct everyone.”

"By everyone, I'm assuming that you're referring to yourself," Jason smirked.

“You know all of that sounds a lot like you, actually,” Tim pointed out, shrugging with a completely unapologetic smile.

Damian shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Does not.”

Jason elbowed Dick, who had been quietly sipping his drink with a growing smirk. “Ten bucks says they get partnered on some school project and fall in love by spring.”

"You're on," Dick grinned.

Damian’s entire expression darkened.

“I will set you three on fire,” he said, dead serious.

Unfortunately for Damian, the first part of Jason’s prediction came true.

It was Monday morning, second period, and the classroom still buzzed with low chatter and the scraping of chairs as students trickled in and settled down. You had just taken your seat, already flipping open your notebook, when the teacher stepped to the front of the room, her expression far too cheerful for a Monday morning. That alone should’ve been your first warning.

“As you all know we have an upcoming literary analysis project,” she began, scanning the room like she was delivering good news and not the academic equivalent of a grenade, “and I’ve decided to personally pair you all up to ensure balanced collaboration.”

Around the room, groans erupted. A few students exchanged panicked looks or hopeful glances toward their friends. You, however, didn’t care much, prepared to do all the work to ensure the best grade. That was until—

“Finally, Y/n and Damian.”

You blinked once. The words taking a moment to fully register.

From a few seats over, Damian let out a noise that sounded almost like a choking cough.

The teacher—either oblivious to the knife-sharp tension that immediately spiked between your desks or possibly very aware—beamed. “I trust the two top students in our class will produce something exceptional.”

Damian looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. 

You offered your teacher a faux pleasant smile, tilting your head. “Looking forward to the challenge.” And then you turned to Damian. “Try not to fall behind.”

The look Damian shot you could’ve curdled milk. He scoffed but didn’t rise to the bait—not verbally, at least. His glare was sharp enough to count as a response on its own as he stood, gathered his things, and reluctantly moved his desk beside yours like he was being sentenced to death.

His books hit the surface of your shared desk with a muffled thud, and he sank into his seat like it physically pained him to be there, sitting stiffly beside you and crossing his arms almost as if he was pouting.

You didn’t so much as twitch. You merely turned toward him with a sickeningly sweet smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Shall we begin?” you asked. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to sulk and pout this entire project.”

“I don’t sulk,” he muttered darkly.

“Sure you don’t.” You agreed sarcastically, before scoffing. “You’re the epitome of brooding.”

He glared at you like he was contemplating homicide—but wisely chose not to respond. Instead, he pulled out his notebook and clicked his pen with more force than strictly necessary.

Unbothered, you flipped open your own notebook, already prepared. “The prompt says we’re to write a five-page analytical paper on a theme of our choice from any of the assigned novels this semester. Preferably one with—” you glanced down at the rubric, “—‘literary merit.’”

Damian raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Which rules out anything you picked, I assume.”

You rolled your eyes. “God forbid we write something that isn’t dripping in post-war existentialism and masculine angst.”

“I vote Frankenstein,” you continued, undeterred. “Morality, monstrosity, creation and consequence—it’s rich. And you can wax poetry about man’s hubris to your heart’s content.”

Damian ignored the jab and frowned thoughtfully. “Overdone. Everyone will be choosing to write about Frankenstein. It’s predictable.”

You turned toward him, brows lifting. “Predictable is safe. Safe is how we get full marks. Unless you want to take a creative risk and tank your precious GPA.”

Damian didn’t even flinch. “The greater the risk, the greater the reward.”

You snorted. “You once titled your essay ‘The Idiocy of Hamlet’s Entire Bloodline.’ I’m still amazed you didn’t fail on principle.”

He shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “And I stand by that.”

You sighed, resisting the overwhelming urge to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Fine,” you muttered. “What do you suggest, then?”

He drummed his fingers against the desk thoughtfully, gaze sweeping over the list of literature they’d covered that year. Once. Twice.  Then, without looking at you, he spoke.

“The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

You blinked. “Wilde?”

“Morality. Duality. Self-destruction,” he said smoothly. “All the themes you wanted in Frankenstein, only with better prose and far more interesting characters.”

You hesitated—just for a second. Then you gave a small nod. “…Not a terrible idea.”

He turned toward you slowly, eyes narrowing as though unsure he’d heard you right. “Was that an agreement?”

You smirked. “Statistically, even you were bound to say something useful eventually.”

Damian scoffed, rolling his eyes. “How original.”

Despite the initial tension, working together became… surprisingly seamless.

Over the next few weeks, you found yourselves forced into truce—and then, somehow, into something almost akin to a friendship. The first week was hell, of course. You argued over structure, disagreed on thesis points, and debated which citations to use  like the fate of Gotham depended on it. But somehow—between your scribbled annotations and his painfully neat footnotes—you found a rhythm. There were still jabs and snide comments, of course. You wouldn’t have expected anything less. But there were also late afternoons at the library, debates that turned into almost companionable, and quiet moments where you realized he wasn’t as insufferable as you first thought.

You were used to handling things alone. Your mother’s world was ruthless, and you’d learned early to hold your own. Trust was a currency, and most people were too quick to squander it. But Damian… he didn’t put you on a pedestal, didn’t flatter you or fawn over your name like the way other children of Gotham’s elite often did, eager to secure favour or avoid offence. He didn’t nod along just to stay in your good graces. If anything, he seemed allergic to the idea of appeasing you. 

Instead of charming you—he challenged you. Constantly.

As much as it pained you to admit it… your mother had been right. Being challenged was good for you.

Damian didn’t make things easier. Instead, he made you better—made you grow.

Soon, you found yourselves almost reluctant to call it a night. You began to look forward to your time together—your new routine. You always ended up at the same back-corner table in the library, shoulder to shoulder, your shared workspace a pile of chaos filed with overlapping notebooks, highlighters, and the book itself.

Your notebooks a mess of underlined passages, marginalia, and colour-coded tabs. Damian’s handwriting was immaculate and neatly written cursive. While yours was sharper, more angular—more chaotic, if you were honest—but it didn’t matter. Your minds clicked in ways your hands didn’t need to.

“Here,” you murmured, nudging his notebook. “You keep saying Dorian’s downfall was vanity, but I think it’s more about his willful ignorance. He chooses not to see the damage he causes. It’s not just narcissism—it’s self-preservation.”

Damian’s gaze shifted to the passage you pointed at, brows furrowing. He didn’t answer immediately.

“You’re saying he wasn’t blinded by ego,” he said slowly. “He blinded himself. On purpose.”

You nodded. “He wanted to live without consequence. The portrait just made it possible.”

He leaned back slightly, folding his arms as he mulled it over. His jaw was tight with thought, but when his eyes lifted to meet yours, something was different. There was no smugness, no bite, no thinly veiled disdain. He had genuinely considered your point of view and there was even a bit of respect.

“I hadn’t considered that,” he said finally. “That’s not bad.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Was that a compliment?”

He scoffed and turned back to his notebook, the moment gone as quickly as it had come. “Don’t get used to it.”

But you were already smiling to yourself.

And strangely—unexpectedly—you almost found yourself disappointed when the project finally came to an end.

The perfect scores had been inevitable.

With minds like yours and Damian’s, there was never going to be another outcome. The thesis had been sharp, the analysis layered and airtight, the presentation polished to the point of you could probably recite it in your sleep. When your teacher returned the papers—each one marked with glowing remarks and a rare, handwritten “Flawless work”—you barely reacted. Neither did Damian. There was no need for celebration when you both expected nothing less.

And with the project behind you, you assumed things would go back to normal. Cold glances. Sharp remarks. Mutual irritation and academic rivalry. After all, that was what you were good at—competition. Not… whatever the past few weeks had been.

You were just zipping up your bag at the end of the day, earbuds half in as you walked out of the class when a group of boys from your class approached you. You’d never personally interacted with them, but they were always loud a disruptive.

“Well, if it isn’t Gotham’s golden girl,” one of them drawled. “Did mommy buy that perfect score for you too?”

You straightened slowly, expression unreadable, already preparing a verbal lashing when another boy added, “Bet she made Wayne do all the work,” he said with a snort. “There’s no way she’s that smart. I bet Wayne was ready to hit his head against the wall working with her.”

The words weren’t new—God, no. You’d heard them all before. The digs, the undercutting, the suggestion that your success wasn’t really yours. Different faces, different schools, always the same venom. It never used to sting. But today… for some reason it did. 

Maybe it was because, for once, the accusation didn’t even come close to the truth. Maybe because—despite everything—you were genuinely proud of the work you and Damian had done. It wasn’t just about the perfect grade. Somewhere along the way, the project had stopped being a competition and started becoming something else entirely. Something collaborative.

You’d found yourself enjoying the process. The way your mind and his clashed and overlapped. The way your perspectives differed—and how those differences pushed you both further. And for once, the outcome wasn’t the reward. The understanding was. You felt like you understood Damian better and had enjoyed the time you two had spent together.

Everything you and Damian had built—every late night, every debate, every carefully chosen word in your paper—they reduced it to manipulation. To nepotism. To the idea that you weren’t enough.

Then much to your horror, the last person you expected to see had just approached. And your body tensed instinctively. The project was over. You and Damian had been companionable these last few weeks, maybe even—if you squinted—friendly. But now? You didn’t know. Would he say something? Join in?

Instead, his emerald green eyes narrowed—on them, not you.

“I suggest you walk away,” he said coldly, voice like cut glass.

You blinked, startled, watching as he came to stand beside you, arms crossing neatly over his chest.

One of the boys laughed, nervously. “Oh come on, Wayne. We all know you did all the work, the only reason she’s here is ‘cause Mommy made a generous donation to the school.”

Damian didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. “As did my father. And one call to him, and the lot of you will be expelled before the end of the day.”

And then—before you could even register it—one of them said something utterly vile about you. The implications of it made your stomach twist. The air went still filling with tension.

Damian’s fist flew before you could even blink.

It connected with a sickening crack against the boy’s jaw, dropping him like a rock. The boy lay groaning on the tile, already being dragged away by his friends, who looked more terrified than smug now, stumbling over themselves as they disappeared down the corridor without another word. Cowards, all of them. 

You stood frozen for a beat, blinking.

Damian’s shoulders were squared, his breathing steady. He didn’t even glance at you. He just flexed his hand once and muttered, “Tt. Idiots.”

You stared at him, eyes wide. “You punched him.”

“He deserved it.”

You bit your lip, your gaze flicking back to where he was standing stoically and glaring at the space where the group had been standing. Then—impulsively, heart hammering in your chest—you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “…Thank you.”

Damian froze.

His entire body went stiff, posture locked like he’d just been turned into a statue. A deep flush bloomed across his cheeks, colouring them a violent crimson as his mouth parted slightly in shock. For once, he had nothing to say.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “…You’re welcome.”

You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. “Do you want to grab a milkshake?” you asked, trying to sound casual—like you hadn’t just kissed Gotham’s most emotionally constipated teenager. “We can study for finals too.”

He blinked once. Twice.

Then, in the stiffest, most painfully formal voice imaginable, he replied,

“Yes. That… would be acceptable.”

Grinning now, you slung your bag over your shoulder and started walking, tossing him a glance over your shoulder. Damian trailed behind you silently begging whatever gods existed to will the red dusting his cheeks to fade.

