#time is irrelevant (series)

[billytoots]

He do be missing those good old days when they shared workbenches and spirits after work

Also Oz is fucking dead dont @ me not exactly happy about this piece

[starlight-eclipsed]

With chapter 3 of Porcelain Veneer posted, I can now share Legato's design page! Ignore the part where I technically spoiled this chapter with a tiny Legato.

Below the cut are my design notes, along with some original concepts I drew a year ago when I first thought of this au. How far we've come...

It's fun to see which details I kept and which fell away in favor of other ideas.

​Fun fact! Legato was originally supposed to be confused with Linkle during Hyrule Warriors. The base concept for this au was that Legend was trying to use the Harp of Ages to visit the Chain, but he kept missing. This involved him saving baby Malon, having tea with a sorceress named Cialana, hanging out with baby Wild, crashing through Midna's window, and being a thorn in the side of Ghirahim. All with the punchline that everyone had shown up at his house the second he left.

Obviously, things didn't go the way I was expecting, but I think I'm happy with what I ended up doing :3

[sluttyten]

I was working on a new fic that I was really looking forward to, but in light of recent revelations, I'm gonna be taking a step back I think

also i removed him from the member masterlist and all of his fics, excluding things like YIMA and the poly series which I'm considering re-editing to get rid of him

[aardvaark]

most shows with biblical allusions: the protagonist is a good person, so we are going to make references that compare him to jesus

person of interest: our prophet is a genius lesbian hacker & killer-for-hire who hears the voice of god through her cochlear implant. her average day involves grifting, theft, torturing people and/or getting tortured, flirting with an assassin who has threatened to kill her, and preventing the AI apocalypse. btw she’s still a major antagonist when she gets metaphorically chosen by god for the whole apocalypse-prevention thing.

[futchbookslut]

Fucking hell, I wish artists would learn how to draw Bree's hair. Too many artists draw her with wavy hair. Not even loose curls, just straight up waves. Can we maybe learn how to draw actual curls before drawing a character who has explicitly mentioned how important her hair is to her, and how white people react to her hair?

[gen-is-gone]

This is perhaps bitchy and uncharitable and certainly almost a year late to really be complaining about but fuck it, we complain anyway.

Yes, I am still unreasonably upset about Sutekh clinging to the side of the TARDIS since The Pyramids of Mars, and upset because I was sort of foolishly hoping we might get some actual characterization fallout from that addressed properly this series, which of course isn't going to happen. And the reason I'm upset about it while it seems fairly few people care all that much is because it's a litmus test for the degree to which any given person sees the TARDIS as a character in her own right. And it's fairly obvious now that rtd doesn't, or at least, only does when it suits him.

Because the thing is, if the TARDIS is a character, is a person, then the manner in which Sutekh uses and usurps her, and the ambiguity in whether it was consensual ('seduction' vs 'coercion') becomes extremely important to the Doctor and the TARDIS's relationship, and the TARDIS's characterization as a whole, both going forward and echoing back. Like bearing in mind that what actually happened is so ambiguous, what Sutekh being 'there the whole time' even fucking means, that trying to pull a point out of it is almost an exercise in futility from the jump, but to borrow some wildly inadequate or perhaps even inappropriate language, it's the difference between whether the TARDIS has been cheating on the Doctor for more than half the length of their entire relationship, or whether she'd been being (sorry) raped that whole time and the Doctor just hadn't noticed.

And yeah, evidently it was too much for me to hope that there would ever be any kind of real emotional or plot-relevant followup about that, because, again, that requires you to see the TARDIS as a character whose choices and emotions and relationships matter beyond their immediate relevance to the plot. And this isn't new by any goddamn means. This isn't actually the usual split between the traditionalist and the avant-garde camps. The TARDIS's sapience and autonomy do not begin with The Doctor's Wife; this is established (more or less) in The Edge of Destruction, the third ever serial in the history of the show, all the way back in nineteen sixty-fucking-four.

And y'know, yes, it would still be a big deal if Sutekh jumped on in Wild Blue Yonder (as would make way more logical sense) rather than Pyramids; the ambiguity of consent that the show either doesn't care or lacks the stomach to address would still be a blow, but it wouldn't have the unutilized capacity to fundamentally alter the relationship between the two longest-running characters in the franchise if it was the span of a season, rather than thousands of years in-universe and nearly five decades in real life. And not to be conspiratorial or assume categorical bad faith on rtd's part, but yeah, it's hard not see that particular unnecessary detail as a petty response to Moffat and Chibnall's own continuity-and-paradigm-altering retcons, and an attempt to get his own shot in.

