#wow this got long so sorry

[weirdglassthing]

GRIMMORNING NATION RISEEE. Criminal lack of grimmorning on this site so I’m making it my personal mission to spread my propaganda

Ignore whatevers going on with torbek, even I don’t know. I just drew some lines for his body and called it a day

[reengeen]

NEW OBSESSION AQUIRED

[surreal-duck]

master artist and his number one fan

guy who is being so normal about the new additions to their profiles. i think abt midoris initial infatuation with his art slowly developing into appreciating yuzuru himself as a person and idol to the point he worries about how he sees him (ex: a bit of home party and in workplace survival rules) sometimes thats a lie i think about it a lot. and yuzuru learning to enjoy art just for the sake of drawing!! seeing the lets try diy story where he doesnt even refute drawing on midoris desk and was only worried that his doodles might cover up the mascot design compared to how discouraged he usually would be in earlier ! stories. everything to me i adore their dynamic if that wasnt obvious by *gestures to basically everything*

and happy pride month 🏳‍🌈

[fuzzbuns]

Misc other stuff

[saltlickmp3]

☕how the writers delt with river song

SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP THEY DID MY GIRL SO DIRTY there are so many. good river song moments. and there are so manythat make me want to tear a strip off steven moffat like every goddamn episode with her they have to make some obnoxious sex joke or some Honey Im Home type shit & i understand this is like. A Moffat Theme & i dont always hate it but goddddd its so reductive like there is so much!!!! that could be done with her character !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! that is overshadowed by haha what if she was sexy like STOPPPPPPPPPPPP.

like silence in the library was a really good character lead in & i like her!!! as a character !!!! even the overly flirtatiousness unfortunately that would work on me but even aside from that. she is a good character let down but the sheer pull-it-out-of-your-ass writing of her backstory. like?? she could regenerate cos she was conceived in the tardis okay thats really cool much weirder stuff has happened when it comes to tardises & making babies but then WE SeE THIS FOR LIKE. ONE OR TWO EPISODES BEFORE THEYRE LIKE WHOOPS THAT DOESNT WORK ACTUALLY COS SHE'S DEAD UHHH SHE BETTER UHMM IDK SAVE TH E DOCTOR OR SOMETHING WHATEVER> COS HER ENTIRE LIFE HAS TO REVOLVE AROUND HIM. HASHTAG MARRIAGE AMIRITE like even the fact that her entire life was shaped around him isnt a Bad Idea it just feels like no one considered the tragic impies (implications) of this, & simultaneously doing amy so dirty in the process as well like??? she loses baby mels & then discovers she was her (never previously mentioned) childhood friend but then she uhhhh dies & turns into this woman you already know and them????? barely eveer mention it again???? holy shit?????????????????????? amy & river is a freaking horror story but one that the writers seem imcapable of dealing with because sOMEONE is too busy making obnoxious jokes about married life

a lot of thsi is specific to the General Vibes of the eleven era stuff as well which was in general so so weird about women & while its not like twelve or any of teh other doctors are expemt from this eleven is a massive dick to people quite a bit & a lot of this falls on river b/c he is seemingly (iirc i havent seen some of this stuff for a while though it Haunts Me) almost careless? with her? like a sort of 'welllllll she's here now so it was all okay in the end :)' sort of attitude ignoring that she went through A Fuckton Of Stuff before she was even a concious human(mostly??) being

even the husbands of river song is tragically guilty of some of that stuff like. she's seen some wild shit & she should have known it was twelve wayyyyyy way way quicker. like i understand why she didnt for plot reasons but she is in fact very intellegent like. she's allowed to show that. unfortunatley sometimes women cant be smart & have their boobs out at that same time I GUESSSSSSSSS

also the nine & river audios from earlier this year? i really like archipelago i listened to that a couple of times & i thought it was really powerful but AGAIN the writers make river So Fucking Obsessed With Romance like. you'd let it go by that point. nine had literally just proved he's the most aro guy in the universe (good for him) and shes stillllllll flirting at him. which. imo she wouldnt do anymore because, shock horror, she does actually like him as a person & values his company and you would think you would be friends wit hthe guy YOU ARE GONG TO MARRY OR WHATEVER. NOT THAT THEIR MARRIAGE WAS PARTICULARLY ROMANTIC EITHERIM GONNA BE SO REAL. obviously sex is important to her & good for her but yikes. it doesnt need to be mentioned so often.

like its the whole 'inherent tragedy of waiting for a time traveller' stuff which i do eat up every time meeting her in silence of the library & knowong that there is so much more there - VERY COMPELLING !! really good character intro augahagaauuaajaaajahhahahahhhh but nooooo her Entire Fucking Goddman Life has to revolve around being manipulated & The Doctor AS WELL AS !! the completely uncalled for ohhhh im a PSYCHOPATH ( <- unfounded & demonstrably untrue lowkey this is saneism right. thats an ableism there yes? ) thing they alllwaysssss have her say like well!! shes not !! theres 'youre talking about commiting a murder'/'no im not, i'm actually commiting a murder' which i like & is funny & she would say that and then theres teh vauge oooohhhhh im so Freaky & I Have A Gun or whatevr like augsugsaihuahahaouoauauoouauoauoauoauuo

also twelve & river had freaky t4t bi4bi aroallo sex after the end of husbands of river song but no actual dw writer is enlightened enough to see that because they have to flatten her into The Doctors Wife & she would have had a far better dynamic with 12 than with 11 (not that i'm biased) i wish they got more time togetherrrrrrrrrrr also you should listen to the bekdel test (diary of river song audio with missy)

[possamble]

do you have any particular thoughts regarding marcille being a half-elf? its interesting to me considering the fact that she seems self-conscious about being a half-elf, but denies it when its brought up

i remember marcille looking visibly uncomfortable over laios simply asking her how old she is, which i think the only reason she might feel nervous about this is because it might reveal her as a half-elf to him.

she's never corrected anybody whose called her an elf either.

never mind the circumstances of the reveal, in which thistle goes on about how half-elves are inferior and accusing her of wanting to become full blooded elf, she seemed particularly upset like he struck a nerve-

i wish the half-elf thing was built upon more. also, underrated marcille line:

okay so i revisited this sequence just to make sure I could back myself up and it's just... man. there's a lot going on.

the first reaction we get from Marcille is this huge panel that takes up half of the page

she is viscerally affected. flushing to the tips of her ears with the intensity of it. and we see it again, a few pages later

so it might seem like she's embarrassed about it and lying to herself, but... I really think it's just that Thistle is accidentally hitting sore spots. If you really look at what he says to get these reactions

"you'll live out your entire life [...] and die that way too"

"a hundred years from now, nobody will be there"

Hear me out. I think, if he stuck to harping on about her inferiority without bringing up how terrifyingly long-lived she is, she wouldn't have been as bothered. But right now, Thistle is accidentally hitting all the marks on Marcille's deepest fears-- and this is after the Winged Lion promised her that her dreams could come true in an extremely vulnerable moment, so it also hits her slightly guilty conscience as well.

I do truly believe that Marcille isn't bothered about being a half-elf the way that people assume she'd be bothered by it. To her, the biggest problem with being a half-elf is that it's isolating.

On one hand, it's not hard to imagine why she'd distance herself from elves in the west. A lot of them can clock her as a half-elf on sight, unlike other races, and therefore she's always branded with this weird stigma of being Othered -- I would even say that she considers herself lucky for being born outside of elven culture instead of having to grow up in it. I mean, just... look at the way elves talk about her.

Skipping past the uncomfortable implication of what 'not tolerating the existence' of half-elves would actually entail, this is incredibly fucking annoying. You can see why she wouldn't want to be around elves much. You see a lot of Marcille reacting badly here, but honestly, almost all of it can be attributed to her freaking out that her bluff completely failed. She's honestly more paying attention to Izutsumi's footsteps and trying to coordinate an opportunity to escape.

And in the end, you see her built-up frustration at being asked if she wants to be a full-blooded elf like 2-3 times in a row.

Yeah, yeah, "the lady doth protest too much," and all. But we know Marcille. We know that she's a lot more embarrassed and horrendously unconvincing when she's being prodded about something she's actually self-conscious about.

Moving onto the flipside of things, it might seem weird that she "pretends" to be a full elf around other races, but it's not really that strange if you think about it. Again, people are weird about her being infertile or whatever, and a lots of them don't even know much about what sets half-elves apart from everyone else. I mean, look at how uncomfortable Laios is just asking her about it

and look at how exasperated and resigned she looks

And like... she's right. Where would that come up in normal conversation? Why would she go out of her way to tell them? She's functionally a normal elf to other races anyway -- got the ears, the abnormally long "childhood", and the huge mana capacity. Unless it's directly relevant or important for people to know, I don't think it's all that strange or indicative of insecurity that she prefers not to bother with it.

(This combined with her sense of being an "outsider" to elf culture also explains why she thinks elf superiority is embarrassing. She sees the way elves treat short-lived races from the "outsider" perspective nonetheless, and thinks it's obnoxious; especially more so because she usually has to play the elf around short-lived races and deal with the reputation of arrogance that elves have built up.)

The sad thing is, this all means that... she doesn't actually fit in anywhere. She doesn't like going out West much because of how elves treat her. But she's also an outsider in the continents she was born in, treated like this exotic long-lived alien choosing to live among short-lived races for some reason. She is always an outsider, the Other, no matter where she goes. Add in the fact that she'll live longer than literally anyone she knows, and it's honestly kind of heartbreaking.