Somewhere along the line he realized his brothers had been right. He didn’t dislike you. Not even a little.

In fact, it was probably the opposite.

And he was already halfway through making Jason’s second prediction come true.

[rickktish]

I’ve got a couple of hot takes and there’s nuance to them but I don’t have a whole lot of brain power so I might leave it as-is and elaborate only if asked:

-The kind of people who engage in fandom and specifically those who write fanfiction tend to belong to the same categories of people/sets of identities which are likely to fall victim to the “white people have no culture” lie and therefore like to spice up their writing by diversifying the cast in ways they view as meaningful or reflective of those characters’ personal arcs/histories, which unfortunately means leaning on a lot of stereotypes and accidentally perpetuating, consciously or unconsciously, those stereotypes. (Is anyone else bothered by the prevalence of latino Jason “drug crime lord” Todd headcanons? I don’t speak up about it often but it frequently feels legitimately uncomfy to me. Also while it’s fun to mess around with various flavors of Asian Tim “the smart Robin” Drake, there are some very uncomfortable discussions which ought to be had about why he gets headcanoned as east Asian specifically— usually Korean from what I’ve seen but also frequently Chinese and Japanese— when the fanon interpretation of his character can basically be boiled down to “good with computers, terrible/abusive/neglectful bio parents with unreasonably high standards/expectations, child genius.” Like maybe critically examine your tropes before applying them wholesale is what i’m saying)

-readheads are an unrecognized minority and have historically been and are still in some places presently subjected to the same kinds of stereotyping, discrimination, and fetishization that recognized racial minorities face. The only difference is that discrimination against poc has frequently been legally mandated throughout western history whereas that against redheads has been largely (though not exclusively) cultural. Think for a minute about how many redheaded characters have been replaced by black actors in live action adaptations in recent years and understand that redheads have been on-screen shorthand for “acceptable token diversity” for longer than probably any of us care to think about and they are losing that status as black characters begin to take that place in widespread visual media. Race swapping the Gordons specifically, while pulled off extremely well by a beautifully talented actor in The Batman 2022, is actively participating in the erasure of redheaded characters, especially ones whose roles are more complex than “femme fatale” or “the spitfire,” (or both), from screen

I'm not necessarily against race-swapping hcs and whatnot, but I do think the Bat-Family fandom has a tendency to ignore the actual POC members of the Bat-Family in favor for their hcs, lmfao.

Like I've seen Asian Tim and Babs hcs and I'm like... you do know Cass and Damian are literally right there, you don't have to do that. 😭

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Eight

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — The sports day scene really had me in my feels omg.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

The grass on the main field had been freshly mowed into lines, each one crooked enough to be noticeable. A cluster of teachers stood around with clipboards and stopwatches like they were auditioning for the Olympics, and the school's ancient PA system was making increasingly desperate attempts to stay audible over the wind.

Sports Day at Haileybury was not, as Harper had once assumed, a low-stakes afternoon of novelty races and post-Pimm's bruises. It was a full-scale military operation.

There were tents — tents, plural — each year had their own, flapping slightly in the breeze like they were preparing for battle. Some parents had actually brought champagne in coolers. A drone buzzed overhead. There was a pony somewhere. No one knew why.

Harper stood on the sidelines. It was March now, and at twenty-weeks, there was no hiding the fact that she was pregnant. Unlike the others, who were in their P.E kits, she was in her usual uniform. Blazer, white shirt, plaid skirt, white knee-socks, and black Mary Jane shoes.

She had a whistle on a string around her neck, which she kept fiddling with.

Oscar had insisted she be starter for the boys' 400m. "You'll get the best view," he'd said with a grin, "and you don't even have to run."

Which was, frankly, ideal.

Sam was already moaning. He'd been forcibly signed up for hurdles after one of the Year 11s sprained their ankle falling off a climbing wall during warm-up.

"I'm gonna clip every single one," he declared, stretching dramatically. "I'm gonna eat turf in front of all these people. You're all going to laugh. I'm going to die. This is my legacy."

"Can't be worse than last year," Alfie said, lying facedown on a picnic blanket. "Remember when Jane bit it in the egg-and-spoon and still won?"

"I tripped!" Jane snapped. "And I powered through."

"You ate half the grass on the pitch," Matt said cheerfully.

"Whatever," she muttered. "Still beat all of your times, didn't I? Fucking idiots."

Oscar was off stretching with the other Year 11 and 12 boys, already wearing his signature smug-athlete expression. He lived for this day. Being good at things in front of a crowd was practically his love language.

Harper watched him jog past, the back of his shirt clinging to him just slightly, and felt her cheeks warm. He caught her eye and winked.

"God, you're pathetic," Jane muttered beside her. "You've got that face."

"What face?"

"The 'my super hot Australian boyfriend is about to lap the entire field and I'm sooo going to kiss him afterwards' face."

Harper smirked. "It's a good face."

"I'm revolted."

The PA system crackled again. "Year Eleven boys, to the starting line for the 400 metres, please. Starter, take your position."

Harper shuffled over to the line, earning a round of polite applause just for existing — or possibly because someone mistook her for a teacher.

"Is she blowing the whistle?" A parent whispered nearby.

"She's pregnant, darling. That doesn't make her a criminal," the other replied. "Besides, didn't your Francesca have her little boy when she was here? Fourteen, wasn't she?"

Oscar and the other boys lined up — all long legs, cocky grins, tracksuit bottoms in various stages of removal. One of them started doing the Mobot ironically.

Alfie was muttering what sounded like a prayer. Sam just looked like he was going to throw up.

Harper raised the whistle to her lips and gave Oscar one last lingering look. He gave her a thumbs up. She rolled her eyes, but smiled.

Then she blew the whistle as hard as she could.

And they were off.

Oscar tore down the lane like he'd been fired out of a cannon. Jane whooped. Someone else shouted, "Go on, Whitaker!" and Alfie immediately collapsed onto Harper's chair, dramatically fanning himself.

"G'won Piastri! Bloody run!" Jane screamed.

"Thank Christ I wasn't signed up for that," he said. "Look at your boyfriend's calves. They're like weapons. I'm not built for violence. Or physical exercise.

Harper didn't answer. She was too busy watching Oscar absolutely demolish the field.

He was three body-lengths ahead by the final curve. By the time he crossed the finish line, the next closest runner was still negotiating the last 50 metres.

Oscar skidded to a stop, hands on his head, chest heaving — and then pointed straight at her like a footballer scoring a goal.

Jane stopped cheering in order to gag. "He's so in love with you, it's disgusting," she said. "Please don't shag him behind the scoreboard. This is a family event."

"I'm pregnant," Harper said with a grin. "That makes us a family, doesn't it?"

Jane laughed.

Sam limped over, trailing after Oscar. "Did you see me trip?" He asked. "We're not talking about it. Okay? I'm just putting it out there that the field obviously wasn't flattened enough."

Oscar came jogging back over, red-faced and sweaty. He didn't even pause — just leaned in and kissed Harper full on the mouth like it was the finish line itself.

A few teachers grumbled unhappily. Parents whispered. Their mates hollered and whistled.

"You blew the whistle beautifully," he told her solemnly.

"I'm a natural," she replied, breathless with laughter.

"And I smoked all of them."

"You're a show-off."

"I'm a winner."

She rolled her eyes. "I know that, Piastri. I've seen your trophies."

"I'm gonna kiss you again."

"You're sweaty." She complained.

"Don't care."

And then he kissed her again.

Behind them, the sack race began with someone falling over immediately and landing in a cone. A boy from Year 9 started crying when he got hit by a flying beanbag. There was a faint chant building by the Year 8 tent involving someone's mum and the pony.

Harper just shook her head, leaned into Oscar, and thought, weirdly, that she might actually miss this place when they were gone.

—

The maths revision group (not to be confused with the Harper's Tutors group) had been Alfie's idea. Which was insane, really, because Alfie was objectively the worst at maths after Harper. But apparently he felt that gave him some sort of authority.

"It's all about teamwork," he'd said, dragging desks into a semi-circle like they were in some sort of low-budget TED Talk. "If we all suck, no one feels bad."

"That's not how GCSEs work," Jane said, already bored, perched on the edge of a desk with a highlighter in her mouth.

Oscar sat beside Harper, chewing the lid of his pen and pretending not to glance every three seconds at her workbook like he might be able to absorb her stress through osmosis.

Harper had her revision guide open but had spent the last ten minutes underlining the same heading: Foundation Paper — Non-Calculator Section.

The numbers swam a bit. They always did. Like they had a personal vendetta against her.

"Okay," Sam said, flipping a page in his own workbook. "Let's go over fractions again."

"I will literally walk into traffic," Harper muttered.

"No, you won't," Jane said without looking up. "You'd just miscalculate the angle and the car would miss you."

Alfie howled. "Oi. That's harsh."

Harper gave Jane a glare. Jane gave her a bored thumbs-up.

Oscar nudged her thigh with his knee. "Stop stressing."

"I'm not," she muttered. "My brains just broken."

"Mate," Sam cut in, "if your brain was broken, you'd be one of those people who claps when a plane lands. You're not. You're just maths-thick. It's a very specific kind of issue."

Harper stuck her middle finger up at him.

"This is supposed to be a supportive space." Oscar said, unimpressed.

Alfie was already drawing a diagram on the whiteboard someone had dragged in from the art room. "Right. Improper fractions. They're just fractions that think they're better than you. Like, calm down, you're literally top-heavy."

"I happen to like top-heavy." Jamie, one of the year 11's in her foundation maths class, said.

Sam threw a highlighter at him.

Matt, who'd somehow ended up being the quiet brains of the operation, raised his hand like they were in an actual classroom. "Can I please just explain it properly before Alfie confuses everyone again?"

Oscar nodded. "Please do."

Matt sighed. "Okay. Harper — look. You've got seven halves. That's just three wholes and a half. You already know that. You could do that in your sleep."

"Yeah, but ask me to write it down and I panic," she said. "It's like I know it in my head, but the second I see numbers on a page, it's like they're in a different language."

"That's 'cause school maths is designed by sadists," Sam said. "Don't let it get to you."

Jane reached into her bag and handed Harper a mini packet of Haribo. "Sugar for the brain," she said.

"Thanks," Harper said, taking it. She rested her head on Oscar's shoulder for a second, and he leaned into her just slightly. Just enough to be reassuring, not PDA.

Alfie pointed at the whiteboard. "Okay. Here's the deal. We go over ten problems tonight. If Harper gets through them all without throwing a chair or crying, we reward her with cake from the machine."

"I like that plan," Harper said. She'd perked up a bit at the mention of cake. Oscar laughed when he felt movement beneath his hand. Baby liked the idea of cake too.

"You get cake either way," Jane muttered. "So please throw a chair at him."

Matt rolled his eyes. "Can we just start?"

Later, they were on their way down to the astro for some fresh air. "You're doing better than you think," Oscar said.

Harper didn't say anything. Just unwrapped the cake, tore off a piece, and stuffed it in his mouth before he could keep talking.

"Shut up," she said.

He grinned. "Okay."

—

Oscar had been weird all day.

Not, like, noticeably weird to most people — but Harper could tell. He kept checking his phone and tapping his fingers like his body had extra electricity to burn.