And it's just. Never gonna get talked about, huh. 'Cause it doesn't actually matter, right? 'Cause it's not like the TARDIS is really a person, right?

[keungking]

imagine getting casted as an omega. the showrunners look at you and say yeah you look breedable enough

[daisyachain]

Genuinely the end of WoT feels like such a kick in the teeth. The women in the series whose arcs are independent from men get disappeared. The women whose arcs involve men are given side quests that feel peripheral or irrelevant to the plot. The most pivotal female character and the only one who has a continuous arc through the books to match the male trio…well. You Know.

[forwhump]

a/n; I’m sorry I keep posting 😭😭😭 remember when I hated it more than anything ?? now I can’t stop

I actually have a list of requests now (!!!!! 🥹 !!!!!!) & I swear I cross my heart I pinky promise if you asked me for something I WILL post for you !!! if you were kind enough to request smth from me I’ll actually write & post anything you want forever just not chronologically in any form at all, that’s all LOL

I found this first when I was perusing the wren folder so that’s why this one is up but NEXT TIME, next time it will be softer & there will be caretaking I promise

just a little bit of wren’s first night in the district first, that’s all <3 (spoilers : it’s horrible) @ doughnut this one’s for you 😚

tw/cw: kidnapping, captivity, rape, noncon, humiliation, psychological torture, sexual torture, misgendering, transphobia

sexual servant whumpee, creepy whumper

There are a glorious few moments, when Wren first opens his eyes, that he isn’t scared.

He’s in pain — the pain starts before consciousness does. But he isn’t scared. It’s a small mercy.

Instead, he wakes to that pain. Groggy, it’s hard to tell exactly what hurts, a sort of fog much the same as trying to wake from unconsciousness. As he wakes, as the fog of sleep clears, the pain settles and Wren couldn’t tell exactly what was hurting because everything hurts. He groans, and even his jaw hurts. He tries to groan, anyway, but the sound is muffled because he’s gagged, a strip of cloth pulled tight and knotted at the back of his head.

For a second, for a split second, Wren doesn’t really think about it. Still barely conscious, he barely considers the gag, and thinks, instead, of the knot at the back of his head. He can feel where it’s tangled in his hair, tugging at his scalp with each exhale. He’s face down, and as he blinks his eyes open, he doesn’t really notice the concrete, but the sheet of his hair.

Wren doesn’t wear his hair down. Wren hasn’t worn his hair down since he was a very small child, a child beauty pageant queen, and his mother would spend hours brushing and oiling and meticulously braiding it for him. He doesn’t think he’s had a haircut since only a few years after that. By the time he was old enough to decide for himself what to do with his hair, he was proud of it. He has great hair. But he also has really long hair, and it’s a pain in the ass. Really impractical, at times.

This is what Wren thinks about. He doesn’t wear his hair down. Why is his hair down? It’s pooling on the concrete around him, and why would he have —

The concrete?

Everything hurts.

Wren’s gagged.

That’s when he gets scared.

It’s the most scared he’s ever been in his life.

Wren’s been scared before. He would be lying through his teeth if he said he hadn’t. He’s never been scared like this. He’s never felt anything like this.

It’s an infection, a parasite that burrows deep into his chest, into his core, and it spreads through him quickly, churning through his bloodstream, just under his skin. He’s shivering, and he doesn’t notice, not right away, that it isn’t only because he’s scared. It’s only when he rolls onto his back that he realizes just how cold it is, so cold his breath clouds the air above him. His hands are tied behind his back, and he traps them against the ground beneath him as he rolls over. It’s why his arms, his wrists, his hands, his shoulders ache — his hands are tied so tightly at his back his fingertips are buzzing with static.

There’s only a single light in the ceiling above him, something fluorescent. Its glow is orange and its flicker, irregular, buzzing with shorted electricity. Something starts to burn low in Wren’s stomach, and the contrast to the cold in here and in his bloodstream is enough to make him gag.

The room is empty, except for him and that fluorescent bulb. It’s concrete on all sides, an empty concrete cell, and the only door is an iron slat carved out of one wall, the bolted, armed doors of a military hanger.