And I think that's the crux of it. Marcille really doesn't act like she's at all self-conscious about being a half-elf because of any feelings of inferiority or being half-made or whatever. She considers herself a perfectly legitimate being and might even, in some ways, consider herself superior to normal elves because she's not blind with elf supremacy or whatever. (And whatever "elven biases" she displays, all of them are born more out of the fact that she's kind of bad at conceptualizing how other races age and mature compared to herself, not that she actually considers herself better or more mature simply for being an elf.)

I think that whatever self-consciousness Marcille has about being a half-elf is, instead, related to terror and loneliness. The reminder that it ensures she'll never truly belong anywhere for the rest of her very long life. The reminder that, in truth, even she's not actually sure how old she is by other races' standards (hence the discomfort when asked how old she is). She doesn't want to not be a half elf, or be a full elf or full tall-man-- in her ideal world, she's still a half-elf. She just gets to live out her life at the same pace with the people she loves and doesn't have to say goodbye again and again and again until she dies.

and one last very important panel, right after Mithrun tells her that all her desires would be devoured

In her ideal world, she's still a half-elf and reality magically starts marching at her pace. But failing that, the second best thing is that she's still a half-elf-- but one who is able to accept reality and let go of her fear.

(But the rest of the story pans out the way it does because, to Marcille, taking reality apart and reshaping it was less scary than simply and fully reconciling with it.)

[formereldestdaughter]

ok wait i need to hear more of your thoughts on peeta owning a bakery....

This is one of those rare times where I’m pretty sure this anon isn’t someone I know personally bc I’ve subjected anyone who will listen to my rant about the Peeta Bakery Headcanon. Anyway, you’re gonna regret asking this anon bc there are fucking Layers here.

I know this is probably a controversial take based on the number of fics where I’ve seen it, but I simply do not think that Peeta would open a commercial bakery after Mockingjay!! Like on a metatextual level, I don’t think it really fits with the point of the ending of the series. It actually sort of fascinates me that it’s just such a common headcanon because the ending of Mockingjay is exceedingly vague. I think that vagueness invites us, as readers, to imagine a better world post-revolution. A world where Katniss would feel confident that her children would be safe from injustice, where she’d feel confident that her children would never know want the way she did as a child. A just world. A kinder world. Can a capitalist society ever be just? Is a capitalist society where a disabled teenager has no other means to subsist himself (or feels like there’s no other way he can be a contributing member of his community) really the post-revolution world we dream of? Is that really the best we can imagine?

(This got so insanely long I’m adding a read more lmao)

I get that showing a better world is not always the point of post-mockingjay headcanons/fics. Like there are plenty of really great post-mockingjay fics I’ve seen where, yeah, part of the fic is that society like ISN’T all that different or all that much better. I’ve seen that really well done! Hell, I’ve written them myself! It’s easy to imagine how a lot of aspects of society would not get an overhaul, a lot of the same structural inequalities would continue to exist. One headcanon that really stuck with me (I can’t remember which fic it was from) was that Peeta sells basically mail order baked goods to people on the Capitol, sending them iced cakes and pastries by train, because there are still people who were “fans” of theirs during the Games. And idk this doesn’t actually have much to do with my point lol but I liked it because it’s kind of fucked up and like! Yeah! It makes sense! If he needed money that would be a good way to make it! War often makes people rich, often for horrible reasons, and often it’s people who already have capital in the first place.

Anyway, more about the hypothetical bakery because alright. I bring up the fact that “yeah society not being all that different post-revolution and still being an unjust capitalist hellscape” could be a reason why Peeta re-opens a bakery because that’s actually never the types of fics where I see the bakery headcanon. Fics where Peeta opens a bakery are usually trying to make the exact opposite point. Like. Things are getting better, now he can open a bakery! Look at how much better the world is now, plus he’s got a bakery! Peeta is healing, that’s why he can open a bakery now! And I am so, so sorry to inform everyone who’s never had the grave misfortune of owning a family business, but there is truly nothing further from the truth lmao. Like just putting aside the immense amount of emotional baggage that Peeta has about his family, running a small business is an insane amount of work in any context and being a baker especially is physically grueling and involves early hours (and long hours) that aren’t really the best fit with the multiple ways that Peeta is disabled now. (I could go into this more because I have a lot of thoughts. But I will spare you.). I also think it’s seen throughout the books that Peeta is someone who needs time to pursue creative outlets to process his feelings and someone who values leisure and values quality time with his loved ones. And having grown up in his family’s bakery, I think he’d understand the reality that running a bakery wouldn’t leave much space of those pursuits and wouldn’t leave much space for him to have the things that keep him healthy and stable. I think he’d know that the way he is now— after two Games and the war and unspeakable torture at the hands of a dictator—isn’t compatible with the lifestyle necessary for running a commercial bakery.

And tbh with that in mind, I don’t think he’d push himself to re-open a business (one that would be a constant reminder of his dead family and his complicated relationships with them that got no closure) that would require him to sacrifice his physical and emotional well-being. Like I think he might look into the possibility, I think he might even start trying to open a bakery out of a sense of obligation/duty, maybe harboring some idea that this is who he was supposed to be, who he would've been without the Games, or that it’s this last piece of his family that can live on, or that it’s this last connection to his family so he can’t let it die too. But ultimately, I think any attempt to open a bakery wouldn’t get very far. Maybe he'd start wading into the logistical nightmare that is small business ownership and realize it's not for him (because it's probably also true that as much as him and his brothers were involved in the business, there's almost certainly parts they weren't involved with and didn't see, i.e., filing taxes). Or maybe looking into opening a bakery— how triggering it is, the stress of it— causes a downward spiral. Maybe he hates how much he's worrying everyone by unraveling. Maybe having a breakdown from the stress of just trying to open a bakery makes him realize, yeah, maybe in another life he would have ran his family’s bakery but the way he is now just doesn’t work with running a bakery, not without great sacrifices he's not willing to make. I just can’t see a bakery coming to fruition.

I know a lot of fics include Peeta deciding to reopen a bakery as a big step in his healing or include him rebuilding a bakery as part of his healing process but honestly, I think the opposite would be more true: I think Peeta either trying/failing to open a bakery or ultimately deciding not to open a bakery would be hugely healing for him. I think it would be a huge part of him accepting the way he is now as a person, his new limitations but also his strengths. I think it would be a huge part of him accepting the way his life his now and accepting that he likes his life the way it is, that he’s satisfied with his life without needing to own a bakery. I think it would be an important part of him coming to terms with the loss of his family. I think he knows he can never have things back as they were and I don’t think he would try to recreate them, especially because his family’s legacy isn’t a business. I think he’s emotionally intelligent enough and self reflective enough to realize that what mattered to him about the bakery— taking care of others by feeding them, being integrated into his community and being actively involved in it, brightening people’s days with delightful things whether that’s beautiful cakes or hearty food or delicious treats— and the things he learned from his family through the bakery, are things that he can carry on in other meaningful ways.

(Do you regret sending this ask yet, anon? Because if not, you will soon. I’m not done yet. There’s more.)

I wasn’t really sure where to put this next part in what is rapidly becoming an essay because it sort of combines the points about like “what do we imagine a post-mockingjay society to look like” with the practical difficulties of starting this bakery but here’s another thing: do people really think that the Mellarks owned the land the bakery was on?? Like, sure, the merchants are the petit bourgeois of Twelve but I still don’t imagine they really own anything. In a society where houses are assigned to people upon marriage, where property ownership and capital are so closely interconnected with citizenship (as shown by the Plinths who, by having immense capital, are able to leave their District and become citizens of the Capitol) do people really think the Mellarks would be allowed to own the land their bakery is on?? I always imagined it sort of like a tenant farming situation: the Capitol gives them the raw materials for the bakery and in return the bakery give them some absurdly high portion of their profits, or the Capitol sells them a year’s supply of raw materials at a premium on credit and at the end of the year the Mellarks have to use the money they made with those materials to pay it back, except it’s never enough to turn a profit so they always have to buy next year’s materials on credit and the cycle continues.

We (understandably) get a really skewed view of the merchant class through Katniss’s perspective so I can see why people come to the conclusion that his family owned the property and, as the last surviving member, he would’ve inherited it. I’ve seen the inheritance thing in fics a lot or a hand wavey “well Twelve was decimated to no one owns anything anymore so it can be his” or even like an almost sort of reparations type situation where he’s entitled to the land as a surviving refugee of Twelve. But I don’t know. I guess I don’t think it fits with everything else we know about Panem that the Mellarks would’ve owned that land and I think the question of whether the government would’ve let him take ownership of the land post-revolution brings up a lot of issues about the structure of society post-Mockingjay that I find more interesting to explore in other ways, especially when, from an emotional perspective, 1) I find the idea of Peeta not opening a bakery more compelling and 2) I don’t think it really fits his character arc by the end of Mockingjay to reopen a bakery, as I went on about at length above lol.

On the flip side: literally who cares!! Do whatever you want!! Headcanon whatever you want!! I get why people go for the bakery!! It’s fun, it’s wholesome, it’s a built in bakery AU that isn’t even an AU. It doesn’t matter if it’s practical or realistic!! It doesn’t need to be practical or realistic!! It’s fanfic of a dystopian YA series!! My unfortunate affliction is that I grew up in a family that owned a restaurant and that I have multiple degrees in the social sciences so I can’t see the bakery without being like “What about the overheard? What about the start up costs? Who’s spending long nights balancing the books? Is Peeta covering shifts when an employee calls in sick? Is Peeta the sole person working there until the bakery is open long enough (often a year or more) to start turning a profit? How does that sleep schedule work with his nightmares? How does that work with Katniss’s nightmares? What happens when he has an episode and suddenly needs to take the day off before he has any employees? Does the bakery just remain closed for the day? Can the profit margins withstand regular unexpected closures? Can the supplies withstand regular unexpected closures?” And if the answer is “Elliott none of those things matter he’s not doing the bakery because he needs the money but because he wants to”, then my question is why does he want to? Does he not get the same sort of satisfaction out of feeding his loved ones? Doesn’t Peeta seem like someone who would rather give away baked goods than sell them?? Doesn’t Peeta seem like someone who would prefer to make cakes for people’s special occasions upon and then when they insist on paying him for it, he only lets them “pay for the ingredients” which actually cost significantly more than he says they did??

