#instead they’re raging at a child

[linisiane]

TW sexual harassment

Reddit is a place where dudes will go on r/helpme, the subreddit where you find the most desperate of the desperate, where people are running from abusers and the complete destruction of their lives, find a post where a teenager is terrified after an encounter with a man following 1 step behind her on multiple escalators, his phone suspiciously positioned, read about her agonizing over her confrontation with the guy where she yelled for help (where nobody did) until he gave his phone to check for pictures, saw sexual pictures of OTHER women’s legs, and felt so horribly guilty about invading the guy’s privacy that she asked for advice, and then these guys will upvote the top comment calling her a moron who makes men fear for their lives.

Notably, the top comment with zero advice on r/helpme, an advice subreddit where the OP will read every comment bc it’s not made for ragebait. It’s not made for ragebait because nobody reads that subreddit, so why bother trolling for views on there? It gets no views because it’s full of depressing pleas for help with no solution in sight. So there are no views and no comments, and hundreds of posts from the desperate.

And so that child will be desperate to read any comment, and she’ll read that top comment calling her a moron who ruins men’s lives, where they’ll openly admit they have no empathy for her, and then she’ll read the next 10 of them with dozens of upvotes each because her desperate plea for help has somehow turned into another small piece of fuel for the ragebait algorithm. And they won’t even see what’s wrong with that when you point that out to them.

[luvrxbunny]

gullible

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x F!Reader

Prompt: Breeding

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, a lot of body descriptions, reader is on the curvier side, some grinding/dry humping, male masturbation (barely), ovulation, piv, unprotected sex (lmk if I forgot anything)

WC: 4.7k

A/N: lets say spider society is funded by the most rish spider-people and thats what the dinner was for. also this is long asf- i blacked out im so sorry 

It’s a formality. This whole dinner party. It’s something Miguel gets invited to every year and every year he dreads going to it, having to play posh in order to get some extra funding from the higher-ups. Although, he doesn’t mind too much this year because he’s bringing you. 

He’s fidgeting, and complaining about his collar when you come out of the bathroom, you’re asking him if you look okay and he knows his answer before he looks at you. He knows you look good, he tells you so before turning to you and only reassures you upon gazing at the outfit. 

This dress is new, and you’re worried your tummy might be too big for it so you’ve thrown a coat over to hide it. Miguel knows what the coat is really for but doesn't mention it, not wanting to risk making you so uncomfortable you change out of everything. He compliments your new perfume instead, winning a confused smile from you. You’re fidgeting with the coat on the ride to the venue, saying that it’s itchy and you’re getting too warm. He suggests you take it off but you gently refuse and stop complaining. 

He gets dragged away from you the moment he walks through the door. He hates leaving you alone at these things, he knows you don’t socialize well and he knows the men here want a taste of you. He’s anxious to get back to you for the entire hour these deep pockets talk his ear off. He hasn’t been listening, he’s thinking about you. He’s almost overwhelmed at the love he has for you, he’s never felt this way before. He’s missing you even though you guys are in the same place, even though he’s only been away from you for an hour. He can’t get out of there fast enough, shoving the doors of the conference room open and searching for you immediately. 

When his eyes find you, they find that you’ve already taken your jacket off and you’re socializing with an entire group of people. They’re conversing with you comfortably. You bring a smile to his face as you laugh at someone’s joke. His eyes rake over your body, finally taking in your true outfit. 

It has him stiffening in his pants. You’re wearing a dark red pencil dress, the same color as his suit. It hugs your curves perfectly, doing justice to your plush thighs, your ass and showcasing the curve of your back. His favorite part though, is the way it hugs your front. Your boobs look great, sure, but it’s emphasizing the little pooch that sits at the bottom of your stomach. 

You hate it, saying it makes you look fat, that you wish you could get rid of it… but in Miguel’s eyes? It’s just proof you’re the perfect woman to mother his children. He came to this conclusion before he even knew about your tummy. He had seen your wide hips, your care toward others, how good you are with children, and decided he wanted you. 

Once he got you to date him, to fall in love with him, he found out about your little belly fat. You’d been sucking it in as much as you could whenever you were around him, sometimes wearing higher pants than necessary in hopes of the jeans pushing your stomach down. It broke his heart to hear you so insecure but there was also a little flame igniting in his stomach. 

The flame never left. He didn’t tell you about it, but every time he noticed your belly pushing against your tank top, or a tight shirt, whenever he felt your soft tummy on his hard stomach- through the t-shirt you insist on wearing while he fucked you- the fire raged brighter. He added it to the list of reasons you’d be an amazing child-bearer. He’s obsessed with the protective fat over your womb. 

He watches you cover your stomach with your arm as you laugh, not even realizing you’re trying to hide his favorite part of you. He’s walking over to you before he plans out what he’ll say. He just stands beside you, inhaling your sweet perfume, and waiting for you to feel his presence, it doesn't take long. You turn to him with a surprised smile and give him an excited hug. “Miguel!”

His heart expands at your excitement upon his arrival, he wraps an arm around your waist and presses you against him. Your voice is muffled as you speak to him. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever!” He’s not listening though. 

To any outsider, it looked like Miguel just really missed you, when in reality, he was making sure you could feel what you do to him. You let out a pretty sigh into his ear once you feel his bulge press into you. Your eyes are on his as you pull away, searching them for a reason as to why he’s hard but all he’s too busy taking in every piece of you. 

You’re both lost in your own world, you don’t realize the people you were talking to have moved on from your conversation, talking with some other people now and leaving you and Miguel to your moment. 

His hands are resting on your hips before one slides behind you, pressing his open palm against the small of your back before the other presses against your lower stomach, right over your uterus. Miguel can feel your stomach tense under his hand as you suck in, tightening your muscles but Miguel just tuts and tilts his head at you, disappointed. “Don’t do that, cariño. I love her.” Your gaze is on the floor as you listen to him, he sounds drunk, his voice is distant and hazy. 

His head is cloudy with fantasies. He can see your stomach, how it would grow and swell as you create his child inside you. He thinks about how beautiful you would look with your womb stuffed full of him. He swears she’s calling for him- your womb- begging him to fill her up, paint your walls white until his seed takes, maybe a little more after that just to be safe. 

You can see his thoughts racing, you can tell he’s working himself up, you just don’t understand what is doing this to him. His hand on your stomach is making you a bit self-conscious, but your muscles have been too tight for too long, and they give out. Your soft tummy relaxes and presses into his hand, pulling a relieved sigh from Miguel. His breathing picks up and his eyebrows furrow before he looks up from your stomach, looking into your eyes instead. “You know I love this, right?”

He looks back down at your belly as he readjusts his palm, opening his hand wider to cover more of your pooch. You whine and shift uncomfortably, the way his hand is resting over your womb is hot, it’s turning you on but you’re barely aware of that fact because anxiety is overrunning everything. You’re waiting for Miguel to slip up, for you to see a crack in his lies. You appreciate the attempt at making you feel better about your body but you don’t- you can’t believe him. 

Until you look up into his eyes. 

They’re drowning in need, his pupils entirely blown out, covering most of the red in his eyes. He’s gazing at you as he slowly pulls you in and presses his plump lips against yours with a moan. You pull away quickly and look around, a few people looking your way at Miguel’s louder-than-safe moan. You look back up at him to warn him, tell him to keep it down but the words die on your tongue. His eyes are hazy and confused, still looking at your lips like he can’t figure out why you pulled away. You smile at him incredulously and pull his hand away from your back but he whimpers when you try and take his hand off your womb. 

“Miguel, we’re public, baby.” Your voice is soft yet frantic, and his eyes are still begging you. “People are staring…” That gets a reaction, his face twitches and his eyes clear and harden a bit. He looks around the room with a snarl and you have to pull his gaze back to you. 

“Hey! What’s gotten into you?” The question hurts him a bit as he thinks it over, he really is trying to pinpoint why this is affecting him so much.  All he can focus on is you though, your scent enveloping him like a cloud. It smells like everything good, like flowers and honey, but also clean like soap and linen. It’s suffocating him, stopping all thought. 

“You smell so good, amor. What is that? I don’t recordar buying este para ti.” His voice is muffled as he buries his face in the top of your head, looking for the source of your scent. You’ve had enough, he’s doing all of this in the middle of the party, and you’re starting to feel a bit embarrassed. You’re pushing him back, slowly walking him to the edges of the party. You feel people staring until you finally hit a wall, pushing a grunt from Miguel. “What is up with you?” Your tone is gentle but you’re getting concerned, you’ve never seen him like this.

His eyes are shut tightly as his brows furrow and he lets out a pathetic whimper. “I’m sorry. I- I don’t know.” His hand leaves your stomach to bury in his hair and you instantly miss its warmth. You take a step closer to him, waiting for him to say more. “Can we leave? I think we’ve been here long enough, yeah?” He’s already pulling your hand to the exit. 

He’s silent in the car and on the drive home, constantly running his hand through his hair, and bouncing the leg that isn't on a pedal. You’re taking in his frantic state and notice that through all this, he’s still hard. “Miguel…” He gasps softly and turns to you for a moment. “What’s wrong?

“I don’t-” His eyes dart to your form. “ Your dress for one.” You glance down and wish you hadn’t, you see your stomach split into rolls, folding the fabric of your dress, accentuating the it’s softness. Your arms cross over it, trying to hide and Miguel groans.

“Don’t do that, I told you.” His voice sounds painful and strained. You look back at him to see a distressed look on his face and his hand palming his throbbing cock through his suit pants. “I fucking love her.” His breathing gets heavy, causing him to inhale more of your painfully sweet perfume. “What the fuck is that smell, baby?” 

You can hear him take a big inhale of the air in the car and a shiver runs up his spine. “I’m…” You struggle to round up enough thoughts to answer him, too distracted by the way he crushes his dick against his thigh and the little moans that accompany his movements.  “I’m not wearing perfume, Miguel.”

That's when it hits him. Why he’s so desperate for you, why your scent is clouding his every thought and taking over his mind… You’re ovulating. 

A broken groan rips from his throat at the realization, he speeds the rest of the way home. When you guys finally arrive he parks in the driveway and unlocks the doors, but doesn’t move. “I need you to get out, bonita.”

You feel arousal settle in your stomach as you press your legs together. Miguel’s head falls back, and his hair falls with his head, revealing his red-tipped ears. His hips are still gently thrusting into his hand, the other is squeezing the wheel so hard you thought it might crack. “I- I need a moment, baby. I’ll explain everything, just go inside and-” He lets out a breathless curse and his hips stutter against his palm. “And go change and just- just wait for me, okay? I’ll be there in a moment, go.” You’re in a trance as he speaks but the force in his command shakes you out of it. 

You leave the car silently and make your way to his place. You change out of your clothes in a daze, putting on a tank top and one of his sweatpants as you try to process what just happened. You grab a blanket and wait for Miguel on the couch. 

It’s only a few minutes before you hear his footsteps approaching the door. You stand in front of the doorway, oddly nervous as you watch the knob turn. His eyes meet yours the moment the door opens, his eyes stay on yours as he ducks through the frame, and takes his shoes off. They only tear from yours to take in your new outfit, your lower belly is the first place his eyes land. He gets that weak look in his eye you’ve been seeing all night and his breathing picks up.

Miguel notices the way your stomach sucks in for a moment before relaxing, letting your body be as she is and it making him feral. He needs you so bad, he wants to just take you right here but he promised you an explanation. His eyes flicker up to you and he takes a shaky deep breath and tries to keep his voice steady. “Have a seat, hermosa.”

He looks nervous, he keeps wiping his hands on his suit pants as you walk over to sit on the couch, he seats himself at the other end, across from you. You’re turned to him, legs crossed and laying in his lap. He turns to face you more and accidentally places your legs over his bulge, you can feel his thighs tense as he folds in half, letting out a choked moan that he tries to cover as a cough. You let him think he got away with it, he leaves your legs over his bulge, giving him enough stimulation to think straight. 

You’re looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to explain and he decides to just rip the band-aid off. “You’re-” Arousal stabs in his stomach at the sentence he has to utter. He bites into his lip and tries to regulate his breathing. “You’re o- ovulating.” Your legs shift in his lap as your expression falls, embarrassed. “And I can smell it.” 

Your legs pull out of his lap quickly and you bring your knees to your chest. “What?!” You sit up and tuck your legs under you, sitting on your calves. “You can smell it? I’m- God that’s so- I’m so sorry.”

His mind is getting hazy again without your contact. “No. Cariño, not that. It’s not like that.” He sighs at your confusion, he wishes you understood how desperate he was, maybe then you wouldn’t ask him to talk so much, maybe you’d just let him fuck you already. “It’s more like pheromones.”

