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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months

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1968 [Chapter 8: Demeter, Goddess Of The Harvest]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.2k

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Is it a story worth telling? I think so. It’s better than nothing. It’s better than watching raindrops slither down the cracked concrete walls until the prison guards come back to bloody us again.

Today I’m sending John McCain taps in the shape of the tale of Io. John has a hard time tapping back—they’re doing something to his shoulders, they’re destroying him—but he likes to listen. He’s getting it a lot worse than I am; perhaps even the North Vietnamese fear Aemond’s retribution if I die here. They should be afraid of him. He thinks he owns everything he touches, and he’ll snap bones to keep it.

So anyway, Io was a king’s daughter, a mortal who Zeus saw and wanted and took when her father kicked her out to avoid the god’s wrath. That’s easily half of Greek mythology, right? Zeus appears, irrevocably fucks up someone’s life, vanishes in a plume of clouds and thunder. He leaves human rubble behind him: ribs, nerves, disembodied hearts that leak blood from torn ventricles, minds broken in two. Zeus impregnated Io and then turned her into a cow to hide her from his wife Hera, ever-watchful, ever-vengeful, an aspiring mass murderess. When this disguise failed, Hera condemned Io to wander ceaselessly through the wilderness, tormented by the constant stinging of a gadfly. Eventually, Zeus returns Io to human form and she pops out a few bastard kids, as if Zeus needs any more of those. Then he ditches her and she marries some Egyptian dude. There are other details that I’ve forgotten. I don’t think John McCain will know the difference.

I’m sure you’re wondering how I acquired all this fabled trivia. I don’t seem like the type to lie around under trees reading folklore from religions that died thousands of years ago. You’re right, I’m not. But Aemond is. He would tell the stories, and Helaena would embroider scenes on quilts for us to burrow under in the winter, and I would dramatically act out the best parts (mostly murders), and Aegon would scribble comics in jagged black pen strokes. He has all these notebooks down in the basement filled with his new versions of ancient myths: Poseidon as a horny dolphin, Aphrodite as Marilyn Monroe.

Wait, I remember what I skipped. While Io was roaming across the globe, she bumped into Prometheus—chained to a rock for giving humans the gift of fire—and he cheered her up somehow. I guess meeting a guy who gets his liver continuously chewed out by a giant eagle would make me more appreciative of my circumstances too.

I have a lot of time to myself here in solitary confinement. My social circle is microscopic. I tap to John through the wall, I have dinner dates with Tessarion the rat. And I think about my family. They’re fucked up, but I miss them. I miss going to Monmouth Park with Fosco to bet on horse races, I miss getting hammered with Aegon while he sings Johnny Cash or Beatles songs. I miss my mother and Helaena and Criston. I even miss Aemond’s wife, though I only met her a few times before I deployed. She’s sharp, she’s hilarious. She’s mean as hell to Aegon, and sometimes he deserves it.

At first I wondered why Aemond hasn’t gotten me out yet, but I understand now. It sounds a lot better to have a brother being tortured as a prisoner of war than one who received a Get Out Of Jail Free card. It’s the kind of thing Aemond would consider. He understands which stories are worth telling.

I feel kind of bad for her. Aemond’s wife, I mean.

I don’t think she knows about Alys.

~~~~~~~~~~

On a chilly mid-September morning cloaked in fog, Mimi is laid to rest in the Targaryen family mausoleum at Saint George Greek Orthodox Cemetery in Asbury Park, New Jersey. Most of the golden plaques already have names chiseled into them: Viserys and Alicent, Fosco and Helaena. Aegon will one day be interred beside his wife. You have a spot reserved next to Aemond. All of you have already lived and died and been entombed; all of this was predestined by the stars eons before you had blood or bones.

Ari’s vault—an unnaturally tiny drawer, less than half the size of anyone else’s—is located just above yours. You can’t stop staring at it. You can’t hear anything the bearded priest in his black robes is chanting. Then Cosmo squeezes your hand and you look down at him. Mimi’s other children are somber but seem to be coping well enough—they are used to being raised by consensus, they would probably be more affected if one of the nannies died—but Cosmo always wants to be near you. He gazes up with those vast, wet, murky blue eyes, so much like Aegon’s, and you offer him a sad, reassuring smile. Cosmo smiles back. And you think: Life goes on.

Alicent is sniffling noisily; it echoes off the walls of the mausoleum. Criston—a man with no plaque assigned to him—is trying to console her. Aegon is watching you from across the cold granite chamber, grim and red-eyed in his black suit, the first time you can remember seeing him in one since your wedding. He wears no small gold hoops, only a row of stitches in his right ear. He wants to say something, to do something, but he can’t. Aemond is beside you, a hand heavy on your waist but muttering something to Otto. Back in Omaha, Otto had spent a few hours alone with the medical examiner, and when the death certificate was issued it revealed that Mimi died of a heart defect, a perfectly blameless sort of misfortune, an innate impending disaster. And so that’s what the newspapers printed, and any gossip to the contrary is confined to salacious rumors, untrustworthy and unproven.

When the ceremony is over, journalists are waiting to scavenge for photos and quotes under the guise of expressing their sympathies. It’s a shameless display, though they at least have the decency to wait by the cemetery gates. Aemond and Otto go to meet them. Alicent, Criston, Helaena, and Fosco, protective of the children, keep them far away from the feeding frenzy, hungry-eyed reporters like sharks without fins. Ludwika is reapplying her lipstick. Aegon is smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to his oldest son, Orion, a stilted exchange that holds the promise of turning warm with time.

You sit on a stone bench and Cosmo curls up beside you, rests his head in your lap, dozes off as you thread your fingers through his wavy blonde hair. In the mist there are shadows of gravestones and trees that turn skeletal as they shed their leaves.

“He is okay?” Fosco says as he ambles over, meaning Cosmo. He has his hands in the pockets of his slim black trousers that stop at his ankles. His suit is velvet, his eyeglasses speckled with drizzle from the slate-grey sky.

“He’s alright. He’s resting. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” Fosco sighs mournfully. “I keep thinking someone is missing. We came into this family together, Mimi and I. We got married six months apart. I have never had to do this without her. And I know she had her problems, but she was different when she was younger. She always liked a party, that’s why she and Aegon got along so well at first. But she was so loud and so funny, always telling these long stories, and everyone in the room would be grinning as they waited for the good part. Viserys loved her. Otto loved her. And then she had all those children one after the other, and that was hard, and Aegon self-destructed when he was the mayor of Trenton, and that was worse, and she was supposed to fix him and she couldn’t, the harder she tried the farther he ran from her. She started drinking her Gimlets before dinner, and then after lunch, and by the time you showed up it was never ending. But that wasn’t who she really was. She was like a moon that got smaller and smaller until the only thing left was a sliver.”

This family breaks people. This family kills people. “We’ll make ossi dei morti for Mimi tonight. I’ll help you, and we can teach the kids.”

Fosco smiles, swipes a tear from beneath his glasses, squeezes your shoulder with one wiry hand. “I am very glad you are still here.”

“I’m not trying to race you to that mausoleum.”

Fosco laughs. And then he says as he spies Aegon approaching: “Um…I will go avoid the paparazzi somewhere else.”

“You don’t have to leave, Fosco.”

“It is no trouble. And I suspect you enjoy your very rare privacy.” Fosco gives you a knowing glace and then heads back to where Helaena, Alicent, and Criston are lingering with the rest of the children. Now Ludwika is fluffing her blonde curls with her French tips, a smoldering Camel cigarette tucked between two fingers.

Aegon comes to you through the mist, plops onto the bench, and looks fondly down at Cosmo—now fast asleep, his face smooth and peaceful—before he speaks. “I can’t grasp that she’s really gone. We barely spoke for years, but she was always there, you know? Christ, she deserved better than this. She could have been happy somewhere else.”

“Your children need you.” It’s not the first time you’ve said it, but it’s the first time he believes you. He nods, staring out into the fog. “They have to get away from this whole circus for a while. And you have to learn how to be a real parent.”

“I’ll have time to work on it. I’m staying here. I’ve already been informed.”

You are alarmed. “What? By who?”

“Aemond and Otto.” Aegon says. “When the rest of you fly west, my kids and I will be at Asteria.”

“They’re getting you off the campaign trail,” you realize.

“They’re putting me on house arrest.”

Not seeing Aegon, not being near him? How long can I stand that? “I’m sure you’re relieved. You hate the grandstanding and the media.”

He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I have Fosco and Ludwika.”

“I’ll talk to them.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that they need to look out for you.”

“Aegon, I’ve been doing the political wife thing for over two years.”

“But it’s different now.”

He’s right, it is.

“You’ll call, won’t you?” he asks. “You’ll let me know how the trip is going, you’ll tell me if anything bad happens? Because I can always get on a plane and meet you wherever you are. Otto might pay someone to murder me, but I’d risk it.”

“Of course I’ll call.”

“Hey.” Gently, he turns your face so you can’t hide from him. “Will you be okay without me?”

I have to be. I don’t have a choice. Instead you reply: “I’ll miss the weed.”

The tension breaks and Aegon smiles, and then he pats your cheek twice with his open palm. “Behave yourself.” He waves Ludwika over, interrupting her meditative chain smoking.

“What, what?” Ludwika says. “Are we leaving soon? Yes, it is so sad what happened to Mimi, but us standing around in the rain won’t resurrect her. And I look terrible in black.”

“I can’t be there for the last leg of the campaign.” Aegon points to you. “I need you to pay attention and check in with her at least a few times a day.”

“This is a common request. I should get a degree in it so I can charge people.”

Aegon furrows his brow at her. “What are you talking about?”

Ludwika smirks as she puffs on her Camel. “You are not the first person to ask me to keep an eye on her.” She nods subtly towards Aemond, then sashays off to give a quote to the journalists.

~~~~~~~~~~

In San Diego, Aemond meets with residents of a new public housing complex to hear their concerns about neighborhood jobs and infrastructure. In San Jose, he visits labor activist Caesar Chavez—being treated for debilitating back pain at O’Connor Hospital—and expresses support for the ongoing boycott of all grapes produced in the state. In Sacramento, he attends a Jimi Hendrix concert and receives a standing ovation from the audience; the next day he joins high school students protesting for a more inclusive curriculum. In Oregon, he makes a speech at Portland State University acknowledging the tremendous cost of the Vietnam War—in money, in time, in blood—and pledges to begin dismantling U.S. involvement as soon as he is sworn into office in January. Aemond talks about hope and despair, the bleak reality and the American Dream, and he is so overwhelmed by the crowd that he doesn’t even notice when someone takes his cufflinks as souvenirs. His lack of concern for his own safety exasperates Criston, but Aemond can’t be convinced to increase his security or his distance. If he expects the disaffected masses to carry him to the White House, he has to be real to them.

“What if another Wallace supporter tries to shoot you?” Criston demands. “What if a Nixon stooge stabs you or a crowd tramples you?”

“No one can kill me,” Aemond says, grinning wryly. “I’m not supposed to die yet. I’m supposed to be the president. It is God’s will.” And how can anybody disagree when that appears to be so true?

The earth dies as you drive north, summer withering into autumn. That familiar brisk cuttingness reappears in the air. You shake thousands of hands, smile for countless photographs. Mothers and wives of dead soldiers sob into your shoulder as you embrace them; teenage girls ask how they can get a good man like Aemond. Only one thing is missing from his glorious pilgrimage: something he wants desperately, something he cannot have (though he’ll never know why), you conceiving his child in time to announce it before Election Day. Each morning you sneak a pill and every night you bite the bullet. As often as you can, you duck into Dairy Queens to order lemon-lime Mr. Mistys.

George Wallace is in the South, galvanizing segregationists and accepting the endorsement of the Ku Klux Klan. Richard Nixon is working his way across the Midwest. He has chosen a politically moderate Greek as a running mate, Spiro Agnew; this does not strike you as a coincidence. He even shares a name with Aegon’s second son.