At lunch, he barely touched his chips, which was criminal, and when she asked him if he was alright, he'd just muttered, "Yeah, fine," and went back to staring at his phone.

Now, in the common room, he was pacing.

Actually pacing. Back and forth across the threadbare carpet.

"Osc, what's up with you?" Harper asked finally, closing her science book and watching him with raised eyebrows. "You're making me dizzy." She sighed.

Oscar stopped pacing, spun around, then walked over and just—held his phone out to her.

She blinked at it. "What am I looking at?"

He shoved it closer.

It was an email. Official, professional, with a logo that looked like speed and money and adult careers.

Subject line: BRITISH FORMULA 4 – DRIVER PLACEMENT OFFER (CONFIDENTIAL)

She blinked again. Then looked up at him.

"No way."

Oscar ran a hand through his already-messy hair. "Mark wants me in for trials next month. If I do well, they'll sign me for the junior seat. Full kit. Sponsorship. Real team. Single seater."

Harper's eyes widened. "With TV coverage and contracts and all the posh helmets?"

"Yeah," he said, breathless. "Yeah."

She stood slowly, the email still glowing on his phone in her hand. "Oh my god. That's... huge."

"I know." He stared at her, eyes wild and overwhelmed. "It's insane. I didn't think they were even watching me this season. I thought they were going with the kid from Sheffield."

"Well, apparently not," she said, handing the phone back. "Osc..."

He let out a stunned, choked sort of laugh.

Sam, who had been half-asleep on the sofa under a textbook, sat up and said, "Wait, what? What's happening?"

"Oscar got scouted," Harper said. "British F4."

"No way," Sam said, eyes wide. "Holy shit, that's—wait, do you get free jackets? I want a jacket."

"Mate," Oscar said, sitting down on the arm of the chair like his legs had just remembered they were fifteen and overwhelmed, "I'm going to be a dad. In like... four months. And now I'm getting offered a chance to race across the country every other weekend."

Harper sat next to him. She was quiet for a second. "You want to do it?"

His eyes snapped to hers. "Of course I want to do it."

"Then you should."

"But what about—?"

"You're allowed to have something," she said, before he could even finish the sentence. "We knew that going into this, didn't we? That there'd have to be sacrifices. I want you to do this."

He stared at her like he didn't believe it. "Harper," he said quietly. "I'm not leaving you."

"I know," she replied. "This isn't leaving. This is just... adding something. You don't have to pick between the baby and racing. We'll figure it out. We always do."

Sam clapped dramatically. "Right, well, now that we've sorted your future — someone tell me what the actual fuck simultaneous equations are."

Oscar looked back at his phone. His hands were shaking slightly.

Harper nudged his shoulder. "You're going to be amazing," she said. "And I'm going to be there to watch you win, Osc. As often as I possibly can."

"No promises on the wins," he muttered, but he was smiling now, in that quiet, stunned way that said maybe—for a second—he actually believed he could do both. "But I'll try. For you."

—

There were five of them crammed onto the threadbare rug in front of the common room sofa, surrounded by empty crisp packets, half-finished smoothies, and someone's maths textbook that had been repurposed as a coaster.

"Okay," Jane said, flipping her notebook open like she was taking official minutes. "We've ruled out anything weird and American-sounding, and Alfie's last suggestion was 'Rogue,' so he's on name probation."

"Oi," Alfie muttered, mouth full of Pom-Bears. "It's gender neutral."

"It's also the name of an X-Man," Jane deadpanned. "Not happening."

Harper was lying on her side, head in Oscar's lap, one socked foot lazily nudging Matt's leg every time he got too lost in his book.

"We don't have to pick one today," she said, though she was smiling. "We've got plenty of time."

"No, because if you don't decide soon, Alfie's going to campaign for something unhinged like 'Peach' and convince you that it's cute," Matt said.

"'Peach' is adorable," Alfie said, utterly unbothered.

"Peach Whiatt-Piastri sounds like a cocktail you order by accident in Ibiza," Sam added.

Oscar was quiet. He was playing with the ends of Harper's hair, twisting the red strands absently around his fingers. He hadn't said much since they started this conversation — which, to be fair, had started because Jane had walked in and said, "Right, I've been thinking. If it's a boy, you can't call it anything that rhymes with 'fart.'"

Harper had gone pink and said, "We don't know if it's a boy or a girl yet," and then they'd all gone down a rabbit hole of neutral names, none of which had made it past the group vote.

Now, Sam said, "We could do something badass, like River. Or Ash. That sounds like someone who'd wear leather and be in a boy band."

"I veto both of those names," Jane said.

Oscar let out a soft, distracted, "Yeah. I don't like those either."

Harper shifted slightly and said, "What about something literary? Like a cool author name?"

"Like what?" Matt asked.

"I don't know... Eliot? Or Austen?"

"Isn't Austen a bit on-the-nose?" Sam said. "With you being fancy and everything."

Harper threw a crisp at him.

They went back and forth for another ten minutes. Names got weirder. At one point, Jane suggested 'Moss'. Alfie floated the idea of 'Jelly'. Someone genuinely said 'Cricket'.

Eventually, Harper sighed, turned over to lie on her back and looked up at Oscar.

"You haven't said anything. What do you like?"

Oscar blinked. "I... dunno."

"Well, do you want something traditional or weird?"

"Just something nice, I guess. Something that suits her."

Silence.

Complete, stunned silence.

Matt dropped his can of Pepsi on the floor.

Jane gasped. "Wait. Her?"

Oscar blinked. "Oh. Shit."

Harper slapped a hand over her eyes. "Oscar, oh my God."

"You know the gender?" Sam practically shouted, scrambling to sit up straighter.

"We just found out at the scan on Thursday," Harper said, her face now redder than the KitKat wrapper on the table.

"I can't believe you didn't tell us!" Jane shrieked, half-laughing, half-scandalised.

"You're all so dramatic," Oscar muttered, clearly trying not to laugh. "It's normal not to tell people. We just wanted it to be a secret between us for a while."

"Mate, you're going to have a daughter," Alfie said, eyes wide. "That's so crazy."

"It's not that crazy," Harper argued, sitting up now.

"Oh my God," Jane whispered, pressing a hand to her mouth. "We're going to be aunties and uncles to a tiny little baby girl. We have to buy her tiny Converse. Pink ones!"

"Do babies even wear shoes?" Sam asked.

"I think so," Jane said.

Oscar wrapped an arm around Harper and pulled her in a bit closer, his cheeks still pink. "Sorry. I didn't mean to say it. It just came out."

"I'm not mad," she said softly. "They'd find out eventually. And... it's kind of nice."

Matt was still staring at them. "A girl," he said again.

—

It was a Friday. The sky was low and grey, and Haileybury's quad looked like it had been dunked in dishwater. A breeze kept snapping at the blazers of students crossing between buildings. Harper was halfway through a very dull lunch of jacket potato and beans when the message came down from reception.

Someone was here to see her.

Not her mother. That had been her first question when the note from the admin office arrived.

No — it was a man. Mid-sixties, they said. Said he was her uncle.

"Is he angry?" Harper asked, standing beside the reception desk in her cardigan and too-small school skirt, her satchel cutting into her shoulder. The woman behind the desk — Mrs. Keller, who always looked like she was two sneezes away from retirement — blinked at her.

"Seemed... posh," she said, like it might be a warning. "Said he was your father's brother. Waitin' in the front hall."

Oscar was already there when she arrived — clearly having run the whole way from the library. His tie was half-askew and his hair was sticking up.

"You okay?" He asked. She'd texted him and asked him to meet her there.

"I don't know," she said honestly.

Then they stepped inside.

He was waiting by the mantelpiece, spine straight as a gatepost, coat over one arm. His suit was cashmere. His shoes shone like piano keys. His face — older than she remembered, thinner — broke into a polite, somewhat startled smile when he saw her.

"Harper," he said, approaching.

She blinked. "Uncle Thomas?"

He took her hand, briefly. Warm palm, dry fingers. "It's been years. My God. You look so much like your father."

She swallowed.

"This is Oscar," she said stiffly, stepping aside.

Thomas gave a cordial nod, but didn't hold out his hand. "I know who he is. I've spoken to your mother once or twice recently."

Oscar flushed. Harper tensed.

"I haven't," she said flatly.

"Well," said Thomas. "Then I envy you."

"Why are you here?" She asked. "I haven't seen you in years. Since the funeral, probably."

He exhaled, then reached into his coat. Produced a leather folder, worn but clearly expensive. "I'm here," he said, "because there are some things you weren't told after your father passed away. Things your mother, I suspect, ensured stayed buried. But you're nearly sixteen now, and legally—well, let's just say, some things are coming due."

He opened the folder and pulled out a few pages, slid them into her hands. Old estate paperwork. Land registry documents. Bank account details. And her name — "Lady Harper Grace Whiatt" — right there, typed in thin, haughty letters.

She stared at it. "What is..."

"It is all yours," he said gently. "Left to you by your father. It was meant to become accessible upon your sixteenth birthday, barring any specific contest. Your mother..." He trailed off. "She was aware of your main trust-fund, but your father was worried that she might— well, I'm sure you understand."

Oscar leaned over to glance at the documents. His mouth opened, then shut again.

Harper still hadn't spoken. Her throat felt dry.

"She loved him," she said finally. "My mum. But she hated everything about his family."

Thomas gave a sharp little smile. "Yes, well. She made that abundantly clear. But hate does not negate legal reality."

There was a long pause. Outside, the wind rattled the old glass panes.

"And your, um, baby?" Thomas asked carefully, glancing at her belly, still small but no longer invisible. "Healthy?"

"Yes. Why?" Harper said, eyes narrowing.

"It could complicates things. The trust wasn't written with a... continuation clause. We may need to involve a solicitor."

Oscar stepped forward. "You don't get to use legal language to scare her."

"I'm not trying to scare anyone," Thomas said calmly. "I'm trying to be honest. Your child, Harper, will be entitled to things too. In time."

Harper looked down at the paper again. Her father's name. Her own. Words like "estate" and "trustee" and "inheritance".

Then, in a whisper, "Why didn't you come before now?"

Thomas blinked. His expression cracked slightly. "I was asked not to."

"By my mum?"

He nodded once.

Harper swallowed. Then she folded the paper back into the folder, held it tight to her chest like a shield. "I'm not a Lady. I'm just... I'm just a girl trying to get through her GCSEs. I live in a dorm with a bunch of boys who eat cereal out of mugs. I'm fifteen and pregnant. And now you're telling me that I've inherited... all of this?"

Thomas looked like he didn't quite know what to say.

Oscar put a hand on her back.

Harper looked up at him. She didn't say anything.

"I'll leave the documents with you," Thomas said finally. "And if you need help... I'm not your father, Harper. But I did love him. And I'd like to know you. If you'll let me."

He gave her a shallow bow, then turned and left — expensive shoes echoing off the flagstone floor.

Silence dropped in his wake.

"Did that actually just happen?" Oscar asked.

"I don't know," Harper said, staring down at the folder in her hands. "But I think I just inherited two million pounds and an estate."

Oscar blinked. "That's mental."

"Completely," she muttered. "Absolutely mental."