Wren can taste his heartbeat. His hair is down. What the fuck is —

And he can still barely keep his eyes open. Blinking slowly, he braces his hands behind himself and manages to push himself up from the floor, not far but far enough that he can lean heavily against the wall across from that door. His skirt is flouncy, red and white gingham layered with tulle, and it settles in a fan across his lap as he sits up. His eyes close on their own, too heavy to be —

They fly open again just as quickly. His skirt?

No, it’s —

No, he’s not wearing a skirt. It’s a dress, and only then just barely. It’s short, and it’s so tight around Wren’s waist that it hurts, and it hurts a little worse each time he breathes. It’s a child’s dress, and something about that makes Wren more uneasy than anything else. He tries to swallow, and it makes him sob.

He’s wearing cowboy boots. They aren’t his boots.

What the fuck is going on?

It’s so fucking cold.

Wren tries to stand, leaning his weight against the wall, but his legs are shaking too badly and they give out from under him. He falls hard. This time, it has nothing to do with the cold.

He tries to take a deep breath and it catches on something in his throat, something that makes him sob. He isn’t sure when he started crying, but his tears are cool on his face.

What the fuck is going on?

He isn’t so fortunate that he has to wonder for long. Huddled against the wall, shaking so hard he might be pulling himself apart at the seams, Wren cries. He tries to stand, to pull his hands free, to make any sense of his surroundings, and he can’t, and he cries. For a time, the only sounds are the hoarse, panicked hitching of his sobs and the constant, droning hum of the fluorescent bulb above him.

It starts with a chirp, with a weird, technical sort of beep. Wren doesn’t even get the illusion of relief, of somebody coming to his rescue — something is really, really wrong. What’s going on? There’s another beep, then a series of more beeps, and then a sound, through the door, like muffled thunder.

Wren’s heart beats at the back of his throat.

When the door opens, it opens slowly. A man fills the doorway, and he makes Wren’s blood run cold. He looks like something from a nightmare, something so horrible Wren can’t even really fathom him. He doesn’t look real. He can’t be. All black, a monster, the shadow of a monster, except for the cowboy hat, perched low on his head.

For a second, for a naive, blissful second, Wren doesn’t recognize him. He doesn’t recognize the dreadful black uniform or the macabre silhouette. He doesn’t remember how limp Robin had been.

Beneath his cowboy hat, he’s wearing a mask. It’s just as dreadful as the rest of his uniform, but when he pulls it down, it’s so much worse.

He knocks the wide brim of his hat up, out of the way, grinning down at Wren. Looking up at him, into his face, at his eyes, it’s like looking into the eyes of a violent animal. There’s nothing human in his eyes. Wren recognizes those eyes.

He lurches without meaning to, pressing himself a little harder into the wall.

There’s an intensity in the way he watches Wren that makes Wren’s stomach bubble, acidic. He grins a little wider, and something in the way it pulls at his face is grotesque. Unnatural. He doesn’t have a human smile, either. “Why, good mornin’, sugar,” he says, and he says it with an equally unnatural twang. Is he mocking him? The dress, and the hat, it’s — “I’ve been waitin’ on you.”

So, this —

This can’t really be happening, right? It isn’t. This is — what is this? What’s — who is this? What is he — gingham. This is — gingham. Why is Wren wearing gingham? What the fuck is happening? This can’t be happening.

The train of thought must show on his face and the soldier doesn’t try to hide how much he loves it. His grin stretches. The way he angles his head is predatory. Something in Wren’s chest gets very, very tight. “Why, shucks,” he mocks. “You’re awful pretty when you’re scared, girl.”

Heat spreads beneath Wren’s face and trickles down the back of his neck. When the soldier takes a step closer, he flinches back against the wall again. He doesn’t mean to. His hands are shaking at his back, trapped against concrete so cold his fingers are starting to numb with it.

There’s an even colder, unfiltered terror in the way his grin is fixed to his face, in the way he isn’t looking at Wren, not really, but at the hemline of the dress. Gingham. He stalks towards him like a predator, and he crouches down in front of him, too close.

He’s big. He’s massive, in fact. Wren’s never been a particularly big guy, but this guy would tower over even Robin, all six feet and three some odd inches of him. His shoulders are probably double the width of Wren’s own. When he crouches in front of Wren, he blocks the light with the bulk of him, and tears blur his silhouette.