So yeah my point is that it’s a matter of personal taste! It doesn’t fit the way I see the series but that doesn’t mean it’s like wrong, I’m not an authority on Peeta lmao.

It’s also a matter of personal taste in the sense that I find the themes that most resonate with me at the end of Mockingjay (and the end of Peeta’s arc specifically) more interesting to explore in other ways. Grief, living with loss, relearning yourself, finding hope, figuring out your place in a dramatically different world when you don’t even know who you are anymore, healing, building a new life after such complete and total destruction of your old life— those are all things I find compelling about the end of Mockingjay but for me the bakery isn’t the most compelling way to explore them.

Not to say I find the concept of the bakery totally uninteresting. I have this fic about Johanna that I’ll probably never finish where the point sort of is that, yeah, her life really isn’t all that much better after the war. It’s been years at this point and she’s still miserable and she doesn’t know how to be a person but by the end she’s trying to figure it out. And towards the end, Peeta tells her that he’s spent years sort of passively, half-heartedly trying to figure out how to inherit the land his family’s bakery was on, only to find out it was never theirs in the first place. They’d been renting it the whole time and he’d never even known as a kid. So he sort of passively, half-heartedly went on another wild goose chase to find the owner and now, finally, after years of writing to various government agencies and being sent in circles and things being barely functional, he’s managed to track down the owner. Now it’s owned by the daughter of the man who owned it when he was a kid because the original owner (who was likely up to some sketchy war crime shit) died during the war and she inherited it (the irony…). He got in contact with her and asked how much it would take for her to sell it and she told him she’s not interested in selling but in light of the situation, in light of the fact that he’d have to build a new building in order to operate a bakery, that she’d cut him a deal— she’d only require 50% of the bakery’s profits as rent instead of the 80% his family used to pay. And of course Johanna is outraged, that’s not right, the owner shouldn’t be allowed to do that, they should do something about it, they should fight back. And Peeta is like. Not interested. He was actually sort of relieved that opening wasn’t very feasible. Getting the answer was a lightbulb moment where he saw that over the years of trying to look into this, he’s built a life that he likes— one where he’s stable, where his loved ones are stable, where he’s cared for and can care for others— and he doesn’t really want to change it drastically by opening a bakery anyway. He just needed an answer, one way or another, before he could get some closure and move on. (And the point of the conversation is Johanna is having her own lightbulb moment that it’s okay to move on, it’s okay to change, it’s not a betrayal of the people and things she’s lost but that’s not my point here!!).

But anyway. That’s obviously not about running the bakery— it’s about the choice to not run one.

Anyway!! Anyway… are you satisfied anon? Is this what you wanted?

Lastly, here is my most important qualm with the bakery headcanon: must Peeta be gainfully employed? Is it not enough for him to be Katniss’s boytoy? Can’t he just paint and garden and bake and hang out with his girlfriend all day? Is that really too much to ask?

[kasaru-chan]

Because the Brain rot truely never stops

I had an idea for a medieval AU with Prince Bradley but Max is a person that was cursed into being a dragon after he and his dad had gotten up to some shenanigans with a local witch.

He can take on a smaller form where he looks like a scaly human with fangs and a tail which is easy enough to hide with a cloak and a mask.

He mostly uses his new dragon powers to terrorize shitty monarchs and to steal away princesses who really want to get out of marrying assholes. He arrives at the Uppercrust Kingdom planning to just do the former but accidently witnesses Prince Bradley's mistreatment at the hands of his father and decides "ah fuck it, I guess I'll do a kidnapping too."

Bradley is completely unaware of this plan and Max is entirely unaware that Bradley is an intolerable spoiled brat.

Hilarity ensues.

[snezus-christ-risen]

Insult to Injury

Agatha/Rio - 4.1k words - Illness (Agatha)