Nixon promises “peace with honor” in Vietnam, which means no immediate end to the draft. He makes speeches about “states’ rights” and “law and order,” ambiguous euphemisms designed to attract Wallace’s white supremacists without alienating too many suburban moderates. He commiserates with those lamenting the proliferation of sex, drugs, and divorce. He says he will return the nation to a more moral time. You wonder what he means. You can’t think of any such refuge in the bloodletting, spine-crushing history of mankind.

A kindergarten teacher tells you in Olympia, Washington, her eyes alight with reverence usually reserved for heroes, saints, gods: “People are voting for Aemond, but they’re voting for you too.”

And you find yourself thinking as a thousand miles roll by beyond the glass of limousine windows: How many people will I condemn if I don’t help Aemond win? How many lives is mine worth?

~~~~~~~~~~

The Hotel Sorrento in Seattle insists on giving you and Aemond the honeymoon suite: a retreat from the breakneck campaign, a romantic oasis for the future president and first lady…according to half the country, anyway. You are in the impractically large pink bathtub, surrounded by snowy dunes of bubbles. The wall to your right is a mirror, foggy around the edges; just a few yards to your left is the king-sized bed. In the top drawer of your nightstand is the card Aegon gave you in July. You aren’t sure where Aemond is, and you don’t especially care. You are relieved to be alone.

There’s a passion-red phone built into the rim of the tub, conveniently located for sudden room service revelations, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, steak and lobster. You have a different idea. It’s 7:15 p.m. here, so after 10 on the East Coast. On the steam-slick keypad, you dial the number for the main house at Asteria.

Eudoxia picks up and demands gruffly: “Geiá sou? Ti?”

“Hi, Doxie. Is Aegon around?”

“Where else would he be? Making himself useful somehow? Killing communists, driving a rocket to the moon? No. He is a burden as always.”

“Please be nice to him. His wife just died.”

“And so he cannot put his empty cups in the sink?” Without waiting for a reply, she sets the handset down on the kitchen counter with a clunk. There is distant, muffled shouting in Greek; she seems to back and forth with somebody. Then Eudoxia returns. “Antio sas,” she says, and hangs up just as a phone elsewhere in the house is lifted from its cradle.

Aegon answers with something halfway between a groan and a yawn. “Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey!” You can hear it riding the wire like electricity: a rustling as he sits up, a fresh clarity in his skull. His voice is deep, hushed, still husky with sleep. “What’s up, little Io? Any interesting happenings to report from your neighborhood of the solar system?”

“I just left a riveting tea party. Apple cinnamon scones and smoked salmon sandwiches. We talked about what kind of couches I should get for the White House and I wanted to kill myself. Are the kids okay?”

He’s smiling; you can tell. “They’re alright. I could have used you this afternoon. I was trying to help Spiro with his math homework. Trying, not succeeding.”

“Well he’s in middle school and thus beyond your skill.”

“How’s Jupiter?”

You know who he means. “I don’t want to talk about Aemond.”

“Okay.” Aegon says, curious. “So what should we talk about?”

A few seconds tick by, silent and perilous. “Where are you right now?”

“In my lair. Like a beast.”

“Alone?”

A transitory pause. “At the moment.”

“On the shag carpet or your futon?”

Now he’s very intrigued. “Futon. Why?”

“I just want a visual.” Beneath the water, your free hand is resting on the velvety inside of your thigh.

“Where are you?” Aegon asks.

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Maybe I want a visual too.”

You chuckle, peeking over at yourself in the mirror. Your skin is dewy with steam; stray wisps of hair stick to your face. “I’m in a gigantic pink bathtub. It’s ridiculous, it’s shaped like a heart and everything. They have a phone installed right here in case I find myself in desperate need of filet mignon.”

“Oh.” And then he hesitates, like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing. “Big enough for two?”

“More like five. You should get a tub like this for your basement, it would delight the campaign staffers.”

“My basement’s been pretty empty recently.”

Softly, vulnerably, glass offered for him to shatter: “You aren’t seeing other girls?”

“Nah, babe. I want something they can’t give me.”

You picture him, messy hair falling over his forehead, drowsy eyes that gleam with clandestine wisdom. You can smell the smoke and rum that bleeds from his skin. “I wish you were here.”

“In Seattle?”

“No. Right here.”

Aegon exhales shakily, swallows, takes a few seconds to collect himself. “How’s the water?”

“Extremely hot and full of bubbles.”

“So I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“No,” you say, baiting him.

“But I could touch you.”

“You already have.”

“Not enough,” he murmurs. “Nowhere close to enough.”

“Do you remember what I felt like?”

“Oh God,” he whispers, and you envision him closing his eyes, rubbing his face with the open palm of his left hand. “Yeah. Of course I do. I can’t get it out of my head. But I’ve been trying not to…you know…it felt wrong to think about you that way unless you were cool with it. Like I was betraying your trust or taking advantage of you or something.”

“No, I want you to think about me.”

You can hear Aegon moving around on the green futon, repositioning himself, yanking down a zipper. When he speaks again, his breathing is quick and jagged. “Where’s your other hand, huh?”

“Under the water,” you reply coyly.

“You bitch,” he says, laughing. “I miss you so fucking much. The house isn’t right without you in it. You belong here, you belong where I am.”

Beneath the veil of bubbles and steam, there is no scar on your belly, no infidelity, no campaign, no distance of almost 3,000 miles separating you and Aegon. Your fingers slip between your legs, finding slickness the water can’t wash away. It’s a familiar sensation, though you haven’t felt it in a while: rising steadily until you hit a plateau like a jet reaching cruising altitude. From here, it will either glide along smoothly until it dies out, or eventually turn sharp and painful. “Tell me about you,” you pant.

He can hear it in your voice, a needful surrender that sets him on fire. He can’t believe this is happening; he never wants it to end. “I mean, I’m…I’m insanely hard.”

“Stroke yourself, imagine it’s me. I wish it could be me.”

“Oh fuck,” Aegon whimpers. “Okay, okay…I want you. I want you with my fingers, I want you with my tongue, I want you to beg for it, and then…”

Impossibly, incomparably, your own pleasure is climbing faster than you can reconcile yourself to it, no longer a hunger but a violent aching, a crushing gravity you can’t fight against, a ship being dragged to the floor of the ocean. What’s happening? When will it end? You moan into the phone, amazed yet petrified. You can’t get enough air; it feels like drowning, like dying.

“I need to see you,” Aegon says. He’s close to the climax that you know men experience, he has to be; he’s gasping. “I need to be with you, let me give you what you want.”

“I want you to finish inside me.”

“Io…babe…oh my God, you’re gonna kill me…”

There are sounds out in the front room of the suite: a lock clicking, footsteps, keys and a wallet tossed onto the kitchenette counter. You’re so consumed you almost don’t notice. Aemond is back. Aemond is back!! And every ion of your ascending euphoria evaporates. “Gotta go, bye.”

“Wait—!”

You hang up just as Aemond is opening the bedroom door. He walks in—immaculately tailored dark blue suit, polished black leather shoes trampling soft pink carpet—and turns to you. He has already taken his glass eye out and put on his eyepatch. Vaguely, fleetingly, you wonder where he’s been. His gaze darts to the red phone, your fingerprints in the condensation. “Who were you talking to?”

“My parents.”

If Aemond doubts this, he doesn’t show it. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bathtub, peers down at you with an omniscient metallic glint in his eye. He’s always been less a man than a force of nature. “I know this year has been hell.”

You envision Persephone being stolen by Hades, Orpheus searching for his dead wife Eurydice, Charon ferrying souls across the River Styx. “You haven’t made it easier.”

There’s a flash of something in his scarred face, blazing and instantaneous like lightning, and then it fades. He reaches out to touch your hair, swept up and neatly bound with clips and pins. “We can’t forget everything we’ve accomplished together,” Aemond says. “I still need you. You’re my Aphrodite.”

He’s going to tell you to get out of the tub, to lie down on the bed, to open yourself so he can fill you. You distract him, forestalling the inevitable. Each morning Prometheus dreads the return of the eagle that pecks out his liver; as every summer ends Demeter mourns the loss of Persephone. “Any luck with Nixon?”

Aemond sighs, furious, brooding. “He still won’t agree to a debate. Wallace is onboard, he’s rabid for it, he’d show up if we held it in the fucking asteroid belt, any opportunity to spew his idiocy. But not Nixon.”

“Because he knows standing on the same stage as you can only hurt him. People thought he looked bad in 1960, can you imagine now? Television has gotten so much clearer. They’ll be able to count his sweat drops from their living room couches.”

“So how do I get him to do it?”

You look up at Aemond. It’s not a hypothetical question; he’s really asking for advice.

“I have to debate Nixon,” Aemond insists. “It’s close in the polls, which means it will be even closer on Election Day. I’ll underperform whatever is projected, my coalition is less likely to show up when it counts. College kids, hippies, transients. That’s just a fact. But the old people vote. The suburban housewives vote. Nixon’s resting on his political experience and accusations that I’m a communist, an agent of chaos. But I could slaughter him in an hour on ABC.”

You think of the mutilated Vietnam veterans waving their signs and screaming at LBJ from the other side of the wrought-iron gates of the White House. “Challenge him in public. Say that the American people deserve to see the candidates debate, and do it where everyone can hear you.”

“What if Nixon still refuses?”

“Then you call him a coward. You say he must have something to hide. You ask how he’s supposed to square up with the Russians and the Chinese if he can’t even face you.”

Aemond grins admiringly. “You’re vicious.” And he lifts your hand from the rim of the tub so he can kiss your knuckles. Once you licked up drops of his approval like Tantalus, cursed with eternal thirst. Now it is poison that turns your veins black.

“If there’s a debate, everyone should go,” you say, seized by sudden inspiration. “We should have a united front, including Aegon. It can be his return to the public eye. A month will have passed since the funeral, the timing is right. He can pose for a few photos with the kids to show the nation that they’re doing well and distract from any lingering rumors about Mimi.”

Aemond isn’t grinning anymore. He’s studying you with his cold blue gaze; no, he’s trying to intimidate you, to overpower you. “Otto and I will decide what to do with him.”

“He’s a Targaryen. He should be with the rest of us.”

Aemond stands and motions for you to follow, a snap of his wrist like a man calling a dog. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

Panic, tension, an iron sinking in your belly. The water is only lukewarm now, but you don’t want to leave it. “I’m not done yet.”

“Yes you are.”

There’s nothing else to say. Legally, a wife’s flesh is one with her husband’s. You slip as you step out of the bathtub, and Aemond grabs your forearm. Not like he’s helping you; like you’re something he owns.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two knocks, swift and forceful. “Hey, it’s me. You ready? Everyone else is downstairs in the lobby waiting for the limos.”

You hurry to open the door, almost twisting your ankle as you stumble in your heels. They’re an inch higher than what you’re used to. Aemond chose them, and your dress too, and your sapphire teardrop earrings, and the silver chains around your wrist and throat, and your future and your past, and your life itself. It’s mid-October, and the night of what will almost certainly be the sole presidential debate of 1968. Aemond’s retinue is staying at the Hotel Saint Louis. It’s harvest time, the fields beyond the city being reaped of their soybeans, wheat, corn, cotton, and rice, the beef cattle culled in mechanical underworlds. Aegon’s flight must have just landed.

As soon as he sees you his eyes drop, wide and bewitched, ensnared everywhere except your face. You say: “Can you help me zip this, please?”

He blinks a few times, then shakes it off. “Sorry, what?”

“The zipper’s stuck. I need you to get it.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He steps into the suite and stands behind you. The gown is a vivid blue like the Greek flag, gorgeous and shimmering but a size too small. It wasn’t tight a week ago, but now it is, and you aren’t pregnant just always gaining and losing weight in new places, first the baby and then the pill, and it wouldn’t bother you if Aemond didn’t seem so confounded by it. Aegon says as he tugs at the zipper: “I don’t think it’s gonna fit, babe.”

“It has to fit.”

“Even if I miraculously get this closed, you won’t be able to breathe.”

“Do whatever you have to. Just…just…” You push every last molecule of air out of your lungs, suck in your belly, and you hear the triumphant squeal of the zipper. “Yes!” Oh, but Aegon was right: you really can’t breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“You’re not gonna last the whole debate in that. You’ll be sweating more than Nixon.”

“I’m fine.”

“Io…”

“I’m fine. Come on.” You snatch your matching purse off the coffee table by the couch, check your makeup one last time, and hobble in your heels as you walk with Aegon out into the hallway.