Then she looked at him and added, "It might... it might make things easier, though. Won't it? You won't have to rely on your parents to keep paying for you to race, Osc." She breathed.

He frowned at her. "It's your money."

"We're a family now. We made that decision together." She said, quietly. "I don't need that much money, Osc. We'll be smart with it. Invest it in your career. Doesn't that make sense?"

She was starting at him so earnestly.

He held her. Leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers. "Think about it."

"I've thought about it." She said. "It's ours. We'll use it to make sure our baby gets the best of everything, and that you get the opportunity to get to the top. Yeah?"

"Yeah. Okay." He whispered. "Okay. This is insane, but... okay."

"We do this together, Osc. Everything." She told him. "The exams. The baby. Your career. My career. I'll be able to pay for a coding course and invest in my own projects." She said. Her eyes were sparkling. "I love you. And we're going to do this together, or not at all."

"Marry me." Was all he said.

She jerked away and laughed. "Shut up. We're fifteen!"

"Marry me." He said again.

She rolled her eyes. "We've got Chemistry in ten minutes, Piastri."

"Okay." He said. He was staring at her and smiling. "Okay, babe. Let's go to Chemistry."

NEXT CHAPTER

[captain-astors]

Finished up my attempt at Deuce within @where-does-the-heart-lie's fighting game AU! Feeling a little iffy about it but I might've just been staring at this for too damn long. Anyways thoughts, symbolism explanation, and sketches I made in the attempt bellow the cut.

Okay! So in general I worked with a rule of 2's when it came to Deuce's hearts with the exception of his camera, but that's supposed to pair with the pen with the little heart cap, I just didn't remember to keep that in my final drawings somewhere. Trying to strike a balance between "Just a guy" and "fun stylized outfit" was hard and I don't think I quite got it, but it was enjoyable nonetheless!

Heart glasses- Representative of how he loves observing the world and aspires to adventure through it. The cracked lens represents how the damage he's received from people he loved has caused him to look at others cynically at times. Meanwhile the unshattered lens sort of represents his tendency to look at those who earn his love with extreme levels of internal praise, half of Ace's first novel is just him waxing poetic about how lovely Ace is and I think that's hilarious.

Hearts on the gloves- He shows his love for the world and for people through the writing he does with his hands! But they're somewhat damaged because they've been utilized for the medicinal legacy that was forced upon him.

Heart on the camera/pen- A specific love for journalism and writing and telling a story, credits to Whery for the first one.

Spade on the shirt- Not technically a heart but it's a little play on how he keeps the Spades close to his heart/tends to be kind of pokey if you try to get close.

Spade/heart on the back of the shirt- Symbolic of the whole life-devoting love within him, so it's large, but it's kept guarded and tethered by the camera strap and can only be seen beneath a layer and if he trusts you enough to turn his back. It's mostly upside-down to look more like a heart if I'm honest, but that as well as that it's on his back and so guarded is all representative of how the family that he presumably once loved shamed and pressured him, making a sort of "weight on his back". It's spade shaped because that's who his devotion and love belongs to, but also when counted with the other one, Deuce!

One of my scrapped ideas was having the coat be a doctor's coat with the only hearts on it being scorched edges because something something fire set him free but he still uses his medicinal abilities to benefit people in his new life, but I couldn't get it to look right so I went with the summery looking thing he's wearing now. It's fine but it kind of lacks a personality, I think that's the main thing I'd try to revise if I redid this but I've already overthought it to hell so. Another day.

Ace in Dr. Robotnik's outfit from the sonic movie is there for facial reference and emotional support I guess, I made that a while ago.

And in one last vaguely related tangent, yours truly has a very distinctly heart-shaped birthmark on my foot. It symbolizes that I'm tired. (Jokes aside I think it's cool, afab actually stood for Assigned Fighting game character At Birth)

[soleminisanction]

That last post really hits on what bothers me so much about the "Tim needs to ~grow up~ and get a new name" fandom opinion.

People who say things like that don't like or respect Robin. They might like "the Robins," as in the collection of characters who have held the title, but they don't like Robin, the actual role and legacy of being one-half of the Dynamic Duo. They're continuations of the same attitude from the 80s where Robin is a "stupid kiddie idea for stupid little kids," only instead of wanting to eliminate it entirely, now it's treated as a training camp that you're ""supposed to"" grow out of and move on to something else that's totally independent.

(Or, y'know, they're people who like the Bat-fam but hate Bruce and thus the idea of any other character choosing to act as the Watson to his Holmes and actually enjoying it is inconceivable).

So they can't wrap their heads around the fact that Tim Drake is a Robin fan. That he likes being Robin specifically, not just any vigilante working with the Bats, but a continuing the legacy of his hero. He's excited to be Robin, beyond stoked to work with Bruce and Dick, and he's proud of what he built the legacy into.

You can't really say that about the others, with the notable exception of Dick for the 40 years prior to the New Teen Titans. Jason enjoyed being Robin but it wasn't exactly something he chose and there was conflict and baggage and nuance there. Steph wanted Robin as a means to an end, whether that end was getting Bruce to take her more seriously or spiting Tim for the assumed cheating. Damian mostly cares about Robin as a status symbol and a stepping stone on the path to his actual goal of becoming Batman.

Tim's the only one who became Robin for Robin's sake, because he wanted Robin to keep going, and who stays Robin because he enjoys doing the job. When people demand that he "grow up and move on," it feels like... idk, a harsher, meaner version "you're not allowed to have hobbies or passions anymore after you turn 25, go do your taxes."

[scriptumsempra]

IGNORANT

Summary: Sebastian Sallow is great at two things: dueling, and saying the worst possible thing to the girl he likes. Now she’s not speaking to him (but everyone else suddenly is). And not even six apology letters, a box of Honeydukes chocolate, or a toast-bribed owl can fix it. Word Count: ~4,900 (I’m a minimalist. That’s basically 10k in my language.) Tags: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC, Sebastian is not brooding, Explicit Language, Canon Divergence, Sebastian says something stupid and regrets it for 3000 words, Teen angst, Bird bribery, Character growth (probably), Love that might work if he stops being a prat, Sebastian being Sebastian, MC is so DONE, Emotional Spiral & Mental Breakdance, Slow Burn (kinda)

A/N: Back with some Ominis sass, a traumatised owl, and a healthy dose of teenage spiraling. This time, I stepped a little out of my comfort zone — wrote something longer, didn’t make everything too angsty, and just let them be teenagers. As they should be. (Also attempted to sneak in some humor. I hope I’m funny.)

Honestly, I feel bad for the characters in Hogwarts Legacy — so many of them are burdened by trauma far too early, not to mention that they're only teenagers. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to the stories I write: to let them have the moments they deserve. To give them a break — a space to be young, reckless, ridiculous — to worry about crushes and quarrels instead of villains, curses, or saving the world.

Anyway, this fic is inspired by Sebastian Sallow and his half-assed, owled apology (which, in my mind, is the wizarding equivalent of breaking up over text). And truthfully? The only thing that kept me going was the need to finally sleep at night, knowing he properly apologized to the MC Enjoy ❤️

If there’s one thing Sebastian Sallow is good at — better than reading, better than duelling — it’s definitely taking a certain new fifth-year for granted. (Gold star. Full marks. Ten points to Slytherin.) Which is why Sebastian hadn’t expected her to walk away. Not really. She was always ready with a comeback. A lecture. A frowned pair of eyebrows (that and a half-judgmental look). But this time? After he called her ignorant — after she flinched, just barely — she just stared at him. Silent. Lips parted like she wanted to say something, but thought better of it. Then she sighed. Turned. Walked out of the Undercroft like he hadn’t just cracked something wide open between them. And now she wasn’t speaking to him. And worse — everyone else was. ... “Look at this. Sebastian Sallow — hearts in pieces. Did you two lovebirds finally part ways?” Imelda asked one afternoon, leaning far too casually against a training dummy like she hadn’t been watching him fail conjuring Protego three times in a row. Sebastian didn’t even glance at her. “What now, Imelda?” “While you’re over here sulking, Larson and Prewett have been very chatty with your girl.” She tilted her head toward the other side of the room, where a small knot of students had gathered around her. “Oh, look. Even Clopton’s joined them.” “She can do whatever she wants. Now, go bite someone else’s head off.” He scoffed, turning his back and attempting to cast something — anything — with actual success this time. “I’m just saying — now that you’ve stopped hogging her, other blokes are lining up.” She gave a low whistle. “She’s not my girl” He snapped, voice louder than he intended it to be.  “Of course.” Imelda grinned. “Care to explain why you look like you’re going to hex someone every time they say hi to her, then?” Sebastian didn’t answer. Didn’t even look her way. He squared his stance, eyes locked on the training dummy like he hadn’t heard a word. Wand raised. Jinx ready. Across the room, her laughter bubbled out at something Andrew said. Quiet, really — just not to him. A blast — wide. Off target. Again. “Your loss, Sallow.” “OH—fuck off, Reyes.” She walked off laughing. Satisfied.

He threw a tantrum that night. Not on purpose.  It started with him stomping towards his room, scaring a pair of second-years along the way. Then it continued with his poorly written Transfiguration essay (and one quill that wouldn’t stop leaking). After that he’d tripped over his own shoes on the way to his trunk and stubbed his toe on the brass footboard. Next thing he knew, a downpour of profanities. The essay was in pieces. His robe was crumpled in one hand. He hurled it across the room like it had personally offended him. It landed in a sad heap beside his ink-splattered notes. From the other side of the room, Ominis groaned. “For Merlin’s sake — Sebastian, you’re being impossible.” “I’m not.” Sebastian snapped, voice cracking somewhere between protest and a whine. “Really?” Ominis sat up in bed, arms crossed over his night shirt. “Because it looks like you’re holding a personal vendetta against that robe.” Sebastian scowled. “I said I’m not angry, Ominis,” he repeated, half-screaming now. Ominis pointed toward the scattered essay pages. “Tell that to your Potions homework.” Sebastian didn’t even bother to correct him. He dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s just — she’s ignoring me.” “As she should be.” “And Larson’s been following her around like a lost kneazle.” “You called her ignorant, Sebastian.” “How did you— … I didn’t mean it—!” “But you said it.” Ominis replied, infuriatingly calm. “And she told me.”

Then he proceeded to dust off his sheets, as if the string of profanities his best friend had just graced him with had somehow soiled his expensive duvet. Sebastian groaned again. “Why are you even angry at the first place? You’re the one who put yourself in this position.” Sebastian opened his mouth. Closed it. Picked up a boot and dropped it again with a thud. “I’m not angry.” “You’re brooding.” “I am NOT brooding.” “And I am not blind.” Ominis went back to his bed, set his wand aside, and pulled his blankets up. “Try not to let your emotional collapse stain my side of the room. Good night, Sebastian.” He muttered yet another profanity (which brought his nightly violation count to three) before finally flopping himself into his bed, surrounded by a field of emotional debris. Eventually, he dragged himself to his desk, picked up his ruined essay, and glared at it like it might start apologizing first.