His hand slides across the couch cushion, wraps around your ankle and slowly drags you toward him. “It’s a change in your personal scent. Your body is trying to trick mine into breeding you, and guess what?” He’s pulled you straight and is crawling up your body, slowly lowering himself against you so his bulge is pressing against your pussy, right over your clit.

 He’s so hard he’s able to split your lips, rubbing the cloth of his sweatpants against your naked pussy and you gasp at the feeling. Your hands slide up from his biceps to pull his head in, anxiously awaiting the rest of his sentence. He smirks at the eager look on your face and leans in, just inches from your lips, and whispers against them. “My body is so gullible for you.” You whimper.

You can feel your entire being heating up as he kisses you so intensely, like he’s trying to devour you. He’s groaning against your lips and licking into your mouth as he wrestles his jacket off. Your hands shoot to his belt and struggle to get it off, whining into the kiss when his belt gets caught on the loops. He smiles into you and his hands come to rest over yours. “Tranquila, bebe. I’m the desperate one, remember?”

You shake your head his words and let him take his pants off while you wiggle out of his sweats. He moans at your bare pussy and his arms give out for a moment, almost dropping his weight on you before catching himself. “N-no panties?” His fingers are on you, rubbing your clit and spreading your slick all over you, coating his fingers in it. He’s being downright messy.

“Miggy- Miguel, I need it so bad- need you so bad. I love you so much. You’re so-” Your mind is already gone as you grind up into his fingers, overwhelmed by the added pleasure of his desperation. He’s groaning into your ear as he humps himself against your thigh in time with his fingers. 

“I don’t know. I need-” You cut him off with a moan and he smiles as you apologize in between whimpers. “I think I’d need to cum in you, cariño. I need- My brain can only focus on-” He groans as you writhe against him, pushing your thigh into his crotch. His head lowers to rest against yours as his fingers speed up inside you. He can feel the way you’re coating them, soaking every crevice with your sweetness. He can feel the way they’re sliding inside you, the way your walls are squeezing him, it’s too much. “I can only think about cumming in you, bebe.” 

Truthfully, his thoughts were more focused on what would come afterward, watching you swell with his child but you guys haven’t even had a conversation about kids yet.

“No.” You whine at him, he feels sadness shoot through his stomach but he tries to mask it. “Just fuck me, please?” You’re looking up at him with puppy dog eyes, your hands around his neck pulling his face impossibly closer as your lips try and lock with his. He nods at you gently, he wants to give you anything you could possibly want.

“Okay, amor.” He kisses you quickly before taking his hands off of you and starts unzipping his pants, pulling himself out of his boxers while you wait. You watch him for a bit as he gets undressed before a thought pushes into your head.

What if I took my top off this time? 

You think it over for a second, you want to be yourself with him, completely and he’s explained his love for your tummy over and over again. 

What could be the worst that happens?

Images of Miguel’s face twitching in disgust flash through your head. Unrealistic scenarios of Miguel pulling away, starting to reject your advances and your kisses plague your brain. 

He wouldn’t do that. 

You take a deep breath and bite the bullet, pulling your tank top over your head quickly and Miguel freezes, causing an abundance of discomfort on your end. You thought this was something he’d want, something he’d like, now that you’ve exposed yourself though, he’s silent. 

You try to stand strong, but your hands are twitching at your sides to cover your stomach. You pray to whatever god there may be that you somehow gain the ability to read his mind, to see his thoughts, to force him to say something… anything. 

His cock pulsing. He’s never seen you completely shirtless, despite being together for over a year. He never wanted to push you, too scared that he’d push you away. He’s seen you with no top but only with a towel over your stomach, or pants pulled over your stomach as you change. But now? Her full glory was on display, there’s a little curve underneath, separating your tummy from your pussy and he’s in love. 

His eyes are zeroed in on your naked stomach and your hands come up to cover it, legs pulling inward as you fold into yourself. He can’t have that. “Don’t” 

His voice is sharp and dark, a strong command but you don’t listen, covering your stomach fully. “It was a bad idea. I’m so uncomfortable, Mig. Can-” You let out a heartbreaking sigh. “Can you just pass me my top?” You threw it down just out of reach and your hands are occupied covering your stomach. Embarrassment is coursing through every vein.

How are we gonna move on from this? I fucking killed the shit out of the mood. Fuck. God, I hate this. 

“No.” He’s moving back toward you, climbing up your body again, ignoring the obvious confusion you’re facing. You curl in even more which just upsets him. He grabs your leg and pulls, forcing you out of your ball before pinning it under his own. “Uh-” You let out a noise of surprise but Miguel pays it no mind as he reaches for your arms. He takes both of your wrists in his hand and pins them above your head, holding them there as he admires your tummy. 

Your heart is racing but you don’t struggle. Miguel is looking at you like to most amazing piece of art and you’d do anything- anything- for him to keep going. You feel yourself leaking between your legs as he just stares. His breathing is slow and shaky and his brows keep furrowing, like he’s having an internal battle with himself. He takes another breath and exhales through his mouth, letting his breath fan over your face before releasing your wrists and leg. 

He’s waiting for you to pull your hands back down, cover one of your most beautiful features… but you don’t. 

Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in. “Can you please, please, fuck me now?” His face twitches before he smiles, taking a deep breath as he pulls away. He kisses your chest as he slowly rises, his hand already on his cock, pumping himself gently as he aligns himself with your entrance. You’re gripping the cushions with all your strength as he works himself in. 

He’s worried. You feel insane around him, the softest thing he’s ever felt, extra wet and open for him to breed you. His mind keeps wandering back to cumming inside you, even though you said no. He’s walking the line of some dangerous thoughts. 

I am stronger than her…

He shakes the thought out of his head and focuses on you. The way you’re moaning his name like it’s the only thing you know, your hips are growing frantic as the grind up against him. “Miggy-“

“Amor.” He smiles at the moan that rips from your chest as you bury yourself in his neck. His hips speed up at the sounds of your moans right next to his ear, your breath tickling the shell of it.  

“‘M gonna- “ Miguel cuts you off with a growl and his brows furrow. He doubles down on his thrusts, bringing his hands to the small of your back, gripping you hard and fucking you into his cock. 

It’s going to take a serious amount of focus to keep his orgasm at bay until you’re done. “Go- Fuck. No, just wait, baby.” You let out a confused noise at his command. He’s never asked you to hold it before. 

“Fuck! Mi- I don’t know how!” Your sentence turns into a sob as he watches your body tense up, pulling all your muscles tight and gripping the roots of his hair. “Haah- Miguel. Baby, I ca- an’t. Please let-“ 

A moan stops your sentence as Miguel presses onto your womb, forcing his cock against your walls, stretching you even more. You feel so full you don’t know what’s happening. Your eyes are wide as you stare at his hand, slowly looking up to meet his eyes. They’re frantic, desperate and wild when they meet yours. 

His panting aggressively, intermittently pausing so he can try and regulate his breathing. You’re staring into his eyes, shocked at his reaction and a smirk pushes its way into your face before you moan at him again. He pulls his hand away from your womb like it burned him and pulls out, gripping the base of his cock so hard it must hurt. 

You were so close, teetering on the edge, just hearing Miguel utter your name could’ve tipped you over… but he pulled out instead. “Miguel!!! Why? I- I’ve been good, haven’t I?” 

Your desperate pleads are worsening his situation. He ignores your words and starts rubbing your clit, his fingers moving over the little bud lightning fast. “I’m not punishing you, bebé bonita”

You whine at the love name and grip his arm, trying to pull him closer to you. “No puedo correrme dentro de ti and I’m… I’m too close right now, cariño.”

You’re trying to push his hand away now, shaking your head and whining. “S’okay”

Your yanking at his arm, trying to get him back over you. “Cum inside, Miggy.” 

His eyes widen and he doesn’t move. He honestly thinks he’s hearing things at this point, fantasizing without realizing but you’re look at him all shy and expectant. So you actually said something… “W-“ He takes a deep breath. “What?”

You whine at him and avert your eyes as your legs slowly spread for him. “You- You wanted to, right? I want it…” You whine at the thought. “I need it, Miggy.”

His vision blurs as he reaches out for you, lining himself up as quickly as he can. He can already feel his balls pulsing, tensing and preparing a load for you, for your pussy, your womb. 

It’s worse than the first time he ever had sex with you. Every nerve is alight, he can feel every little detail in your pretty, perfect pussy. On top of that, you’re moaning like he’s never heard before, louder, more high pitched, more desperate than earlier and they’d already shocked him then. He can’t. 

“Mm- Not- fuck. I’m not gonna last. Not even a min- shit. Oh my god, cariño. Not even gonna last a minute. Fuck me, niña bonita.” Your almost screaming his name at his words, his languid pace and the way he’s literally shaking for you. “Gonna- shi-it.” His words sound like broken sobs as his tip gently abuses your cervix. 

You’ve pulsing around him, trying everything you can to wait for him so you can milk him while he pumps you full. “I’m gonna cum. Fuck. I’m gonna cum in- in you, baby. Voy a follarte un bebé, amor. Te dejaré embarazada, te mantendré llena de mí en todo momento. Mierda. Te verás tan hermosa, manteniendo a nuestro bebé protegido en tu grueso útero. Oh, joder"

(“I'm going to fuck a baby into you, love. I will get you pregnant, I'll keep you full of me at all times. Shit. You will look so beautiful, keeping our baby protected in your thick womb. Oh fuck.”)

Your eyes roll back and the coil in your stomach snaps as Miguel rambles, hips thrusting into yours gently, his gaze on the back of his skull. You’re fucking yourself on him as best you can in this position. It’s awkward and over-exerting but completely worth it when you hear a whine of your name and Miguel’s cock starts throbbing inside you. 

Twitching once, twice, before hardening even more and pouring a torrent of cum into your waiting pussy. He’s the loudest you’ve ever heard. Moaning out your name on repeat, thanking you for letting him cum in you with a lot of other Spanish sentences in between. 

His hand presses to your womb as he winds down but his cock twitches out another load as he pushes down, fucking into you slowly again. “Te amo tanto, mi querida. No puedo imaginar la vida sin ti. Una vida en la que no tendr��s mis hijos, en la que no estemos casados…” His entire body shudders as he finally stops pouring into you. 

(“I love you so much, my dear. I can’t imagine life without you. A life where you don’t bear my children, in which we aren’t married…”)

He leans down and kisses you slowly, eyes hooded but still focused on you. Your eyes are teary and trying to shut, exhausted from the entire night. Miguel keeps pressing kisses all over you as you drift off. 

“Un mundo sin ti es uno en el que no podría vivir, amor.”

(“A world without you is one I couldn't live in, love.”)

Thank you so mcuh for reading! If you enjoyed, here's the rest of my Kinktober Works and be sure to check out my Main Masterlist!!

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC prompt ~ Honor to Us All ~ Gotham as one true the most haunted city edition

~~~~~

Instead of a welcoming banner in front of a city was an old column, so familiar to a boy, with a warning inscription:

"To outsiders mad enough to attack Gotham: You will be forced to understand that dead soldiers will also go into battle. And having risen to protect, they will be ready to perish all again, So no one of the living would die near them."

Danny smiled with love. 'I’m home, Mother.' Ghost whispered into the void. And Gotham answered.

~~~~

Danny: My Lady, I brought you the crown of Pariah Dark. And The Ring of Rage. They’re gifts to honor the Gotham family. Lady Gotham: The greatest gift and honor is having you on my side, child.

~~~~~

Danny Fenton was born in Gotham and lived here until his parents decided to move. The city didn’t accept them.

'When I die, I want to be one of the Gotham Knights.' Little Danny with pride and eagerly reported to his parents after visiting the Battle Glory of Gotham Museum on a school trip. This evening, Danny learned that not all his plans should be told to his parents.

Danny know his parents are crazy about ghosts. and that all ghosts are "bad". But obviously, the ghosts they talk about, and his, or rather Gotham's, ghosts are completely different creatures. The spirits of the defenders are those who, even in the darkest of times, make the shadows of the Gotham a protection to the citizens.

But that knowledge is his little secret for now. Because if he starts arguing he’ll be punished and he won’t be able to run off to the roof where he’s arranged to meet Robin. Robin’s cool! He works with one of the 'still-living' knights. And he knows more about the city than anyone. Danny doesn’t want to offend his friend.

~~~~~

Mr Lancer doesn’t understand why the lecturer about ghosts, Constantine, after seeing Danny, said something about the bloody gothamites and their inability to stay underground. It wasn’t nice at all. Mr Lancer doesn’t blame Mr Fenton for smiling at the man a little aggressive and viciously. Poor boy probably didn’t know how to respond to his behavior. Danny moved to Amity Park a long time ago and did not stand out at all. So what was this man’s problem?