At the Kiel Auditorium a few blocks away, the Targaryen children—Aegon’s five and Helaena’s three—are presented for photographs before being escorted back to the hotel by the nannies. And even in the few weeks that have passed since you last saw Aegon’s kids, there have been extraordinary changes. They talk to their father, and he talks back, and he ruffles their hair and rests his hands on their shoulders and asks them about what they’re learning from their private tutors. Cosmo tackles you before he leaves—a powerful bear hug, though he can only reach your legs—and he says he hopes you’re coming home to Asteria soon.

“Me too, kiddo,” Aegon tells him, and then smiles at you; but above his gleam of teeth his cloudy blue eyes, like the Atlantic in a storm, are gloomy and troubled.

As the audience takes their seats and the journalists are poised to capture the best images and quotes of the night, the three candidates and their wives (minus Wallace’s dear departed Lurleen) meet briefly backstage to exchange the perfunctory well-wishes. Pat Nixon is introverted and bookish, though she tries to hide it; but Aemond reels her in like swordfish until her eyes are filled with him. George Wallace gets one glimpse of your venomous glare and escapes, claiming to need one last trip to the restroom before the debate begins. But Richard Nixon beckons you to accompany him to a quiet, discrete corner of the room.

“I tried to call,” he says. He’s a remarkably normal man: medium height, receding dark hair, rough voice, weathered skin, not a god but a mortal, and—you have the impression—more aware of his flaws than his fiercest critics will ever be. “But no one at that damned beach house would ever put me through to you.”

You aren’t sure what he means. “Oh?”

“I never got the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was for your loss in July, Mrs. Targaryen,” Nixon says with unglamorous, plain, genuine compassion. “Pat and I, when we heard, we wept for you. We truly did. And for your husband to be clear across the country…I can’t even imagine. It must have been awful for you. A parent never gets over something like that. It stays with you like a scar.”

“It does,” you say softly.

“I lost two brothers. Arthur died when he was seven, tuberculosis killed Harold in his twenties. God, it just about destroyed my mother. You’re a remarkable woman. You’re lightning in a bottle for Aemond, do you know that? You’re like one of those Kennedy gals, but even better. More personable than Jackie. More intelligent than Ethel…although, to be frank, who wouldn’t be? And you’re not afflicted with any ghastly vices like Ted’s wife Joan. What would Aemond do without you? He’d lose, that’s what he’d do.”

Nixon’s smart, but he’s wounded. He’s capable, but he’s so desperate to prove it. Power could ruin a man like this. “You’re very kind, sir. You did some great work under Eisenhower. Self-made like my father was, a devotee of the American Dream. I believe you have an important role to play in this country…” You smirk, a bit mischievously. “Just not as the president.”

Nixon chortles. “No matter what happens tonight, rest assured that I hate Reagan more than I could ever dislike your husband,” he says, meaning the Republican governor of his home state of California. “You know that bastard tried to primary me?”

“Actors don’t belong in politics.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Nixon says, and then bids you farewell as the lights turn blinding and the curtain begins to rise.

As soon as the adrenaline begins to fade, all you can think about is that you can’t breathe. You take your seat in the audience between Aegon and Ludwika, who won’t stop making jabs about Nixon: “He looks like a troll,” “He looks like a sasquatch,” “Do you think Pat makes him wear a Creature from the Black Lagoon mask in bed so she is not so repulsed by him?” The most you can offer is an occasional distracted nod in response.

“You alright?” Aegon whispers.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look alright.”

“I’m great.”

“Sure,” he says, and he acts like he’s teasing, but there’s something tremendously sad underneath. He can’t save you from this. He can’t save you from anything. What must that feel like?

On the debate stage—broadcast to a national audience—Aemond performs brilliantly. Nixon salvages what could have been a bloodbath with a handful of clever retorts that Aemond pretends not to be rattled by. The real loser of the night is Wallace, who is brutally attacked by them both: Nixon because Wallace is commandeering some of his voting bloc, and Aemond because of his near-assassination back in May. After an hour, the contest concludes and the candidates descend to the main floor to pose for photos and get lassoed into brief interviews with various journalists. Everyone in Aemond’s entourage besides you and Aegon flock to his side. By now you’re gasping in shallow gulps, close to tears and in agony from your ribs to your wobbling feet.

“I told you,” Aegon says. And then: “Come on. We’ll take the first limo back.”

In the front room of your hotel suite—one yellowish end table lamp glowing dimly, the rest of the space like twilight—Aegon wrestles with the zipper as you struggle for every breath, trying not to pass out. “Ow,” you whine. “Oh fuck, this was so stupid…”

“Don’t let him make you wear shit you don’t want to wear.”

“I have to do what he says, Aegon.”

“He doesn’t own you.”

“Legally, he does.”

He’s tugging futilely at the jammed zipper. “Are you planning on using this again?”

“I believe that would be wistful thinking.”

“You probably look better out of it anyway.” He grabs his Zippo lighter from the pocket of his emerald green suit jacket and flicks it to life. “Don’t move, okay?”

“Okay.”

“At all.”

“Got it.”

You can feel heat, intense but not painful. Aegon has pulled the edge of the fabric as far away as he can from your skin and is singeing it until it turns black and charred and brittle. Then he tucks the lighter back into his pocket and with both hands rips your dress down to the small of your back. Cool air rushes to meet the ridge of your spine; goosebumps prickle all over. Aegon is marveling at you; you can see it when you glance over your shoulder at him. Then he lays a palm against your bare skin, leans into you, inhales everything you’ve ever been: smoke and sex and starlight, strategies, shadows, secrets.

The others will be pouring into the hallway from the elevator any minute. Aemond. Aemond could find us.

“We can’t,” you whisper, hating yourself for it.

Aegon kisses the nape of your neck—so slow, so kind—and then goes to the doorway. You wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t. He’s looking at you as you hold up the ruined gown so it covers your belly and your chest. You gaze back helplessly, wanting him, needing him, a moon chained to another world’s gravity.

We can’t, we can’t, we can’t.

“I’m so sorry,” you say.

And only then does Aegon vanish.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon x you #aegon x y/n

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gabriellaeva2005 · 4 months

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I really cannot express how much this piece of work means to me! As corny as it sounds I really found this story at the perfect point in my life, I initially started reading the impulse 1995 comics when I was 14 and I ended up falling upon this story when I was 17 I just immediately fell in love! The concept was so creative and fit into the pre-existing plot line perfectly! All the new characters are so enjoyable to read, Nathaniel and Jude have such a wonderful and also sad dynamic, as a twin my self every scene with them just really hit me in the heart! Six especially in the first several chapters was so comically annoying and clearly insecure, in a way that I think a lot of us can relate to, one way or another especially when we got to here is internal monologue, I’ve always been a sucker for the asshole character with an air of insouciance and superiority, who by the end of the story, just ends up being a pretty all right guy! And Five oh my god five! I love this guy so much! he’s just so genuine and someone who clearly cares deeply, and him being technically the physically oldest in the room, but also being the one with the least amount of experience is a very literal take on an experience I think a lot of people have felt, myself included, And I think we all know I’m a Three apologist, his whole story is just so devastating and haunting, part of me is always rooting for him, whilst also being terrified for what he might do to the other characters, there is so much complexity with his relationships with the other characters, such as five and four, every time theirs a seen with three and four the writing always makes me feel so on edge and is really able to puts me in three’s shoes! And god! The way three and five interact is so sweet and sad there relationship is just too much! The last chapter absolutely destroyed me!! And Bart and Thad are so perfectly characterized it truly just feels like a natural progression of their characters, the way they both are just really struggling to deal with the inevitability of change hit me so hard, like I said I started reading the impulse comics when I was 14 so these characters have such a place in my heart, so now being able to read about them going through these struggles, when I was also experiencing a lot of change, is such a comfort to me, it was like in a way these characters got older with me, and you know it’s always nice to see some of your childhood characters going through the same stuff as you, currently being a slightly terrified 18 year old, it was great to be able to read about two other slightly terrified 18 year olds, anyways I wanted to post some of my sketches from the past few weeks, and don’t worry there are definitely more to come cause I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop drawing these guys!

@cryptocism you really sent me on a journey, thank you for that!💖💖

#dc fanart #digital illustration #frequency #my art #art #bart allen #frequency fic fanart #impulse 1995 #thad thawne #I really can’t express how much I love the way the story ended #it was just such a wonderful conclusion for a character that unfortunately didn’t get that in canon #Also I hope you all enjoy my silly emotional support playlist #the over the hedge soundtrack is elite I stand by that #same goes for the meet the Robinson soundtrack that stuff is fire

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thattimdrakeguy · 4 months

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I HAVE BEEN READING ZDARSKY BATMAN, AND I HAVE DECLARED: I FREAKING LOVE IT!!

I'm reading the Batman Zdarsky run in reverse. That way if I see any bull I can back out at anytime: and to be honest--besides a few things. I really enjoy it

LIKE YO, THAT IS JUST STRAIGHT UP TIM DRAKE RIGHT THERE. It knows who he is as a character. his motives, it's great.

Screw the people complaining "oh why is tim still robin :((", THIS IS WHY HE IS STILL ROBIN. Because this is when he's at his BEST. When he gets to hit his character purpose, WHEN HE GETS TO BE HIM AT HIS MOST HIM. It's FANTASTIC.

Reading in reverse because I know I hated the first story, it was so contrived and ridiculous.

But this--this is some good shit.

Tim being an underdog fighter, having to use his wits to win the fight? MY DAWG, MY DUDE, MY GUYS, MY GALS, MY THEMS, MY THEYS, THIS IS SO TIMMY DRAKE. This is so damn Tim Drake, guys. Oh, my gosh, I am loving this so far.

Dick has his temper back? And trust me, he isn't normally like this. But he's hitting a limit AND IT'S SOMETHING NEW, NOT JUST A REFERENCE. HE'S ACTUALLY DOING SOMETHING HE'D DO, 'CAUSE HE'S AT HIS LIMIT. That's wonderful, man. That is so wonderful.

Plus Tim is the heart of the Bat-Family again? This feels like someone actually went back to read these characters before writing it. I'm not saying everything is perfect of course, but these high marks are exceeding all my expectations. And I STOPPED reading comics because of how the beginning of this run destroyed any hope I had.

You guys have no idea how much I'm enjoying the few issues I've read. Besides the cussing (I remember after a bit they decided Tim was someone who used funny words instead of proper cusses), this feels like the Tim I know and love during the era I especially loved him.

Tim comparing himself to his predecessors? Tim not being a natural? A WRITER REMEMBERING THAT?? It's been so long since I've seen that! Most writers treat him like he was another prodigy when he wasn't. AND THIS GUY REMEMBERED THAT!

I shouldn't be so happy at just seeing Tim do Tim things, and serving his character purpose. BUT YOU GUYS HAVE NO IDEA HOW LONG IT'S BEEN SINCE A WRITER KNEW WHAT TIM WAS SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE.

Only complaints I have is that Jason feels like a typical Bat-Family member, and not the sketchy outsider that he is. Making him so close makes his character more bland in my opinion. And Steph is--also generic af unless she's wacky quirky...which is a characterization I hate for her, because she started off so damn interesting, but they made her a freaking trope instead, which is such a disservice to her, but she barely does anything so far, so whatever I guess. Doesn't mean much.

This is the first honest thing I've seen that I hated.

Not this

This isn't the Bat-Family

This is a sitcom world the fandom wants to be the Bat-Family and some comply with

They're not a sitcom. The conflicts, and uniqueness of the characters is what makes things feel alive and well.

This stuff is cheap fanservice for the fanon demographic that doesn't buy comics to begin with.

Fanon doesn't belong in canon.

I mean sure Tim could be drawn smaller, the gag of him looking 12 when he's nearly 18 doesn't work when he's bigger than Damian who is 15 (and contrary to some bullshit comics isn't meant to be small. that was a random thing added for writers who aren't clever to write better humor. it actually contradicts things that were already established).

Don't see the big deal though for most of this.

Can't wait to find it, though. Oh boy.

This whole obsession with Zur Batman, is way over done though. So--I wouldn't be shocked if that was the problem, because my golly does that plot point not seem to be stopping--and it was there from the start and part of the reason why I didn't read it 'til now.