Sebastian woke up cranky. Ominis was right. He was brooding. Not that he’d ever admit it — no, his teenage pride would sooner hex itself than confess to something that pathetic. He tried to fall back asleep (emphasis on tried), but the word ignorant echoed in his ears every time he closed his eyes. And her face — he’d never seen her look at him like that before. Not angry. Not upset. Just… disappointed. An expression he hadn’t even known she had. Which is how he ended up with one hour of sleep and two dark circles under his eyes. For the hundredth time this morning, he groaned. Failure wasn’t something Sebastian was familiar with — not in class, not in duels, not in anything that mattered — but lately it clung to him like a second skin. Like now — after counting 520 imaginary mooncalves (he was that desperate), he gave up. Might as well start the day. Sleep-deprived or not. He kicked off the blankets and got dressed. Didn’t need a calendar to know it was Saturday. Ominis was nowhere in sight — breakfast, probably — and his bed was, of course, immaculately made. By the time Sebastian finished lacing his boots, he spotted an enchanted parchment and quill bobbing smugly over his desk, clearly Ominis’s handiwork — no doubt. It hovered like a nagging thought, practically vibrating with self-righteous energy. Go write her an apology. He squinted at it.

Piss Off. He’d already written five.  Five bloody letters — and not a single reply. Sebastian stormed out of his room — no longer hungry for breakfast. So he turned on his heel and redirected his steps.

If there was one other thing Sebastian despised about being sorted into Slytherin, it was the distance from their common room to the Owlery — a fact he cursed under his breath, panting halfway up the foul-smelling tower. He had owled her. Not once. Not twice. Five times.  (To which no single correspondence was ever received.) By the time he reached the top, he squinted through the rafters, eyes scanning for a familiar scops owl — the one with feathers as brown as his curls and eyes almost as big as Anne’s. A detail he remembered from when they’d first picked him out together. Didn’t take long. Their owl was perched there, nonchalant as ever, like it had absolutely nothing better to do. “What’ve you got, Nibbles?” he called. A peculiar name — if one must ask — but since he’d had the honor of choosing the owl, the naming rights had gone straight to Anne. If it had been up to him, he’d have picked something like Trouble. He found it completely ludicrous (and maybe a little bit brilliant) to imagine the reactions when people heard, ‘Trouble is here with your letter.’ The owl turned its head slowly. Let out a low trill. “Nothing? At all?” Nibbles blinked. Then hooted. One claw lifted — just enough to highlight the utter absence of mail. “Anything?” Sebastian thought he’d lost his mind, but he could’ve sworn Nibbles was judging him. As if it were saying: Do you see me with a bloody mail? Sebastian scratched his head. Having exhausted his own means, he resorted now to seeking out her owl instead. He didn’t spend long to spot the thing — small, white, and built like a snow-dusted paperweight with wings. Perched smugly just outside the window. Clearly, he was getting better at this whole owl-stalking business. “Hey, Cotton,” he murmured. It reminded him of the day she’d adopted her — that first trip to Hogsmeade, all wide eyes and cold fingers. He’d thought Chalk suited the owl better, but she’d insisted on Cotton. Something about wanting to be a seamstress as a child — a dream swiftly abandoned the moment she learned you could conjure fabric with a flick of a wand. (You can actually make them out of thin air? she’d gasped, completely scandalized, watching enchanted scissors float mid-air.) The owl didn’t even nudge. Like pet, like master. He muttered under his breath. “Can you help me deliver this?” He held out a neatly folded letter — his sixth one; faintly perfumed with florals. (Ugh. But Ominis had insisted.) No reply. Not even a glance. Sebastian was losing his mind. Academics? No problem. Curses? Easy. But girls? A completely different breed. (Witches and pets alike). Where was Anne when he needed her most? “Cotton, come on.. I’m trying here.” Sebastian groveled. “…Please?” he extended his other hand. A small piece of fresh toast laid on top of his palm. Sebastian never came unprepared, after all. The owl swiveled its head almost fully around, staring him down with its judgmental, marble eyes. Bribery won’t get you anywhere — He could’ve sworn the bloody owl had just spoken. With one single motion, it snatched the letter from one hand, pecked the toast from the other, and soared into the sky. Damned owl. Ominis might’ve been blessed with Parseltongue — Sebastian, it seemed, was cursed to negotiate with birds.

It was quiet in the library.

Not quiet quiet. Quiet enough to hear Madam Scribner’s boots echoing down the corridor — loud enough to make his headache throb like a cursed kettle. At some point, Sebastian briefly considered slamming his head into the nearest tome, if only to drown it all out. Sleep deprivation had a way of making everything too loud.

That place had always been his sanctuary.

Before the Undercroft, before the secrets, before he made a mess of everything — it was books, parchment, and peace. It fed his curiosity. Gave him silence. And most importantly — she never came here alone. So of course, now she did. (Sebastian was starting to think fate had a cruel sense of humour.)

He had come to borrow one bloody book. Not that he’d be reading it now. She sat on the same table near the Restricted Section. Same posture — back straight, eyes narrowed, quill tapping out some rhythm only she understood. She looked fine. Like she wasn’t having a spectacularly miserable morning. Like he hadn’t said something vile. Like her world hadn’t been tilted sideways by the boy who, for some reason, couldn’t keep his ego down or his bloody mouth shut. He hovered by the shelf for a beat too long, pretending to read the spine of Magical Theory. It might as well have been Magic and Misdemeanors: A Slytherin’s Guide to Self-Sabotage. He dared a glance. She didn’t look up. Didn’t pause. Didn’t frown. Didn’t shift the way she normally would if she felt someone watching her. She kept writing — head down, quill moving, completely undisturbed by his presence. A familiar envelope sat beside her books, dusted with crumbs from what looked suspiciously like his breakfast toast.

He made a mental note to return to the Owlery. Cotton had earned it — toast toll and all. Sebastian sighed. He thought about what he’d done — said — to her. Finally admitted (to himself, anyway) that Ominis was right. Again. He had been an arse, and he did deserve the silence. Another sigh. He was just about ready to walk over — maybe not to fix it, but to try — when: Everett Fucking Clopton. “Is that the new translation of Gamp’s Theorem?” he asked, sliding into the seat beside her like it was his by right. “Didn’t know Weasley mentioned it’d be in our test next week.” She gave him a small, non-committal hum. The audacity. Sebastian’s jaw tightened. That smug, know-it-all Ravenclaw sitting right there. Clopton — of all people — parked in his seat like he belonged there. His? Since when has it been his? Sebastian shoved the thought aside. But he noticed how Everett leaned in. How her grip around her quill tightened. Clearly uncomfortable — too polite to say anything.

Typical. That was all it took. He stalked forward, each step louder than it should’ve been. “Ah, Sallow — we were just talking about—” “Move.” Not a request. Not a question. A threat. Everett blinked. Mouth open. Words floundering. Sebastian didn’t wait. His eyes cut to the empty space across from her — his spot — and he dropped into it without permission. Clopton hovered awkwardly, still half-seated beside her. “Right. Well, I suppose I’ll—” “I said, Move,” Sebastian repeated. Flat. Final. Everett finally took the hint, muttered something about needing a book from Ancient Runes, and fled. Silence settled between them. Not tense. Not hostile. Just — careful. Like the quiet after an explosion, when the dust hasn’t fully cleared. She didn’t look up. Sebastian did. Studied the way her eyes tracked the page. The deliberate flick of her wrist as she underlined a sentence with her quill. The way she ignored him so completely, it might’ve been an art form. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Sebastian cleared his throat. No response. He leaned forward, trying again. “I know you’re angry. I get it—well, maybe not get it, but—look, I’m trying.” No answer. He sighed. “I was an idiot. More than usual. Just… talk to me, will you?” Still Nothing. “Please.” That made her look up. Not all the way. Just enough that her eyes met his over the top of the parchment. “Actually, I should thank you.” She said quietly. A pause — light, but deliberate. “...For teaching me something I hadn’t realised — that I’m actually quite… dim-witted.” Sebastian quickly opened his mouth, but she didn’t miss a beat. “—I suppose that’s what you really think of me.” Sebastian felt it — a knife to his gut. She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t even sound upset — but it landed like a curse. “What’s the word? … Oh — ignorant.” And just like that, the knife twisted. Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t know how.

A minute passed. Then another.  She didn’t cry. She never did. And that, somehow, made it worse.

…Fuck. “You don’t say that word by accident, Sebastian.” Her voice was quiet, but unwavering. She’d never said his name like that before — like it meant something broken. “You say it when you want to wound.” Fuck. Then she blinked, once — slow. Her eyes were glassy, but nothing fell. Didn’t need to. “Congratulations, Sebastian. You managed.”

Her words sank in slow — like poison. No antidote in sight. Completely fucked. And in that moment, Sebastian felt like he was going to be sick. Or die. Maybe both.

Sebastian returned to the dorm that night. No shouting. No slammed doors. Just silence — the complete opposite of the tantrum he’d thrown the night before. Quiet. Heavy. Like something had been carved out of him. Ominis tilted his head slightly. “Everything alright?” No answer. Not even a groan. Sebastian just stood there, eyes vacant — staring at the canopy like an Inferius that had just lost its soul. “Sebastian?” A beat. Then… “I’m fucked, Ominis.” Ominis calmly raised his wand, red light casting shadows over Sebastian’s face — as if checking to confirm whether he was, in Sebastian’s own terms, well and truly fucked. “Yes, well,” Ominis muttered, frowning. “I didn’t want to be the one to say it. But here we are.” Sebastian dragged a hand down his face and groaned. “I know that sound. You’re breathing like someone who’s either heartbroken… or hexed — Possibly both.”

“Brilliant, Gaunt. Really helpful.” He rolled his eyes as if Ominis could see him. “Well, you started.” Ominis crossed his arms. “And frankly, I’ve never seen you look more pathetic — and I’ve seen you lose a duel to a fourth-year.” “That was one time—” “And this is worse.” Sebastian groaned, collapsing into his bed like the weight of the day had finally flattened him. “She hates me.” “I’d say you earned it.” He groaned louder. Ominis leaned back, looking far too satisfied for someone not even trying to hide his I-told-you-so. “You’ll need to do better than just talk to her. Apologizing isn’t a one-time spell, Sebastian. It’s not Reparo.” Sebastian grumbled something about Ominis being utterly insufferable — but then his shoulders dropped, and he exhaled, defeated. “What should I do, Ominis?” He hated asking. But he hated not knowing more. “I could tell you to write her another letter,” Ominis offered flatly, “but we both know how well that went last time — or the other four times.” At this rate, Sebastian’s groans were starting to rival a banshee’s — tragic, high-pitched, and very hard to ignore. “Merlin, just kill me.” “No, no.” Ominis sat up with a grin. “I’d rather see you suffer. Much more entertaining.” Sebastian dragged the pillow over his head. “I didn’t mean it, you know. The word.” Ominis’s voice softened — just a little. “Then tell her that. Not with parchment. Not through Clopton’s seat in the library. Properly.” “I did, Ominis. I’m telling you, I did everything.” Sebastian flopped in his bed, dramatically. “And she’s still mad?” Didn’t need a pair of working eyes to know Sebastian nodded into his pillow. Ominis sighed. “Then you’re right. You’re completely fucked. There, I said it.”

Sebastian nearly cried. At this point, even ancient magic couldn’t save him.

Sebastian had spent the day circling corridors, half-expecting her to step from behind a stone pillar or breeze past him on the stairs with that unreadable look she wore so well. She hadn’t. Not in the common room. Not in Charms. Not even the Undercroft.