Danny only half dies because Lady Gotham blessed him when he was a child. So when Danny sees snow-white hair and glowing green eyes in the mirror, he is not frightened but surprised that the Lady protected him even though he is not living in Gotham now.

~~~~~

Danny knows gothamites don’t consider that Gotham is a part of the USA. Even their Metropolis neighbors are just pathetic cowards, unable to withstand the hardships of life. No, really. Why the hell would they be patriots of the country that thinks they’re its dirty secret? This opinion is shared by old ones and children, rich ones and residents of Crime Alley, heroes and villains.

Danny loves Gotham. And he likes local jokes about how if one of their supervillains ever took power enough to threaten the government, he would be obliged to release them from that citizenship. Otherwise, he would be shamed and ridiculed by the inhabitants.

Phantom is not a villain. But for Gotham? For their common purpose? He is ready to pretend to be.

~ A ghost can bring his city ~ Great honor in one way ~

Gothamites remember that the child of mad scientists was the only person Boy Wonder was willing to call a friend. They remember how boys' laughter was heard from rooftops and from alleys on particularly dark nights. And they know whose restless spirit has returned to mourn the death of the second Robin.

The boy’s parents must be fools. Many outsiders are. They call their blessing a curse. People die in Gotham. And not all of them come back. Residents know that these ones are chosen by Lady Gotham herself.

The public enemy of Amity Park number 1? What nonsense. He is not theirs anything! In Gotham they will accept the Phantom as a guard, as a silent shadow, as a villain or a hero. In any kind. Because he belongs here. He should be part of their dance between life and death. He should be amidst dark alleys and acid rains, gliding between fear and laughter in the air.

Even local villains experience strange yearning. Like something’s wrong. Like a piece of a puzzle that’s lost. Therefore, the local abandoned observatory is empty, and none of them is in a hurry to call it their territory. Because it will be in demand, it will be loved and needed. It’s only a matter of time.

Let the spirit of Gotham guide you home, child. Dead gothamite is still gothamite. Which means there will always be a place for you.

~~~~~

When Danny first enters his favorite cafe in his Phantom form and with a wound on his leg, he doesn’t expect a cleaning lady to yell at him immediately for the blood on the floor. With a mop in his hands and with already bandaged leg, Danny feels as if all his worries had gone. They are not afraid of him. Of course. No one in Gotham would avoid him because of glowing eyes and sharp teeth. And that’s nice.

The waitress throws a tray of food on a table next to him: Welcome dinner for the wandering son of the alley. Red Hood said it's your usual order. He’ll be waiting for you on the gargoyle. You should know which one.

~~~~

If parents listened to his childhood stories about good ghosts, they would know that the Phantom is not special. He is not an anomaly of ghost nature and not a mistake. He is one of many who always were and will be defenders of the city. Danny stands in front of the costume that he admired years ago. He's ready to take another shift at work. The remains of his colleagues can rest quietly this night. Lady will wake them only when in dire need.

[lionblaze03-2]

so I may have made my own jade mountain winglet. Comprised entirely of disabled dragons. They’re one short but yknow that’s okay. They can handle it

[lurochar]

Before It All

Alastor’s affiliation with deer goes back much further than his death.

Part 2 + Part 3

Human Alastor Headcanons

‐-----------------------------------

No.

No way.

Were your eyes deceiving you?

“You summoned me?” You exclaimed with disbelief, staring at the adolescent boy with incredulity and he seemed just as surprised as you were. “You are just a–”

He interrupted you swiftly with a bitter voice. “If you call me a boy or a child, I’ll…” He clenched his hands, kicking at the dirt in a very childish manner before looking at you again. “I didn’t think it would work. I mean,” his voice lowered and he let out a scornful laugh, “demons? They aren’t real.” 

Your brow rose and you tilted your head. “You drew a summoning circle and somehow have access to the secrets of a ritual to summon a demon and you don’t think we are real?” You crossed your arms. “I know I probably am one of the least frightening demons you could have summoned, but still. What exactly were you trying to do here?”

The boy opened his mouth, but did not seem to have an answer. Instead, he took in your unique features and blinked when he seemed to realize just exactly what he was looking at. “Are…” He almost hesitated to ask when you sighed, clearly guessing what he was about to say. “Are those ears…?”

“Yes, these are deer ears, okay?! I’m a deer demon! I know, I know! Not very scary, is it!” You were flustered and the boy watched in fascination as your ears twitched and flattened against your head. “I’m still a demon though. And you’re just a human. Don’t make me remind you who is stronger here.”

“Can I touch your ears?” The boy asked, not even hearing what you had just said as you spluttered, almost backing up as the boy fearlessly moved closer towards you.

What the hell was wrong with him? Did he have a screw loose in his head?

‘This is happening. This is actually happening.’ You thought, standing stiffly as the boy stood in front of you, staring at you expectantly. He seemed rather tall for his age, there wasn’t too much of a height difference, that could not be an excuse to turn him down.

Well, if you really were going to let this human touch you…

“What’s your name?” You sighed, willing your ears back to their usual position and his eyes followed their path with clear interest. “Why did you summon a demon to begin with? How old are you to even be doing such things?”

“Alastor Hartfelt.” The boy, Alastor, shrugged. “I’m fifteen. Why I summoned you?” His eyes darkened so abruptly that you were taken back by the sheer hatred you could see within them. “I want you… to kill my father.”

Ah.

You should have known.

It was a typical request.

You reached out your hand, looking at Alastor for permission to touch him and though he hesitated for a moment, he nodded. You felt him unconsciously flinch when you grabbed his arm as gently as you could and slowly brought it up towards your head. “Please, just don’t pull or tug them too hard.” You placed his hand on your ears and they twitched at the touch of another other than yourself.

“They’re real.” Alastor blinked, as if surprised by that fact as he stroked your soft ears, causing you to sigh. It took a lot out of you not to bleat when Alastor kept on stroking your ears for quite some time before he had his fill and finally stepped back. “You’re actually a deer.”

“A deer demon. Yes, thank you for pointing that out for me.” You shook your head. “Are you aware of the consequences of this? If I kill your father, your soul is mine. It will be mine to do with whatever I please once you die and descend to Hell. Is that what you truly want?”

“I don't care, as long as that man dies. Just kill him! He hurts my Mama, he hurts me! He's a drunk waste of life!” Alastor trembled with rage at first, but then began to claw at his face when he felt his eyes sting with unwanted tears.

He absolutely froze when he felt your arms wrap around him in a warm embrace.

“Damn. I'm an awful representative of demons everywhere for even thinking this, but I don't want to condemn you to Hell. Just this once, I'll give you a pass. I'll make it look like your father died in some accident and you keep your soul, okay?” You pulled back to see Alastor’s wide eyes.

“Why?”

It was a simple ask.

Why indeed.

You weren't quite sure yourself. 

“Go home now. Take care of your mother. And most importantly, make it like you never met me. Forget about me.” You began to shoo him off, no longer paying him any attention as you began to plot the death of a human, made to look like an accident.

You didn't notice Alastor’s manic eyes staring at you until he could no longer see you through the foliage of the forest.

His fascination with deer festered.

~00~

“Oh my!”

Rosie placed her teacup down on its saucer, enthralled with the story. It wasn't often Alastor talked about his human life and even less so about his adolescence.

She was almost reluctant to ask, but she had to know!

“Have you found your sweet Doe here in Hell yet?” Rosie eyed Alastor’s expression closely, though, as expected, it did not change from its usual unreadable smile in the least.

“Hmm,” Alastor set down his empty coffee mug, “who can say?” His grin widened when Rosie pouted and he stood from his chair. “That's information I will not share even with you, dear Rosie.”

“I suppose that's fair.” Rosie also stood. “I'm grateful you trusted me enough with that precious story of yours! It must be dear to your heart.”

“What little there is left of it.” Alastor’s smile darkened for a second before bidding farewell to Rosie.

He had a rare day off from his hotelier duties tomorrow and he wasn't going to waste a second of it.

And while he wasn't one to believe in redemption–

–an entire day with his Doe sounded heavenly to him.

[loveafterdeath-if]

Hello just someone who found your game a while back and loved it. Your work was really good at invoking the emotions from your audience, or at least it was effective at affecting me. Reading through it didn't feel like a chore and the prose flows smoothly. Also liked the Extras you made where it show enough of the RO to answer some question while leading enough mysteries to keep interest. Anyway just read through El's PoV and it was heartwarming, rage inducing, and despair provoking as I had imagined it would be. So good job on that part. So a question. How would the RO's react if they are in a relationship with MC and what happened to El happened to the MC? It could be the hypothetical timeline where MC and El never met, so MC became partners with the RO instead of El. It could be the scenario where they got together after El's death and that happened.

Hey there! I'm really glad you enjoy my works, especially knowing that I succeeded in conveying the emotions I aimed for!

L would be dead inside, drinking their sorrow and crying to MC night after night, hiding it behind jokes and charm around everyone. It's what they do best, right? Even when T tries to help, L would feel like a lost cause, assuring their kid they're alright with a smile that never reaches their eyes again—those gray eyes that hold no mischief anymore. Every person around them seems to leave, and they’d start to think it’s maybe their fault, as if they’re cursed to remain alone. They might even distance themself from T, scared that the same fate would befall their child.

Ekissa would shut themself off even more than before, becoming harsh and cold—even with family. They’d turn into one of those old grumpy people who prefer to be left alone. They wouldn’t feel like doing anything, just lying in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours, days, months. Their parents would force them to eat something, trying to help, but Ekissa would brush them off, snapping that they don’t need anyone to feel better. The thought of meeting new people would be repulsive; just the idea of it would make them want to hurl.

Athiel would continue their life, posing for magazines and overworking themself to the bone until there’s no room for pain. They’d do what they do best: hate everyone, hate themself, hate everything. Life would feel like a chore. Athiel would desperately try to bury the raw and merciless pain until all that remains is the façade of the arrogant model. But what nobody knows is that every single night, Athiel would sleep with MC's clothes to smell their scent, hoping that maybe it would help them dream of MC, to see them again, holding them.

T wouldn’t feel sad—not because their love wasn’t sincere, but because they don’t see death as something to be mourned. It’s all about perspective. Every little thing—like their favorite song playing on the radio, the small things missing in their house, every dream of MC—would feel like a sign that MC is waiting for them. T knows they will eventually reunite, and when they do, there will be so much to share. T would visit MC's grave every day after work, bringing flowers, cleaning the grave, and talking about their day with that small smile that makes their dimples appear.

[ramibow]

This is me casually rewriting Obey Me’s plot, don't mind me.

Manic Ramblings™ below:

This is mostly about their ages and their time during The Great Celestial War. I've got more but I don't want this post to be longer than it already is.

In canon they are all adults and Levi was even a navy general but I cannot for the life of me imagine that so I’m throwing it out.

Obey Me also doesn’t have canon ages for any of the brothers, and I’m not certain if they’ve confirmed their age order. People often reference their rankings (Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor), but that is the order of how powerful they are, which is why Satan is #4 instead of #7.

Here are the ages I’m giving them during The Great Celestial War (in angel years): Lucifer (18), Mammon (15), Asmodeus (14), Leviathan (12), Beelzebub (8), Belphegor (8), Satan (0/5)*

I think in canon Leviathan would be older than Asmodeus, but I decided to cast him deeper into the pits of middle child hell (also I wanted Mammon and Asmodeus to be closer in age as a part of my personal agenda.)

*Since Lucifer had a Zeus moment and popped Satan from his noggin, I imagined him as being the equivalent of 5 when he was “born” during the Celestial War. Let’s say it was five angel years of built up rage culminating into a person. 

That being said, Lucifer would be the only one that directly fights in the war. Mammon wanted to fight by his side but Lucifer would not let that happen (and god help you if you defied the man). Instead, Mammon is in charge of keeping his siblings safe since they’re basically traitors/fugitives.

Plus, since Lucifer is fighting a war, he doesn't have a lot of time to see his brothers. This is the first time they've been separated from him for a long period of time, so it's been hard for them. They wonder if Lucifer will get killed and the angels that used to be their friends will imprison them (or worse). Paranoia and fear constantly loom over them. The Celestial Realm is all they've ever known, and they don't feel safe there anymore.

Escaping the Celestial Realm is a task in and of itself. I imagine teleportation magic as being something extremely complex and thus requiring a spellbook to perform (so you don’t end up halfway through a wall or something). The brothers did not have that, thus, they spent most of the war hiding out in the outskirts of the Celestial Realm.

Satan appears near the end of the war. Lucifer did not tell his brothers how/where Satan came from (this will come back later for plot-related stuff). Since Satan is the embodiment of wrath, living with him took some adjusting. 

Asmo made it his mission to help domesticate his feral brother with Mammon’s help, of course.

Levi was terrified of Satan, but Satan was curious about him. I like to imagine that Levi sparked Satan’s interest in reading because I think that would be cute. 

Belphegor and Satan would fight a lot when they first met (I imagine Beel, Belphie and Satan as the trifecta of “children most likely to bite you”). Over time they would grow to enjoy each other’s company.

So, yeah. This AU is just going to be "thing I want to change/things I think would be kinda cool + plot". I want to post more stuff but drawing a comic is difficult so I had to settle for this instead.

If you're interested in seeing more I'm going to put any future Lore™ under OM Eden AU for convenience.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 1: Ares, God Of War]

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: 5.7k

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! 🥰💜

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let’s begin with a definition.

Disaster is a noun derived from Ancient Greek: dus, a prefix meaning “bad,” and aster, or “star.” In the time when humans worshipped Zeus and Hera, Hephaestus and Aphrodite, it was believed that tragedies resulted from the inauspicious positioning of celestial bodies: a volcano erupts because of Jupiter, a returning comet brings with it a flood. There is a certain helplessness inherent in this mythology. There is predestined suffering that lies in wait until all the jewels of the sky have malignantly aligned.

Have you ever met someone who made you ache to change the stars?