When he speaks again, he speaks without twang, but with a smug, probably militant sort of confidence that makes Wren shiver, try as he might to help it, try as he might not to let this man see. “My men call me Point,” he says, and there’s something almost condescending in how he says it. “You will not. You will not speak unless you’re spoken to. If you must refer to me, you will refer to me as daddy. If you disobey, you’ll be punished, cowgirl, and I won’t take it easy on you. I don’t care how purty you are,” and he puts the accent back on. “Y’understand?”

Wren can’t breathe. His chest is too tight. The lump in his throat is too big. The soldier — Point? — looks like he’s expecting an answer, and Wren doesn’t have one. He can’t breathe. Against the wall, he shakes his head.

“No?” Point asks, sickly sweet.

For such a big guy, he’s fast. He grabs Wren by the face, so fast Wren can’t do anything to stop it. He cracks his head back against the wall behind him so hard that for a moment, Wren loses consciousness again.

It’s a glorious moment, but it’s only a moment. When he blinks his eyes open again, Point is leaning in, leaning too close, and the back of Wren’s head is wet. Warm.

“You will behave,” Point warns, and the accent is gone, replaced by something lethal, unamused. “You will do exactly as I tell you, cowgirl, or I will hurt you very, very badly.” Wren makes a soft, involuntary sound, and that grin flickers back to life on Point’s face, a thousand watts. “I took a big risk taking you out of there, girl. You were supposed to be put down. You owe your life to me, and I’m not about to let you get away without paying your debt.” He lifts the cowboy hat from his head, placing it on Wren’s. Wren shivers, trying to shake it off, and the soldier moves again, that same sort of movement, too quick for the human eye. He grabs Wren by the throat and pins him back against the wall. “Behave.” He thumbs slowly along the underside of Wren’s jaw as he holds him there, and the way Wren’s skin crawls almost aches. His fingertip catches on the gag. “Now I’m going to take this out,” he explains, “because I want to hear you beg. But if you wanna scream, cowgirl, you can go right ahead. Y’know why?”

Wren doesn’t want to know. He tries to sob, and it gets stuck beneath Point’s hand.

Point, who angles his head and whistles.

The door swings open again barely a full second later, and it’s still more than enough time for the fear to build, and build, and build, and burst into something that Wren shudders with, so hard his ribs rattles against each other. Another soldier fills the doorframe, another macabre silhouette. Another follows it, then another still, shadows that crowd the dim concrete cell, an army that filters into the room, blocking out the light.

Point grins at him. “Because the only men that will hear you,” he explains, for good measure, “are my men, and they want to hear you scream. The only men that will hear you are my men, and they’re just waiting for me to be done so they can have their turn with you. I’m not usually much for sharing,” he adds, finally sliding the cloth from Wren’s mouth, “but we’ve never been allowed a plaything down here. It would be cruel not to let them have my sloppy seconds.”

Cold seeps through Wren’s skin and forms crystal in his bloodstream, a cold that aches from the inside. “Please,” he blurts, and it’s weird the way the words come, not from his brain but from the festering, infected panic in his chest. “Please, don’t, don’t —”

But Point only grins, leaning in so close Wren can feel his breath. “I knew it,” he says, sickly sweet, laying the accent on thick. “You’re prettiest when you beg, cowgirl.”

“What?” Wren breathes, and he’s dizzy. He doesn’t think it has anything to do with hitting his head. “Please, I —”

He’s interrupted by a groan so low Wren can feel the rumble of it in his bones. His mouth tastes like bile and his own heartbeat. “That’s it,” Point coos softly. “There’s a good girl.”

Wren’s breath hitches, caught somewhere high in his chest. He doesn’t mean to, but he whimpers around it and Point makes another, lower sound, so low the hair on the back of Wren’s neck stands up. He leans away, only far enough to peel off one of his gloves with his teeth. Bared, he flexes his fingers, and something serpentine beats around the inside of Wren’s stomach. “Please,” he breathes, and one of the other men audibly snorts. Wren isn’t even sure why, but it makes him sob. His hands are curled into fists so tight the bones in knuckles are grinding together. “Please,” he whispers, and Point slides a hand beneath his skirt, warm against the inside of his thigh.

Wren reacts with his entire body. He jerks away so hard he knocks his own head, still bleeding, back into the wall. Point, for such a big guy, is fast, he’s too fast, and he has his other hand curled around Wren’s thigh before Wren sees him move. He makes this embarrassing, hiccuping sort of sound, trying to shake him off, to push him away, but Point, without sweat or struggle, pulls him away from the wall by his leg, onto his back on the concrete. As he pushes Wren’s thigh up towards his chest, he coos softly. “Good girl.”