(And he didn’t miss the way she’d stopped calling it “ours.”)

He told himself — as he always did — that it wasn’t about her. That Anne was still slipping away, and everything else was just noise in the background: a blurry chorus of things that didn’t matter as much.

But then she looked at someone else the way she used to look at him.

And the noise became unbearable. ... “Violet, please,” he muttered under his breath in Herbology, elbow-deep in damp mulch.

“For the umpteenth time: No, Sebastian.” Violet pinched her lips. “She told me she’d hex my eyebrows off if I even tried to interfere.” “She wouldn’t,” he said, though he wasn’t sure — but he pretended he was. Had to. Asking her roommate for help felt like a low move, but he was desperate. “She would,” said Poppy next to her, pale and wide-eyed. “She made Imelda flinch. Imelda, Sebastian.” He blinked. “What did Imelda say?” Violet gave him a look. “Imelda said you were a ‘disgrace to the male species’ and that maybe next time, don’t insult someone you want to snog.” Sebastian blinked. Twice. “Snog—?” he echoed, already regretting opening his mouth. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then let his head drop onto the table with a dramatic thud. Fine. Let them think that. Let the whole castle whisper about it over breakfast, lunch, and Astronomy Tower detentions. If everyone was so intent on believing he fancied her— ...well. Maybe he did. (But in the name of Salazar, he was far too exhausted to argue the semantics of it.)

Damned be the whole world.

“She didn’t like that either,” Poppy added helpfully. “Almost blasted her off behind the Quidditch pitch.”

Sebastian groaned into his hands. He was losing allies fast. ... By the end of the day, he’d made it through the classes — barely. Words floated past him like fog, lessons sinking in like water on stone. The chatter, the spells, the dull drone of professors’ voices all blurred into a dull hum. Nothing truly reached him; his mind was tangled elsewhere, still circling the same thought over and over, a loop he couldn’t break. By the time he reached the dormitory, exhaustion weighed him down so thoroughly he barely noticed Ominis sitting cross-legged on his bed. “Rough day?” Ominis asked, arching an eyebrow. Sebastian dropped onto his bed with a hollow sigh. “You think?” Ominis might be entertained by Sebastian’s foolery, but he wasn’t blind to how fast things were falling apart—his relationships unraveling, Anne slipping further out of reach, and the whole Slytherin girls’ dorm convinced he was a laughingstock. Though, to be fair, he’d earned every bit of it. For the millionth time, Sebastian groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m a disgrace.” “More like a disaster,” Ominis said with a smirk before leaning forward. “But there’s something you need to know.” Sebastian looked up, wary. “She wants to see you — Undercroft.” His heart thudded, surprise jolting through him. “Are you sure? How did she look? Was she angry?” he asked, scrambling off the bed in a hurry. Ominis held up a hand. “Sebastian, might I remind you — I’m blind.” Sebastian froze mid-step, eyes wide. “Right. Of course. I forgot you navigate the world without sight and can’t see the utter mess I’m in. Lucky you.” The words slipped out easily — more habit than insult at this point in their friendship. Ominis snorted. “Precisely. So stop asking me what she looked like. You want an opinion, you’ll have to ask someone with eyeballs.” Sebastian flopped back onto his bed. For a long moment, the weight pressing on his chest lifted, replaced by something unfamiliar — a cautious flicker of hope. Maybe this was his chance. Maybe this was the moment to reclaim what he’d lost. He drew in a shaky breath — the quiet before the storm. “When does she want to meet me again?” He hesitated only a moment, heart thundering like he was walking into a duel. But this was worse. This time, he might actually lose. “Now.” Ominis never heard him bolt that fast before.  (He probably should’ve offered a floo powder, but… better late than never.)

Sebastian stood before the odd-shaped cupboard that led down into the Undercroft. His breath came fast — half from the sprint, half from the weight pressing on his chest. Somewhere along the way, he’d remembered Floo powder existed — and how much of a pain Ignatia Wildsmith could be — but sod it. He was almost here. No shortcuts today. Not for this. In his palm rested a small box of chocolate truffles, still warm from his pocket. Not her usual thing — she’d told him once on their first trip to Hogsmeade that she didn’t like sweets — but as a relentless sweet tooth, Sebastian had insisted she try them. He’d never forget the look on her face when she finally did: surprise mixed with reluctant delight, like she’d found something unexpectedly good. He pushed the memory aside and stepped into the Undercroft. There she was, leaning against the cold stone wall — a heavy book in one hand, her wand in the other. She looked up at him — gaze like glass: hard, polished, nothing getting through. “Long time no see,” he said, voice cracking slightly.

What the actual fuck was that? 

An apology? A greeting? A declaration of war? He wasn’t sure. Probably sounded like a nervous frog croaking for help. All the charm Hogwarts claimed he had — and that was the best he could come up with?

He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

He held out the box, voice rough. “I brought these. Your favourite.” Peace Offerings, he thought. Her eyes flicked to the truffles, then back to him — still burning.

“Bribery?” Her tone sharpened, rising just a little. The word hit him like a hex. He was scared shitless. Then she said it — slow, deliberate, with that weight only she could carry: “Sebastian Sallow —” His heart nearly stopped. Cold sweat ran down his spine. “—What do you think I am? A bloody owl?” The tension shattered. He blinked, the fear slipping away as if someone had lifted a curse. Because yes — now that she said it — she really did look like Cotton. Fierce, sharp-eyed, and utterly unyielding. Her gaze said it all — Bribery won’t get you anywhere. Pets and their masters, after all. Judgmental stares included. That blasted owl. “And?” She snapped — growing more impatient by the minute. His mind immediately went back to the undercroft. The thought almost made him laugh, but he swallowed it down, hard. Focus, Sebastian. If he dared to laugh now, he’d be hexed to oblivion. No doubt about it. No, he’d literally die. So instead, he forced himself steady. “Maybe I’m just trying to learn from my mistakes.” She didn’t smile. The silence stretched, thick and heavy between them. After what seemed to be forever, she sighed. “What do you want now?” she finally asked, voice low. “Your forgiveness." His throat tightened. "I.. I didn’t mean it — didn’t mean the word like that.” Sebastian exhaled slowly, the weight of his pride battling the truth. “I was angry. Frustrated. I’m sorry. I really am.” For a moment, she was back in Feldcroft — back when he barely slept, back when he snapped at Ominis for breathing too loud and nearly hexed a Hufflepuff just for asking about Anne. She remembered how his hands trembled in the catacombs. How his voice cracked every time he said her name. How he flinched —flinched— when his uncle raised it at him one too many times.

She tried to understand. Merlin, she wanted to. Even when he lashed out. Even when he shut her out. Even when he looked at her like she was just another thing standing between him and a cure. But there had to be a line. And somehow, even after everything — even after she stood by him through spellfire and Scriptorium and loss — he still found a way to cross it. No matter how much she wanted to understand, there was only so much she could take. Her eyes softened for the briefest moment, just enough for a crack to show. “Words hurt, Sebastian. You don’t simply cast them out and pretend they were never said.” “—But I didn’t mean—” “It makes no difference.” Her voice was quiet, but every word landed like a curse. There was a slight pause before she finally continued “...You said it when it suited you best.” He exhaled — the weight of it sagging through him. “I know… I’m sorry. I mean it.” “Are you?” He looked at her. “I swear — I am.” Her lips curled into something resembling a smile — all edge, no warmth. “Am what, Sebastian?” she said, plucking a truffle from the box without ceremony. He knew where this was headed. The answer sat heavy on his tongue, pride coiled tight in his throat. "You’ll have to be more specific — I’m rather… dim-witted, as you can see.” His lips twitched. The sting hit sharper than he expected. He let out a bitter laugh. “… ignorant,” he muttered inaudibly. “Hm?” she asked, casually plucking another truffle, as if she hadn’t just heard him surrender the last shred of his pride. "I am ignorant." There. Said it. Let it hang. She leaned back against the wall, smile curling—dimples and all. “Precisely.” Sebastian shook his head, half-smiling like someone who knew they’d lost. Then he laughed — low, dry, a little pathetic.

Still, worth it. That was the first time he’d seen her smile in weeks. “Friends?” she asked, voice calm again — She extended her hand. eyes dry, unreadable. Sebastian hesitated. Then took it. “Friends.”

Their hands shook once. He let go. Hm?

It didn’t feel right — No, no. Not quite right. Not when her fingers had felt that warm. Not when her touch still lingered like a spell he didn’t know the counter to. He glanced at her — dimples flashing faintly as she turned back to her parchment. Unbothered. Recovered. Like nothing had happened. But something had. Something big. And late as ever, he was just now catching up. Sebastian stared at the spot where her hand had been and, very slowly, remembered what Imelda had said to Poppy in the Training Room.

Next time, don’t insult the girl you want to snog. (Brutal advice. Accurate advice).

Oh, 

Oh. 

Bloody hell.

He was in love with her. (Of course he was. Only took him a full-blown crisis and half a box of truffles to catch on.)

The rest of the day was… different. He didn’t hover anymore. He didn’t grovel. He didn’t owl six times a day or bribe birds with toast or offer sad, crumpled bits of Honeydukes chocolate.

He didn’t need to. She sat next to him again — sometimes. Walked with him after class — sometimes. And when she did, she leaned into his shoulder without needing to explain herself. He didn’t ask. She didn’t pull away. They didn’t talk about what had changed, but it was there — in the silence, in the glances, in the small, unconscious ways her arm brushed against his as they walked through the courtyard. And when one of their classmates — Leander, now — strolled up beside her outside Herbology, grinning too easily and saying something about Hogsmeade plans, Sebastian didn’t even flinch.

He reached up. Rested an arm across her shoulders. Let it stay there.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t mind.

If anything, she tilted her head — slightly — toward him.

Prewett took the hint.

Sebastian said nothing.

He didn’t need to anymore.

He’d earned his place beside her.

It had taken one insult, two owls, six letters, a box of chocolate, and a few minor mental breakdowns… but he was here.

No letters. No toast. No bribes. Just him.

And it was enough.

For once — Sebastian knew when to stop. (He'd gladly prove his uncle wrong.)

P.S. 1. Points if you can tell I was binge-listening to Sabrina Carpenter’s “Manchild” while writing this. (Lol. Fitting, isn’t it?) 2. Bonus points if you caught that “ignorant” was emotionally powered by Gordon Ramsay’s “idiot sandwich” meme energy. (Tell me Sebastian Sallow wouldn’t deserve the same treatment.) Thanks for reading — I hope it makes you laugh, wince, and maybe even yell at Sebastian a little. Let me know what you think! -Nina

✦ The Spiral (So Far): [2/3] : Sixth Time's The Charm

[3/3] : Signed, Sealed, Survived

[ducksido]

Hi! I hope you're doing well. I'd like to see the reactions of the Twisted Wonderland boys to a male Yuu who is their partner BUT we’re from the Malfoy family and our brother is Draco. We have the same personality as him, and if possible, we’re his twin brother. We are Draco’s (adult) twin brothers, oh yeah.🔥

(I only did housewardens + some random characters. (i spun a wheel) and male!yuu)

Housewarden's

Riddle Rosehearts At first, Riddle is constantly flustered. You’re confident, aristocratic, and walk around like you own Night Raven College. He tries to lecture you about rules, but you always manage to twist things around with silver-tongued logic that makes him look like the one out of line. Still, he admires your poise and elegance—something he resonates with deeply. The Malfoy name and your mannerisms impress his mother (a bit too much), and Riddle panics when she starts suggesting matching cloaks for you both.