Debuting what I hope is the first of many AAA fanfics. I had so much fun writing these two and I’ll probably do a second part to this story. I hope you all enjoy this as much as I’ve enjoyed reading all of the fantastic work ya’ll have been putting out! It’s a little messy and there are some NSFW elements. Minors DNI.

~~~

There was something off about the air on that otherwise fresh spring day. It was driving Rio to madness, not knowing what it was or why it was affecting her so strongly. All she knew was that some primal heat drove her forward through the woods, the smell growing stronger with every step she took towards the cottage that stood just beyond the edge of the forest. After spending days apart from her lover, excitement fluttered in her chest at the thought of what state she might find her in upon their reunion. Nevertheless, Rio chose to remain on the scenic route, choosing anticipation over the instant gratification that came with ripping open the fabric of reality and using it as a shortcut.

After a few more steps the scent of sickness snapped into focus, honeyed and intoxicating like an aged brandy. Absent was the heady tang of bloodshed (boo) or the cloying rot of old age; it was something altogether unique and pleasant, drawing her towards the dwelling the same way instinct compelled a bee to the flower fields. Rio took a moment, upon reaching the front door, to shake her body like a dog, hoping to dispel some of the giddiness that had built up during her walk.

Take it easy, she told herself. She will be delicate.

Occasionally Rio needed to remind herself that even at her healthiest, and regardless of her powers, Agatha was still flesh and bone. Just thinking about the delicate nature of her mortal lover was getting her all worked up again, which was the opposite of what she was trying to accomplish. Taking a deep breath, Rio let it out slowly and knocked on the door. She surmised, from the lack of response, that the occupant within was unconscious. Certainly not dead; she would have known if that were the case. Directing a breeze to push the door open, she stepped inside.

There was a bit of a chill in the air, and Rio soon saw why; one of the windows was half-opened, its tattered curtains rippling in the breeze. Though it was technically spring, they had just had a snowfall last week, and the day outside was brisk. Buzzing with anticipation (and a little annoyance at the window situation), Rio crept across the threshold with the quiet energy of an owl readying its talons for a mouse.

She could see a figure sprawled across the bed. Rio closed the space between the doorway and the bedside in just a few strides, eager to investigate the scene. Agatha lay there in a tangle of damp sheets and disheveled hair, breathing noisily through parted lips. Her nose was tinged red and glistening around the nostrils, the skin chapped from rough and repetitive contact. Her skin, flushed pink with fever, peeked through the bindings of her bedding, inviting Rio to touch. But she wouldn’t… not yet…

Grinning devilishly, Rio produced a bushel of baby’s breath in her upturned palm. Her smile faded when she remembered that Agatha was allergic; she didn’t want to kill the woman, at least not before she could have some fun with her. She waved the little white flowers out through the open window before conjuring up an unassuming yarrow. Giving her newest creation an once-over, she identified the perfect leaf… there… and plucked it. It looked tickly enough to get the job done without triggering an allergic reaction. Agatha would already be miserable about taking ill, without the added burden of having to contend with her allergies. Rio didn’t see the point of adding insult to injury.

Twirling the leaf between her thumb and forefinger, she tested it along a naked stretch of thigh. Her leg hairs rose in response to the stimulation, a reminder that, as much as Rio craved her death, there was so much she enjoyed about the complex simplicity of her flesh - its heat, its softness, the way it reacted whenever she touched it. She continued dragging the leaf along Agatha’s leg, scaling over a twisted hump of blanket before sliding down the exposed curve of her hip. After working her way up inch by inch, over sections of bedsheets and skin, Rio finally settled the frond against Agatha’s throat like a knife.

It was here that she finally stirred, her hand moving just enough to call Rio’s attention to the lace handkerchief she was clutching like a security blanket. Her eyes lit up at this delightful observation as she lifted the leaf from her skin, holding completely still until Agatha settled again with a sigh. Then Rio sat down on the edge of the bed, moving slowly to avoid disturbing her. Disturbing her was still on the agenda, of course, but for that she had something more fun in mind. Leaning in with the concentration of an artist putting the finishing touches on her work, Rio swept the tip of the leaf up the length of Agatha’s nose and back down again. As soon as she got to the reddened rims of her nostrils they twitched, the feather-light touch tickling just enough to make Agatha scrunch her nose. She made a weak attempt to swat away the source of her irritation, brow furrowing as she turned her face into her pillow.

Rio was considering her next course of action when Agatha lifted her head slightly, eyes still closed, lips parted and quivering, and eyebrows raised expectantly. Mesmerized, she watched as Agatha panted softly before plunging her face back into the pillow. The bed rocked gently as she muffled two sneezes - “ih’TSHh!-h’TSHhh’uh” - followed by a long, congested moan.

It was Rio’s laughter, more than the sneezing, that boosted Agatha past the threshold of semi-consciousness. She was still working on opening her eyes all the way, but had the wherewithal to bring her handkerchief up to cover her nose when she turned to look up at Rio. The latter flashed her a cunning grin as she actively fought against the urge to straddle her.

“Bless you,” she purred, tapping her forehead with the tip of the leaf. “What do you have brewing in here?”

She would have stroked it down the length of her nose again if Agatha didn’t grab it immediately, her reflexes surprisingly sharp for someone still waking up in a fever haze. They both held onto it for a moment before Rio released it, hands and eyebrows raised in mock surrender. Agatha immediately tossed it aside, but it didn’t go far, landing on the edge of the bed next to Rio, who brushed it onto the floor. After a brief and unsuccessful struggle to sit up, Agatha settled for propping herself against her pillows, where she proceeded to stare at Rio in a state of mild delirium.

“I think I have a fever,” she said, unexpectedly forthcoming.

Rio opened her mouth in a silent gasp, feigning surprise. Leaning forward, she cupped one hand against Agatha’s cheek, using the other to gently pry her hand away from her nose. With the handkerchief out of the way, she could inspect it to her satisfaction. How much abuse had it taken before she arrived? It seemed to be running relentlessly, the skin around her nostrils painfully raw from all the wiping. Agatha was always so rough with her nose, like she was punishing it for daring to act according to its nature. More than happy to provide the tender loving care it was missing, Rio gave it a kiss before using the pad of her thumb to gently swipe the mess from her upper lip. Agatha shivered as she squinted up at her in silent indignation, too lethargic to object to her fussing.

“My love,” Rio cooed, unable to mask her delight. “You’ve caught a chill.”

“Don’t sound so excited,” Agatha deadpanned, wincing as her voice grated against her throat.

“I can’t help it,” she said, smirking when Agatha jerked to the side to cough before burying her nose in her handkerchief. “Just look at you, you’re pathetic. It’s beautiful.”

Agatha stopped blowing her nose to glare at her. She started to say something but quickly changed course, the catch in her breath and her crumpling expression announcing a more pressing need. It was terrible timing, having just been called pathetic; her ego didn’t want her to back down without a fight, but Agatha knew she didn’t stand a chance against this tickle. Waving her handkerchief like a flag of surrender, she brought it back to her face just in time to smother an itchy-sounding “hiih‘ISHHhyoo!”

Rio watched hungrily as her chest rose and fell, attending to every little snag and pitch change in her breath. Agatha had the tendency to sneeze in pairs, but sometimes the second one needed a little more time to come to fruition, which drove both of them crazy in different ways. When she finally managed to draw a solid breath she held it, nostrils flickering expectantly, before releasing it in an aggravated huff. Rio hummed with sympathy, knowing how much she hated losing a sneeze once it got started. Agatha finished blowing her nose, the crackling rush of loosened congestion quickly giving way to airy, unproductive blows. When she tried to breathe through her nose again, Rio could hear the air squeaking as it struggled through inflamed passageways. Rising from the bed, she padded over to the kitchen, stopping to make a show of closing the open window along the way.

“Where are you going?” came Agatha’s voice, meek and plaintive, from behind her.

“Not far,” she said, infuriatingly vague.

Agatha sank back against her pillows, too tired to pry any further, and watched with drowsy indifference as Rio staged a hostile takeover of her kitchen. Filling the kettle with water, Rio placed it on the trivet before surveying the items on the shelves. She trailed her nails along a row of jars as she contemplated her selection, and every now and then she would make a comment and laugh to herself. When she found what she needed she sat down at the table to prepare her ingredients. Periodically she found her gaze wandering over to check on Agatha, who was drifting in and out of sleep.

As soon as the kettle began whistling Rio removed it from the stove, pouring the water over the satchel of fresh herbs and letting it steep. Agatha was snoring steadily now, which helped Rio to feel a little less guilty about waking her up earlier. She got so distracted watching her that she almost forgot about the concoction cooling on the counter. Rio knew it would be bitter, so she added a generous amount of honey to help with the taste. She took a sip before recoiling with a full-bodied shudder; it was definitely sweet enough, but it was also a whole bunch of other things that Agatha was going to hate.

Rio was finishing up in the kitchen when Agatha woke up again, looking confused as she wiped her mouth, then her nose with the back of her hand. She had managed to glean enough energy from her short nap to sit upright, but that was as far as her body would allow her to go. Her sinuses adjusted quickly to the change in altitude, congestion softening and shifting and - “h’heh!” - tickling. Grabbing a clean handkerchief from the nightstand, Agatha tried to nip it in the bud with a series of forceful blows. While it left her feeling woozy, it also managed to scratch at the deep, quivering itch in the center of her face, reducing it to a mild annoyance. Just in time for her other mild annoyance to return.

“What do you have there?” she asked as Rio strolled over, sucking honey off her fingers one by one.

“Poison.” She gave her most menacing grin, short of showing her true face. “To put you out of your misery.”

She handed the cup to Agatha with a wink, her smile softening as she rejoined her on the bed. Agatha stared into the murky amber contents of her cup before glancing back up at Rio, expression unsure. Snorting out a laugh, Rio gave her a nod of encouragement.

“Drink,” she insisted. “It shouldn’t kill you, but it might help you feel better. I make no guarantees either way.”

Agatha hesitated before bringing the cup to her lips, testing the temperature of the liquid. Finding it suitable, she took a sip, closing her eyes tightly and screwing up her face as she swallowed. Not only was her throat raw, but the drink had a pungent, peppery aftertaste that made her sinuses prickle. Shaking her head, she tried to return the cup, but Rio resisted, folding her arms and leaving Agatha with no choice but to hold it.

“I know, it’s awful,” Rio sympathized, misreading the situation. “But I think it might help with the-”

“Would you just t-take it, please…”

As soon as Agatha spoke, Rio realized her mistake. Her voice only ever sounded that breathy and desperate for two reasons, and Rio was almost certain she could rule out one of them. Moving quickly, she took the cup from Agatha, who managed a wobbly look of gratitude before steepling her hands over her nose. Her shoulders scrunched up with the first palm-drenching release and Rio shivered, finding herself, as she often did, envious of her lover’s hands.

