#i have like character arcs and shit in mind for him

[mrdogface]

wheelies away

man, jason todd.

writers can't seem to work out who jason todd was and what they want him to be to bruce this far out from "A Death in the Family."

jason's principal writer during his tenure as robin was jim starlin, who notably did not like robin and wanted batman to primarily be a solo hero. starlin was mostly empowered by editor julius schwartz, who didn't fuck with robin much either. they tried to "fix" robin during this dark, edgy comics era by making him a violent little freak who'd do shit like beat pimps within an inch of their lives or, at one point, implicitly kill a dude after diplomatic immunity kept him from facing legal consequences for sexually assaulting and murdering a woman.

many of the bat-stories of the era, but most notably "the cult," sought to define jason as distinct from dick grayson as a vulgar, violent, paul veerhoven style character.

beyond that, he didn't really have a character, not in the same way tim drake did during his time as robin, with solo stories and all that bullshit. this is not due to jason being a weak character, but because of different priorities in the writer's room. jason existed at the peak "robin is lame, batman should shoot dudes" era (there are like 3 different stories where batman shoots a lot of people in the bat-tank around this time), before bruce timm and paul dini's animated series really redefined bruce wayne as a tragic, shakespearean character who isn't all violence all the time in the public mind. to the audience and in the minds of starlin and schwartz, he was an uninteresting relic of goofy golden age comics, and when their attempt to edge him up didn't work for them, well 🤷

imo, you can see the absolute height of their disinterest in jason in how horribly shit "A Death in the Family" actually is as a story. we remember joker, crowbar, "i'll save you, mom," bomb, batman lifts his fucking somehow intact body from the rubble.

the rest of it has a lot of... i mean, a lot of it is sincerely,

and let's be honest, when you're using a superhero story to show lebanese people are inherently evil and israel is some kind of bastion of modern civilisation in a barbaric east, well, it's clear your priority isn't telling a real story about the characters involved. you're lost in the sauce, just like the famous bigby "i'm going to mansplain israel to the season one archvillain instead of mentioning anything remotely relevant from the preceding arc" scene. sidenote, if you're ever wondering why dc uses euphemistic fictional countriesl like "qurac" to showcase racist america first bullshit, haha, look no further than how they used to behave when using real countries. holy fuck.

in a better world, jason todd was a voice of empathy and compassion for the downtrodden on bruce wayne's shoulder, the billionaire hero's lifeline connection to the impoverished that he spends his time policing. instead of vulgarity, violence, spitefulness and - at times - what seemed to be suicidal depression (just look at the stories leading up to "A Death in the Family;" jason is NOT doing well), jason could've been the one who teaches bruce why people become addicts, what the desperation and hopelessness of poverty does to people, and what things people actually need - not a positive attitude, but simple material security - to prevent crime.

there has never been a character in comics done dirtier than jason bartholomew todd, and the dim "the gist is" revisionist attitude we see when veteran writers like loeb invoke him is a product of that dirtydoing. what else can they say about jason without invoking the extremely weak writing around his death?

additional reading important to understanding "A Death in the Family" and why cool writers with hot dicks who fuck amazing struggle to engage with it:

1: https://www.jstor.org/stable/42980513 - Holy Islamophobia, Batman! Demonization of Muslims and Arabs in Mainstream American Comic Books

2: https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.0022-3840.1994.2801_123.x - Arab Images in American Comic Books

[stimpry]

mad scientist eridan au doodles + sprite edit i gotta write all my ideas down for this or something maybe make a fic abou tit who knows i just really really like this au i made check the tags for my ranting about it

[shiikiyun]

I think something i don't often see in discussions about Futa's character is how, if you really take a second, he's kind of a people pleaser

He isn't so in a way like what Mikoto got going on, he does want to be around people of the same interests as him, and you wouldn't think he'd care about anything but authenticity if you stayed with the way he behaves on milgram. It is only when you think about him -in- those social circles he manages to get into that you can see him tweaking lol

I think the closest to see this that we have in milgram itself is that one interaction with Kotoko in which she attempts to debate how prisons respect human rights. Any other time he expressed his opinion/stance on things he was aggressive and maybe condescending to the rest because they disagreed with him, but the second someone agreed? Whole demeanor changed. Suddenly he didn't have much to say anymore and he just parroted Kotoko's words back at her. Why. If he has such a strong personality and mindset, why was someone validating his point enough to shut down his otherwise very firm attitude?