“I do wish you’d follow the rules more, but… you do look remarkably dignified in that uniform.”

Leona Kingscholar Oh, he loves it. That snarky attitude? The disdainful smirks? The way you carry yourself like a prince even in the dust and grime? You’re like an aristocratic flame he can’t stop poking. There’s constant banter—your refined Malfoy shade vs. his lazy princely sarcasm. When you rest in his lap with a “You should feel honored,” he just smirks and says, “Keep dreaming, blondie.” Deep down, he’s obsessed with your sass and calls you “My snob.”

“Tch. You’re arrogant, dramatic, and clearly spoiled… Don’t stop. It’s entertaining.”

Azul Ashengrotto He sees you and goes: power couple potential. You walk into the Lounge like you own it? Azul is immediately imagining your names on a business plaque. You charm clients with that rich pureblood charisma while he handles the deals—it’s perfect. Your “I'm a Malfoy, darling” line has floored Floyd more than once, and Jade genuinely enjoys your wit. Azul acts cool, but internally he’s giddy every time you lean over and whisper venomous observations about other students in that smooth drawl.

“I must say, Mr. Malfoy… having you by my side is a terrifying advantage.”

Kalim Al-Asim You’re like...a whole new species to Kalim. He’s fascinated. You always act like everything around you is quaint, and he adores how proper you are—like a storybook noble. He doesn’t even notice your judgmental little remarks half the time; he just laughs and offers you more baklava. When you actually soften for him (in private), it makes his heart melt. “You’re the only one here worthy of my time,” you whisper—and he’s swooning.

“You’re so different from everyone I know… but I love that about you!”

Vil Schoenheit Power. Couple. You both radiate beauty, pride, and unshakable self-worth. Others can’t stand to be near you for too long because the combined judgment is crushing. You two correct people’s posture with synchronized sneers. But there’s a surprising softness between you and Vil—brushing his hair, matching cologne, whispered words of affirmation masked in aristocratic elegance. Epel thinks you two might actually be the same person split into two bodies.

“We are not ‘too much’—we are simply correct. And if the world can’t keep up, that’s its failure.”

Idia Shroud At first, he’s intimidated. You’re elegant, confident, and you talk like you’ve never seen a video game in your life. But then—you call him darling. With a smirk. You tease him gently, but always with this aura of protectiveness. Idia’s heart explodes. He starts calling you “my evil noble overlord bf” and writes fanfic about you two where he’s your mysterious magical bodyguard. You play along with the drama perfectly, like a Malfoy who found a socially anxious gremlin and just decided, “This one is mine.”

“W-wait… you actually… like me? You’re not just roleplaying some… aristocrat kink!?”

Malleus Draconia Oh, a fellow noble with centuries of tradition behind the family name? He is intrigued. You and he bond over legacy, etiquette, and terrifyingly intimidating stares. But you’re dramatically sassy in a way that Malleus finds deeply amusing—like an elegant cat batting at things it hates. You openly critique NRC architecture, call Lilia’s tea “peasant brew,” and pet Sebek on the head like a dog. Malleus, utterly charmed, just chuckles and says, “How delightful you are, my little Malfoy.”

“You are bold, arrogant, and strangely enchanting… You must meet my grandmother.”

Bonus: Others

Ruggie Bucchi “Rich, cocky, and talks like he’s above everyone?” He should hate you. But you feed him imported wizarding pastries and fix his tie with a delicate touch. You always act like he’s your pet hyena, and Ruggie just rolls with it. He teases you about being “too soft” for the Slums™, but deep down, he likes your snooty attitude—it makes him laugh when you get flustered.

Silver You treat him like a knight sworn to protect your delicate nobility. He doesn’t really get your dramatic nature, but he respects your pride. You’ll ruffle his hair and say, “You’re the only one here with manners,” and he’ll nod solemnly. You fall asleep on him, and he carries you to bed like a perfect Malfoy prince deserves.

Sebek Zigvolt He doesn’t know how to process you. You insult his tone, correct his posture, and call him a “shrieking goblin” when you’re mad—but he can’t deny how regal and commanding you are. You remind him of Malleus in a weird way. There’s lots of yelling, but you two somehow make it work. When you defend him to others? He blushes to his ears.

Floyd Leech He thinks you’re hilarious. You act like you’re made of porcelain, and he’s always poking at you to see when you’ll snap. You call him a “brutish merman” and he just laughs and picks you up like a cat. You may act above it all, but you secretly love the chaos. Floyd calls you “Fancy-pants” and smothers you with affection in public just to mess with your image.

[llannasvsp]

Due to my last post I do feel the need to clarify some things.

I'm totally fine with people referring to Lloyd in the second half of Legacy of the Green Ninja as being "mentally nine", because AT THAT POINT, he would be.

Posts that show him fighting the Overlord and saying "he was only nine years old". Yes. I'm all for that. Because AT THAT POINT the passage of time had not been great enough for him to instantly grow up, adapt, and ACTUALLY get older.

However, when we get to Dragons Rising, where there have been literal YEARS in between Child's Play in Legacy of the Green Ninja to the end of Crystalized, even MORE years in between the end of Crystalized and the Merge, and then MORE years in between the Merge and the actual start of Dragons Rising, that's when it gets a bit infuriating.

Even IF Lloyd had NOT thrown the tea, he would be at the least around 20 years old. No matter what way you look at it, he IS an adult.

"But he threw the tea!" Yea. And if he hadn't, he still would have grown up.

It's also VERY important to remember that things like trauma can age a person. His mental age would have caught up with his new physical age VERY quickly due to trauma, and also the fact that people would treat him as the age he was physically. It probably took the Ninja some time to adapt to his age acceleration, but the general public would not look at him and think, "let's treat him like a nine year old". Because they wouldn't know.

Anyway, just some things to think about. I'm done rambling about this. Sometimes it just pops into my head and I have to yap or I'll implode. It's okay for characters to grow up.

And Lloyd in Dragons Rising is at LEAST 25 years old with the tea, 20 without, which means he's an adult, no matter how you look at it.

[theperfectquestion]

TWENTY YEARS TO MIDNIGHT

The Venture Brothers starts out as a show that makes fun of the past, but lasted long enough to be one that truly understands it.

So I rewatched The Venture Brothers in one big splurge over the course of two weeks, from Turtle Bay to Baboon Heart.

One of the most charming things about the show is a product of its lengthy creation process and the fact that it was written almost entirely by just two people. The story nearly has a tight continuity, so if you take it at its word then all the events of the story take place over a period of two and a half years, while the actual show was made over a period of twenty years.

The outcome of this curious time dilation is that we follow the Venture Brothers, Hank and Dean, through those difficult years between 16 and 18, but we also follow the writers, Jackson Publick and Doc Hammer, through the difficult years between their twenties and their forties. The show begins irreverent, contrarian and cruel and changes, cell by cell, into something wiser and more profound.

The treatment of Rusty Venture, former boy adventurer and long-suffering heir to the poisonous Venture legacy, is a fascinating thread to follow. In the very first episode he steals his son's kidneys like a ghoul, and his various addictions and neuroses are firmly treated as quirky objects of pity. I don't know much about the personal lives of the writers, but I imagine a certain amount of tragedy would have found them over the course of twenty years. A certain empathy for Rusty's position kicks in around the second season and develops strongly throughout the years. By the time the writers have reached the age that Rusty is when he is introduced, there are delicate attempts to reach out to the poor man, to understand and maybe counteract some of his own personal tragedy, though careful not to smother the comedy that such a character brings to the table.

But the thread I enjoyed following the most was that trailing behind Action Johnny. If you have ever heard of The Venture Brothers, you already know that the show began as a parody and deconstruction of the 1960s Hanna Barbara cartoon Jonny Quest, which was itself an attempted relaunch of the Edisonade craze of the 1910s, riding on the coattails of the far more successful and popular Tintin and Uncle Scrooge comics.

Jonny Quest was the son of a world famous scientist and adventurer, Doctor Quest, who led an extraordinary jet setting life where he accompanied his father to exotic places to experience exciting, often racist, science-themed thrills instead of going to school. He was watched over by his lantern-jawed bodyguard, Race Bannon, and joined with his adopted brother, Hadji.

The Venture Brothers stole this set-up entirely, and Rusty's backstory is a carbon copy of Jonny's. We are first told that this is something more than a swipe early on in the first season of The Venture Brothers when Race Bannon appears, as himself, as a secret agent belonging to the same organisation as the Venture family bodyguard, Brock Samson. It's a clever shorthand for saying that boy adventurers are not singular in this world, they are a type, one which occupies a distinct social strata along with their bodyguards, enemies and other supporting cast members.

The way that we are told this fact, in the seventh episode of the first season, is peak 2004 adult swim: beloved cartoon character Rave Bannon drops out of the sky, lands in front of one of our characters, dies, then shits himself. This was vaguely subversive at the time, but twenty years of Robot Chicken and the like have rendered it a tired, hoary gag. Venture Brothers itself has proved that this moment is at least a wasted opportunity. There was undoubtedly more comedy and interest to be mined from having Race Bannon around as an older counterpart to Brock Samson. But there was fun to be had with squandering opportunities and biting the hand that feeds for writers in their twenties in 2004.

When Jonny Quest himself appears in 2006's season two episode, Twenty Years to Midnight, things aren't much different. Jonny is found haunting the bathyscaphe from the cartoon, injecting heroin, waving an antique pistol and ranting about his father. He has a teardrop tattoo and missing teeth. He is discovered by Rusty's brother, the overachieving but naïve Jonas Junior. It's a much better gag in execution than the Race Bannon one, despite being essentially the same beat, but there is some pathos thanks to Brendan Small's delivery. Jonny is left alive, unlike Race, but the capper to this scene is somehow more humilating and tragic than when Race's corpse shat himself: Jonny is brought on side by Jonas Junior who, pressed for time and not as accustomed to being threatened and menaced as Rusty is, is unable to apply superscience to this situation and simply offers Jonny a supply of heroin.

The entertainment industry's relationship to its back catalogue of intellectual property has changed a lot in the last two decades. Characters like Jonny and Race were embarrassing curios in Ted Turner's garage in 2006. Why not dust them off and kill them in a cartoon to make college kids giggle? Why not give them a crippling drug habit and have them collapse to their knees, bellowing, "I'm in real pain!" But within ten years the media behemoths realised they could spin their old straw into gold, and instead of selling sheink rays at a yard sale, so to speak, they were putting the Flintstones in ads for Halifax bank.

So the Venture Brothers show renamed their tragic, adult Jonny Quest to 'Action Johnny' and in doing so was forced to consider him as a character rather than a skit. And the colossal strength at the heart of the Venture Brothers is in taking ridiculous things like boy adventurers seriously. Jonny Quest was allowed to become a valuable (?) piece of IP, forever a child, forever innocent and marketable, while Action Johnny could live his life unfettered by the parent company's fears.