“hih’tCHSHh!-u… h’hiih!” The tickle teased her for a bit, making her breath flutter indecisively, before culminating in a spraying conclusion. “hihh’YSHHhhieu!”

With how messy those sneezes had been, Agatha was in no hurry to lower her hands. She kept them locked in place, attempting to rein in the persistent flow of congestion with slow, careful sniffles as she cast about for a handkerchief. Spotting the lacy white square crumbled up between the bedsheets, she reached for it, keeping one hand cupped protectively over her nose. Rio beat her to it, seizing the handkerchief with a victorious cackle.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, dangling it in front of Agatha, just out of reach. “Bit of a mess on your hands?”

Rio knew she was poking the bruises of an already wounded ego, but it didn’t stop her from looking aggrieved when Agatha yanked the handkerchief from her hand. Clutching at her nose through the fabric, Agatha leaned forward to press her other hand against her lover’s inner thigh. Rio gasped at the unexpected pressure, then froze as Agatha dragged it down her leg, wiping off the fluids that coated her hand.

“Consolation prize,” she said, giving Rio a knowing look. “I don’t want you feeling left out.”

Then she started blowing her nose, loudly, using so much force that she had to secure the handkerchief in place with both hands. It was a classic Agatha move, an obnoxious attempt to secure the last word, but for once, Rio was speechless. Not only was she flustered, but there were so many distractions vying for her attention, scents and sounds and sensations swirling around her like leaves in an autumn breeze. Agatha was right - she was jealous, longing to switch places with the cloth that covered her mouth and nose. Rio closed her eyes, held her breath, and stroked her own leg, probing at the slightly damp spots in the fabric as she tried (and failed) to ground herself.

When she opened her eyes again, it was because Agatha sniffled and it sounded so close. There she was, taking her cup back from Rio with the dexterity of a natural thief, her careful efforts to avoid detection thwarted by her own reflexes. When she caught Rio watching her she smiled coyly, lifting the cup in a mock toast instead of pitching its contents to the floor as she had originally planned. Then she placed it amongst the clutter on the bedside table, where it would most likely sit, forgotten, for a while.

Before Rio could voice her disapproval Agatha was intercepting her lips, slamming against her body like a wall of pure heat. She needed a moment to process this pleasant surprise, but once she found her bearings Rio kissed back, threading her fingers through dark tresses and using them to tug Agatha closer. Hands that had known nothing but restraint since she first arrived were free to wander the fevered landscape of her body. It was a bit distracting how much skinnier Agatha felt since the last time they touched like this. How long had she been unwell for? Had she been eating enough — or at all? Questions she wished she had asked when she first arrived kept popping into her head, making it difficult to focus on the task at hand.

Whatever surge of energy compelled Agatha into her arms seemed to dissolve as quickly as it came. Unfortunately, being sick didn’t make her any less stubborn. She refused to listen to what her body was trying to tell her, choosing instead to push through the discomfort. Even with the blankets and their combined body heat Agatha couldn’t stop shivering, and she kept whirling away to cough, catch her breath, or swipe impatiently at her nose. Rio always welcomed her lips back with enthusiasm, but she was starting to question her ability to handle what this was building towards. Things between them had the tendency to burn out of control pretty quickly, and even if they were capable of practicing restraint, neither of them wanted to. As much as she wanted to keep going, Rio decided it was time to call a moratorium on their activities after the next interruption.

It happened sooner than she hoped, but not as soon as she expected. Agatha gradually disengaged from the kiss, turning away not with a flourish like all the other times but with slow, hazy uncertainty. One of her hands migrated up Rio’s body, reemerging from her clothing to hover near her nose. Rio removed her other hand from the side of her face and held it as if it were a small, injured animal, rubbing her thumb against her palm as she watched and waited. The handkerchiefs were lost to the bed sheets again, but Rio couldn’t tear her focus away long enough to look for one, and Agatha didn’t even bother trying. She was starting to resent her growing reliance on them, and while her hand was hardly a suitable alternative, she was a few degrees Fahrenheit past the point of caring.

The first sneeze tore out of her - “ET’SHhhiew!” - with unexpected force, carrying with it the weight of her building frustration. It left her hand soaked and her head reeling, and in pursuit of something solid to hold onto she reached instinctively for Rio. Agatha turned into her shoulder with a jagged inhale, releasing a shamelessly desperate “ihy’EESHhew!” that sent shivers through her body.

“Salud,” Rio said, somehow sounding both impressed and apologetic as Agatha slumped back against the headboard in a daze. She didn’t get sick in the same way mortals did, so while she found the process captivating (and arousing), it was hard not to experience something akin to survivor’s guilt in situations like this. “You know, sweetheart, we don’t have to keep going.”

Agatha didn’t respond, nor did she tend to her nose right away, choosing instead to let it trickle down to her lips while she waited for the dizziness to pass. Finally managing to make herself useful, Rio fished a clean handkerchief out of the sea of miscellaneous items on the nightstand. She used it to pat gingerly at the mess on her upper lip, cleaning up what she could before Agatha took over control of the cloth. As always, her touch was a lot rougher, impatient even, and she gave her nose a hasty blow before tossing the handkerchief aside. Despite her obvious misery, or perhaps because of it, she was determined to pick up from where they left off. When she leaned back in for a kiss, Rio stopped her, pressing her hand to her chest with a gentle look. Agatha sat back, looking confused and a little hurt; it was rare for Rio to rebuff her advances.

“What do you say we take a break and get you into some warm clothing, hm?” Rio suggested, softly stroking the hair that spilled over her shoulders. “Maybe have a bath, or something to eat?”

Though Agatha chose not to answer, the increasingly complex mosaic of emotions on her face said plenty. Rio realized, too late, that she failed to explain the reasoning for her rejection. She didn’t want Agatha getting the wrong idea and thinking she was disgusted by her symptoms. It wasn’t that Rio kept her interests a secret; even if she hadn’t stated them explicitly and repeatedly, she would have thought the way she clung to Agatha during allergy season or whenever she got sick spoke volumes. While it wasn’t her intention, her dedication to transparency only seemed to make Agatha feel more self-conscious. She valued her power and control, so to willingly surrender both in order to make a mess of herself in front of her girlfriend was something she was still getting used to. Hoping to prove just how unbothered she was, Rio leaned in to give her a kiss, but it landed on her cheek as Agatha turned her head, redirecting a tearful glare meant for Rio towards the nightstand.

“Sweetheart,” Rio sighed. “Please don’t be like that. You know how much I want this - want you, but my love… you’re aren’t well. I don’t want to hurt you while you’re all–”

“Pathetic?” Agatha spat, still refusing to look at her.

“… sick,” she finished, frowning. “Agatha, you are burning up with fever, and I don’t think this isn’t helping.”

“Oh, please.” The other witch waved dismissively before folding her arms across her chest. “You know I run hot.”

“Not this hot,” Rio said, but Agatha was making it clear through her increasingly defensive body language that she was finished with this conversation. Rio sighed, anticipating more resistance as she returned to the topic of dinner. “Sick or not, you still need to eat. Do you have an appetite for anything besides me?”

She hoped the joke would lighten the tension, but if the hard set of her jaw was any indication, Agatha was not amused. An uncomfortable mixture of emotions was simmering just below the surface, but instead of taking time to process them she defaulted to anger, her comfort zone. She turned to glower at Rio, who could tell from the look in her eyes that she was about to say something hurtful.

“Did you come here to fuck me or take care of me?” she asked, her venomous tone undercut by the tremor in her voice. “Because you’re doing a terrible job of both.”

Rio felt her heart sink, but tried her best not to show it. Given how miserable Agatha was feeling, she was trying to be understanding, but her patience was starting to wane. Her gaze flickered over to the drink she had made, cold and abandoned on the nightstand, as she considered her next move. She could retaliate verbally, but she was afraid of what might come out of her mouth if she opened it. She could just fucking leave, if that was how the ungrateful witch felt - but she knew it wasn’t, not really. Besides, Rio didn’t want to leave. What she wanted was to stay and take care of her ill (and ill-tempered) girlfriend, but she decided that first she would go for a walk. Whatever was happening between them right now felt heavy and menacing and charged, like the air before a thunderstorm, and Rio feared what might happen if they stayed in the same space together for much longer.

It all dissipated in a dizzying rush the moment she stood up and started walking towards the door. She barely made it three steps before Agatha was scrambling to disentangle herself from her blankets.

“Wait!” she squeaked, stumbling out of bed to trail Rio in a misty-eyed panic. “I didn’t mean it, my love. Please, don’t go.”

It was the genuine desperation in her voice that made Rio turn around, just in time to catch Agatha as her legs gave out. Rio held her in a secure embrace, supporting her full weight until she stopped shaking. Then she half-carried her back to the bed, peppering Agatha with soft kisses and words of reassurance as she helped her lie back down. As soon as Rio crawled into bed beside her Agatha burrowed into her chest, her tears seeping through her clothing as they started flowing in earnest. Every now and then she would whimper something, but with her voice failing and her congestion worsening by the minute, Rio could only guess at what she was saying and respond accordingly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Rio said, holding Agatha close. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[blasphemousclaw]

Hello there huge fan of your blog and wasnted to get your thoughts on something, if that's ok! In one of the glintstone sorceries' descriptions there's a quote that goes "the moon and the stars will be together no more" hinting at why Rennala and the academy had a falling out. This led me to wondering about the title of Radahn, Starscourge. Is it possible that Radahn went into gravity magic not just bc of Leonard but bc of wanting to control the stars, the power of his mother's enemies? Thank you in advance!

Hello! Yes, I’ve definitely had the thought that Radahn might have had some beef with the glintstone sorcerers… but first, I think there are a ton of layers to this question to pick apart. WARNING: this became extremely long and meandering and I ended up answering several questions that have nothing to do with your question at all. SORRY! I hope it’s still interesting.

Anyway, as you say, the description of Carian retaliation reads,

“One of the sorceries of the Carian royal family. Swing your staff to dispel incoming sorceries and incantations, using their power to retaliate with glintblades. This was the Carian royal family's secret means to prepare against the disloyalty of the academy. The moon and stars would one day go their separate ways.”

The Carians were prepared for the event of the Academy rebelling against them… perhaps the Carian astrologers predicted this fate within the stars, or perhaps they knew not everyone at the Academy embraced Rennala’s teachings. The Lazuli Conspectus robe description also portrays the moon and stars as being two separate factions within the Academy: “Robe worn by scholars of the Lazuli Conspectus, singular among the greater Raya Lucaria Academy. These scholars, who sought to master Carian sorcery, instead learned to see the moon as equal to the stars. This robe, in the hue of the full moon, signifies their heresy.” The word “heresy” implies that other glintstone sorcerers of the Academy still viewed the stars as supreme even while Rennala was in charge.