Good Tim tho, at least. So heehee, yey for that--I think--I guess.

Oh, well.

It let me peak at a pseudo-version of an AU I made up years ago. So that's pretty freaking cool.

Always a plus.

And redoing Red Robin story beats but better? Normally I'd hate references to Red Robin, 'cause that changed the perception of so many characters for the worst, but ayy, a bit of redemption isn't bad.

Man, just seeing simple stuff like Tim and Bruce being good ol' classic Batman and Robin warms my heart. It's been so long since Batman and Robin has acted like a proper classic Batman and Robin. It's dynamic that's been sorely missed by many.

OH, MY GOSH, WHY DID THE FIRST STORY HAVE TO STINK SO BAD. THIS STUFF IS GREAT.

Like, DUDE, this is such a Tim thing for him to do!!

And he's showing emotion?? He's crying like how he does?? Because he's not a typical Bat-Family member who just angsts his way through?? THEY'RE MAKING HIM STAND-OUT AGAIN BY MAKING HIM, HIM??

WHY DID THE FIRST STORY HAVE TO SUCK SO BAD?? THIS IS GOOD SHIT.

Like this part is why I originally stopped reading, not because Bruce should think Tim is his soldier, and not his son, THE FREAKING OPPOSITE.

But because the original story has Bruce acting weird when unneeded, just to say this was so unneeded, and adding in all these stupid corny Bat-Family moments was so groan worthy.

This run started off with a story that was a total turn off for me.

To end up being a run that could've kept me enjoying DC, rather than running away from it from as far as I have.

Chip Zdarsky started off awful, but really, he ended up great.

And I've seen people complain about his run, and TRUST ME, there's stuff to complain about. But I have only ever seen the stuff worth complaining about, or stuff I WOULD complain about.

WHEN MOST OF THE RUN IS GOOD

At least when Tim is around.

Go figure.

Maybe I should've paid sole attention to how he wrote Tim and nothing else at the very least for that first story.

'Cause even in the first story, Tim was well-written--it's how cheap the rest of the story telling was in that first story that turned me off--and the weird knew about the movie plans that I am still fully judging harshly. (Love the new Superman film suit, though)

#Tim Drake #Robin #Bruce Wayne #Batman #Dick Grayson #Nightwing #Chip Zdarsky

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oh-there-she-goes · 7 months

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Recently, I saw some people criticizing Scott Snyder for trying to make Joker an immortal demon archetype while praising Zdarsky for giving Joker a past and making him more human. And I was like...sorry, but did we read the same comic? Because that was a complete opposite of what actually happened.

Snyder didn't write the Joker as a monster emerging from hell or nothingness. His Joker was a man who found death preferable to the reveal of his real name (DotF). When confronted with the life he left behind, Joker was terrified.

And despite his darndest attempts to reinvent himself and ascend into something beyond mere man (Endgame), he failed.

That's it. That's the very point. He failed.

Hell, Joker might have achieved a modicum of success, had he just left Batman behind. But no, he couldn't help himself. So in his last moment, Batman held him down and forced him to accept his own mortality.

Yet inexplicably, people are so hung up on the introduction of 'the Pale Man' myth even though it can be inferred (rather plainfully so) from the text that Joker was lying.

Batman broke his heart. To retaliate, Joker destroyed his city and haunted him with a tale of the devil whose existence might predate even Gotham itself. Joker knew he outliving Batman was one of Bruce's greatest fears, so in his resentment, he tried to make Batman die believing the Joker to be an unstoppable force of evil that would continue to exist indefinitely without him.

The Pale Man was invented, partly, because Joker wished he could escape from the entwining of their own fates. He no longer relished in the belief that Batman had helped make him.

All in all, I understand not being a fan of Snyder's work. That's absolutely valid. But to accuse him of pushing the narrative of Joker being the devil incarnate is just...unfair.

And wrong.

The pic has nothing to do with my rant btw. I'm just upset it was rejected and replaced by something rather generic so I find any opportunity to randomly include it lmao.

#batjokes #joker #batman #rant post

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sheegons · 6 months

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OKAY SO WHO ASKED FOR A POST THAT DETAILS DAMIANS CONNECTIONS TO MAGIC?.. nobody? oh okay.

(be forewarned, this is long)

now after ignoring batman 666, let's see what we have.

ROBIN: SON OF BATMAN (2015)

now, in robin: son of batman #1 It's confirmed that after his death in batman incorporated, damian went to hell. Hell is usually connected with the more magical side of the dc universe, but that's not it.

The entirety of the comic delves into damians connections to more mystical things. mythical swords and magical ancient towers, weird extinct bat-dragons, magical cults that want to destroy the whole world, etc etc.

this is easily regarded as one of damians best comics and having peak damian characterisation, so obviously Damian being magically inclined can easily work well with his character.

Now, after a barrel load of compliments, let's get to the extremely negative side of things.

TEEN TITANS (2016)

Damian's cloned brother has magic and that sentence is about as much as i care for this book. Moving on.

BATMAN (2016)

Again, dog shit damian characterisation, but here we go. Damian here actually shows an ability to use a binding spell and has a wand, making some sort of deal with a random demon, but a far cry from damian apparently selling his soul in batman 666. Moving on finally out of rebirth because that was a bad time for Damian's character.

ROBIN (2021)

Now we go back to the good. Apparently from the maternal part of damians family, magic is more commonplace. ra's even having a whole spell book to his name. Robin 2021 kinda toys with the ghul family and the lazarus pits magical and devilish side which isn't new... but it's new to involve damian!

In the final parts of this story, Damian's heart specifically is used as a plot device, lord deathman even dubbing it as "the bloodstream of the demon" and ruh (ra's' mother) uses it as a power source to fuel demon summonings, which started the Lazarus rain event.

TEEN TITANS DARK (Unreleased)

Back in early 2023 (i think) dc teased a sort of "teen titans dark" with damian, black alice and monkey prince. The "dark" moniker referencing Justice league dark, a magic team made up of magic users that solve magical bullshit. It's a good book, recommended read, i just thought I'd add this to the pile.

Detective comics/Knight terrors

Now, including these two together because they're about the same topic: Dreams.

damian is confirmed to have some sort of control over dreams and sleep, defeating demons that show up in his sleep, yet never actually disappear when he wakes up. He also has an ability to stay awake after a massive worldwide phenomenon causes everyone, even the dream masters that taught damian, to sleep and experience night terrors.

Dreams are, again, connected to the magical side of the dc universe. Now I'm not going to pretend like i actually read sandman to you, i can't lie on ramadan, so let's all give me a pass here for my lack of understanding of all that.

Batman and robin (2023)

In this, damian mentions a bit of off screen monster hunting with Frankenstein and lays a trap that lights someone on fire. I used to think this was some sort of hex but this artwork is extremely unclear, but since Frankenstein is mentioned and from my knowledge dc's Frankenstein is magic let's pretend this is some sort.

As an extra note: this guy definitely died. There's no way about it, he got lit on fire with nobody helping him. He's gone. Damian just killed a man.

Extra Extra notes:

talia using magic!

now, i haven't included these examples in the "the ghuls have magic" segment because uh...

(batman: the doom that came to Gotham/dc bombshells)

yeah...

Not only are these interpretations of talia EXTREMELY orientalist but also just generally out of character and could've been done with any randomly introduced characters.

For the unknowing white american people in the crowd: arabs actually don't only dress in revealing "belly dancer" outfits and lanterns. i know, shocking, we actually wear normal clothes.

And just to add again, there's a lot of stories that include ra's having magic, but I'm not the biggest ra's head (lol) so i didn't read them all, i implore u to do your own research because I'm not doing it.

this about wraps it up. thank you to the magic damian believers may we all win someday.

#damian wayne #batman #dc comics #damian al ghul #batfam #damian robin #dc #dc robin #robin damian #batfamily #ra's al ghul #talia #talia al ghul

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fanaticsnail · 2 months

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Searching: Part 2

I thought I'd make a post like this to answer your ask @luarsunny. I can't add a page break in the ask box, and I don't want to accidentally spoil anything for anyone.

Warnings: Graphic depictions of death and grief. Tobiuo is my OC. One Piece speculation and potential spoilers beneath the cut. Page break added just in case.

Canon divergence. I know that's not where they are right now.

First of all, I am very much in denial and have been since I read it. This was the initial comic I did hint at how I saw it going down without spoiling anything. She is looking for the remains of the Victoria.

If she ever found what was left of the Kid Pirate crew in the depths of the sea, the Heart Pirates would be the ones rendered speechless rather than Tobiuo.

"At Elbath, in the New World, the Kid Pirates lead by Eustass "Captain" Kid with a bounty of three billion berries... were destroyed."

There would be no words, no gasps, and no sounds made on behalf of the grief she would feel in her heart at those words. Immediately racing against time and daylight, she would not have to sign with her hands or write a word to have Law turn the Tang towards Elbath.

Being one of the few members of the Heart Pirates who could breathe and speak under water, she would frantically call out for any member to hear them in her search. The remainder of the crew would wait with baited breath, Bepo closing his eyes and whispering soft encouragements to Tobiuo while she attempts to remain composed.

Finding Killer first, who took the majority of the hit from Shanks, would break her. Killer and Tobiuo have an understanding between them: him being the middle ground who gives both Tobiuo and Heat that final push to get together. When she finds him half consumed by the creatures lingering in the deep, she would begin to unleash a scream that can transcend the barrier between oceans and air from beneath the water.

Bringing up the crew, one by one, she would momentarily pause on Heat as his eyes lay glazed and unresponsive. Her heart screams at her to stop and lay beside her lover, but Law commanded her to not rest until she finds Kid. She hasn't found him, and she's been searching for four days without rest.

Lethargic and hallucinating, she finds him. His body was locked between rock and bone. With his metal arm still attached, she attempts to use the last of her strength to drag him up. His body is bloated beneath the pressure of the sea, swollen and pruned with the salt pickling his skin. Dragging him up to lie beside the crew, Tobiuo would crawl over to lie beside Heat. Maneuvering herself to lie tucked into his chest and beneath his arm, she uses the last of her strength to let out a whimpering sob as she exhales the water from her gills. Once the water releases, her cries are once again silent as she mourns.

Regardless as to who attempts to move her, she lays there frozen and stubborn in her motion. She fasts for three days, only waking from her rest to cry for Heat and the crew in this time. The scent of death begins to linger in the air, the bodies of the Kid Pirates are given funerals on long boats lit ablaze by tongues of fire. As Law stoops down to gently rouse his prized fighter while she grieves, the only thing to physically make her release Heat from her arms is the promise of vengeance and crafting her wrath. Just as Law sought his revenge for Doflamingo, he swears by blood oath to aid her in unleashing her scorn onto Red Haired Shanks.

As a final say in mourning her lover, she openly weeps as she sinks her teeth into a lock of his lengthy blue hair, severing it's link from his decaying scalp. Clutching it in her webbed hands, she witnesses Shachi and Penguin cast the boat away to join his body with the others at sea.

Reaching behind her head, she twists the cutting of his hair in a braid interwoven into her own strands, mourning the man who held her heart completely. She would only eat to make herself stronger, develop her Haki to have her abilities foster, and lose a part of herself she had only once again regained. Sleep brings little rest, the world falls to a life without joy and colour, and her once cheeriness is all but lost to her and her crew.

She knows she can't kill Shanks alone. He's a yonko, and Tobiuo is not an idiot. But what she does know now is her reach is not limited to those who walk along the land…

#one piece spoilers #one piece #x oc #one piece angst #heat x oc #heat x tobiuo #ask snail #snail answers #oc x canon #kid pirates #heart pirates #stray from canon #oc tobiuo #tobiuo oc

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jomamaofficial · 4 months

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A Hero's Burden (Midoriya x GN!Reader Angst No Comfort Oneshot)

A/N: FIRST OF ALL, SPECIAL THANKS TO @caramello07, BECAUSE THIS ABSOLUTE LEGEND HAS BEEN HELPING ME CREATE THE PLOT AND BETAREADING MY WORK. LITERALLY, BESTIE, YOU'RE A REAL ONE 🫶🫶.