~~~~~~~~~~

Gunshots explode through the lobby of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, Florida; you feel the wind of the bullets as they clip by, fragmented metallic rage. Aemond is on the marble floor, blood pouring down his face, blood all over the white shirt beneath his navy blue suit jacket when you rip it open, tearing a button loose. He’s reaching for you through the jostling and the screams, leaving crimson handprints on your mint green dress. And you think: He just won the Florida primary. He’s not supposed to die. He’s supposed to be the president.

“What happened?” Aemond murmurs, his right eye dazed and only half-open; the left has vanished beneath a cloudburst of gore. Perhaps ten yards away, people have caught the assailant and pinned him against one of the vast Venetian windows until the police arrive. They’re roaring at him in red-faced fury, their closed fists strike his ribs and his cheekbones, their knuckles paint him scarlet and indigo.

“You’re alright, you’re alright.” You brace both palms over the maroon stain spreading rapidly across Aemond’s chest and press down as hard as you can. Your fingers are drenched in seconds, warm fading life. He’s bleeding to death. You shriek through the turmoil: “Criston?!”

“Is he okay?” Aemond asks faintly. He means the baby; you’re six months pregnant with his first child, his greatest treasure, his Atlantis, his Holy Grail. Aemond has already decided that it’s a boy. Sometimes you fear what will happen if he’s wrong.

“Yes, honey, the baby’s fine, don’t worry. Criston!”

Aegon is here instead, sweating out rum and ruin like he always is, hair too long, veins full of pills, colliding with you and pawing at his dying brother with untrustworthy hands. “Aemond?!”

You shove Aegon away, splattering him with blood. “Get back, he needs air!”

“Where’s he shot?! Let me see—”

“I told you to get back!”

“Goddammit, you don’t own him! He’s mine too!”

Criston has battled his way to you and is yanking Aegon back by the collar of his frayed olive green army jacket, stolen from Daeron when he visited home after basic training, a uniform of embittered revolution worn by a man who’s never fought for anything. “Aegon, make sure someone’s called for an ambulance, then meet the paramedics at the door and help them find us.”

“But—”

“Go!” Criston yells, and Aegon scrambles to his feet and is lost within the crowd. You can hear Otto bellowing at journalists and hotel employees to make space for the fallen senator; there are flashes of cameras and prayers shouted aloud. Above your head are crystal chandeliers and a vaulted ceiling hand-painted by 75 Italian artists in the 1920s; swimming in your skull are visions of Jackie Kennedy in the pink suit filthy with her husband’s brains. It’s just before midnight on Tuesday, May 28th. Upstairs in their oceanfront Imperial Suites, nannies will be shaking awake the absent adults of the Targaryen dynasty, who retired with the children before Aemond made his victory speech in the hotel ballroom: Alicent, Helaena, Fosco, Mimi.

Criston’s hands—larger, stronger—replace yours over the gushing wound in Aemond’s chest. What did the bullet hit? His lung, his heart? He’s not speaking anymore, his right eye is closed. His bloodied hands rest open and empty on the floor. “Criston, he’s dying,” you sob.

“No he’s not. We’re not going to let him.”

“What’s the closest hospital?”

“Good Samaritan is just across the bridge on the mainland.” It’s Criston’s job to know these things, though he had been thinking of you when he plotted his meticulous notes in his day planner: in case you eat a bad cheeseburger, or trip on the stairs, or catch the flu and start burning up with fever. Aemond worries about the baby. Aegon has five children, Helaena has three, and Aemond will feel that he has been robbed of something if he does not swiftly procure a family of his own. He needs you on the campaign trail, but still, he worries.

Across the lobby, the police have arrived to arrest the aspiring assassin. He puts up a fight when they try to handcuff him and earns a nightstick to the gut, an elbow to the nose. He is choking on his own blood. Perhaps he is drowning in it. Good, you think.

“Don’t kill him!” Otto booms at the officers. “I want him alive for trial! I want him to ride the lighting up in Raiford, you keep that son of a bitch alive!”

“Aemond?” You thread your fingers through his blood-soaked hair. What happened to his left eye? Is it somewhere underneath all that carnage, or is it gone? “Please wake up. Please stay with me. We need you. The baby and I need you.”

“He’s going to live,” Criston promises, both hands still clamped over the bullet wound to slow the hemorrhaging.

“Aemond, please…” How can he be the president with only one eye?

An old woman in a yellow striped skirt suit is lumbering close with a homemade prayer rope clenched in her fist. “A komboskini for the senator!” For his last rites. For his soul.

“He doesn’t need it!” Criston says. “He’s not dying! No one is dying tonight!”

Still, you take the komboskini from the lady, each of the 100 knots a prayer unspoken. She is a devotee of Aemond, and you must show her gratitude. “Efcharistó, aderfí. O Theós na se evlogeí.” They are some of the few Greek words you’ve mastered; you’ve used them often since Aemond announced that he was running for president. Thank you, sister. God bless you.

The paramedics arrive, splitting the crowd like a laceration, white uniforms and a stretcher to ferry Aemond away. People are wailing, cursing, swearing vengeance. Aegon has returned and is peering down at Aemond with those large, glassy, muddled eyes, afraid to ask. “Is he…is he still…?”

“He has a pulse,” Criston replies. He helps the paramedics drag Aemond onto the stretcher and strap him to it. Your husband’s shirt is now drenched in red like garnet, like cinnabar, like the poppies that commemorate the boys butchered in World War I, like the wasted blood being spilled in Vietnam, men reduced to memory. “Good Samaritan?” Criston confirms with the paramedics.

“Yes sir,” the most senior one agrees. And then to you, with great deference, with compassion that transcends what somebody can harbor for strangers: “Ma’am, there’s a place for you if you want it.”

“I do,” you say, tear-streaked face, hands bathed in blood. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

The ambulance is idling outside the main entranceway of the hotel. Criston grasps your hand to steady you as you step up into the back, and you take a seat on the red leather bench beside the stretcher. The paramedics are placing IVs, holding an oxygen mask to Aemond’s face, muttering urgently into their radio, abbreviations and code words you can’t understand, a secret language of organic calamities. High above the stars are crystalline and radiant in a clear sky. In your own chest—unshredded by metal, unpierced by rage—your intact heart is pounding.

The lead paramedic turns to you again and says: “We can fit one more person.”

It’s your decision. You are the senator’s wife; you were supposed to be the next first lady of the United States. You look through the ambulance’s open doors. Aegon stares back expectantly, his hair falling in his face, his arms thrown wide, petulant, combative, useless, drunk. “Criston.”

“Bitch!” Aegon hisses at you as Criston climbs into the vehicle. The doors slam shut, the engine rumbles, the siren squeals as the ambulance races westbound on Breakers Row towards County Road, which connects with Flagler Memorial Bridge and the mainland.

Through the rear window you watch Aegon as he stands in the white-gold hotel luminescence, becoming smaller and smaller until he vanishes, and all you can see are streetlights, and all you can smell is blood.

~~~~~~~~~~

Every story needs its cast of characters. Here are the major players in the summer of 1968.

President Lyndon Baines Johnson is in the White House watching the clocks tick towards November 5th, when his successor will be ordained. He has chosen not to seek reelection. Since his ascension upon Kennedy’s assassination in 1963, Johnson’s domestic focus has been unprecedented civil rights legislation and his War On Poverty, yet what has infected the media like blood poisoning is the war in Vietnam. On the television are napalm bombs incinerating Vietnamese peasants, caskets draped with American flags, riots being beaten down by police, college students torching draft cards and chanting “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?” Now the president is sick in body, in spirit, in heart, and this is not a metaphor: he suffered a near-fatal cardiac arrest in 1955 and another shortly after John F. Kennedy was murdered in Dallas, Texas. He will die almost exactly four years after leaving office. Had he sought another term, he would have been unlikely to survive it. The public eye is something like a snake bite; it sinks its fangs in and you hope the venom burns clean before it can curse you with clots or hemorrhages or paralysis, before it can drown you in the dark waters of infamy.

In the void left by President Johnson’s surrender, four factions have emerged within the Democratic Party. The old guard—the same labor unions, congressmen, and local political machines who have steered the platform since the days of Franklin D. Roosvelt’s New Deal—has flocked to current Vice President Hubert Humphrey. Humphrey is competent yet uninspiring, a mid-fifties Midwesterner who flinches at the unpolished fury of antiwar protests and sedately lectures Black Power activists on the dangers of “reverse racism.” He is not a threat. He is a sheep in sheep’s clothing, and this is the time for wolves.

Senator Eugene McCarthy of Minnesota is unapologetically opposed to the Vietnam War, a moral crusader, a reluctant warrior, a man who wears his lack of taste for the presidency like a badge of honor. He feels compelled to run, but he does not crave it. He thinks this makes him a saint; but Joan of Arc was burned at the stake and Saint Lawrence was roasted alive. Like Halloween candy plunked into a child’s neon orange plastic pumpkin, McCarthy has collected his own coalition, college students and posh urbanites who believe themselves to be the future of the Democratic Party. In 2016, people will conjure McCarthy’s ghost when drawing comparisons to a controversial left-wing senator from Vermont named Bernie Sanders.

If McCarthy is the future and Humphrey is the past, then former governor of Alabama George Wallace is downright archaic. He is the candidate of choice for Southern white supremacists, averse to Republicans since Lincoln and still reverent of Depression-era New Deal programs that kept them from starving to death. Wallace is best known for his promise of “segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever,” and pledges to end the chaos that has besieged America through strict law and order. Provided he loses the Democratic primary, Wallace plans to run in the general election as an Independent, hoping to peel away enough support from the major party candidates to force the House of Representatives to declare the winner and then leverage his votes to negotiate an end to federal desegregation efforts in the South. His devoted wife Lurleen just died of uterine cancer, a diagnosis which Wallace kept hidden from her for years; doctors are in the habit of informing husbands of their wives’ ailments and giving them carte blanche control over the treatment plan, which unfortunately in Lurleen’s case was nothing. She was 41 years old.

In his short-lived castle of red corridors like the marrow rivers of bones, President Johnson hides from the hippies who jeer and spit; Humphrey frowns at them, McCarthy tries to appease them, Wallace says the only four-letter words they don’t know are “w-o-r-k” and “s-o-a-p.” But Aemond climbs down from podiums to meet them like old friends. He is young, only 36. He has a brother serving in the swamps of Vietnam. He is focused, determined, insatiable; he devours every scrap of news that is printed about him and writes his speeches by hand. As the self-admitted runt of the Targaryen family, Aemond knows what it is like to be underestimated. He wants a better America, and he wants to be the president, and he wants these things in equal, relentless measure, each fueling the other until these ambitions become inseparable. He has grown up hearing slurs against Greeks and consequently has no tolerance for discrimination, which he contends is antithetical to the American Dream. He attends civil rights marches in labyrinthian cities, antiwar protests on college campuses, union meetings in coal mining towns of West Virginia and Kentucky and Wyoming, music festivals crowded with long unwashed hair and braless women, fundraisers flush with the deep pockets of the Northeastern elite. Aemond’s coalition grows each day, bleeding away strength from his rivals like a Medieval surgeon. Their flesh turns cold and anemic, while Aemond’s heart pumps scalding torrents of blood.

If Aemond wins the Democratic primary at the convention in August, his opponent will almost certainly be the Republican frontrunner Richard Nixon of California. Nixon wants the White House just as badly, and he’s much smarter than he looks. He was Eisenhower’s vice president for eight years in the 1950s and lost to the ill-fated John F. Kennedy in 1960 by a whisker; some say he did not lose at all, but instead was cheated out of 100,000 votes by Kennedy’s mafia connections in Chicago. But with the Democrats divided and their incumbent president floundering, Nixon’s timing has never been better. He was once a poor boy with two dead brothers who earned a scholarship to Duke Law. Now he will become whoever he needs to be to win the presidency of the United States.

1968 is the year of wolves. The fangs are sharp, and the bellies ache with hunger.