Perhaps the biggest controversy between the Carians and the Academy was the matter of the primeval current sorcerers. Sellen tells us that Azur, Lusat, and herself were banished from the Academy “for attempting to restore the primeval current of glintstone sorcery.” She goes on to say, “The toothless pedantry peddled by the Carian royal family can rot for all I care. I want glintstone sorceries that open our minds, unbound by terrestrial taboos.” As we later find out, Sellen had been turning sorcerers into a Graven Masses which are “seeds of stars” created by primeval current sorcerers, and they became “a nightmare that would continue to haunt the academy.” According to the Graven Mass talisman, “The primeval current is a forbidden tradition of glintstone sorcery. To those who cleave to its teachings, the act of collecting sorcerers to fashion them into the seeds of stars is but another path of scientific inquiry.” It can be inferred that the primeval current sorcerers were expelled from the Academy under the leadership of Rennala because they were using other sorcerers in their grotesque experiments (Could Rennala have also used this as a perfect opportunity to solidify her hold on the Academy and eliminate sorcerers who didn’t agree with her leadership? Maybe!).

Now, what I believe connects this matter to Radahn specifically is two details. The first is Lusat’s imprisonment. Sellen tells us that after his banishment from the Academy, Lusat “languishes, imprisoned somewhere” and gives us a glintstone key that will let us cross the barrier “that keeps Master Lusat confined.” Later, she tells us that she heard Lusat had returned to Sellia, his home, after his banishment, and that she got the glinstone key off of a Sellian sorcerer. What this tells me is that after returning home to Sellia, Lusat was not welcomed, but imprisoned by the sorcerers there, his staff taken away... which means that the sorcerers in Sellia probably heard of Lusat’s crimes, and by imprisoning him are siding with the Carian royal family. We know that a young Radahn came to Sellia to study gravity sorceries from the Remembrance of the Starscourge, and from a Caelid sword monument, that “Radahn alone holds Sellia secure, and stands tall, to shatter the stars.” All of this points to some kind of relationship between Sellia and the Carian royals, and a hostility towards the primeval current sorcerers.

The second detail connecting the Carian-primeval current feud to Radahn is Jerren’s mission. Jerren is essentially Radahn’s right hand man. According to Iji, Jerren had made “an old promise” to get rid of “a longstanding Carian weed.” After Radahn is granted an honorable death, Jerren is now able to leave Redmane Castle to hunt down Sellen, a longtime thorn in the Carians’ side. Jerren came to serve Radahn “after spending time as a guest of the Carian royals,” and is loyal to the family through and through. Jerren was probably distracted from the goal of getting rid of Sellen when he and Radahn fought in the Shattering war, but I wonder if in the past, Radahn had also viewed Sellen as a personal enemy?

Since Radahn seems to be surrounded by people who oppose the sorcerers of the primeval current and uphold the decrees of the Carian royals, it makes sense for him to have felt this way himself. Did this influence his decision to challenge the stars, though? It’s possible, but I have two caveats toward the idea that he wanted to seize the power of his family’s enemies: one, even though the “moon and stars” are often positioned as two separate factions, the stars are still the origin of all glintstone sorcery, and the stars also “alter the fate of the Carian royal family,” who were not just sorcerers but astrologers — those who study fate within the stars… so the stars are still quite important to the Carians, and Radahn would know this. Two, it’s kind of unclear to me how halting the stars’ movement might have hindered the primeval sorcerers from achieving their goals… Sellen never seems to consider this to be a problem for her, only mentioning the halting of the stars when asked about Ranni’s destiny:

“The stars alter the fate of the Carian royal family. And the fate of your mistress, Ranni. But long ago, General Radahn challenged the swirling constellations, and in a crushing victory, arrested their cycles. Now, he is the force that repulses the stars. If General Radahn were to die, the stars would resume their movement. And so, too, would Ranni's destiny.”

Sellen doesn’t seem particularly personally inconvenienced by the stars being frozen, and in fact, the stars resuming their movement actually threatens her life: Iji says that “a certain sorceress has been dispossessed of her immortality,” and Sellen says that “A star has fallen, and my fortunes waver. someone may come for my life.” I think what this might mean is that back in the day, Sellen divined her fate by reading the stars (possibly with the help of Seluvis, since this was his official job, and we know he also helped her make a new body?), and she saw her own death… and now the only thing keeping her fate from coming to pass is the fact that the stars aren’t moving, so she’s functionally immortal. But that’s beside the point.

To understand Sellen’s goals, let’s look at what the primeval current actually is and consider the goals of the primeval sorcerers. The Founding Rain of Stars sorcery reads,

“The eldest primeval sorcery, said to have been discovered by an ancient astrologer. A sorcery of legendary status. […] Thought to be the founding glintstone sorcery. The glimpse of the primeval current that the astrologer saw became real, and the stars' amber rained down on this land.”

Sellen explains to us that the “stars’ amber” is glintstone:

“Our powers draw upon the powers embedded in glintstone, but what is the nature of such power? Glintstone is the amber of the cosmos; golden amber contains the remnants of ancient life and houses its vitality, while glintstone contains residual life. And thus, the vitality of the stars. It should not be forgotten that glintstone sorcery is the study of the stars and the life therein.”

The primeval current is the source of all glintstone and all glintstone sorcery. The last line can also be read as a dig at Rennala and her lunar magic. We know Sellen intends to “restore” and “hone” the primeval current, and with Azur and Lusat’s bodies to help her, “we, fallen children of the stars, shall beam with brilliance once again.” But what does Sellen mean by this? Why must the primeval current be “restored”? I have absolutely no idea. But what I can say is that primeval current sorcerers create graven masses in order to form “seeds of stars.” Azur and Lusat’s bodies, which Sellen needs to hone the primeval current, are near inorganic, turned into glintstone, each of them “nigh a child of the stars.” Then, Sellen’s quest culminates in her becoming part of a graven mass herself. It seems that the primeval current sorcerers are taking the idea of the inherent life within stars, and are attempting to BECOME stars themselves in order to become a part of or expand the primeval current… although this doesn’t seem to work out for Sellen in the end.

Anyway, all of this is to say that there’s heaps of evidence showing how the movement of the stars affects fortune and fate and the practice of astrology, but there doesn’t seem to be any direct evidence of an effect on the primeval current. It’s still possible that Radahn’s actions could have hindered the primeval current in some way, but I just can’t find any dialogue that suggests this. Of course, Radahn could have simply thought that halting the stars might thwart the primeval current sorcerers and in reality he ended up shooting his own family in the foot, but that’s pure speculation. If this were true, it would certainly be poetic! Personally, I still think Radahn’s reasons had much to do with Sellia and wanting to prove himself a hero, but I absolutely see merit to this idea.

[honorhearted]

@socialseasons​ | continued from (x)

John was dead. No matter how many times Ben read and re-read Gregory’s frantic, pleading words, he couldn’t quite wrap his head around them -- couldn’t fathom why the boy believed Francesca needed his help. The malaise was too strong, he’d claimed. She would write home with pleasantries, but refused their mother’s fervent plea to come home and rest. 

But what could he do, Ben wondered? After his departure, he’d promptly cut off all ties with Francesca. Her letters arrived for many months, and despite his yearnings to correspond and keep himself abreast of her life, he’d selfishly discarded them into the fire, not even giving in to the temptation of opening them and reading what laid inside. A little over a year later, the letters finally stopped, and despite the undeniable hole in his heart from the loss of her friendship, he’d deemed their separation for the best. She had a husband now. She would soon have a family...

And now Francesca had nothing. She had no one in that big, empty manor, and despite Ben’s distance and lack of connection to her plight, he couldn’t help but feel responsible. He should’ve been there. He should have never let her face all this alone.

It was this guilt that fueled him into accepting Gregory’s secret invitation. Weeks onboard a cramped ship gave way to a stormy, unpleasant arrival with a chilling sense of foreboding. The wind whipped pellets of rain into his face, and waterlogged his clothes within moments of being on land. It was fitting, Ben thought. He was surely being tested for intervening where he was not welcome -- he was surely being punished with this tragedy of his own making.

By the time Ben pounded on the double doors to Francesca’s manor -- or rather, her husband’s -- it was late afternoon and he was shaking from the chill. Impatient, he shifted between using the door knocker and his fist, banging on the thick oak surface until it opened and revealed a servant with a cautious, disapproving scowl.

“Lady Francesca,” Ben choked out, abruptly lowering his fist. “Please...I need to speak with her.”

He knew he must appear bedraggled and untrustworthy at best, and his suspicions were confirmed once the woman denied him entry. 

“I’m sorry, but her ladyship is not currently admitting any guests,” she said.

She moved to close the doors, but Ben was quick to lodge his foot in between the wooden slabs. “Please,” he begged, “I’ve come out all this way...”

“And I’m sure she’d appreciate that,” the woman coolly said, “but I’m afraid you-”

“I was sent for!” Ben furiously cut in. “Please, you must let me through!” When the woman yet again moved to shut the doors, he used all his body weight to barrel in across the threshold, the servant’s shrill cry rising above the din as Ben breathlessly shouted, “Frannie! Fran, it’s me... Please. You must come down here!”

“Sir, please!” the woman growled. “If you don’t leave right this instant, I will have you thrown out by force!”

The commotion finally seemed to rouse someone’s attention. A woman appeared at the top of the staircase, and both Ben and the servant stopped in their tracks, the former feeling as though an awl had punctured him right between the ribs. It was her... It couldn’t be, and yet it was. The weight of womanhood carved itself across Francesca’s features, soft and refined, yet grief had mellowed out some of the brightness in her smile and the sparkle in her eyes. She was no longer sweet and carefree -- she was no longer a child, naïve and at fate’s mercy.

Finally, something seemed to register in Francesca’s face, and then she came rushing down the steps to meet him, her arms flinging around his neck and holding on tight. Forgotten was their small audience, and Ben stooped to properly embrace her, a lump in his throat as he passed his fingers through her hair and closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out. Please forgive me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Words failed him in that moment -- after all, what could he say to a friend he’d so heinously abandoned? -- and pressing a kiss to her temple, he finally settled on asking what happened. Francesca went rigid against him, and her silence tore his heartstrings akin to knives as she lowered down to her proper height, her eyes scanning his face with clear confusion.

“Your husband,” Ben weakly explained. “Frannie, I didn’t know... Why didn’t you tell me?” 

You know exactly why. 

