Oct 4, 2021
Brett CONSTANTLY brings up how Betty looks half-clothed or in some state of dishabille in the dressing room...JUST SAYIN'.
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Brett CONSTANTLY brings up how Betty looks half-clothed or in some state of dishabille in the dressing room...JUST SAYIN'.
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Nobody probably cares, but this is what the jellicles are like connection wise in my headcanon, and bloody hell it took like 4 tries to fit this all on a page.
The ships are like *questionable* because tbh I don’t think Tugger is exclusive AT ALL, it was just the easiest way to put it all on a family tree. (Nor Victoria or Plato really. Just think they both sleep with everyone and anyone, which is why they kinda rely on eachother) I guess like most cats do anyway, but yes!! This is what it’s like in the Jellicle junkyard of my mind.
We’re going to ignore mine and Kate’s OC Mephistopheles just chilling in this.
I had a galaxy brain epiphany while plotting Heaven’s Tiny Daggers last night... They say the simplest way to make an alternate history plot work is to change a single thing about the world, and let everything else fall into place around it. Historically, girls started getting really empowered by goth rock in the 70s-80s, and it was the first time women started intruding on what was a typically male space in the punk rock scene. Now, one might argue that this is a direct parallel and, in fact, a direct origin of emo fangirl culture. The thing about girls in bandom is they’ve been shamed for being cringy fangirls. And the large reason for this is that it’s teenage girls figuring out not only their individuality, but their sexuality, and they’re not being quiet about it. In fact, they’re proud about the bands they love and when men start seeing this behaviour, especially invading their spaces, they get scared. They feel threatened.
So, where Heaven’s Tiny Daggers’ pivot point in history is, is that empowering moment of goth rock gaining popularity. Here, girl punk bands start coming up from the underground, and they’re defying what mainstream record labels want to sell to the masses. But the masses love them. So to follow both trends and where the money is, record labels start trying to adapt. Over time, this relationship between record producers and girl bands starts getting insidious, where the female artists are being twisted to what the record producers want from them, basically to maintain the status quo. The music industry is essentially the same as it is now in all its toxic masculinity nonsense, the girl punks just hold more power and the industry’s been fighting to regain that control for decades.
Heaven’s Tiny Daggers is not only a commentary on the capitalist corruption of the music industry, but a celebration of music fandom as an unabashed expression of female sexuality and artistic inspiration.
galaxy braining ; 001
The linkpearl chimed, and Urianger set his quill aside. “What is it, my lady?” “What are you doing?” she asked without preamble. “I was at this moment annotating a freshly-arrived report tendered to me by Riol. What troubles thee?” “Go outside,” she said. He knew better than to quarrel with her in moments such as these, and carefully wove the wards behind him as he stepped out into the night in Vesper Bay. All the while he could hear the wind around her. “I have indulged thy request,” he said, turning his gaze toward the sky. He was no astrologian, but could not help but note the streaking of stars across the firmament. “You see it too, don’t you?” “From whence dost thou watch this, my lady?” She sniffed, and took a moment to answer. “The Sea of Clouds, but they’re all underfoot. I can see it pretty well from here. Are you watching?” “I am.” “They say you should make a wish.” He would make the same one a hundred times, and hold no hope of its granting. So would she; that was why she had called him. “It is what they say,” he agreed. She only sighed. “Urianger,” she said. “Yes, my lady.” “You can go back inside.” “Wilt thou, too, close away the firmament; look no more on stars and think no more on wishes?” She did not respond, which was answer enough. “Then I will sit out with thee, though we be malms apart.”
galaxy braining ; 004
Glass is a poor insulator. It mattered much less in Gyr Abanian summer than it does in Argolid spring--the tail of winter is long here, and it is little wonder that she shivers. He can feel her curling up on herself, her knees pressed into his back, her every breath a wash of warm air against his bare skin.
Zenos is not ignorant of her private amusement at his insistence of sleeping on the side of the bed nearer the door. But he has his pride--and he has her, and intends to keep her. Still, feeling her tremble, he repents of it, turning about to face her. She is asleep, yet, and silent; these are not the sort of tremors that had come upon her in the Menagerie. Still, chill or fear, the treatment is the same. He gathers her to his chest, carefully tucking the blankets around her shoulders before he winds his arms around her, too.
Her body is cool against him, hard with muscles that she had not yet had when she had killed him. The weight of her is proof that she is real and whole and alive--and so, against all odds, is he. They are among friends here, she has said. He isn't really sure what that means. Mostly that Regula van Hydrus is no longer his father's hound, he supposes. Whatever it means, she treads more lightly here, breathes more evenly, lets him sleep on the side of the bed nearest the door, curled up against his back. Until, of course, she decides she's cold, and then he gathers her to his chest.
Zenos is not entirely familiar with happiness, but he thinks it must take the shape of her cold feet pressed between his calves.
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galaxy braining ; 002
The shadow over the room was velvety blue, speaking to small hours and distant lights. She should have been asleep, but it eluded her—someone else slept long enough for both of them, her mind cruel in its cleverness. That was not the only reason her head swam, vision blurring at the edges when she turned her head, pressing her cheek to the coolness of the pillow. The Firebird stared back, not at her but at the night, as though it would yield answers like any other subject of the Captain’s questioning. Shasi had no answers to offer, only questions of her own, and a single assertion, scaffolded by the weeks that had passed since Othard. “How long have you been in love with him?” she wondered.
galaxy braining ; 008
”Tell my future, Urianger.” “Thou wilt find happiness again, my lady.”
galaxy braining ; 005
There were mice in the barn, a fact which did not leave Timaeus best-pleased. Normally the placement of traps would have been a staff duty, but Nero had volunteered, so loudly and vocally that it was decided the simplest solution was to merely let the tribunus amuse himself for the afternoon—and clean up afterwards, as necessary. Timaeus accompanied him, of course. Nero claimed it was far too easy to get lost in the barn, and although it was a transparent ploy on behalf of the man who could navigate Allagan ruins in absolute darkness, Timaeus was in truth much easier to win over than his servants. At least where Nero was concerned. Thus it was that he found himself in the tack room, delicately setting the spring of a mousetrap. “They’re not even our design, you know,” Nero was saying. “Some Dalmascan ironmonger devised them. They snap shut in thirty-eight thousandths of a second.” “It is hard to build a better one,” Timaeus agreed, glancing up from his work to find Nero contemplating a set trap. His finger was extended as though to delineate some feature, and he reached out as though to touch it. Timaeus swept the trap off the table with his arm before Nero could touch it. The snapping of its mechanism resounded off the stone walls. “Nero,” he said, the single word a scolding. “What?” Timaeus only gave him a stern look. “I think I know better than you the dangers of breaking my fingers in a mousetrap,” Nero said, indignant. “It didn’t look it for a moment,” Timaeus said. “Unlike some of the people in this room, I have had occasion to place them before,” Nero said. The remark snapped with as much vigor as the discarded trap, and crushed them both as utterly.
“I hate it here,” Nero said. “My home? You hate my home?” “I feel like I should be sleeping out here with the horses.” “Oh?” Timaeus asked. “Who says that?” “Nobody,” Nero admitted, bending to retrieve the trap and reset the spring. “They content themselves with thinking it very loudly.” “You should be sleeping beside me,” Timaeus said, tone strident. When he spoke again, it was more softly. “I want you to feel at home here, Nero.” “I don’t know how to do that,” Nero admitted.