Hello hello my lovely readers! Thank you for being patient with me. My exams are around the corner so I have been so, so busy with that. But I always pop in to see you guys leave the most beautiful feedback and comments, it makes my day <3. I hope you enjoy this just as much as I did. I really put my heart and soul into this one.

Please let me know whether I should lowkey create a YouTube channel where I read out my work the way I intended to.

As always, my Ask Box is open for any requests or just a conversation. I absolutely adore all of you, and I want to take this time to thank you guys for your support. Seeing your comments and messages motivates me to write :) <3. Please remember to take care of yourselves, and enjoy. As always, I would love to see your thoughts in the comments :).

TW: Death and bleeding, SUICIDAL themes.

CW: SPOILER: Season 6, Izuku’s Vigilante arc, swearing, difficult friendship dynamics.

Masterlist

Word Count: 3242.

Summary: Heroes always win. Every folktale, every comic, everything in our life tells us the same thing: good reigns over evil. But the harsh truth comes crashing down in a dark warehouse, where the facade of invincibility crumbles. Amidst the shadows, surrounded by those who once vowed to protect, you can only helplessly watch as your best friend, Midoriya Izuku destroys himself under the weight of this flawed, and broken system. With the entire hero society relying on him, how can he stop giving everything he has? In a world where heroes are human and kindness is a liability. You try to help him, yet even the strongest bonds can shatter under the weight of despair.

——————————————————————————————————

How does it feel?

When everything in front of you disintegrates into pieces, whilst you can only sit there and watch?

It feels like a dark warehouse. Cold and wet.

Sunken in, casting a dark shadow, impersonating the night sky, your eyelids were heavy, succumbing to the shared lethargy that lurked in the heavy air. Your brain did not allow you to rest however, listening only to your palpitating heart, because what if the villains found you whilst you were fast asleep?

Heroes were there to protect you.

But why were you still so afraid? The nation's best heroes had congregated together, sharing the same space as you, breathing the same air as you.

They would never let harm come your way– it was their duty to protect you.

So why were they hiding from that harm, sitting with their knees held close to their chest?

Heroes were there to protect you, but that claim was voiceless in the presence of reality: heroes were hidden– whispering and begging the ground to stay silent as they shuffled in the shadows. Villains ran loose– mocking the hopeless souls that they trampled on, with every free, and unabashed step they took.

Death had not only taken multiple heroes on the battlefield; it had also snatched their facade.

They were not invincible. They were not untouchable.

The world had just forgotten that their heroes were only human after all.

A phone rang.

Roaming eyes halted. They could not speak.

“It’s mine”, Hawks said.

Breaths were held.

“It’s from All Might”.

You leaned in closer.

“Midoriya-kun came into contact with the second hired gun.”

Your chest ceased to move.

“...and he won instantly.”

“Young man-”

“He didn’t have any information.”

The sky wept.

The moon and stars had masked themselves under the darkness that shrouded the city. If they could not see you, they could not harm you.

Toshinori Yagi had just watched the last remains of Midoriya Izuku’s innocence drain into the gutters of Musutafu.

“He might explode too. Be careful.”

He felt the impact of his student’s departure faster than he could comprehend. Therefore he took the chance to call after Midoriya, summoning the scarce energy he had left, ignoring the rising threat in his weak chest, which was ready to surrender to the bloody phlegm building inside of him.

“Wait a minute!” Toshinori ran after him– though Midoriya had only moved for a second.

“Food!” he gasped, his hands lifting a box wrapped in a blue cloth. ““Please, my son, you haven’t eaten…”

His hands tightly grasped around the soft, crisp fabric that was decorated with orange carrots, and white bunnies with pink noses. When he first saw it, Toshinori chuckled to himself before deciding to buy it– this was made for Midoriya, his rising hero, the purest of hearts.

“All Might.” Midoriya did not look back. “I’m fine now. You don’t have to follow me.”

Toshinori’s shoulders slumped down and his brows lowered, pulling closer together. Midoriya was walking away from him without a second glance.

Midoriya had not met his eyes once today.

“I am fine now.” The wind howled louder than his voice, unconvinced.

“Young Midoriya, please...”

The energy around Midoriya had increased, visible power– venomous and hostile– overflowing from his tense body that was moments away from breaking.

Toshinori had to stop him. Or history would repeat itself.

“Midoriya, please, don’t d-”

“I can move at the same level as your 100%...” Midoriya whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. “You don’t have to worry…”

His tattered clothes soaked in the rain, his sound of his heavy steps getting quieter and quieter.

“Please”, Toshinori begged, “wait a minute…”

But before he could finish his heart’s plea, the one who it was meant for had already left, pushing everything away, leaving everyone he had burdened in the dust.

The lunch that his mentor had lovingly made for him now belonged to the sidewalk and the merciless rain. Soon, it would also flow into the gutters of Musutafu.

The warehouse door crashed open.

“Midoriya is nowhere to be found!”

All Might ran in, his hands against his knees, gasping for the still and stale air.

“He-” he huffed again, regaining his breath,” he, he left… I tried to contact him. Phone… off… he’s nowhere to be found… sent class after him… didn’t find him either”

Your eyes twitched at the blank stares that his words had harboured. No one batted an eye.

They were too busy counting the days until they would be found by the real threat.

All Might’s concern for Midoriya ran thicker than blood. And had you looked past those deep-set eyes, you would have noticed the faint veins that bordered his gaze; something was stolen from him. Midoriya had been stolen by the expectations of the world, held hostage in his own mind.

“I know where he is.”

Orudera Chūgakkō. Memories had been etched into the red brick walls. You pushed against that same black gate, its groans and creaks forming the haunting symphony that would promptly begin at eight o'clock sharp.

Lessons would start at eight-thirty, and the low murmurs of the class would subside as your sensei would come in, dropping her bags next to her desk. You would all stand up together, reciting the same monotonous ‘Good Morning Shima-Sensei’ before sitting back down. If she was in a good mood, the class would commence. But if she was (more likely than not) in a bad mood, the entire class would get a scolding.

“You cannot wish your teacher a pleasant good morning, but you can chat to your friends with double the energy?! Do that again. Now! Show me some respect.” And you would all stand for another five minutes, smirking and giggling, repeating it again.

What once felt like a tedious task now brought a smile to your face as you reminisced about the moments spent in the classroom before you.

Birds would chirp, filling the classroom with a sonorous melody. The walls would be decorated by the younger children who drew rainbows and flowers and butterflies with every colour they could get their hands on. There wasn’t a speck of grey or black found in these drawings.

It was so fun to be a child– just a few years ago, your life was filled with colour.

Everything now was grey and bare.

At ten o’clock, the bell would ring and children would scream as they ran towards their friends, ignoring the poor teachers who repeated: “children, please don’t run in the hallways, children please, you may get hurt!”

The large corridor was so full with a sea of chuckles and laughter.

Today, undisturbed dirt coated every surface on the corridor. A desolate strip led down to the most frequented stairs of your past. Its laborious steps led to a place that no student visited as much as you did. On the sixth floor, the rooftop brought you closer to the blue sky and the fluffy clouds. You and the sun would overlook the vast plains of never ending buildings, glistening under the morning glow. People would walk, cars would drive; the hustle and bustle of everyday life resided on the grounds below you. So how could anyone truly feel alone? How could anyone ignore the true beauty of your favourite spot in the whole school?

You now understood that beauty was in the eye of the beholder– the painful truth.

Sleepless nights were spent wondering, what would have happened if you did not visit the rooftop on one particular day? What would have happened to the nameless boy who had stood there, head hanging low, body quivering, feet on the ledge of railings.

Who could have guessed that this stranger would end up as the only friend you ever had?

You could recognise him in total darkness and in different bodies, for Midoriya Izuku’s pure heart could never change. It would always draw you towards him.

You ran up the swindling stairs, the steps leading up to the sixth floor seeming longer and steeper than before. Serenity only belonged to the past– this place brought nothing but a looming sense of dread, weighing you down as time ticked by.

The closer you got, the weaker your heart felt. You had read about it somewhere– our bodies always knew what would happen, so they could prepare us for the worst.

But the thought of losing him before you could see his eyes, your beacon of light and hope, would rend a part of you forever.

So you carried on walking, ignoring the foreboding pricks cultivating in your body.

Those eyes… you could not live without them. They were an open window into the bright and welcoming flame that resided within him. He would give warmth to those who needed it without asking, never expecting anything in return.

Kindness had no price.

So Midoriya Izuku would live with kindness in his heart, even if it meant that it would be vulnerable and open for everyone to use as they pleased.

Midoriya Izuku was priceless. There was no one like him in this world filled with deceit and hate. But the world did not like those who were different from the rest.

He gave and he gave. Yet what would happen when he gave every piece of himself to a world that never gave back? What would happen if he finally had nothing to give apart from his soul?

The world is cruel.

They would steal everything he had. And that is how you found him, through the already opened door, standing under the thundering sky that showed no forgiveness to the young man who would once smile at them too.

Tip tap, tip tap, your eyes were blurry, but not from the rain. They had betrayed you, yes your gaze. For the man in front of you was not the man whom your heart could recognise from afar. You were so close, yet your hearts held distances, akin to the stars. Blood wept, following the course of the pouring water, revealing wounds, neglected but vain. They cried for attention they would never get, as the man who was once a stranger, had become estranged from them.

“Deku…” you did not want him to turn around, praying for this to be a mistake. FOr him to look confused, asking you, “who’s Deku?”

This can’t be your Deku… he couldn’t be your priceless hero…

His head barely turned, but you caught a glimpse of his glowering eyes.

They donned an arcane mask of toughness. His front, unbreakable on the surface, yet unfortunately flawed. You could see right through it, uncovering the secrets that he hid in plain sight.

Immense pain had found an abode in his glassy, teal eyes; exhaustion chipped away at the shell that kept him put up to protect himself from the looming danger that would attack as soon as it smelt his foetid weakness. Midoriya let it happen once, jeopardising everyone around him.

He wasn’t going to let it happen again.

“Go away,” Midoriya cautioned.

His heart expended too much energy pushing everyone away. He could only hope that you would listen to him– he didn’t want to hurt you.

“Deku…” you pleaded, eyes misting over as you cautiously step forward, hands stretching wearily towards his shoulders, taking care not to brush past those fresh, untended marks that showed through the rips and tears in his clothes.

“Please Deku… let me help you.”

Midoriya stiffened under your touch, guilt overtaking his body.

You couldn’t be seen with him.

The eyes. They were everywhere.

They tracked his every move. And if they saw you now, he would never see you again.

You felt a strong jolt push you back into the wall, your head crashing against the stone walls, losing your grip on him completely. Your hands felt empty– he had disappeared from under your touch.

And it all happened so fast.

Midoriya stared at his hands, his blood fleeing from his extremities. The realisation slowly dawned upon him, raising his heart beat, shifting the energy around him– he was a monster. Mioriya began gasping for air, choking on his own spit and tears, his vision tunnelled in on the surface of his palms.

A monster.

That’s what he was.

Your body lay limp in the rubble of concrete and dust, you swore you felt something wet on the back of your head, but your eyes urgently searched for Midoriya, who was pale and frozen near the edge of the roof.

His feet began to sway, and his eyes began to flutter shut. You overlooked the jolts in your body for your mind could not bear this sight again. Despite the clear warnings your aching flesh had given you to rest, you still ran towards him, clutching his body before he fell onto the ground.

Only in your arms had the outer shell of this vigilante’s stone defence fallen, emerging a broken child who had just caused immense pain to his best friend.

“I’m so sorry”, he whispered through his dried throat, quivering as the walls in his mind closed in on him. “I’m so sorry, Y/N, I’m so sorry”, he repeated, again and again, trapped in a cyclical doom which served only to condemn him.

He was a monster– that depraved voice screamed.