Wren doesn’t even get the chance to plead again. Point leans in close, too close, cheek to Wren’s cheek, and forces three of his fingers inside him with a groan like a man dying.

Wren doesn’t scream. Wren doesn’t do anything, actually. He freezes, so tense he can feel the ache in every one of his bones. His mind blanks, a whiteness, a sort of emptiness he’s never experienced before. It’s like everything stops, all at once, narrows to Point’s fingers and the pain he pushes inside Wren and the rumble of his approval against his chest.

“Stop,” he hears himself say, from somewhere outside himself, from somewhere really far away. “Please.”

Point coos at him again. “Oh, cowgirl,” he says. “We’re just getting started.”

When he does ease out his fingers, it’s to push up his dress, the gingham and the tulle, shoving it up and around Wren’s waist. Panic surges and it tastes like bile. He doesn’t think, not really, not coherently, he only panics, and he tries to kick and Point catches him with a vice grip around his ankle. He hauls Wren closer and the concrete is so cold against his bare skin.

“No,” Wren says, and his voice isn’t his own, too breathless, too loud, too high. “No, please, please, don’t —”

Wren would dare say he’s a strong guy — he’s a lot stronger than he thinks he looks like he would be, at least. He’s no match for Point. Not at all.

And it’s strange, almost, or it would be, anyway, if Wren had the capacity to ponder the strangeness of it. He was already scared, a suffocating, delirious sort of scared, a kind of scared he didn’t think would be possible. And still, somehow, Point forces his thighs apart, and Wren can’t stop him, he can’t fight him, he can’t struggle, he can’t do anything Point doesn’t want him to do, helpless, and it’s like Wren hadn’t been scared at all. It’s like Wren, until that moment, didn’t know what it meant to be scared.

Something new rises, crests, and crushes him. He can’t breathe under its weight. He does scream, then, and he doesn’t recognize the sound of his own voice.

Point grins widely. He isn’t looking at Wren’s face. He holds his thighs apart and kneels between them.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. How is this happening?

“Please,” Wren gasps, this hitching, horrible thing, “please.”

Point shifts, pinning Wren to the ground with his weight. Whatever his uniform is made out of, it feels like gravel against his skin. He moves slowly, taunting, as he pulls his belt loose, as he pulls himself free from his pants.

Wren isn’t breathing, not even hyperventilating, just making these hitching, gasping sort of sounds he can’t control. There are so many men in here with him, crowding this concrete cell, and none of them help him. There are so many men in here with him and they all just watch him beg. There are so many men in here with him and Wren has never been so alone, not once in his life.

He wants his big brother. He wants his mom. He wants to go home.

“Please,” he cries, desperate, frantic, almost a wail, most of a scream. “Please, pleasepleasepleaseple—”

Wren, in the end, screams himself hoarse.

It doesn’t fucking matter.

[lemonycranberries]

...RIP random cat :(

[earthgrudgefear]

ok finallyy ༄

[cranberryberry]

buffy series is on itvx now finally i can try to watch it djgkhkhfgjf

[maximusboltaqon]

ok so. in lockjaw (2017), lockjaw is mentioned to be 30 years old

this same series ALSO says that lockjaw and his littermates were experimented on to ensure terrigen exposure prior to birth was safe.

as far as any if the comic seems to imply, black bolt is the oldest of his generation (or at least the second oldest, as gorgon's never really shown as a child and i cant find anything that references his age). since rynda is seemingly already pregnant with bb when lockjaw is born, bb is also likely 30 as of the lockjaw comic!

we also know that bb was allowed out of his prison room when he was 18 (or 19, according to some comics). royals lists maximus as being 16 around the time his parents died, giving him a 2-3 year age gap on bb.

we also know crystal is the youngest, though her gap between maximus has also been retconned a few times. in a women of marvel comic from 2010, she's described as being "too little" to play a game karnak's trying to teach her.

maximus is also explicitly said to be 14 in this, and karnak and medusa are both implied to be older than him here (or at the very least karnak is implied to be older), though their ages are not said. maximus is at least old enough to not be considered too young to play bak taga. im going to assume crystal is not yet a preteen in this, making her 2-5 years younger than maximus.