Pressing his lips inward, shame bled across his features and he swallowed, suddenly unable to return her gaze. “I...I don’t know what to say,” he finally admitted. It was true. He didn’t know what to say, and as tears filled his eyes, he was suddenly grateful to the rainwater masking his emotional turmoil. It was her -- it was really, truly her -- and somehow, it hurt nearly as much to have Francesca there with him as it did to be apart. Her hands were clasped in his own, and yet the weight of them didn’t feel real...couldn’t be real.

And then just like that, she pulled away from him. It was as though a curtain had been drawn, promptly closing off the warmth in her face as she reverted back to something colder, proper and guarded. Don’t hide from me, he wanted to plead, and yet he knew the sentiment was laughable. Had that not been what he, himself had done over the past four years? He’d once told Francesca she taught him not to run from his problems -- that he needed to face them -- and yet Ben was still running, even now.

While Francesca fussed over his wet clothes, he finally felt the chill in the significantly warmer foyer and shivered, guilt ribboning through him upon her question.

“I didn’t wish to be presumptuous,” he said, “so I do have an inn I can return to, should you prefer it. Caleb helped me with my last minute travels, so he’s presently staying there.” Wiping the rainwater from his face, Ben offered a feeble smile and quipped, “You know, all those years ago during your debut, you had quite the stunning entrance. I suppose I was well overdue.” In more ways than one.

Once Mary had left to prepare his room, Ben reached down and took hold of Francesca’s hand, his heart in his throat as he gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll stay,” he finally agreed. “For as long as you need me.”

[starspilli]

hey hi hello sorry if this is an annoying ask and ofc no pressure to answer it but I'm getting into the dc fandom and want to read some of the comics but am completely lost as to how/in what order/which ones to avoid/which ones to read. any tips? (also your art is amazing and I love it :D)

hi don’t worry i love this question!! & ty for the lovely compliment :,)

it’s a little hard for me to answer, i’ve been a fan of dc since i was very young & just reading whatever random comics my library had in stock LOL so its hard for me to think what i would do if i was getting into it from scratch & all at once. so just take what i say w a grain of salt lol

a lot of people recommend picking one character and just reading through their whole publication history, but i personally think it’s good to have an understanding of the broader universe first to avoid coming away with a distorted view of characters & stories. (ie i wouldn’t suggest just reading jason todd stories without reading general batman stuff first.)

i think what i would suggest is looking up a few reading guides for essential stuff, seeing what kind of stories, characters, themes etc you vibe with out of those, and then maybe looking more into specific characters / stories from that. the internet & tumblr especially is so great for this because even the most random d-list characters (affectionate) have people who love them so much they will make rly detailed reading lists which are great jumping on points!!

dc can be complicated at first glance because there’s so many reboots, but i’d say there’s a lot of runs that represent the characters & universe so well, or they’re so engrained in the lore that they’re sort of immune to retcons and rewrites so if you stick with those at first it gets a bit easier.

it’s also unfortunate because ‘essential’ reading doesnt always equal quality, and there are writers who really aren’t great people whose work is, unfortunately, very significant to certain characters. so just again. take this stuff with a grain of salt

i think if you look on google the essential reading for dc is very unanimously agreed on so there’s no point in me rehashing that, BUT long halloween & dark victory, all star superman & perez & rucka’s runs on wonder woman are pretty essential basic choices imo and i enjoy them. some more random choices off of my list of personal favs r: batman: the cult, under the red hood (obviously), batgirl (2000), task force z, justice league international (1988), bruce wayne: fugitive, catwoman: zero year, poison ivy (2022), robin: son of batman & john ostrander’s suicide squad.

as for how to read them, i know there’s a lot online but id suggest having a look in your local library to see if they have anything. i also rly like dc universe, they have a £5/month subscription for access to most of their archive which is very good & it lets you download them for offline reading as well !

if there are any characters/runs/stories you specifically would like to know more about pls send me another ask!! i hope this was helpful and not too convoluted/rambling lol. i love comics & talking about them so i never mind anons asking questions or wanting to talk about them god bles

[skyyguy]

grabbing their hair to make them bare their throat to you for wings possibly

On AO3 here Prompt Gale's been recaptured by Martin, who's not happy his pet escaped him. Hurt, absolutely no comfort (yet). Set before the other Wings whump I have.

He wasn’t surprised, not really. He knew John couldn’t keep him safe. Hoped? Yeah, he’d hoped. But that was the thing about hope, Gale thought, it was blind, based off nothing but some nice words and a smile. He knew better. He did. And yet… He’d fallen for it. Fallen for John. Fallen for the hope he offered, the safety of his words, the warmth of his hands. And look where it’d gotten him.

“Nice try, Bluebird,” Martin’s voice, cruel and cold, amused, and Gale flinched away from it, “thought you could fly the roost, huh? Well, guess we’re gonna have to do something about that delusion,” Martin continued, Gale shrinking in on himself, his bound wings trembling, “someone took good care of you, at least, huh, pet?” he said, and though it was phrased as a question, Gale knew better than to answer. Even if he could answer. He had been drugged, bound and gagged, a blindfold tied too tight around his eyes, before being thrown in the back of a truck. Gale flinched when he felt a hot, large hand land on his wings— his newly grown, healthy feathers— and bit down hard into his gag. Martin made an unimpressed noise as he stroked the feathers and Gale curled tighter in on himself, bracing himself.

“Gotta clip these pretty wings, huh?” Martin asked nobody in particular, grabbing a handful of the brilliant blue feathers and ripping them out of Gale’s sensitive wing. The gag helped muffle the scream, but Martin still heard, a wicked grin splitting his face as he held the handful of sapphire up, as if trying to get a better look at them. Gale sobbed around the ball of fabric and rope in his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut under the blindfold. He refused to think about John, refused to send out a silent plea for the human to find him. He wouldn’t. That would just welcome hope in, and he couldn’t handle more of that. Couldn’t handle more false words, broken promises, deceitfully soft touches. Because at the end of the day, Martin was right. Gale was a pet. Something to be owned. Contained. Used.

“Get him out of here,” Martin barked at someone, ignoring Gale’s whimpers and sobs, the way the gag felt like it was choking him, his whole body trembling in terror and pain. Three sets of hands grabbed at him and he tried to scream, tried to thrash and struggle, but Martin grabbed another handful of his carefully regrown and kept feathers and Gale stilled, chest heaving.

“You’re gonna wanna be a good lil’ pet for me right now, bluebird,” Martin whispered into Gale’s ear and Gale was no stranger to the dangerous, knife-sharp tone. He tried to nod, to show he understood, and relief flooded him when Martin released his terrible hold on his wing. The sets of hands returned, grabbing at him and hauling his body— still and pliant, the only movement, his ribs expanding and contracting with his harsh, panicked breaths— away. He was almost relieved when he was dropped onto something dangerously soft, but then he felt it move, rolling under him, and he sobbed again. The three men moving him were muttering to each other, laughing and joking, but Gale’s ears were ringing too loud for him to understand anything they said. He didn’t know where he was being taken and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

The cart he was on stopped suddenly and Gale’s body jolted, still bound tightly with his arms and ankles behind his back, tucked under his equally tightly bound wings. One of the men said something, the others both making noises in response, and then Gale was being lifted as if he weighed nothing. Which, he supposed, had to be true, John had constantly been trying to get him to put on weight— no, Gale jerked his wrist in the ropes, feeling the burn on the open sores, making himself refocus, no, he wouldn’t think about John. He couldn’t think about John. He was already chipped, cracks spreading, but thinking about John? That would splinter him. Martin would enjoy that far too much.

“I dunno, man, maybe just the legs?” The words punched through the fog in his brain as he was dropped, carelessly, onto the ground. Gale felt the concrete scrape along his clothed belly and ribs, felt his bones protest the fall, felt the cracks in his just-recently-healed ribs.

“It can’t do much with its wings and arms bound, I think the legs’ll be fine,” another one said. Gale cringed and whimpered, the stark reminder that Martin and all his men viewed him as an object, as property, in the man’s words.

“Shut it,” that was the first one again, his steel-toed boot connecting painfully with Gale’s hip. Gale bit down on the gag, stifling the yelp that would have gotten him in more trouble.

“Ya, free its legs,” the third piped up after a moment, the sound of a knife being freed from a sheath following his words. Gale tried to hold still when a knee landed on his side, digging in painfully, a hand grabbing the rope holding his ankles to his hands. When it gave to the sharp blade, his legs instantly swinging to sit straight, knees and feet smacking into the hard, cold, unforgiving concrete, Gale wanted to sob. As much as it hurt to whack his legs on the floor, the instant rush of blood returning to his limbs felt infinitely better. The knee in his side shifted, the owner sitting heavy on his legs, and the knife sawing at the rope wrapped multiple times around his lower legs, binding them together. When it gave, Gale turned his face into the floor, stifling his relieved groan— though it morphed into a barely surprised yelp of pain when the knife sliced into his leg.

“Oops,” the second voice said, though he didn’t sound upset or apologetic at all. And then the weight was off his legs, a knife returned to it’s home, and the three steps of footsteps started to retreat. Gale tuned them out the moment he knew they were leaving, waiting till the door slammed shut, lock clicking, before he dared to move. The concrete had leeched what little body heat he’d had before, and he shivered as he struggled into a seated position. For the moment, they’d left his clothes— though he was sure Martin would come for those— and Gale was grateful for the small amount of warmth the thin shirt and threadbare jeans provided. He shifted himself backwards until he felt the wall against his sore wings, letting himself lean against it. His ribs hurt, his jaw hurt, his eyes hurt, and his knees and feet and ankles were starting to hurt. He could feel blood along his inner calf, the cut the man had given him after freeing his legs, as if to remind Gale he was property.

As if Gale didn’t remember well enough already.

He leaned his head back against the wall, wishing that they’d at least removed his gag, teeth clenching the soggy fabric to keep it from slipping too far back in his mouth. But, he supposed, he was being punished. It wouldn’t be a punishment if he weren’t miserable, would it? The fact they’d undone his legs was already a small blessing. So, Gale sat there, jaw clenched, leaning against the wall, clearing his mind of anything, retreating into the small place within himself that he’d hoped to never go to again.

Hope.

There is was again.

He’d thought he’d rid himself of it years ago, then John had come crashing in— literally, although it was Curt who crashed through the door, the sentiment still stood, in Gale’s mind, anyways— and reignited that spark. It had roared too big, too fast, too hot, while he’d been with John. Now he was getting burnt and he knew he had no one to blame but himself.

His shoulders were aching, his arms long since gone numb, and Gale let himself fall sideways, letting his shoulder take the impact, feeling the joint scrape against itself before popping out of the socket. A dislocated shoulder, while maybe painful, was the least of his concerns. Gale knew Martin had much, much worse in mind. How many times had he spouted colourful threats when Gale hadn’t even been thinking about escape? Well, now he hadn’t just thought about it, he had done it, but he’d only made Martin mad, only given him a reason to carry out all those horrible things. Martin would. Happily. Gale had no doubt. John had promised. He’d promised and assured and reassured Gale. Martin would never find him, never catch him, never torture him.