He was a monster– that depraved voice echoed as it stalked him in the depths of his own mind, following him into his deepest, intimate fears. Clutching it, taking over.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…

He was disturbingly light in your arms; you just noticed his hollowed cheeks.

Midoriya’s strained forehead loosened as he broke down in your hold, tears running down his thinning face. Your heart beat alongside his, yet you did not dare to glance into his emerald eyes, for they had been robbed of their precious shine. You placed your finger over his mouth as he opened it to say something, a silent reminder– everything will be alright.

“Give me your pain, Deku, please…” you begged, stroking his curly hair away from his eyes. “I can’t see you like this anymore”.

A singular tear dropped on his cheek, stinging him with regret.

“You don’t have to carry that burden alone, Deku… It’s too big… too big to carry alone. You give too much, you don’t know when to rest. You break yourself, for people who don’t deserve it and you take on things bigger than you can ever manage! You think you can do everything Deku, but you can’t!” you cried, unable to stop.

“You don’t need to work this hard, Deku, you don’t. You’re forgetting who you were, Deku. You’re not indestructible! You’re not untouchable, you’re not All Might! You can get hurt, you- you can bleed, you can die for god’s sake, Deku, you can die!”

Your voice began raising uncontrollably, as you held his face, shaking him.

“You’re just a kid, Deku. My Deku… the sweet boy who I love. My best friend…” you grabbed his hands, squeezing them as you took deep breaths, your throat aching.

“But you’re unrecognisable now… You’re destroying yourself thinki- thinking that you’ll survive but what if you don’t. What if you don’t survive, and all of your friends, your teachers, your mom, they’re all just waiting for you to come back.”

Your eyes solemnly scanned his wrist, eyebrows furrowed and lowered. A litany of cuts, healed and unhealed, adorned his wrists, glaring at you. Your trembling fingers gently ran over them, hovering so as to not agitate them.

“But since you wanted to prove that you’re a hero, you go around picking fights that you can’t win.”

The scars on his wrist opened wounds of the past.

Your hands that held his wrist felt empty again. Midoriya averted his eyes from yours, before pulling his sleeves down, stretching the thinning material of his hero-suit, until it covered his exposed skin.

The rain’s sobbing grew louder with every moment that passed by in dismal silence.

“What would you even know about my life, Y/N?" he asked, his voice drowning in the cacophony of the storm.

Just like that, all of the progress you made had collapsed in front of your eyes. Midoriya had rebuilt the cage around his heart

“Deku, what happened?”

Your hands, which reached out for him, were immediately shaken off.

“What would you know about my life? About my struggles?”

His legs faltered when he tried to run away, cramping as a warning: Midoriya couldn’t move, he had used up all of his energy.

“Deku plea-”

“You said what you wanted to say, Y/N. Thanks for reminding me that I can’t let my guard down, even near people I thought I could trust. I’m not ‘indestructible’, I’m not All Might, I never claimed that. But unlike you, I have the world's burden around my shoulders. If you were putting everyone around you in danger, you'd run away too Y/N. But you wouldn’t know that because you're not the one giving everything your body can give, just to find out it's never going to be enough. You’re not the reason this entire city has turned into a ghost town. But what would you know, Y/N?”

He turned around, gaze hardened into stone.

“You're quirkless".

Blood rushed into your cheeks, your heart beating fast.

You must have misheard.

“You don’t mean that…”

He didn’t. The sweet boy you had met years ago on this same rooftop would never use that against you. He didn’t mean it.

"Now, I know why I was treated the way I was when I was younger, Y/N. The quirkless really don't know anything."

You couldn't have misheard that.

You had been beside his side to see every intimate detail in Midoriya’s life– every victory, every laughter, you celebrated together. Every shove and every taunt, you endured together.

“The Quirkless Duo, aw what are you going to do now? Cry?”

“I wonder how your parents feel, only having one useless kid that can never protect them.”

“Ya’ know, if you want a quirk, there might be another way. Take a swan dive off the roof of the building, and pray for a quirk in your next life."

We are born into this world completely alone. And we die in this world completely alone.

Only fools believe that they can escape that.

‘What would you know, Y/N, you're quirkless.’

You were truly alone in every stage of your life.

"You're becoming exactly what we feared, Midoriya.”

He stopped in his tracks, swallowing the rising bile that crept up his throat.

“If I knew this is what I'd get after standing up for you those countless times where I got hurt, where I got kicked and punched and teased everytime I defended you, I would have just let you jump off that roof.”

The wind wailed through the night sky, moving everything in its path.

“You're no hero Midoriya. But you’re right about one thing. You’re the fucking reason everything around you is getting destroyed.”

It was funny to think that their first and last meeting would be on this rooftop.

Midoriya looked at the world, greyer than it had ever been.

It had lost life.

He waited until he heard the door shut behind him.

This life truly had nothing to live for.

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aalghul · 17 days

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read boywonder and exploded died (in a bad way)

talia... what have they done to you... what do they always do to you... ‘there is no honour in assassin’s work’ talia... where are u... the apple of my eye, i adore her sm very close to sending pipebombs to GM everyday waow...

watching people talk about how good this was for talia feels like chewing glass. boy wonder was clearly written by someone who has not read anything involving talia prior to grant morrison and doesn't care about her outside of whatever can justify her becoming an abusive backstory for damian.

boy wonder completely disrespects her struggle during the time when she was so conflicted because she wanted to be loyal to her father but wasn't sure if she believed in him entirely anymore. the struggle existed because talia knew she would not abide by nor aid him if she did not agree with him. because talia has her own moral compass and beliefs that she follows. juni ba disregards this very important part of her journey to instead make her an entirely different character apparently did not disagree with ra's at any point before her own son was threatened (going as far as making her uncaring towards damian's former caretaker to show us how twisted her way of thinking is. mind you, this is supposedly the same talia who cried the first time she accidentally killed someone and has risked her life to help strangers, the JLA, jason todd, etc). she has to be turned into a different person just because boy wonder needs her to be framed as a somewhat sympathetic villain who gets what she deserves by having her son leave her for a better family. her "happy ending" is knowing that damian's other family is making him happy, which she never could because the story deems her incapable of that.

along these lines is another thing i found insulting: juni ba insinuating that talia's love for bruce may have been caused by talia wanting to please her father, who wanted bruce as an heir. when in reality, ra's only took notice of bruce after talia fell in love with bruce. it was because talia was outspoken enough in front of her father to bring up bruce that ra's cared about him at all. it was because talia had been off in cairo studying medicine that she had been caught up in a scheme that took her to bruce. all of those were her own choices, and juni ba wants us to question whether any of it was real because he doesn't believe talia has ever had agency. all because he himself clearly has never read talia outside of recent comics.

related to the above: juni ba insists talia wanted to be the heir to the league of assassins. pre-GM talia has never expressed this. she's never even implied it. from everything we've seen, it's pretty clear she would never want to nor would she able to stomach so much death. because it's canon that talia's heart hurts for everyone she sees killed. but, again, juni ba does not care about this whatsoever because his story is about damian and the bats. talia's characterization is always acceptable collateral damage when it comes to damian and the bats.

the more I think about it, the more I hate juni ba's misinterpretation of her. people so readily accept things like boy wonder and WFA when it comes to talia because they know so little about the most foundational parts of her character and it's really upsetting that big projects will continue to give such ooc stories as the best case scenario for talia. this is equivalent to someone writing a story where bruce decided to not take in dick or jason because the mission's more important than one kid. that would make bruce a different and less compelling character, right? that's exactly what happened to talia here (and in wfa and in everything GM wrote and in pretty much every story written since then). these are very integral parts of her character. if boy wonder as a story can't function without talia being so thoroughly destroyed? it was never a story worth telling (and it really isn't. because it's truly not a good story at all, which makes talia being wrecked for it even worse).

it makes me so angry because things like this are exactly why people don't see talia the same way they see selina or bruce or any other character ever! she continues to be pushed into the role of the harmful past who can only atone for her mistakes by now becoming an obsolete observer.

#sorry for replying with all that.....i just felt another surge of anger for that entire comic #i need to burn every copy in existence #turtle mail

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feyspeaker · 7 months

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Hi! I made an account just so I could follow your work. Your art is brilliant and honestly and inspiration to where I want to be. I’m an older artist who has all the anxiety when it comes to improving my process. I’m trying to get into digital portraits and I have so many ideas in my head, but it’s frustrating because I’m not where I want to be to make this happen. What are some tricks that help you/software do you use? Of course, you don’t have to share anything that makes you uncomfortable. I currently have procreate and an iPad, but I feel a little lost. Wondering if I need a different writing tablet and photoshop. Not sure. I just eventually want to find that 3D, but also artistic look you are able to achieve.

hey there! thank you so much!!

ultimately, I will sound like a broken record but I always recommend you sign up for local figure drawing or painting classes. have people pose for you at home and sketch with charcoal and paper. go to the zoo and sit down in front on an exhibit for an hour and try to draw the animals in front of you as fast as you can and fill a couple of pages, move on to a new exhibit and do it again!

nothing is more powerful of a tool to learn than whatever writing utensil you have in your purse and the back of a napkin when you see something you'd like to capture. I've spent quite frankly my entire rememberable life doing this. I used to spend every single day in middle school/high school/my brief failed stint in community college with a pack of cheap sharpies and a beat up binder full of old worksheets and homework to draw on the backs of.

drawing/painting from life will teach you better than anything.

I use a very outdated version of Photoshop, and only got a "nice" tablet in the past 7 months.

Also, a huge tip to you and anyone else reading this: do NOT get too focused on a "style" that you want. Obsessing over that just ruined me for years and years. I wanted so, so, so badly to be the next Matsuri Hino when I was a kid. I copied her work religiously and it NEVER looked right. Frustrated me to no end. And you know why my stuff never looked like hers? Because I'm not her! You can't force your art to come out any way that isn't natural, and the sooner you can accept the art your hand wants to create, the happier you'll be and the easier art will get for you.

The past couple of years before I started diving into this more realism based work, I was just shoving myself through trying to make what art I envied of others. Very stylized/textured watercolor comic book style stuff. And I just was NOT getting any better at it. I have always been more inclined toward realism work, but I've hated it and yearned for stylized work. Yoshitaka Amano? God, I just drooled over that artstyle and beat myself up for never being able to capture it in studies or otherwise.

I finally essentially restructured my entire career around making the art that makes me happy instead of what I "wanted" it to look like. I was extremely depressed, my life was falling apart, and I still needed to make art to survive but I couldn't "art" if I was depressed and hated doing it, so I just had to step back and stop worrying so much about what I thought I wanted to make, and started making what felt most natural.

there's no easy way, and art can be a soul destroying path at times, truly. your software and hardware should come very last place compared to practicing from life (it doesn't matter if you want to paint cartoony stuff of realistic stuff, always start from life). naturally you will find what makes your heart sing the most.

I get a lot of messages from people telling me similar stuff "oh your art is EXACTLY what I want to do!" but I promise you that kind of thought process is chasing a dragon that is likely to harm or drag your creative process down. art style is such a deeply personal thing, so of COURSE it's important to find inspiration, but the second looking at someone else's artwork stops inspiring you and starts frustrating you, put it away.