~~~~~~~~~~

A local deli has opened early and sent sandwiches to Good Samaritan Medical Center for the family and friends of the senator from New Jersey: ham and Swiss, cucumber and cream cheese, tuna salad, egg salad, pimento cheese, BLTs, Cubans. The lobby is filling up with bouquets of flowers and handwritten notes. You pace and count the knots of the komboskini over and over again as you wait; Aemond has been in surgery for hours. The nurses periodically bring you Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate, scalding watered-down sweetness to distract you from the fact that some surgeon is currently rooting around inside your husband’s ribcage.

Alicent—a convert to the Greek Orthodox faith just as you are, though far more zealous, far more sincere if you dared to admit it—is pleading for God to save her son as she clasps her own prayer rope. Helaena is seated beside her, eerily calm. Helaena’s husband Fosco is wandering around boredly and inflicting small talk upon the nurses, ogling out the third-story windows, playing with his red Duncan yo-yo. Otto is making a series of calls using one of the phones at the nurses’ station. Criston is there too, leaning over the countertop and speaking with Otto in low conspiratorial whispers.

Aegon is sitting alone and glaring at you. He takes a rattling bottle of pills—prescriptions that doctors are too afraid not to write for him when he asks—out of a pocket on the front of his green army jacket, spotted like a leopard with your bloody handprints. He opens the amber-colored, cylindrical container and pours two, no, three tiny white tablets into his palm. He tosses them into his mouth and washes them down with a swallow of his own mediocre hot chocolate, still glaring. You ignore him.

“How could this have happened?” Mimi says again from where she’s slumped in her chair. Aegon’s wife has a Snow White sort of beauty, but with a perpetual ruddiness in her nose and cheeks from the gin she sips constantly. You suppose it would make anyone a drunk, being married to a man like that. Her maiden name was Marina Marceline Leroux, but everyone has always called her Mimi, even the press on the rare occasions when she makes an appearance. Her children—Orion, Spiro, Violeta, Thaddeus, and little Cosmo, only five years old—are all back at the Breakers Hotel with the nannies, the same as Helaena’s. Mimi blubbers to nobody in particular: “How…? Who…? Who would want to hurt Aemond…?”

Someone needs to sober her up. You fetch a BLT off the platter of sandwiches and offer it to her. “Here. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry. Who on earth could be hungry at a time like this? I’m absolutely nauseated, I’ll never want food again—”

“Mimi, eat the sandwich.”

“Fine, fine,” she slurs morosely, then takes an unenthusiastic bite. She listens to you, all the women do. They listen to you, and you listen to Aemond, and the circle is closed and complete.

Criston is walking over now. You turn to him, needing good news, bad news, any news. “It was a Wallace supporter,” Criston says. From his seat, Aegon is watching Criston with his slow drugged gaze, listening intently. “Some bell pepper farmer from up by Jacksonville.”

“He’s been taken to the local jail for holding?” you ask, and then add: “Alive?”

“Yeah, and he already has a record. Assault and battery. His brother-in-law is apparently a Grand Dragon in the Klan.”

“What the hell is a Grand Dragon?”

“Well, it’s higher than a Goblin, but not as illustrious as an Imperial Wizard, does that answer your question?”

“Perfectly.” You smile at Criston, a pained, wry smile. He returns it and places a palm over your belly. You are still wearing the mint green dress Aemond picked out for you this morning, before he won the Florida primary, before he was shot twice by the disciple of a political adversary and laid at death’s doorstep. You are still covered in your husband’s blood.

“You’re feeling alright?” Then Criston smirks, knowing how ridiculous he must sound. “You know. All things considered.”

“We’re both fine. The baby’s moving around, I can feel it.”

“You can feel him, you mean,” Criston teases, knowing Aemond’s preoccupation with his unborn son; but you can’t bring yourself to appreciate the joke.

Aegon says to you suddenly: “How the fuck did you let this happen?”

“What?” you answer, stunned.

Aegon stands and approaches, lurching, raging. “You always have to be right beside him, in the photographs, in the headlines, in the soundbites, but you let some psychopath run up and shoot him? Twice?!”

“I thought he just wanted to shake Aemond’s hand, or maybe get a quote for an article—”

“You didn’t notice the gun?!”

“Aegon, sit down,” Criston orders.

“It happened in seconds,” you say. “You think you would have done better? You and your Valium, and your Librium, and your Percodan? You think your reaction time would have been so superior to mine?”

“Please,” Alicent moans, mopping tears from her pink cheeks with a handkerchief. “Please, don’t fight, not now…”

“We are all friends here,” Fosco adds in his thick Italian accent, yo-yoing by a window.

“You want to be the first lady so bad but you can’t handle it!” Aegon shouts, his voice echoing through the lobby. “You’re not some prodigy, you don’t have all the answers, you’re just a girl who stitched yourself to Aemond and then you let him get shot, he’s being operated on right now, maybe he’s even dying, and you still act like you’re so fucking perfect—”

“You’re mad because you know that everybody here is thinking the same thing,” you tell Aegon, cold and cruel. “That if someone had to get killed tonight it should have been you.”

Aegon’s mouth drops open; he stares at you with that slippery, opaque, stoned woundedness, pathetic, infuriating, illogically childish. Everyone else pretends they haven’t heard you. Alicent sniffles into her handkerchief. Fosco begins humming I Want To Hold Your Hand. Mimi chews sluggishly on her BLT. From the nurses’ station, Otto says, holding the phone to his chest: “It’s George Wallace. He’s calling for Aemond’s wife.” Then he waits to see if you’ll agree to take it.

Of course you will. You have to. You are acting in your husband’s stead. You go to the nurses’ station and grab the handset when Otto passes it to you. “This is Mrs. Targaryen.”

“Ma’am, I just wanted to offer you my sincerest condolences.” He has a pronounced drawl, born and raised in what he has praised as the Great Anglo-Saxon Southland. You animal, you think. You braindead bigot. “I do hope the senator makes a hasty recovery. I sure would like to beat him at the ballot box, but I have no stomach for anarchy. An act like this is repugnant to me, as it should be to any red-blooded American.”

“It was one of yours, do you know that?” you say, dripping venom. “One of your hateful ghouls.”

“I have no such knowledge. But if the shooter does turn out to be a supporter of my campaign, I disavow him utterly. He deserves a nice long sit in Old Sparky and then to meet his maker.”

“You inspire men to commit violence, and then you renounce them when they spill blood. I’m still wearing my husband’s. It’s on my hands, it’s on my dress, and I will not absolve you of blame. You are a gardener of discord. You grow it like roses or wheat. You tend to it until it blooms.” Otto is studying you, bushy eyebrows raised. “If you’d truly like to repent, perhaps dropping out of the Democratic primary would be a good start. And then you could find something useful to do, like drowning yourself.”

From whatever office he’s currently lounging comfortably in, his shoes kicked up on the desk, Wallace chuckles. “Aemond is very fortunate to have as ardent a defender as you, my dear.”

“Yes, a devoted wife is such a treasure. It’s a shame you killed yours.”

“Ma’am, once again, I just wanted to express how terribly sorry I am for your family’s hardship. I would never wish for an incident like this—”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be emboldening white supremacists then!” You slam the phone as you hang up.

Otto looks at you. He says: “Did it go well?”

The heavy double doors leading to the operating theater swing open, and a surgeon steps through them, still drying his hands with a dark blue towel. He has changed his scrubs and washed his skin, but you notice a spot he missed: a fleck of half-dried blood up by his temple. That’s Aemond, you think. That’s a piece of him.

Everyone rushes to gather around the doctor, even Mimi; she lists like a ship taking on water as she walks, gnawing at all that remains of her BLT, just a sliver of white toast crust.

“The senator is alive,” the doctor says, and Alicent cries out in relief. Criston rests a palm on her shoulder. “But we could not save the eye.”

“He’s half-blind?” you ask. There’s never been a half-blind president. There’s never been a Greek one either. And the only reason this is stuck in your mind is because you know it will consume Aemond’s.

The doctor nods. “We had to remove it. The bullet that struck Senator Targaryen in the head, fortunately, was more of a graze. It ricocheted off his skull and didn’t cause any trauma to the brain, but his eye was…” He hesitates, trying to find a more polite word than shredded, macerated, pulverized. “Destroyed.”

“You stopped the bleeding?” Aegon says, astonished. “He’s okay? He’s really okay?”

“The second bullet pierced the thoracic cavity and was lodged less than an inch from his heart. He was very lucky. We repaired the damage to the best of our ability, and I am optimistic that the senator will make a full recovery. He’s resting comfortably now, but he should be awake soon.”

“Oh, thank God,” Alicent says, glistening dark eyes raised to heaven. The salient points gathered, Fosco wanders off again, his yo-yo dangling from its string.

Otto asks: “When can he resume campaigning?”

The doctor is caught off-guard; it takes him a moment to answer. “That will depend on the senator’s stamina as he regains his strength. If he chooses to stay in the race at all.”

Otto scoffs. “Of course he’ll stay in. This is what he lives for. You really can’t give me a ballpark figure?”

The doctor is determinately impassive. “I would estimate a month or two before he can withstand the rigors of the campaign trail again.”

“California is June 4th,” Otto recalls, counting off dates on his fingers. “Illinois is the 11th, New York is the 18th…”

“Look, there are people outside!” Fosco announces excitedly as he peers through one of the windows. “Hello! Hello everybody!”

“Fosco, you idiot, stop waving,” Otto snaps. “Go sit down.”

“But they are cheering.”

“Not for you.”

Fosco, somewhat deflated, grabs an egg salad sandwich off the platter and plops into a chair to eat it. He’s dressed in a green plaid sport coat and tight white trousers, very chic, very European. You’ve never been able to imagine Fosco and Helaena being passionately romantic with each other. They’re both a bit too doll-like for that, closer to Barbie and Ken than flesh and blood, blank stares and vague ambitions.

“Someone should talk to them,” Alicent says softly. She means the crowd that is forming in front of the hospital: journalists, cops, local politicians, mutilated veterans, college kids, farmers, fishermen, women and children, the future and the past. Everyone turns to look at you.

“I’ll do it,” you volunteer. You will, you must. Aemond could have chosen a hundred similarly suited women to be his wife, but he chose you, and when he did your vows became a blood oath.

Criston accompanies you downstairs to where the crowd has gathered just outside the front entrance of Good Samaritan Medical Center. The night air is warm and humid, the stars bright. You had thought of so many things to tell these people as you’d stood in the elevator as it descended, but now your mind is empty, fearful. There are photographers with blinding camera flashes and apostles waiting with famished eyes. From the depths of injustice and poverty and war, they have come to pay their respects to the man they believe is destined to save not just themselves but their world. What should I say? What would Aemond want me to say?

“I am very pleased to share with you all that Senator Targaryen is out of surgery and regaining his strength.”

There are cheers and applause and prayers; you are still clutching the komboskini that the old woman gave you in the lobby of the Breakers Hotel. You see more prayer ropes in this flock, and rosaries too, Bibles and dog tags, copies of The Autobiography of Malcolm X and Joanne Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem.

“We would like to thank you for your heartfelt support. Aemond and I are so very grateful, and he is looking forward to being back on the campaign trail soon.”

More clapping and whistling, and then the crowd waits. You aren’t sure what they want to hear as you stand in the glow of the hospital luminance; your hands are trembling wildly, so you clasp them together as you hold the komboskini. Criston glances over at you, concerned. You settle on the truth.

“The man who tried to kill my husband tonight is a supporter of former Alabama governor George Wallace and an avowed white supremacist. Any ideology that advocates for violence and prejudice is a threat to our bodies, our nation, and our souls. We will not surrender to it, not even when our lives are in jeopardy. We will not concede that hope for a better world is lost. We will press ever onward with the knowledge that God is on our side, and that the future of this country is worth fighting for.”

You are bathed in flashbulb lightning; your ears ring with the thunder of the applause. You are shaking hands now, nodding, beaming, Criston following you like a shadow as you move through the congregation. You stop to listen to a middle-aged woman in a floral dress who wants to give you marriage advice: never get bossy, don’t become selfish, remember that you are his safe harbor in the storms of life. It is your job to gift her your momentary veneration. You have beauty, but she has wisdom; or at least, that is the bargain that has been struck, that is the presumption everyone agrees upon. She must have some advantage over you, otherwise the decades she has spent in service of her parents and husband and children have been wasted, she has carved away pieces of herself to feed hungry mouths until she vanished like the doomed nymph Echo. In return, she tries not to envy you too much, not to dismiss you as foolish or frivolous or lustful. Sometimes you think that women are filled with such vicious, relentless self-loathing that it feels good to direct it at someone else for a while, to pick apart another body, to tally up the deficits of her spirit.

“Aemond is so lucky to have you,” the woman says. You can barely hear her over the roar of the crowd.