It had been a lie.

The driver had said something about having to pay someone, the person who’d turned Gale in, how someone had tried to skim something off the top but been caught. How whoever had called him had had the sense to count their payment and how he’d had nearly gotten a bullet for their hard work, all because the other had tried to steal. How he’d actually been stealing from Martin. How he was going to report his partner for that.

It had been around that point that Gale finally realized he wasn’t alone in the back of that van. That there was someone else, though he didn’t sound tied up. He sounded like he’d had the shit beat out of him to the point he couldn’t move, and therefore wasn’t worth wasting rope on.

That must be where Martin was, then, Gale thought, trying to distract himself from the focal point of the memory. If he thought about the other man sent to retrieve him, and the punishment he must be receiving, Gale didn’t have to think about how he was sold out, how someone had told Martin where to find him in exchange for a good chunk of change. Gale didn’t know how much the information sold for, but he knew Martin, and he knew how obsessed Martin was with him. It didn’t go cheap.

Gale shook his head, trying to refocus on the thief, wondering how Martin would punish him. If Martin would kill him in the end. Maybe that would get enough of Martin’s rage out that by the time he came to Gale, he’d be even the slightest bit merciful. Maybe Martin would drag the would-be thief's punishment out so long he’d wear himself out, wear his anger down to a dull arrowhead, only capable of bruising his ribs, not puncturing through his body, dragging blood and organ with it.

That… felt unlikely. Gale knew he was, and would remain, the main focus of Martin’s anger. After all, he wouldn’t have had to get his men to go pay a man for information about Gale if Gale hadn’t run away in the first place. No, this was, at its core, Gale’s fault.

And Gale knew would pay Martin back.

Maybe not in money, but definitely in blood.

Gale turned his head into the concrete, a muffled sob forcing its way out of the gag, as he curled in on himself, knees to his chest, despite the ache that set off through his hips. He was used to going to sleep in pain, though it had been a few months since he’d had to. The skill didn’t seem to have left him, though, Gale thought thankfully, as he felt sleep pull at his consciousness. He let it take him.

Ever attuned to his surroundings, Gale burst awake out of a deep sleep when he heard the clicking of a lock, the creaking of a door. He forced himself to sit up— though it was hard, his ribs ached and his bound hands were useless— and leaned against the wall, drawing his legs to his chest to make himself look small. He didn’t know who was there, only that someone was.

“Have a nice nap, bluebird?” Martin asked, voice deceptively soft. Gale barely kept from flinching. “Ya. Ya, you did, didn’t you?” Martin continued, uncaring about the lack of response from his captive prize, “I had other matters to attend, bluebird, but I’m here now. Do you know why I’m here now?” Martin asked and Gale heard his footsteps halt in front of him, could smell him as he bent over, his hot, acrid breath brushing along Gale’s face. He tried not to react, but he flinched, shoulders pulling up to his ears.

“Boss,” a new voice said from the doorway and Gale heard the clicking of a cart being pushed along the hall, stopping and then starting again, clanging as it went through the door frame. Gale stiffened at the sound. He knew that cart. Knew it alarmingly well.

“Leave it and go,” Martin barked, straightening, likely to look at all his toys and tools. Gale took a deep, shuddering breath, even if the gag made it hard. He was grateful for the breathe a moment later when Martin’s hand grabbed his dislocated shoulder, jerking him to his feet, uncaring for the cry of pain the harsh grip forced out of him. He heard the distinct swish of a knife being unsheathed and he clenched his jaw, unsure what Martin planned for him.

The cold metal bit into his cheek, inches from the edge of his mouth, dragging up, parallel to the curve of his jaw, and Gale sucked in air through his nose, biting down hard on the gag, his hands twitching and twisting uselessly in their bindings behind his back. His wings strained at the chains holding them to his body and he knew there were tears in his eyes once again— he’d thought he’d run out— when the knife finally eased out of his skin, tracing along his oh-too-prominent cheekbone, before slicing the blindfold off. It fell away and Gale screwed his eyes shut against the sudden, blinding light. Martin just laughed, a humourless, harsh noise that set shivers down Gale’s spine.

“Well, lemme see those pretty blues,” Martin growled, inches from Gale’s face, his foul breath nearly making Gale gag. Martin’s hand came up to grab Gale’s face, thumb pressing on the fresh cut, and Gale cried out in pain, making Martin laugh again. He reluctantly opened his eyes, knowing that’s what the man wanted, his vision swimming dangerously before Martin’s leering face came into focus.

“I see your escapade didn’t entirely erode your manners,” he hissed. Gale kept his gaze locked on Martin. It was one of his rules, and Gale knew he was in enough trouble already without breaking any more. The older human stepped back, bringing the blade up in a flash, cutting through the rope holding the gag in place and slicing into Gale’s other cheek. This time, when Gale gasped, the gag fell free from his mouth, making an obscene noise when it landed, wet and heavy. Martin smirked, expression flashing angrily, and Gale knew that the other punishment he’d carried out had only wet his thirst for blood.

Gale dropped his chin, breaking eye contact, when Martin raised the knife to his lips, lapping at Gale’s blood on the blade.

“No, no, none of that now, pet,” he snarled, grabbing a handful of Gale’s hair and jerking his head back, making Gale look towards the ceiling, his back arching painfully, throat bared to Martin’s brutality and whims, “you know what I should do to you?” it was a rhetorical question, Gale swallowed thickly, feeling the prick of a blade along his throat, and he tried to look at Martin, though with his head pulled back as it was, that was hard. Biting the inside of his cheek, Gale tried to keep his breathing steady, feeling the slightest increase in pressure, instinct screaming at him to fight back. But he couldn’t. He’d be shot dead before he even landed a blow, if Martin didn’t slice his throat first.

And just like that, the knife was gone and Martin leaned forward, pressing his lips to Gale’s throat, to his jaw, to his lips, and Gale could taste his own blood on them.

“You belong to me.”

[marimayscarlett]

Quick question, have we figured out why Richard is so damn ATTRACTIVE??? Like he was so fine during the Mutter and MiG Era but he's even better now??? Sir I have questions!!!! What is it about you that's so addictive??? And that belly??? A MASTERPIECE!!!! He needs to pay for my rehab I'm dying over him at this point lmao

Hi hello how did you get into my head and write down exactly what I think about daily?? Because I'm still so fascinated regarding how he changed over the years, while remaining so enticing and attractive, always reinventing himself a bit, experimenting with different looks and styles while maintaining his overall vibe and aesthetic 😌 This of course includes his physique and wonderful chunkiness, but I'll shamelessly use this ask to venture out in earlier decades, to appreciate this man in all his glory 😩 (I hope that's alright with you)

Let's take a tiny look at Mr. Richard Z. Kruspe over the years, just to process this delicious evolution of his:

Very early on we had a lean Richard with the dreads, for some a no-go, for others quite a charming look (i know exactly i'm not the only one who's down for dreadlock Richard 👀), picture from ca. 1993:

In the beginning of Rammstein, we have some brown and blond haired, somewhat muscly Richard (ca. 1995/1996):

Then of course the ethereal look of Live aus Berlin (recorded in 1998) and his general style during the Sehnsucht era (Viva interview from 1997):

Moving on to the Mutter era, the first time his iconic spiky black hair was introduced to the world (picture from 2001 in Tallinn, gif from 2001 at the Velodrom Berlin):

He maintained a similar style and physique (very much toned and gym-trained I guess) or a while, for example during Völkerball (recorded in 2005):

or in various music videos, such as "Mein Teil" (2004) and "Benzin" (2005, albeit with some very much 2000s eyebrows):

In 2009 while LIFAD was released and during the LIFAD tour, he shortly ventured into another hair style (I won't comment, it was.. something, picture of 2009), then again back to the spiky style and tried out the mohawk (picture from 2012 I think), while parts of his typical stage outfit were born plus he's rather muscly here too:

During the festival tour 2016/2017 you can slowly see him becoming a bit broader/meatier in his physique, which I find just absolutely wonderful, plus some combacks like his spiky hair (gifs from an interview in 2018):

And slowly but surely we arrive in the current time and Richard's current style and physique: vampire coat, chicken coat, meaty and chunky Richard in all his glory:

All in all I have to say: It's so interesting to see how he changed and still stayed true to himself and his aesthetic, to his enthusiastic and genuine self while continously trying out new styles. And this includes his physique!! His appearance of course changed over the span of 30 years, that's aging for you. Of course he put on some weight - but that doesn't negate the fact that someone can be unbelievably attractive. And yes, I wholeheartedly agree, his belly now is a master piece, forged by the heavens, a gift from god, just perfection 💖

[hood-ex]

I have seen you talking about Dick & Dami's relationship and Dick & Tim as well,but what are your takes on Dick and Jason actually?

Like how you wish their relationship should be portrayed today and where are them missing when it comes to making those two acting like siblings?

Do you think in the past their dynamic was better?

How Dick views Jason and how Jason views Dick?

This is difficult to answer because there are like 8 different stages to Dick and Jason's relationship with various dynamics. They also view each other a bit differently depending on which stage we're talking about.

The way I would like their relationship to be portrayed today isn’t necessarily possible thanks to Jason’s integration into the family and acceptance of the no killing moral code. For me, their ideal dynamic is portrayed in Outsiders #44-46. And I know people are gonna find that regressive as hell but, tbh, that dynamic is far more interesting than the kinda awkward thing they have going on now.

Although, I don't mind that they acknowledge their brotherhood in a serious manner now. Like before they'd kinda be like, "Eh... I mean... we were adopted from the same guy but... brothers? Eh..." And now they're more firmly in the, "We're brothers," camp. So that development is interesting.

Character progression wise, it wouldn't feel right for for them to be super close in the way that, say, Dick and Tim are (unless we saw a lot of trust and relationship building between them), but at the same time, there is part of me that kind of wants them to have that older sibling bond (except Jason is closer in age to Tim than he is to Dick sooo actually let's just leave older sibling things to Dick and Cass... not that Cass is much older than Jason though so LOL this is why Dick has to lone the oldest sibling thing by himself... which is funny because Dick is technically no longer the oldest sibling, he's a baby brother now... except Dick and Melinda's relationship really hasn't progressed much sooo you could say they share blood but don't consider each other family yet, in which case, Dick is still the oldest... I mean, regardless, Dick is the oldest sibling of the Waynes... god why did they have to make all of this so difficult 😫).

[cosmicdenro]

'rhm and wilhelm trying to hang out but their duties getting in the way so much so their relationship deteriorates throughout the months but in a way that makes them prone to jealousy of others getting to spend more time with the other and unable to figure out what the other even enjoys enough anynore as a gift' for tonight sir?