There are some artists who I love, that I do not check up on often because their artwork ignites, like, serious bitter jealousy in me. It's the truth. I get so mad at myself for not being more like them, and it's such a poison. I think more artists should be transparent about this feeling because I KNOW the art community has a lot of jealousy and ugliness in it.

A fact of being an artist is that you will never be completely happy with a piece you make. You are always going to see the flaws, and that doesn't change whether you'd been drawing for 2 months or 20 years. Occasionally, you will get one piece that you are like "how did I make that???" and then get frustrated that you can't recreate it lol! It's a tough beast.

It's just really important to step back and work on yourself and where you are at, because at the end of the day, the way your soul wants to express artwork might be WILDLY different from what your brain wants, and it can be really detrimental to let those two go to war.

I hope this helps. I'm very passionate about this, and when I started out I ALWAYS ignored the artists who gave the same exact tips as above. I thought they were so annoying and unhelpful, but now I /get it/.

#ask

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kaijuparfait · 3 months

Note

I saw ur tags about indulging in the body horror aspect of the Symbiote/Host dynamic and im just here to say: do it >:3

YES.

GOD. ok so. I've always enjoyed the concept of body horror, not all the way, but it looked cool in art! But! Recently Symbrock (and Venom as a whole) has turned that up to 100- both in a "Wow! Cool alien creature biting people's heads off! >:D" way, but also in a "The goo is in his organs, his tissue, his cells... how romantic!" way.

And, if you'll excuse me, I'll only be talking about my (limited) knowledge/headcanons with Symbrock because I haven't read all the comics yet so this is all with Eddie and the Venom Symbiote in mind-

Firstly, I don't think I've ever seen anyone mention how the Symbiote can enter/exit it's Host's body through their skin, without damaging the Host. There's no wounds, just the easy slide in between layers of cells, Venom can be as solid as they want but can also come together so seamlessly, its like watching someone fold a deck of cards.

Even on a psychological standpoint, the idea of actually being "Venom". Singular. Not "We" are Venom. But the idea of two beings, from different sides of the universe, coming together perfectly as one being, one mind, one consciousness. A bit of an OC ramble, I have this OC that goes into this idea of acting as one being and I'll talk about them later but WOAH is it fun. The sheer intimacy of it.. not losing your own self, but simply combing it with another to create something- someone new.

Ok onto the actual body horror-

I am not normal about the Symbiote literally being in Eddie's blood. Blood is everywhere in the body, anywhere you poke, blood will come out- and in that, the Symbiote, ready to heal the wound.

Speaking of healing wounds, and also this post because I keep rereading it, it makes me ill, the Venom Symbiote truly sees it's Host as it's home. and that does something to me. The way it keeps the body healthy, like how you would clean your house, no longer having to worry about illnesses or infections; how it heals any injuries, like fixing a broken wall, repainting it, like there was no damage in the first place.

Knowing it's home so well, able to know what's wrong and how to make it right. Complete and utter devotion to it's beloved home, the one that keeps it safe, willingly, lovingly let's it- wants it inside to keep it safe. To know that something that could tear apart planets if it so wanted to, something that bares it's rows of teeth as a natural expression, something that has destroyed countless lives- to know something like that gently rests in the space between your organs because it wants to. And how much you want it to too.

And this goes both ways too! When they're Venom and get hurt, they way the Symbiote peels away from the body is.. its amazing that the Symbiote can be torn away from it's Host. When Eddie gets hurt, the Symbiote comes out, from inside- When Venom gets hurt, instead of blood or organs, it's Eddie at the center, but he acts as the same anyways. Eddie is the Symbiote's life, he is it's heart, carefully tucked away and protected.

Even though Eddie doesn't particularly enjoy eating people's brains, he comes up with a compromise for the 2 of them anyways, he buys tons of chocolate for it to eat too, and that adds up for a guy that is living in a one room flat. and AND AND I will never get over how, in LTBC, Venom leaves all the red m&m's, because the red dye is said to be harmful to humans in large amounts, so even though it's one of the few things it needs to live, it refuses it to keep Eddie- it's Host- it's home safe.

and, I mean, Venom totally could eat Eddie if it so wanted to, in the first movie, Eddie's literally going through.. several organ failures- but Venom puts him back together, back better! and i am suddenly ill-

excuse my weird ideas but hhhhhh Eddie being torn apart and put back together..... yeah. how much trust is needed for that? how much love is shown from letting it consume his flesh and bones, from it eating the thing it loves the most, from it knowing every ridge and curve of every organ and cell to put everything back where it was?

how much love is needed to destroy something, to be destroyed, and come back together?

also Trust Exercise is a dang good fic, i need more of this. please. or i'll start making it myself (i'll do it anyways)

This, too, can go both ways, I am a big fan of swapping how Eddie and Venom and portrayed, both in canon and in fanon, just for the fun of it- and I'm just saying... let Eddie tear apart the Symbiote! maybe Eddie wants to rip it apart with his teeth and bare hands! Let them fight and rip each other apart, but with love <3 (oh fight/sparring scenes between friends/lovers, how i love you so)

you can't really see it well, and i'll make a better show of it later, but my design for (movie) Eddie has sharp teeth and that isn't for no reason. I.... ADORE the idea that, after being Venom for so long, Eddie starts adapting parts of them into his "normal" body- sharper teeth, clouded eyes, maybe even some of his skin is pitch black too, just because it makes him feel like Venom in his everyday life, even a little bit.

ough i need to lay down after that but- THANK YOU so much for asking me this, this was such a treat to let out, it's like a weight has been lifted off me lmao

i'll probably have more on this topic later on, but i'll probably use those ideas for art/writing, i love thinking about them :3

EDIT: ALSO ALSO ALSO the way the Venom Symbiote literally goes against it's very nature to love Eddie, it goes against what every other Symbiote does, it betrays it's entire race and planet- JUST TO BE VENOM WITH EDDIE <3

#people should ask me about my thoughts and opinions more. i love making walls of text. professional yapper. the gift of gab (as my dad says)#would you be surprised if i said i almost cried multiple times while writing this?#no wait guys come back i'm normal i promise-#kaijuparfait words #venom #symbrock

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billygoat26 · 1 month

Text

Y’all, unfortunately I don’t have a PHD in Deadpool, but I have assumptions

Buddy boy jokes through life, we know that much from the comics (from what I’ve read anyways) and the movies. It’s his thing, what we all know him for. The Merc with a Mouth.

BUT- he can be serious. And ooooh boy when those jokes stop you better run while you can.

Only reasons why I think this are (spoilers for Deadpool and Wolverine below)

When they were in the Honda Odyssey I think it was called (right before the fight scene many of us agree was more gay than gay sex) Logan/Wolverine had pretty much insulted Wade’s entire being, and his love life. And we KNOW it hurt him, you can see the subtle change in his expression, even though it was masked literally. Then after that he said the whole “I’m gonna fight you now” and then they fought, blah blah blah.

That little itty bitty moment of silence, vulnerability, all that fun shit means that there’s a limit. We all have one, after all.

In the first Deadpool movie he was a little more serious when dealing with Francis- except in like, the first half during the major car collision and when Wade beat the shit out of Francis and all that fun stuff- and when trying to save Vanessa.

And god, was he destroyed in the second movie when Vanessa got killed… he was a mess, even for him! Trying to find any way to see her again, constantly hurting himself in ways that would kill any ordinary person just so he could catch a glimpse of her again. Hell, he even went back in time to SAVE her!

Which brings us back to the newest movie.

Vanessa had pretty much dumped him. They’re still friends, at least as far as I remember, I’ve only seen the movie once and it’s been on my mind since two days after it released when I watched it. And we know he was hurt by it and we know he got rejected from joining the Avengers (which I’m pretty sure, if I remember correctly, he wanted to join to basically earn Vanessa’s approval again) and after his rejection he sort of just… stopped. Gave up on being Deadpool, hung up the suit and found some job where he worked with Peter.

So basically, Vanessa is that limit. I think, anyways. He might joke about stuff (I’d assume) relating to her, but no matter what it’s a sore spot. Something he hates himself for messing up and would try anything to fix.

So, cue the entirety of the movie to save his timeline and all that fun stuff, and OH MY GOD THE AWKWARD BUT PROBABLY HOPEFUL MOMENT WE SAW WITH HIM AND VANESSA AT THE END AGGGHHHHH-

And how Logan had told Wade to go talk to her- MY HEART- AAAAH-

Anyways…

I’ve lost track of what I was originally rambling about- I think it was Deadpool’s limits or something and movie-wise (I dunno if the “Vanessa” of the comics for him is different or not, I haven’t read enough of them to know for sure) that limit, the line to never be crossed, is Vanessa. She’s the main one, and the others are damn important to him too but I think Vanessa holds the biggest place in his heart.

#billygoat talks #Rambling and losing track of what I was originally rambling about; part ??????#deadpool 2 #deadpool 3 #deadpool #wade wilson #deadpool movie #wade w wilson #deadpool and wolverine #logan howlett #vanessa deadpool #marvel #avengers #marvel comics #Also- a good bit of this might be inaccurate- I’m running off of memory here since I can’t rewatch the movie yet

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spiderlandry · 1 year

Text

wind — lo'ak sully

Description: You make a matching ionar (rider’s mask) for Lo’ak after he fails the first time trying to tame an ikran. you give it to him after his (successful) second try, but what does it mean?

Pairing: Lo'ak te Suli Tsyeyk'itan x GN!Reader (Na’vi)

Warnings/Tags: mentions of mating/finding a mate(?), use of y/n, actually requited love, reader is a softie, proofread once and barely edited, events probably not canonically correct because i’ve never read the comics

Word Count: 3k

Author’s Note: if anyone has any avatar thoughts or hc/drabble requests feel free to send them in my inbox !! i’m honestly willing to write for most of the characters, so just ask 😇 (any human!jake thoughts are especially welcome)

Everything has fallen away and nothing else matters when Lo’ak is in the Tsahìk’s healing hut, being bandaged by his grandmother after falling off a cliff on his first try taming an ikran.

The disappointment from his father rolls off in waves, and in turn, the shame of it suffocating.

Mo’at interrupts his train of thinking.

“Mawey,” She says in a gentle voice, but its read as a warning nonetheless. “I can feel you burning a hole into the ground.”

“Sorry.”

The curt response is not lost on her, but she doesn’t mention it.

Enter Kiri, the third person who has come to see him since the incident. Her face is etched with worry, eyebrows scrunched but it seems like she’s trying to hide it. She sits cross-legged across from her brother.

“Father was just worried about you.”

That gets a dry laugh out of him, wincing when the exertion stings.

“He’s got a funny way of showing it,” He replies.

Never-mind that. The moment he hit the ground, he knew he would be the other end of their father’s worry. That’s not what he hates. It’s that he feels the disappointment.

But it’s as if Kiri reads his mind.

“He’s not disappointed, either. He doesn’t hold it against you.”

At his quiet, Kiri leans against the wall, keeping him company while their grandmother rubs paste on his shoulder.

It is his third say of ordered rest that he finally notices your absence. Amidst of the chaos and his family practically doting on him with worry, he realizes the empty hole in his heart is in the shape of you.

You, who was there to see him fall. You, who was one of the best hunters in the clan and a great flyer. And you, who he has been in love with since he could remember.

Another wave of shame and embarrassment hits him. It lingers.

If you’d seen his failure, surely that destroyed all his chances with you. Hell, he barely had any after you’d called him ‘a great friend,’ a few weeks ago. But it’s different now: you have witnessed his worst moment, and would deem him unfit to be a mate.

His moping is apparently so noticeable that his own father has to talk to him. It happens before the hunting party leaves.

“Look,” His father—the Olo’eyktan for Eywa’s sake—makes the party wait. “I’m sorry about yelling at you.”

“Yeah, I know. We’re good.” Lo’ak’s lungs are burning. He needs to get away from this conversation, otherwise it will lead to Jake finding out about his affections for you.

“Hey,” His father taps his shoulder, and Lo’ak has to meet his eye. “What’s going on?”

Lo’ak knows that Jake is often misjudged as a father. He hears his friends talk about how being an Olo’eyktan makes him too busy to properly care for his kids. But what they don’t know is that every duty his father fulfills is done with his children in mind. Not too many people give him enough credit, not even Lo’ak.