And you smile as you dutifully reply: “I think it’s the other way around.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There is a television mounted on the wall in Aemond’s room. The news coverage, the volume turned way down low, oscillates between his own near-assassination and the stalled peace talks in Paris. Representatives of the United States and North Vietnam cannot agree, and so each day more body bags are flown home to return the bones of the nation’s sons and fathers to Missouri, Alabama, Idaho, Maine, Wisconsin, Maryland, Arizona, California, New Jersey, everywhere else. Someone has to end it. Aemond will end it.

“I dreamed I won Florida,” your husband mumbles, and that’s how you know he’s awake, here in a hospital bed and wearing IVs like strings of Christmas lights around a pine tree.

“You did,” you tell him, gently smoothing back his hair from his forehead. His left eye—where his left eye used to be—is bandaged; his words are soft and labored. “Humphrey was second. Wallace got third. But you won. And you’re going to be okay.”

“McCarthy?”

“It seems you’re devouring his coalition.”

Aemond’s lips slowly curl into a grin, triumphant. “It is God’s will.” And this is what he always says. It is God’s will that he survives, it is God’s will that he wins the presidency, it is God’s will that you give him sons.

“Yes,” you agree, lifting his right hand to kiss his knuckles. Then you press the komboskini you’re still carrying into his weak grasp. It means more to Aemond than it does to you. “Yes it is.”

Aemond sinks into unconsciousness again, morphine and dreams that blur with reality. There will be pain soon, and plenty of it, but he is free from that impending truth for now. You rise from your chair to tell the rest of the family that Aemond is beginning to wake up. Alicent and Criston will want to speak with him.

When you open the door, Aegon is standing there: an eavesdropper, a trespasser. He glares at you with his large wet ocean-blue eyes, hazy with pills, glinting with resentment. Reluctantly, you step aside to let him in. Aegon wobbles as he passes you and has to grab onto the doorframe to steady himself, scrabbling like a trapped animal.

“You’re a disaster,” you say, caustic like acid, biting, repulsed.

Aegon whirls and jabs his index finger against your chest, bloodstained mint green wool bouclé by Chanel. “You’re a vessel. You’re a cow. And one day he’ll be done with you.”

You feel something hitting you like a bullet, cracking ribs, piercing lungs, tearing muscles and ligaments. Your lips have parted, but you can’t fathom words. Aegon has said many things to you—bitter things, belittling things, things in mixed company, things when you’re alone—but never this. For the first time since you met him two years ago, he has won one of your sparring matches. He has the upper hand. He has wounded you.

Aegon can see this, certainly. But he doesn’t seem pleased with himself. He looks a little shellshocked, like he can’t quite believe he said the words, like maybe if given the chance again he wouldn’t take it. But the moment is over now, and you can’t get time back, it is a thread that unspools until every inch is gone, spent, tangled in a thousand webs.

Aegon staggers into the hospital room. You flee from it. Out in the lobby the phone at the nurses’ station is ringing again. They’ll all be calling now to give their requisite sympathies. Humphrey counsels prudence, McCarthy prays for peace, LBJ offers the empathy of someone who has felt the cold gaze of Death in his own doorway, Nixon praises Aemond’s resilience and quotes the ancient philosopher Seneca: “There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.”

[phoenixes-and-wizards]

there’s just something about reaper’s big scene that gets me every time. like this boy—this actual child—who has been forced to fight to the death and torn away from practically everything he knows, just for shits and giggles, he actually takes the time to throw the other tributes’ weapons away, never mind that he’d be fully exposed to the career pack while doing so, cleans them up as best as he can, and basically tries to make sure that they look like they’re just sleeping. and then him raging at the cameras? OH FUCK YES why wouldn’t he? he’s hungry and tired and cold and hurting all over and for what? this farce of a government?? the very people that swore to serve and protect them, all of them, but instead, it’s up to a teenage boy to give his fellow tributes the final rites they deserve?? and not just that. don’t even get me started on the fact that every single person in that room reacted to the flag being ripped down, but not the actual reason he had to do it in the first place. panem et circenses indeed.

[sleepyskeleton-0]

SPOILERS FOR STH 3!!!

Scene analysis (heavily focused on Knuckles).

So there’s this scene in Sonic 3 in London where Sonic decides that despite their initial intentions to never use the master emerald anymore, he insists on using it for vengeance (after Shadow hurts Tom).

In this scene Sonic and Knuckles stand head to head and get worked up to the point where they’re charging up their powers, (Tails in kinda in the middle trying to calm them both down).

I got emotional in this scene, like full on tears in my eyes for a split second. Let me tell you why:

This is the scene that shows Knuckles’ endless patience for Sonic and Tails.

We know as an audience that Knux is always eager to go into battle, perhaps even too eager, but when it comes to his siblings, he’s always patient. So when Sonic tries to start a fight with him, he gets riled up at first but then takes a moment to calm himself down.

He refrains from hurting his brother and instead tries to talk to him calmly, to reason with him.

And if that’s not an oldest sibling strait I honestly don’t know what is.

I don’t think some people realise how hard it is to stay calm when your younger siblings are angering you. Like not teasing but properly pissing you off, especially if your sibling is a younger teenager (think 11-14 or 15).

At some point, you as the oldest have to realise that you have to be the calm one because naturally, teens are hormonal as shit and they can’t really help it (sometimes). We’ve all been there and we all know what it feels like to get wound up easily as a kid, and as an oldest child, you didn’t have someone who would calmly deal with you. Your parents would just get angry or chalk it up to a phase, so it’s either too much discipline or none at all for their first kid, then leave them to deal with the others when they grow up (obviously this isn’t the case with the trio here bc they were all taken in as teens so it’s different - the attention Tom and Maggie would’ve shown to them as babies and children are being shown now that they’re actually a family).

So shout out to all my oldest siblings out there, including Knuckles, because it’s like constantly taking punches to the face and actively remaining steady on your feet without letting your anger get the best of you.

This especially goes for a traumatic or high anxiety situation, like Tom’s injury. Sonic’s love for him and his worry and regret is consuming him in this moment and throwing him into a blind rage. Tails is also really worried, and as the youngest, it goes without saying that you try to cushion any pain as much as possible, so he’s not gonna be expected to help. Who’s left then? To help deal with Sonic? Knuckles.

He realises Sonic’s having a hard time, knows what it feels like to lose loved ones, understands the worry of “will they return home?” and how the reality of the situation can hit at any moment and how crippling it can be.

So Knuckles swallows his pride and tries to reason with Sonic.

And it’s really fucking hard to do that. Especially when being put in this position.

This rant feels repetitive but I have to get it out there just how hard it is to do this. At the end of the day, even if we are the oldest sibling, even if we have an obligation to be the bigger person, we still have feelings. All this emotional burden is gonna build up. It’s not anyone’s fault, it’s just the position we were born in. It’s our job to be that pillar of strength for our younger siblings, but if you keep throwing small stones at a pillar, eventually it’ll start to chip and crumble. So to have the strength to remain steady is the real superpower.

Like holy shit, talk about dual burden. Knux is also feeling the pain of potentially losing Tom, but he’s still there to comfort and protect his family and also shoulder his own difficult emotions. Because no one was there to do that for him when he needed it the most. He may never have anyone to protect him quite like that, and an older sibling will protect their younger ones even if it means making sacrifices. Remember that parents don’t have the same effect as siblings. Adults can only have so much understanding, but growth moves with the times, and each coming generation develops in unique ways, so grown ups will never grasp the full extent of the younger generation’s struggles, just as us younger people will never understand what they went through and how they dealt with it.

So props to Knuckles, he really is 1000000% muscle, and his most important muscles, his heart and brain, work together incredibly well. He doesn’t have to be book smart, his emotional intelligence makes up for that.

(Disclaimer: this is just my interpretation so just take it with a grain of salt, also sorry for this utterly incoherent rant, I have feelings about this movie- and this silly little echidna.)

[gunnrblze]

Hesh and Elias-a loving father-son duo-except what if Hesh was angry at his father for so so so many things instead.

Perhaps it’s a little selfish, he thinks, or perhaps it’s long overdue for Hesh to bring up his father’s parenting methods.

To say he cares about and loves Logan is an understatement, that’s not to be questioned, but why he was gifted the daunting task of looking after his little brother for the majority of his life, when he himself was trying to grow up makes him angry.

He has so much anger and he struggles to pinpoint its origin. Maybe he was born with his fists shaking and nostrils flared.

He snaps at Elias one day on base after the man gets stern with him. Maybe after Logan gets hurt on a mission or somethings fucked over their plans to find Rorke. Hesh seethes because he tried. He tried and he continues to try and help Logan whenever possible. They’re a pair, a duo, brothers.

But Hesh isn’t a god, as much as he sometimes wishes he could be. He can only do so much, he can only reach so far. Why does it never feel good enough? Why does he feel a gnawing sense of guilt when Logan gets hurt, as if the kid didn’t sign up for the job right alongside him? He might as well have hurt his brother himself with the way he feels to blame.

He accuses Elias, of favoritism. Of something just short of neglecting Hesh emotionally growing up. He remembers it all too well.

Logan cried, he was soothed. Logan got in trouble, he was given a talking to and nothing more. Logan was acting out after mom died and Elias had so much grace for him, but Hesh wasn’t allowed to be a brat when life got hard.

He had to be a good older brother, a good son who kept himself and his little duckling in line because Elias was gone far too much to do it himself.

Elias is a little startled. Not by his son’s irritation, the pain he could see in his eyes, no. He’d unfortunately had to see it before, had to try and sleep at night knowing he couldn’t take it all away from him. Did he make the right decision persuading his boys to join the army in the first place? The thought made him sick sometimes.

No, he’s startled by the accusations. That he favored Logan, that he ignored Hesh’s feelings after he got to a certain age. He couldn’t deny that he wasn’t present at home sometimes, but he wanted to find an excuse. Wanted to crawl out of the hole he’d dug his family into, whether he had much choice or not.

Like birds of a feather, Elias was getting irritated at his son now. Their mirroring emotions made Hesh do a double take, as if he saw his very future in front of him now. Clear as day.

Elias was defensive, like most in his position usually were. He couldn’t understand where it was coming from. Why Hesh seemed to be so upset all a sudden. As if overnight his eldest son decided to get mad. As if the last couple decades didn’t have any impact.

Hesh could feel the heat scorch his cheeks, teeth grinding and threatening to be crushed under the force of his clenched jaw. He’d always had to hold it together. He was tired of holding himself together. Tired of feeling like an observer in his own family rather than an active participant.

Exhausted, after having been molded into a soldier by the Lieutenant in front of him, long before he ever enlisted.

Elias wasn’t sure he’d ever seen David behave like this. Yelling until his voice went hoarse, spitting accusations and what he couldn’t believe were insults in his face. His son, unraveling before him.

He let it happen.

Elias Walker wasn’t a passive man but he stood there and let his son scream at him. Not like the petulant child he used to be, no. Like the man he is.

The room was silent after Hesh finished, save for his heavy breathing and whatever sound he was making whilst trying to hold back a sniffle. He wouldn’t dare let the tears in his eyes fall, afraid his dignity would dissolve with it.

Hesh’s head felt foggy. Clouded by rage, upset, and something that felt similar to grief. That feeling he could never identify, searing a hole through his heart and not bothering to patch itself back up.

He looked his father in the eyes. Really looked at the man in front of him. Confused by his silence. For once, the image was unrecognizable. It felt foreign, as if he were shielded behind a pane of glass.

Time felt frozen, until Logan swung the door open. He too, stilled. As if no one knew what to do, Logan could tell by the red of his brother’s cheek and the set of his father’s jaw, that there probably wasn’t anything to do.

Hesh stared down his little brother though, eyes practically begging him to say something in his defense. To open his fucking mouth for once and speak.

His father merely dismissing them both made his gut sink. Knowing all too well, that this hadn’t solved it. If anything, it’d only drive the little wedge further between them.

David swore he could feel it splintering his skin as he walked away, not bothering to even look at his younger brother at the moment.

Too afraid he’d start resenting him, too.

[sepublic]

The core to Belos’ character is that he’s everything wrong with the United States of America. Why else is he a Puritan, a group of racist settlers who helped found the U.S. and contributed to the genocide of the Native Americans? Why else does he dress up like a Founding Father when not in papal robes, with a ponytail resembling a powdered wig?

Luz thinking he’s a great explorer, only to find out Philip is just an entitled asshole who takes credit from others to make himself look better, is a play on people IRL finding out that people like Christopher Columbus and Thomas Edison were assholes who stood on the shoulders of others. It’s a play on white mediocrity and how white guys do the bare minimum and expect to be praised.