as mentioned above, there doesn't seem to be any clear indication of how old exactly gorgon is. he's older than crystal, and... that's about as specific as it gets. once and future kings has him working with the king while his cousins were missing, and he doesn't seem to be treated as a child during this though he is referred to as a "boy" several times (similar to how medusa is referred to as "the girl") so he's probably 17-18, likely a bit older than medusa but a bit younger than blackagar.

triton is also a bit difficult to track down, as his backstory has been altered a bit over the years. initial comics say he underwent terrigenesis at a year old, while once and future kings (the most recent comic i know of to reference his childhood), clearly shows him as much older than that. he and karnak seem to be close in age:

and there's nothing in this to retcon their mother azur died when triton was 14, which would clearly be after his terrigenesis. karnak could pass as somewhere between 9-12 here, and triton somewhere in the 12-14 range. the main problem is we don't really know *when* the child karnak and triton scenes happen in regards to everything else, other than it was before triton's terrigenesis and before agon and rynda died.

pairing with the wom comic, karnak is older than maximus, and pairing with general early comics lore that oafk references, triton is 18 during the main story, as that's when he started going out on scouting missions. since this comic takes place relatively recently after the death of rynda and agon (maybe a year after at the absolute most), blackagar has to still be 18/19, so triton can't be any older than 19 here, once again if we extend as much as possible. he's probably 18. karnak is subsequently younger than medusa (late teens), older than maximus (16, *maybe* 17), and so he's probably 16/17.

under the assumption time in 616 has been moving the same as in the real world since 2017 (which... obviously isnt true because comics but bear with me for a moment), lockjaw and bb are 36, triton is 35, gorgon is 34/35, medusa is somewhere between 33-35, karnak would be 33/34, maximus is 33/34, and crystal should be between 28-31.

the birth order seems to be blackagar, gorgon, triton, medusa, karnak, maximus, crystal!

though, once again, gorgon is almost completely shrouded in mystery when it comes to his age, and medusa/karnak/maximus are all potentially born the same year! really, the three of them could be only weeks apart for all we know. its very likely at least two of the three are born the same year (probably karnak and medusa, if i were to bet on it)

considering how comics time is always being adjusted, these are probably not totally accurate, but at least the general early 30s for most of the fam and late 20s for crystal is,,, probably correct for modern comics.

(on a side note: the kids/second gen's order is luna, ahura, alecto, petras, leer!) ((yeah, luna should be like 19 by now, ahura was 16 last we saw him (in 2018 iirc) and he's at *least* a year younger than her. giving the rest of the kids specific ages can be a different post bc oh boy))

[vertigoartgore]

J-326 : All the Crazy Ex-Girlfriend songs, one episode at a time (37).

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend 3X06 : Josh is Irrelevant.

Director: Max Winkler — Writer: Ilana Peña Aired: 11/17/17 — Season: 3 — Episode: 6 — Nielsen ratings: 0.66 Description: Rebecca tries to recover from a suicide attempt.

Song #102 :

"A Diagnosis" Performed by: Rebecca Bunch Writers: Rachel Bloom and Adam SchlesingerRebecca is hopeful about a new diagnosis.

Song #103 :

"This Is My Movement" Performed by: Valencia Perez Writers: Adam Schlesinger, Rachel Bloom and Jack DolgenValencia spreads the word.

Next : Getting Over Jeff.

[aanau]

finished my gf rewatch. the finale goes right under the avatar finale for best show finales lmao. nailed the intensity, emotions, humor, and characters better than i even remembered tbh. i cant believe i ever hated* ford and mabel when this show was airing, both of their actions are understandable and developed and they both go through satisfying arcs (that i only wish had more time but alas), and even though i found out the majority of this show was thought of on the fly by some tired fresh-out-of-college millennials on a major time crunch, it actually adds to my appreciation of its throughline in its plot and themes—trust and growing up. honestly after the show ended i was tuckered out from, what, 4 years? of active fandom (and one of the most active, engaging, and fun fandoms that i think the teams deserves more props for for cultivating and encouraging)? so i fell away from it, even when new content was released. but im glad i revisited with the rest of the fandom cause it truly was one of my favorite things for a long time. I still remember watching it for the first time when i was hitting the stage of “cartoons are stupid” but being like “OH NO ITS GOOD” and then stayed a cartoon nerd forever after that lmao. honestly a great show and a pioneer for kids tv.

*hate is a strong word considering i still liked them lol. i was basically just bitter about how they were mean to their respective siblings and it made me not as enthusiastic about their characters

[teufelme]

You ever just want to talk about Bertl,