He pays attention.

“Can we…not talk about this?” Lo’ak nods to the hunting party waiting for their leader. “We can talk about it when you get back.”

Jake gives in, but not without promise. “Later.”

They never end up talking about it, much to Jake’s dismay. Lo’ak avoids him too much. He prays to Eywa hoping his son will solve it soon.

When he sees you again, it had been about two weeks since the incident. He knows you’re close with Kiri, and every time his sister sneaks away he knows she’s with you, but he decided that if you didn’t want to be near him, then so be it. He didn’t anticipate the pain that came with that. The burning in his chest, something his father taught him about heartburn—yeah, that. Probably.

There’s a lot of people in the clan, which is why it surprises him to see you spending time with Ralu of all people.

You’re both far away, but he sees you flash a smile at the man and he begins to see red.

Ralu isn’t a bad person by any means. But he’s arrogant. And you told Lo’ak once that you hated arrogant people. Ralu was named after his great grandfather, one of the most notorious warriors among the people. Lo’ak figures that’s why the guy carries himself with an air of importance.

So when you laugh at his joke, Lo’ak starts to think that maybe you changed.

When did you change?

The burning is quelled for a moment, quickly replaced with an even worse emotion: a soul-crushing, haunting feeling called guilt.

Lo’ak is guilty of many things. He disobeys direct orders, he has the tendency to slip out of important celebrations, he can disappear for days when he needs time to think.

But he has never once felt guilty of loving you.

Until now.

It is not truly just guilt out of loving you, rather, it’s a product of his own cowardice and inability to even strike a conversation with the slightest hint of interest in becoming yours officially.

You don’t know that he is already yours—that you hold his heart in your delicate hands—maybe that is where he went wrong. Was it fair for him to have assumed you knew that? No, not really. But what could he do?

He stalks away, the sight of you and Ralu summoning bile in Lo’ak’s throat. He wants to feel the wind one only gets while flying and let the sting of the air wash his mind of the image.

He decides to take training more seriously this time around. Maybe he’s not too late.

He hopes he’s not too late.

Lo’ak loses himself in the fight. He lets his body carry him on hunts, he climbs the trees with calloused hands, he visits the mountains to study the patterns of the ikran coming and going.

He’s so determined to prove himself to you that he doesn’t pay mind to how you come and go through the home of the clan’s most talented craftsman.

Doesn’t notice when your eyes gravitate toward him as you come back from doing your tasks—he is too honed in on sharpening his blades and fixing his arrows.

You and Lo’ak hadn’t spoken in weeks.

But he wanted to make it worth it for when he finally invites you to watch him try and tame an ikran for the second time alongside his family.

It’s not long until Lo’ak finally approaches you with the proposition.

You receive the invitation with a gentle smile. He’s glad that Ralu is nowhere to be seen. (Bastard.)

It’s early morning, and you have not shown up. The thought of you not being here makes his stomach churn, not only out of shame but also regret. Maybe he really had lost you, but that is going off the assumption that he ever had you in the first place.

Most of his family stands behind him in support as he goes over the plan in his head, watching the ikran screech amongst themselves. Although, Tuk and Kiri are with grandmother—so it is just Neytiri, Jake, and Neteyam. He was so confident your name would be a part of that list.

He shakes off the thought, letting himself feel the vibrations. The rope in his hand burns from his tight grip. He launches himself into action, spotting the dark blue creature about to lunge at him. It’s beautiful. He hopes he doesn’t die.

The skin of the ikran brings him back to the feeling of falling, a flashback to the first time. As he wrangles it from the back, avoiding the claws reaching for him, he shakes his head roughly to rid himself of the image. The earth beneath him scratches at his leg when he falls off and tries to get back on, keeping its mouth tightly wrapped, bruises threatening to form on his hand.

Wind.

Edge. He is at the edge of the cliff.

The wind pushes against him, he pulls forward.

His vision is a tunnel, he grabs his kuru. He doesn’t see who arrives.

He successfully mounts the creature, making tsaheylu at the same time.

They both fall.

He hears the family erupt in cheers from afar when he saves himself from hitting ground, circling upward and letting out a loud cry. He does not hear your cheers amongst them, but it’s there regardless.

That is when he lands back on the cliff’s edge, meeting his parents’ proud smiles and Neteyam’s hard pat on the back.

You emerge from behind his family, and his jaw falls slack.

“Y/N,” He says, breathless. He resists the subconscious urge—the instinct—to run to you and wrap his arms around your figure, as he is reminded that the possibility of you and him have been null for a long time. “I thought you didn’t come.”

You two are inches from each other now.

“Are you kidding?” Your laugh melts him. “I just wanted to see if you’d fall off again.” The teasing isn’t something new, he knows you don’t mean it but even if you did, he couldn’t care less—every corner of his mind is now burned with the image of your smile.

He playfully shoves your shoulder, and you stop him from pulling away by holding his wrist.

You lower his arm. You bring an object out of the satchel you’ve been carrying around and places it on his outstretched hand.

It was an ionar. A rider’s mask.

And it looked familiar.

It is crafted beautifully and carefully—the light leather is cured perfectly, and in the middle, where it would rest on top of one’s nose-bridge, there’s a dark piece of river crystal sanded down to a point.

“I can’t take this,” He shakes his head. “This is yours.”

There’s something mischievous in your eyes, a glint he’d never seen. “Look closer.”

He grabs it and inspects, and his heart drops when he runs his finger over the piece, feeling the letters before seeing them. His name engraved into the side. Your mask had your name. This one has his.

“You…?” He meets your eyes, and you’re looking downward. In a surge of confidence, he puts a hand on your jaw to get you looking at him. “You made this for me?”

You nod. “It is a gift,” you respond. “I finished it this morning. I was not sure if it would be to your liking—”

“Don’t say that.” He cuts you off, and your eyes seem to be searching for something in his. He hopes to Eywa you find what it is you’re looking for. “This is perfect.”

You glance past him and he remembers that his family has been there the whole time. He turns and his eyes shoot daggers at his brother when he can see there must be something at the tip of Neteyam’s tongue. He knows that look, he’s about to get teased.

Luckily, before the brothers can exchange any words, you get Lo’ak’s attention again.

“Go fly with your family,” Your soft voice has him reeling. “I will meet you back home.”

He proudly dons the mask you’d given him, not taking it off when he starts looking for you after getting home. He wants—no, needs—everybody to know that he wears it like a badge of honor. He prays that people notice it matches your mask. In a way, it felt like you were staking claim on him.

Much to his chagrin, he sees you with him. Ralu. You’re nodding along to something he’s saying, and though it’s not a welcome sight, the adrenaline from flying fuels Lo’ak enough to walk over.

Your ears flick at the sound of nearby footsteps, and Lo’ak is relieved to see your smile grow wide when you catch a glimpse of him wearing the mask you made.

Lo’ak raises his brows at Ralu, and his stomach churns when Ralu does not respond to an obvious look of challenge.

You take notice of the fire in his eyes directed at your friend. In response, you place a hand on his forearm, and his gaze softens at you.

“Do you want to fly together?” You ask.

“Just us?”

“Yes,” you say it as though there is no other answer. “Who else?”

“It’s—” His eyes flit to Ralu, who seems to have stricken up a conversation with another clan member. Deciding it’s not worth mentioning, he replies, “Nevermind. Let’s go.”

“Where are you taking me?” He shouts over the wind, following you on his ikran while you fly fast ahead of him. The eclipse hides behind the floating mountains.

“Just wait and see!” You yell back, banking a hard left.

Landing on the cliff, you pet your banshee while Lo’ak’s lands on the ground with a hard thud. You laugh at him.

“I have to work on that,” He dismounts. “Where are we?” There is a wall of vines and moss standing tall behind you, and surface area of the soft grass is too little for both of your creatures to fit. They fly away, finding shelter on a nearby mountain.

“Follow me.” You feel the wall of vines, pushing it aside to make way into a dark passage.

The path is illuminated by bioluminescent flora growing through the cracks of the stone. He hears your footsteps behind him, and he soon runs into a wall, a small crevice with light shining through it, but too small for any Na’vi to fit.

You push past him and put your arms in the gap, putting the force of your body into getting it out of the way. He wants to help, but his eyes trace over your figure and he can only hope you don’t feel him checking you out without shame.

The gap is now wide enough to go through, so he follows you into it.

“Eywa,” He mutters under his breath as he takes in the scene. Though the cave should be dark, there is a clear pond that glows blue. There’s a tiny patch of grass surrounding it. It is not so extraordinary if one thinks about the rest of Pandora and its beauty, but the most remarkable thing is the quiet.

The wind is gone.

Your breaths are the only thing in his ears. You dip your legs in the water, splashing Lo’ak and taking him out of the trance.

“Hey!” He grins, doing the same to you.

There’s a pause while he tries to think of what to say. This place seems sacred, somehow. At least to you. You’re a great warrior—the best one he knows—yet he’s never seen such a content look on your face. It suits you.

“Why did you bring me here?”

You shrug, bashful. “This place is only accessible with an ikran. There is no other way to get up here.”

He stays silent, staring at you to go on. You avoid his gaze, opting to stare at the ripples you create in the water.

“I have been waiting to show you this place since I discovered it.”

“Have you…shown it to anybody else?”

There’s a longing in your eyes. “Neteyam.”

He is taken aback. Why would you take him here? He perks up, trying to look at your face. He sees the smirk.

“That’s not funny.”

You finally turn your head to him. “It is to me.”

“You’re messing with me, right? I just have to double-check.”

“I am,” You chuckle, lips settling into a thin line.

Another moment of silence.

“You will have to go through Uniltaron soon.”

He hums in agreement. He knows you had recently completed yours, he was there.

“After that, you will be free to choose a mate.”

A tiny flame of hope flickers in his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, I will be.”

“Do you have someone in mind?”

He doesn’t hesitate to say yes.

Your shoulders drop ever so slightly, but with the quiet echo, he hears.

“I always had the feeling you were spoken for,” you whisper. “Will you tell me who?”

He contemplates on it. Telling you would be the biggest risk of his life. It would change the nature of your relationship forever.

Before he can say anything, though, the sound of a water droplet reaches his ears. His eyes snap to you, and you have taken off your rider’s mask to wipe at the tears on your eyeline.

He scoots closer, shoulders touching. “Hey,” he puts a hand on your back. “What’s wrong?”

“You know what it feels like for someone to have your heart, don’t you?” You finally look at him again.

“I do.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

Since when did someone have your heart?

He wants to know who it is. Who makes you feel the way he feels for you.

He answers with the truth, “It does.” He clears his throat, trying to think of more to say. “But it doesn’t have to.”

“How?” You’re hugging your middle. He can feel you closing in on yourself.

The simple answer is that being with you flips that pain onto its head and it disintegrates. The hurt is never there long as he’s with you. But how can he tell you that if your heart belongs to someone else?”

“What do I do, Lo’ak? Please.” You almost plead for his answer. Your tears have stopped, and you, again, are searching his eyes for something. He has never seen you this vulnerable before. He wants to be the only person to witness you like this.

“You tell them.”

When you don’t respond, he takes his own advice. He bares his heart out to you.

“You’ve always had mine.” He says it so quietly that he doesn’t think you process the words until about three agonizing seconds later.

Yet you don’t say anything.

I’ve made a mistake, he thinks.

But he couldn’t have been more wrong when you finally respond by laying a hand on his cheek.

“You have always had mine, too.”

Here is a reference picture for a rider’s mask !! Lo’ak’s would look different obv, the middle part would have a river crystal that’s actually taken from the river where Y/N realized they loved Lo’ak (my cuties.) The leather would be a bit lighter, and I also imagine some beads from Tuk woven into it on the sides (Tuk found out and insisted on helping. My sweet summer child)

(additional author’s note: i know they don’t technically get a visor until fully completing their rite of passage but let’s pretend that’s not true for the sake of the fic)

#said i wouldnt be able to post until next week but i ended up having a few hours and i felt like writing ✍️#avatar the way of water #avatar #avatar the way of water x reader #atwow #atwow x reader #avatar x reader #loak x reader #lo’ak x reader #lo’ak te suli tsyeyk’itan #loak sully #lo’ak sully #lo’ak sully x reader #loak sully x reader

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