Action Johnny appears two years later in Season 3, sober but shaky, doing a favour to Rusty by running a seminar for his ill-fated summer camp. He undercuts the spirit of the event by warning the children of the long term effects of adventures on the psyche and unravels into rants about his father. It's a solid bit by itself, especially when contrasted with a neighbouring table from the Pirate Captain (who, despite being an important recurring character, the show refuses to give a name) about the joys of being part of the 'rubber mask set.' Though the world of the Venture Brothers is nominally organised through a bureaucracy of licenced 'protagonists' and 'antagonists,' the biggest tension on screen is between the characters who chose the life, like the Pirate Captain, and those who had the life forced upon them, like Action Johnny. It just so happens that the former tend to end up as tortured, resentful good guys and the latter wind up as joyful, carefree villains.

Bringing that point home in the same episode is the appearance of Doctor Z as the summer camp's headliner. Doctor Z is the final borrowed character Jonny Quest, and one who the writers clearly take the brightest shine to, probably because he has the funniest voice to imitate. Doctor Z also represents the goals of show's resplendent second half - having deconstructed the boy adventurer genre in the early seasons, the Venture Bros very carefully puts the pieces back together into something wholly new.

And so Doctor Zin, the generic yellow peril villain of Jonny Quest, becomes Doctor Z, the retired and contented former archfiend of the Venture Bros. Doctor Z is treated by the other characters as something like a national treasure, a beloved old star who made the game his own. The joke of Doctor Z is that he seems genuinely bemused that his lifetime of villainy seems to have had a lasting negative effect on people. When he appears at Rusty's summer camp, all theatre and terror, he is delighted to meet his old foe Action Johnny, while Johnny is thrown into a whirlwind of trauma at the sight of Z, one that will drag him down into further troubles.

Doctor Z will become more of a feature than Action Johnny over the following years as the show becomes more interested in its older cast members - the ones whose personalities shaped the world, and who have sunny memories of the days that were so painful to Rusty and Johnny. He is part of a larger rehabilitation arc on the meta level, where characters with reprehensible aspects to them are held up for the audience to inspect so that they may find some empathy with them. Sargent Hatred is the poster child of this era, who is a repentant paedophile who joins the main cast as the Venture Brothers' new bodyguard. He's a whole other topic, but Doctor Z has the same function as Hatred, but on a metatextual level. His ancestor, Doctor Zin, is a hideous racial stereotype of the sort that makes modern revivals of the adventure genre so unpalatable. In its first deconstructionist half, the Venture Brothers show would simply wave Doctor Z around as shock tactic - 'look how racist Jonny Quest was, and by extension the company that made it and, logically, its audience!' and then maybe give him a violent and undignified death to wash their hands of the whole matter. But the reconstructivist Venture Brothers show embraces Doctor Z, and takes him beyond his tawdry origins to become an integral part of its story.

In 2009, Action Johnny helps Rusty to articulate this in the episode 'Self-Medication' from Season 4. Johnny and Rusty are in the same therapy group for former boy adventurers, a premise that would later be stolen wholesale by the She-Hulk show. A trail of tenuous clues leads the group to Doctor Z's house in the middle of the night. Johnny forces a confrontation with Z, accusing him of murdering their therapist to perpetuate the spiral he has been in since he saw Z take the stage back at Rusty's day camp. Doctor Z immediately groks the situation and invites the former boy adventurers into his home for tea with his beloved wife, who proudly proclaims herself to be his beard. Doctor Z is proud of what he has done in life, and so has the ability to put the past behind him. Sat between Z and Johhny, who is unable to move on, Rusty realises that he has more in common with the antagonist in the room than the protagonist. Rusty has many such insights throughout the length of the show and they lead him to an interesting end point where he seizes the nettle and becomes a parental figure to the whole weird superscience community.

The final encounter between Action Johnny and Doctor Z takes place nine years (!) later in our timeline - 2018's 'The Terminus Mandate.' Doctor Z is retiring from active villany and, according to the ceremony-obsessed fraternity of organised supervillans, that means he must menace his archenemy one last time. Action Johnny's father is long gone, so Johnny inherits that dubious honour.

It's the first time that we see Doctor Z not being fully committed to the bit. Johnny is resident at a posh rehab clinic and Doctor Z is conflicted between genuinely wanting to see Johnny again but unsure of how to interact with him in a way that doesn't cause actual, lasting harm. Doctor Z even brings a prop from a Jonny Quest cartoon as a gift, in a sequence lovingly reanimated to translate Jonny Quest's vocabulary into the Venture Brothers' language. The sequence chosen is virulently racist, almost too racist to be believed: a mask of the god Anubis lands on top of Johnny's dog, and Doctor Z's Egyptian henchmen suddenly believe that the mask is a vengeful god come to punish them and so abandon the young Doctor, giving the advantage to Johnny's team. In the lobby of the rehab centre, in the late to evening, Doctor Z struggles to articulate why the Anubis mask means so much to him and Johnny cringes at the memory while enjoying the act of reminiscing. He offers to go and run and hide, so that Z can find him, and they both discover they are delighted by the idea.

It's a touching, uncomfortable and deeply weird scene that, to me, is the pinnacle of The Venture Brothers as a creative endeavour. Behind it is a group of people who have been mulling over the implications of Jonny Quest as a short-lived but impactful cultural phenomenon for most of their adult lives. They have been mining the absurdity, the legacy, the implications, the pathos and the bathos of those 26 half-hours of cartoon and found incredible treasures. It starts with finding a silly old thing in the attic that you want to ridicule and it ends, twenty years later, with you acknowledging the attachment one has formed to that silly old thing, and how it has informed your life, for better or worse, in ways you can't deny.

[its-not-a-pen]

eunuch rating system: part 2 electric boogaloo! part 1 based on the original post by @welcometothejianghu wherein i continue to rate REAL historical chinese eunuchs! this is a non-exhaustive list and there's honestly no metric to it. i just pick the guys i like.

Han Dynasty (yes, again. the Han was like 400 years long lol) Cao Teng was a pretty normal guy whose biggest claim to fame is his extremely infamous grandson, Cao Cao. Because of this, Cao Teng is the only enunch in chinese history to get a royal title; Emperor Gao of Wei, which was granted posthumerously through Cao Cao’s grandson Cao Rui.

Cao Teng was a good judge of character who promoted a bunch of famous people, one of whom was a guy who had even tried to impeach him previously. After 30 years of service, he retired, got married, and adopted a son. 

i decided to put him on the list because the common perception of the eunuch is a "mutilated" man living a lonely, unfulfilled life. What is often left out is they are highly motivated people who excel at their jobs, exert a lot of influence, and are able to have families and leave a legacy.

the majority of eunuchs came from poor families, and serving at the palace gave them an opportunity to obtain wealth, status and an education they would otherwise never have access to. it does require an unimaginably painful sacrifice, but that shouldn't be the only thing that defines them.

Cao Teng's hard work benefited his entire clan and lifted them out of poverty. But there was a complex interplay between him being a venerable ancestor, and someone marked by the stigma of castration. I imagine there was something bittersweet here for Cao Teng, knowing that he had done so much for his family, but they would rather he didn't exist.

Cao Cao was able to become a prime minister because of the wealth, connections, and education earned by his grandfather. At the same time, he appeared to resent him. The source of his ancestory was a sore spot which was repeatedly brought up by his political enemies to discredit him, something he never commented directly on or attempted to defend.

ming dynasty

MAKE SOME FUCKING NOISE FOR THE COOLEST PERSON IN THE MING DYNASTY!!!! actually scratch that, MAKE SOME FUCKING NOISE FOR THE COOLEST PERSON IN CHINESE HISTORY, PERIOD.

Zheng He was born Ma He to muslims living in Yunan, which was ruled by Mongols at the time. He was captured by the Ming army between the age of 10-14, castrated, and given to the young Yongle Emperor as a servant. Incredibly enough, he was like "no hard feelings mate" and went on to work in EVERY SINGLE JOB. and kick absolute ass in ALL OF THEM. he started out as a soldier on the northern frontier (the toughest place to serve, that was where all the border conflicts were) and fought in several campaigns with the future emperor, distinguishing himself and earning the emperor's trust.

I originally had him drawn in a more stereotypically "heroic" pose, by all accounts he was a tough guy who "walked like a tiger", and while the main purpose of the Ming voyages were diplomatic, he didn't shy away from violence. (he fought PIRATES. like a fucking shonen protagonist). in the end i decided to go with a picture that showcases less celebrated but equally important leadership qualities like curiosity, patience and discipline. I also want to point out that he wasn't the only eunuch on the trip, around half of the commanding officers were also eunuchs. He wasn't an exception to the rule but rather the face of a largely ignored majority; complicated people who were making the most of a difficult job.

Notes: the giraffe he brought back didn't have a name (at least not on record), but the Ming thought it was a qilin (kinda like a chinese unicorn) and i thought that would be an adorable name for a giraffe.

Ming Dynasty

i feel like we've had too much nuance, so lets finish this list off with a properly corrupt and scheming enunch! Wei Zhongxian castrated himself at age 21 to escape his gambling debts, and it unleashed his potiential like Rock Lee removing his leg weights. once inside the palace, he started out as a minor kitchen hand but managed to hustle his way to being the right hand of the emperor, who was an indifferent ruler that prefered woodworking to running a country. for this reason, I decided to make him a ventriloquist dummy.

Wei Zhongxian then proceeded to go on an extravagant and over-compensating ego trip. actually, it was more like a 40-year-long, olympic worthy, ego-long jump. things came to a terrible end when he tried to stage a coup (it failed and he decided not to hang around the capital, and go hang on some rafters instead). by then, decades of corruption had weakened the Ming, the emperor's only son got exploded in horrible incident that also wiped out most of the Ming Dynasty munitions--and what's this? here comes the Qing Dynasty with a steel chair!!!! notes: I decided to make Wei Zhongxian's design a human version of my cat, because he is also an incredibly devious but rather low-wisdom individial.

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

I’m not gonna get too into this, but I was going through Sabine’s wiki last night (because there was something in the legacy section I half-remembered and mentioned to my sister and she wanted to know more). Honestly, I was hesitant to even open it because I haven’t touched it since Ahsoka came out, but I was pleasantly surprised to find it actually hasn’t changed much at all.

But the thing that interested me was how her “Force” stuff is basically just a little paragraph wedged in at the end. That’s basically all it amounts to. You scroll through volumes of her story from Rebels and the comics.

Compare that to Ezra and Kanan, who have the Force, their connection to it and relationship with it woven into every section of their wiki because it is such an integral part of them. You can’t clip it out and keep their story or their characters intact. But with Sabine, her story revolves around her Mandalorian heritage, it’s rooted in such formative things as her time at the academy and her rift with her family, that you can just clip out the Force stuff and the only thing that unravels is her Ahsoka appearance. Try to erase her Mandalorian side (which I might argue they basically did in the live action show) and she’s not recognizably Sabine anymore.

I’m not writing this to beat a dead horse and I’m definitely not coming at anyone. I’m just kinda relieved. Seeing it like that somehow just makes it so much easier to go, yeah, the Ahsoka show’s a thing, but I can ignore it, cut it out, and just keep the part of the story I love—it’s a good, long story.