Belos is a bigot whose entire motive and goals are based on genocide-level bigotry, and he refuses to unlearn any beliefs; Being a historical Puritan he is 100% racist and misogynistic and unlike Caleb, didn’t take the chance to grow out of it. He wants to believe he’s born special and better than everyone else, and that’s why he buys into white supremacy. The modern cop is the descendant of the witch hunter.

There is an explicit connection between the colonial genocide of Native Americans and Belos’ genocide of witches and demons, down to imposing a Christian misunderstanding of the local religion. He feels entitled to their magic but does none of the work to understand, nor does he cultivate a sustainable relationship with the land the way indigenous people do, hence consuming palismen.

He coined the term Savage Ages, with Savage having racist connotations. His fantasy is the Monster Hunter, the idea that it’s okay to dehumanize anything and even anyone that’s different to kill them. He believes in the Evil Races trope which is of course inherently racist. Belos treats Luz like his White Man’s Burden, a brown child who needs a White Savior to civilize (just as the U.S. kidnapped Native American children to assimilate), and then tries to kill Luz when she doesn’t go along instead of just. Leaving Luz alone or dragging her into the human realm with him anyway.

Belos makes exceptions to his religion when convenient, allowing himself to use magic but then demonizing those who do, just as homophobic Christians and Republicans do. Think of all the anti-gay politicians who are caught being gay; They’re not repressed victims, just hypocrites who think they’re entitled to special treatment. Philip didn’t rat on Caleb for hanging out with a witch for the reasons Pro-Lifers let loved ones have abortions; Caleb was important to him, and he’s not one of the witches Philip planned to murder. And even then he still killed Caleb for ‘crossing a line’!

The Puritans and other groups informed the Alt-Right in the U.S., as well as Evangelicals who rage about how something as innocuous as Pokemon is a Satanic influence (Yes this happened; The Conformatorium doesn’t seem so unrealistic after all, and remember that Dana’s father gave her a copy of Pokémon Red before he died that she latched onto). But like the Televangelist, Belos indulges in material wealth and glory via the glamour of Catholicism, because he’s not even consistent to Puritan values either.

He’s Trump, he’s Elon Musk, he’s Ron DeSantis. He’s the incel/mass shooter who fell down the pipeline, who feels cheated out of the promises of a white supremacist society and takes it out on minorities but not other white guys, because he thinks the system’s idea is fine it just isn’t working as it should, at least he’s better than those guys. He calls others NPCs because he wants to believe he’s born special and better and chosen.

Belos’ reaction to Caleb being with Evelyn was undeniably motivated by racial disgust at his brother for committing miscegenation and making Philip related to a savage in the process, it’s why he never brings it up because of the scandalous shame of it all. Belos hates those witches more than he ever loved Caleb, Caleb was never his priority or he’d have changed his mind; It had far less to do with ‘codependency’ and far more to do with white supremacy, perhaps Philip wouldn’t have minded Caleb settling with a human white woman. The issue being not Caleb leaving him but who Caleb left him for.

Belos thinks taming a wilderness and murdering its natives makes him a tough man because he’s insecure. He has a sniveling victim complex that can’t comprehend why minorities would dislike him, except that they’re mean. Belos epitomizes the U.S.’s racial and colonial violence, its white supremacy, and its global police narrative that decides the existence of another, independent world is an inherent threat to his own.

The conflict between Philip and Caleb was over racism, and so it’s black and white because racism is always wrong. Making it ‘nuanced’ would take away from the fact that the motives for real life racism are inherently nonsensical and insincere; Caleb wasn’t selfish for living with another culture on its terms, instead of staying in the racism village (The Gravesfield statues corroborate Philip being an adult when he arrived in the Demon Realm, according to the memory portraits; Caleb waited until Philip was an adult before leaving). Philip was not a weird kid, he was adhering to his social norms with games about how anyone different or actually weird should die, and he wanted to do this, he’s a Conformatorium prude like all the rest and let his fear of Evelyn justify and evolve into violence.

Even if he was weird, Belos isn’t telling other people they should fit in for their sake, he’s telling them they should just die (Unlike himself, because he’s ‘special’); It’s what he admits to the Collector in the finale about not bothering teaching them anything, just wiping them out. Belos uses magic only to kill magic and discards it out of disgust when he’s about to leave, but makes an exception for the life of the non-human he’s become.

And the choice for the villain to be a genuine Puritan makes sense, because this is a show about weirdoes, so who’s designating them as such and why? Luz has a conflict with the IRL system since the first scene and Belos symbolizes the system, his Puritan ideology marked the foundation for it and the U.S. Belos killing Caleb is just the cherry on top of his actual motives and what his character was always about, that’s why his death scene isn’t him lamenting about Caleb or how lonely he is, it’s him being racist and demanding special treatment for his race. A racist white man feels no guilt for the witches and demons he murdered, just his white brother and clones; He still keeps killing them too btw.

Deeming someone a lost cause and killing them instead of working to rehabilitate is un-Christian, because Belos is not secretly bound by his religion, he picks and chooses. His guilt is not Catholic, he is the Protestant belief in his own superiority. Belos isn’t just a Nazi, he’s an American racist, he’s the KKK; He’s a condemnation of American Values and Exceptionalism, and lowkey I think that’s part of the reason why Family-Friendly Disney canned TOH, because Belos is a condemnation of a major consumer base. Disney being more progressive than other companies means jackshit because it’s performative and the bar is in hell.

[thesunfyre4446]

I’m surprised to see so many people happy with the Sept scene, it’s complete illogical fan service.

They should’ve been clawing at each others faces. Instead you have Rhaenyra chuckling and joking “I’ve begun badly” girl, Vhagar made a mukkbang out of your son. A little bit of “Bitchy Alicent” peeked out towards Rhaenyra but still. Alicent knows Rhaenyra is a liar, the “On my mother’s memory” is a dig at that so why should Alicent believe at face value that Rhaenyra didn’t order Jaehaerys’s murder?

Rhaenyra also never apologizes about Jaehaerys, never expresses remorse or condolence. Her feelings last episode were more to do with it being bad publicity and less that a child her littlest sons ages was murdered. The whole thing is being treated like a one sided Rhaenicent fic where they wax on and on about Luke’s death and Alicent must repent for it every single day and twice on Sundays. While Jaehaerys is brushed over, that is if he’s even mentioned at all. His murder is never something that Rhaenyra needs to atone for. It’s never something Alicent or Helaena hold a grudge towards her for. All is forgiven.

That’s what the show is doing.

Not only that the Sept scene has ruined the potential of f Rhaenyra taking King’s landing. This meeting didn’t end badly, they didn’t throw insults or hands. Both just said they had no part in the murders of their son and grandson, both believed the other. Then Alicent let Rhaenyra go peacefully and Rhaenyra never intended on actually stabbing Alicent.

Alicent tells Rhaenyra that she meant it when she said she’d make a fine Queen- despite Rhaenyra never showing the potential to be a great ruler and Alicent deploring her for years because Rhaenyra’s lack of regard for duty usually led to Alicent having to fulfill them as well as her own and Viserys’s.

While Rhaenyra walks away from this reaffirmed with this thought that Alicent is still this pure soul and gentle heart- despite Rhaenyra accusing Alicent of hiding her true nature behind a cloak of righteousness and then saying “Now they see you as you are”. How do you go from getting sliced by Alicent to basically saying “Alicent is a sweetheart, she wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

Sure Aegon is about to almost die from injuries gotten in battle against the blacks and Rhaenyra will lose Jace and Viserys, that is going to impact both women but after this meeting of “It wasn’t me!” The other things can be explained away too, can’t they? Rhaenyra didn’t directly burn Aegon and Alicent isn’t the one who skewered Jace and kidnapped Viserys.

The build up of tension, rage, hate, resentment was just destroyed with this meeting. It doesn’t bode well for the Queen in chains/Half year reign/Maegor with teats storyline. We probably aren’t going to get one of the lines of all time, Alicent saying that her Grandson was an innocent child and Rhaenyra’s sons were “bastard blood shed at war” and Rhaenyra probably won’t even put Alicent in gold chains.

The entire war just seems pointless after this, these two started this way before Viserys died. With Driftmark or even long before that when Rhaenyra had Alicent’s father exiled from Kingslanding and Alicent wore that dress… but they don’t want to finish it anymore?? These women are about to sacrifice their whole families for this and neither of them want it. Now they realize how pointless it all was? How they could’ve co-existed in the same place?

Also, why have the writers seemingly forgotten about Alicent’s very valid fear for her children’s lives if Rhaenyra ascended? Her fears are being validated with each episode yet they’re hinging it all on the ramblings of a dying man while he was dope sick?? On Viserys’s ramblings why didn’t Alicent(the writers) remember the conversation Alicent and Viserys had by the fire in ep 3? The one where Viserys explicitly says “a male babe born to me wearing the conquerors crown” he’s describing his son Aegon. Could Alicent have not countered Rhaenyra’s “he meant the conqueror” with “No, years ago he told me the same thing”

After having the blame of her Grandson’s murder placed on her for having non dissociative sex for once in her life, yet again Alicent will be filled with guilt. This time at the thought that the entire war and its casualties are her fault because of a misunderstanding.

Free Alicent, Ryan Condals whipping boy.

I would honestly take Benioff and Weiss, at least the seasons where they had the material laid all out for them were good. Condal has a full story outline but is still fucking up right out of the gate.

(Sorry for the long rant)

anon you ate and left no crumbs. i truly have nothing to add.

up until ep 7 the show made sense. in ep 6 alicent tells aegon that if rhaenyra becomes queen him and his brother will be murdered. but by ep 8 she apparently doesn't give a fuck anymore?

[theonlyhonoredone]

Black Beauty

Break My Heart Again Sequel

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x Reader, Suguru Geto x Satoru Gojo

Warnings: cannon typical violence, blood, death, fighting, love triangle

Summary: Suguru can't stand losing Satoru to you

Masterlist

Part 1

When Riko died Suguru was left in the dust of Satoru’s sudden jump in power. Satoru seemed to forget all the hardships of the mission, opting instead to spend all his time with y/n and Shoko while Suguru thought in endless circles about where everything went wrong. About how Satoru almost died, how he wasn’t there to help, how weak he was letting that poor girl die. He couldn’t smile anymore, could hardly force himself out of bed most days. He dreaded every mission, protecting people who didn’t know he existed and swallowing down curses that left him only with the taste of death. He dreaded coming home even more. Jujutsu high was the source of his most painful memories. It was a place where he was forgotten in favor of a girl not even half as capable as him. A girl who would have snapped under the pressure of the missions he and Satoru faced every day. A girl who was unworthy of wearing the pretty smile she’d been blessed with.

Sometimes he wondered how he turned so bitter towards her. They were good friends their first year, but as soon as he realized Satoru’s feelings for her his affection began to waver. Suguru knew, though he’d taunt her about the opposite being true, that Satoru would pick her in a heartbeat. He couldn’t exactly blame him, she was kind and funny and gorgeous, really really gorgeous. She was the only person he could ever say rivaled Satoru in terms of beauty. Suguru remembered the day they all met. He was convinced they both came from the heavens, born from some angel or perfect deity. It was intimidating. Even once he started to hate her he found himself sometimes getting caught up in thoughts about her pretty face. About how her and Satoru just somehow fit, they belonged to the same angelic race that looked down on peasants like him. 

He envied their specialness. They both came from long lines of sorcerers unlike him, the poor boy from the countryside. Sure he had power, but they had legacy. He’d determined it was all in their eyes at some point. Satoru with his pretty baby blues, somehow holding more than the entire galaxy in their glowing wells. Then sweet y/n, who’s eyes seemed as deep and vast as the sprawling woods he played in as a child. The first day of their second year Satoru had commented on it to him. While they paced the campus waiting for the girls to arrive Satoru  brought her up with a big goofy smile.

“I’m really excited to see y/n,” he had looked up at the sky as he spoke, probably hoping to summon her from the heavens, “I miss her eyes. I think they’re prettier than mine, you know? And that’s saying something.”

Suguru had scolded him for being vain but inside he was crumbling. Jealousy bubbled up like a volcano, red hot rage threatened to melt his entire being. He just couldn’t stand it. No one was ever going to talk about him that way, especially not Satoru. He’d never be described as some pretty divine thing like his dear friends would. He’d decided from that moment on he and y/n could no longer be friends, that he had to drive them apart so they didn’t run off and find eternal happiness without him. He grew cruel and cold, always critiquing her for her weakness and mocking her for every little mistake she made. It was his attempt to build a fence between her and him and Satoru, to place her below them. Suguru wanted it to be known that when she returned to the heavens Satoru would remain on earth with him.