Futa doesn't go as far as to manufacture his every word for it to cause a positive reaction on others from the get go, but he does seek validation all the same. He braces himself for rejection by being loud and obnoxious and harsh until he sees a positive reaction and then is when he does a complete 180 to keep the other person in that place of validation. He is simultaneously completely bad at it though, but I never said he was good at people pleasing. Which connects back to what i've said before about his inability to fit in. Even when he thinks he's doing it right and he sees himself getting validation by people he cares about (in the case of his crime, by mimicking his friendgroup's method of "bringing justice" by calling out someone online, that same friendgroup following along and reinforcing the idea that he was doing it right), he ultimately fails anyway and loses it all over again.

In the end, he's just extremely socially awkward and anxious. It isn't in his nature to reach anyone else's expectations even if he genuinely wants to, so he'll either do what he can within his parameters (mold himself for his friendgroup of people he deems similar to him) or he'll avoid trying altogether because he knows he'll fail (what we see in milgram!)

It also shows how his yearn for a support system (t2 qna + mu's birthday timeline convo) isn't particularly new from his current circumstances, or why the only person he could think of when asked who he would want to see right now was his mom (who left so long ago he barely remembers her). He has just never truly had people that genuinely cared for him no matter what he tried to do to make himself likeable.

[bonefall]

NEVER STOP!!! everytime I get mad over DOTC I just come onto your page and read your Gray Wing slander and immediately feel better, thanks muchly! 😌✨️

I am but a humble DOTC Slander ranger, riding across the sunlit horizon with a big iron on my hip, putting every hater's formless frustration into the words you felt but did not realize how to say ✨️

[dazais-guardian-angel]

kinda wild to me that one of the most compelling aspects of both Chuuya and Kunikida's characters to me, that I never really see talked about, is how they're heavily set on a doomed crash course towards complete and utter destruction, and how I am so, so worried for them both.....

[konshokoentaiko]

i need to write a lawlight au where l and light are contestants on an idol survival show à la idol producer (2018)

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[dimiclaudeblaigan]

If there is at least one thing I can credit FE for doing better than Tales in localization, it's not trying to actively go out of their way for an entire game to avoid subtext or direct text between two men that is romantic or implied romantic. Funny when it's so present that the attempt doesn't even work; infuriating that it was attempted to begin with.

So as much as I often have issues with some of FE's localizations, at least they have a leg up on loc Tales for that.

[lameow-l]

so wait… furina is the name of the archon role that “furina” had to play

wouldn’t make more sense narrative wise to give her a name of her own?? like scara gets his own epic chapter about him ridding himself of his past and adopting a new name then proceed to ignore said name in favor of “hat guy” but the actress playing “furina” doesn’t get to be known for her own name?

like people of fontain (partly maybe) know the truth so why not let her free? let her enjoy the simple human life she so so longed for? even the other furina wouldn’t want this

[ukuslip]

maybe i don't care about doing a complicated think-piece on nickel's actions and how he mistreated suitcase and how he's an awful person and if you like him you hate women actually. maybe i just think it's funny when the coin is a dick. i don't think this object show shit is really that serious

[frigidlyauthorial]

so sleepy tired so to keep myself awake I’m mentally picking apart every plot hole one miraculous ladybug.

[genspiel]

.....................well now i'm just thinking about how echo and noise could've provided a really interesting exploration of mental illness and trauma and stigmatization but canon kinda missed the mark on that one huh

[vincent-frankenstein]

who was that. that was not Janus who was that

[orcelito]

and the HILARIOUS thing about me obsessively listening to IAMX's 'the unified field' Specifically starting during chapter 4 of ITNL aka where midvalley is introduced

i now associate this album with midvalley in my mind. it does not actually relate to him at ALL (if anything it's a knives and vash album, Specifically with 'i come with knives' being a knives song and 'sorrow' being a vash song. in my mind.)

idk i listen to this dark n kinda fucked up album and im just like "ah yes. Midvalley."

[marsbotz]

14 yr old egg maxime looking at gru who got hit with the transgender beam at age 12: why the fuck would i be jealous of him. im not. btw

[mekatrio]

seto................