It never worked though. Satoru and her crossed the line constantly, with Satoru always offering to spar with her and stay up late to help her train. She worked her hardest with him, obviously trying to progress quickly and impress him. It drove Suguru insane. Especially after Riko. The failure had sent him spiraling but Satoru was happier and stronger than ever. They were almost always together too, running off to do whatever meaningless task they’d deemed as suitable entertainment. It made him angry, despite his best efforts he was being left behind by them both just like he’d dreaded. It only took one failure to fall from grace. He’d let Riko die while Satoru managed to defeat death, and even more impressively, Toji. He was the hero, she was his princess, and Suguru had no place at the table. It made him want to scream at them both, to lock them in a room where they could never do anything to upset him again.

“Suguru,” Satoru had addressed him one evening, just after dinner. 

For once it was just them again. The girls had run off together and Suguru couldn’t have been happier to have an evening of just him and Satoru. He hoped they’d spent it playing some sort of video game or doing one of the other stupid tasks Satoru enjoyed.

“Satoru,” he’d hummed in response.

The white haired boy was wearing a huge smile and Suguru was sure he was about to propose some ridiculous prank or make some smug comment. He was looking forward to it.

“I decided I’m going to ask y/n on a date,” he declared proudly, “I’m gonna get her flowers and everything. Isn’t that awesome? You’re so gonna wish you got a girlfriend first,” he started laughing as Suguru’s eyes widened, “You should see your face right now! Why are you so surprised hmm? I’m the strongest, and the hottest, an-”

“That’s a horrible idea Satoru,” he snapped, cutting him off with a scowl. “You really think dating should be a priority right now? Especially for you?”

Satoru stopped, his mouth hanging open before he frowned, “Uh, yeah, why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you’re the strongest sorcerer in the world, idiot. Anyone you date is going to have a huge target on their back, and y/n is way too weak to handle that. You should focus on growing as a sorcerer instead,” Suguru had rolled his eyes. He was trying to come at it in a logical side, hoping to persuade Satoru that this was a terrible plan without exposing his own feelings.

Satoru scoffed loudly, “You’re always calling her weak just cause she’s not as strong as us bu-”

“I call her weak because she is weak, and she always will be. I mean Toji would have killed her in a second you know? Any of the curses her fight would too a-”

“Shut up!” Satoru snapped at him, his cheeks turning red suddenly, “She isn’t weak and no one is gonna hurt her because I’m always gonna be here to protect her so it doesn’t even matter! Why are you being a dick anyway huh? You’re my best friend, you’re supposed to be happy for me.”

“I’m not happy when you make stupid, selfish decisions, Satoru. Maybe you don’t like it but I’m telling you the truth.”

“Well then screw you!” Satoru had risen from the table, sending his chair flying back behind him, “And screw the truth! I don’t wanna talk to you until you’re done being a dick!”

Satoru had stomped off somewhere and Suguru was alone again. His stomach hurt and he felt dizzy. He hardly slept a wink that night and when Satoru and you and Shoko all left for the amusement park the next day he was sure he was going to die. He sat in the day room running through scenarios for hours, thinking about how Satoru would do it. How you’d come back and announce you were a happy couple now. You’d never be apart again. He felt like an idiot for ever considering he could have won. For ruining your friendship and never confessing to Satoru and killing Riko and for every other thing that had ever gone wrong in his life. It was all piling up into some inescapable, crushing weight.

Yuki came while he was in the midst of his panic. She talked about philosophy and the world and everything that wasn’t you and Satoru. Suguru grasped onto her every word, onto every thought that wasn’t the two of you. He finally felt some peace, for the first times in months he thought he might actually be able to do something right. He’d failed at romance and friendship and sorcery, but there was more to the world than that. More to the world than the Satoru shaped bubble he was living in. Satoru could change the world with ease, but instead was thinking about a girl. Suguru couldn’t fall into the same trap, couldn’t spiral about a failed love when there was so much else he could be doing. So much he could be improving.

Suguru ran into you that evening, after a long shower. He was feeling calm for the first time in months. He offered you forgiveness. After all, you were both sorcerers. Even if you were weak compared to him, you were strong compared to the rest of the world. He wanted to tell you about his newfound philosophy, about how he’d discovered things so much more important than romance and rivalry. You couldn’t see it though, couldn’t listen to him like he hoped. He wanted to open your eyes to something more but you were stuck on Satoru, the same way he was. Suguru kissed you, partially in hopes of breaking Satoru’s spell and partially because when he wasn’t focused on hating you he remembered how pretty he’d always found you. There was no breakthrough for you though, you only screamed and drew the attention of Satoru, who yelled at Suguru and led you away under his protective arm. It still irked some part of him but he let it be, he focused on his work instead.

Suguru left the same night, but the thoughts of you and Satoru didn’t. At least not completely. He was mostly able to focus on his work, but when he laid down at night and tried to sleep, he was haunted by thoughts of you two. Of how you were together all the time and probably talking about him and what he did with disgust. Because you two didn’t understand. You two didn’t see how weak the world was or how it could change. Maybe you could see it if you weren’t focused on each other. He knew Satoru would be able to, because he’d gone through the same experience as him with Riko. Satoru was strong enough to execute his ideals, but he never would. He’d never share in them because he valued protecting weak things like you. Suguru hated how often it came back to you, how his problems and thoughts always came back to you. It was you standing in the way of him and Satoru, whether that be as an item or as revolutionaries. 

Suguru concluded you had to go in order for him to bring about the new world. His best bet at success was Satoru, and Satoru would never join him while you were around. So he had to get rid of you. That would be easy enough, if he just got Satoru and you separated for some time he could do it. 

His plan was simple really. Release a rather nasty curse some distance from the city, one they’d have to send Satoru to deal with. That would leave you alone, in waiting. Whenever Satoru had a mission far away you made it a point to fetch him some sort of treat for when he returned. It was a habit you’d developed just after the Riko incident. Some petty attempt to keep his spirits up. From there it was just a guessing game. You typically went either his favorite bakery or candy shop so Suguru would just have to spend some time staking out both. Eventually you’d arrive at one and it would be easy to kill you then.

Everything fell into place for Suguru, he knew luck was on his side since he was on a mission to better the world. You fell right into his trap, and though you put up more of a fight than he expected, he still won in the end. He sat over your bloody corpse, smiling as he watched the light leave your pretty, pretty eyes. You’d cried and begged him not to, tried to remind him of your long dead friendship in hopes of earning some mercy.

“Suguru please,” you’d tried to take his hand in your last moments, “Please.”

Your last words would always remain with him. Tattooed behind his eyelids. He could always recall the moment with perfect clarity. How it felt to plunge the knife into your throat, how you choked on your own blood. The little tears in your eyes and your red stained lips. The image haunted him no matter how far away it was. It was necessary though, necessary to free Satoru and kickstart the world he envisioned.

When Satoru arrived Suguru made a quick exit. He knew it would take him time to come around and he could see right away the rage building in him. As soon as the shock wore off he’d be dead so he had to flee. And wait. And wait. And wait.

Suguru waited for days, weeks, months, years, for Satoru to find him and join him. His heart grew more bitter cold the longer he waited. He resented Satoru for being so ungrateful for the gift he’d given him, for the love he’d given him. His followers understood his goals but Satoru never did, even after you were ripped from him. Satoru had grown stronger and more cruel after you died and yet never paid any respects to Suguru. Never thanked him for all he’d done, for all he was doing to better the world. 

He grew to hate Satoru, viewing him as an obstacle the same way he had with you. That was why he planned the night of a thousand demons. Once he had control of Rika he’d be able to eliminate Satoru. With him gone Suguru would be crowned the strongest and he’d be able to rebuild the world how he saw fit. Finally. He was sure the two of you would see from the afterlife too. When you all reunited some day he knew you’d grovel and apologize and the three of you would find some peace in eternity. 

It was bittersweet, facing his end at the hands of true love. He’d lost sight of Yuta and Rika, but he saw you and Satoru in that moment. He could swear he heard your voice, some remnant of you on the wind, whispering to him that you’d brought this fate to him. You’d cursed him somehow, forcing him to face death at the hands of the catalyst. He couldn’t do anything but laugh in the end. He sank into some hidden corner of the school grounds, muttering to you about how he couldn’t believe you’d come back. That after all this time you’d still managed to win.

“Suguru,” Satoru’s voice was cold and sharp, Suguru turned his head up to see him staring down at him. With his eyes uncovered and his hair a mess he looked so much more like he had in their youth.

“Satoru,” he barely mustered a smile, “I’m glad to see you in my last moments.”

Satoru stared down at him, his lips pulled to a thin line, “Are you suffering? Does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” he confirmed.

“Good,” Satoru bent to his eye level, “You should be grateful you only faced Yuta, I would have made it much worse.”

“Do you still think about her?” Suguru asked, “You know I was always jealous about how she got all your attention.’

“She was the love of my life. I think about her all the time,” Satoru paused. They were both quiet for a long time. “Is that why you did it? Jealousy?”

“I guess, maybe, that was some of it,” Suguru nodded, “Mostly I wanted to help you. I thought if she was gone you’d understand why I wanted to fix the world. Weak things aren’t worth protecting.”

Satoru sat, crossing his legs and leaning back on his arms, “Even if she was the weakest little fly on the planet I always would have thought she was worth protecting. That’s what true love is you know? I don’t think you’re capable of feeling that.”

Suguru scoffed, “I loved you for a long time Satoru I-”

“I loved you too Suguru, I loved both of you a lot,” he let out a long sigh and cast his eyes upwards, “I never would have done what you did though, and neither would she. When it’s real love you don’t hurt them, and you know no one’s ever hurt me as bad as you have. So I know you don’t love me, maybe at some point you did, but that changed. It’s okay though, I don’t love you either, in fact I hate you. I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone as much as I hate you,” he looked back down at Suguru. It was the only time Suguru ever saw his pretty blue eyes holding tears, “I don’t think it’s normal to love people the way I loved her you know? I think sometimes it was too much because I can never move on. And as much as I love her, that’s how much I hate you. So I’m  happy you’re dying, I’m happy I’m going to watch you die. I hope you spend the rest of eternity suffering Suguru.”

“Careful Satoru, I might curse you if you say that,” Suguru laughed bitterly, he knew there were probably tears staining his cheeks as well but he couldn’t feel anything anymore, “I always loved you, I thought, but maybe you’re right. Maybe I just hated you both. I don’t know anymore, but I’m glad that if anyone’s going to watch me die it’s you, Satoru.”

“Yeah, me too.”

They stopped speaking after that. Satoru sat in silence across from Suguru, watching him until his eyes fell closed and his chest stopped rising.

[bennie-jerry]

My Beef with Killmonger - An MCU Rant

I think people struggle to understand that not ALL villains are misunderstood—they’re choosing to be evil and that's it. 

Take Killmonger for example (I’m doing the MCU specifically because I haven’t read the comics—cry about it). 

Besides committing the atrocity of making those half dreads the Frank’s Red Hot for every media with black characters lately, there's aspects I don’t hear people touch on when it comes to Killmonger as a character. And if there are, I sure haven’t heard it yet---so I really hope there's some info on this man I'm missing here. But if no one's gonna call out this man’s BS, I will.

I definitely comprehend that Erik losing his dad was extremely traumatic for him to experience as a child. But Killmonger was only focused on revenge and power alone. Because of the fact that T’Chaka was dead, Erik couldn’t take it out on him and instead decided to channel his anger towards the entirety of the Wakandan royalty—even towards T’CHALLA (even though T’Challa had NOTHING to do with it). 

Even then, T’Challa was MORE than kind enough to let Erik see a Wakandan sunset BEFORE he died. 

“I’m sorry my father was a POS. Here’s a sunset, bro.” 

I get he's played by the oh-so handsome Michael B. Jordan, but let's remove the rose-colored lenses and consider something here.

On top of being a complete narcissist (who killed his GIRLFRIEND by the way), the guy also was just never EVER fit to hold power in ANY capacity to begin with. When the guy did kill (or believe he killed) T’Challa, what was the first thing he wanted to do? 

Did he try to help other poor children in the neighborhood he grew up in?

Did he make a memorial for his dead father?

Did he start a program for fatherless children (like HE was)?

Did he even TRY to do ANYTHING of value that would’ve been beneficial to others in ANY way shape or form?

Newsflash: The answer to all of that is NO.

The FIRST thing this man does as KING is start a WAR between Wakanda and the United States.

Literally his FIRST act as king is to begin an event that could very well have left so many of his people to DIE and cause mass amounts of generational trauma. Meaning there'd potentially be a bunch of children in Wakanda that ALSO won't have their fathers should they die in the war. Is that NOT a major red flag? 

The guy didn’t even DRESS like a king, he just walked around shirtless with a jacket like he was an NYC pimp. 

Even pre-kingship, he already killed LOADS of people before he got to that point. Sure, you could argue that it was in order for him to reach Wakanda or what he planned to do. But does that not raise MORE red flags about his original intent, then? 

Killmonger has a scar on his body for every person that he’s ever killed. The man’s torso is covered top to bottom in scars, meaning he has a major body count. So you’re telling me that this dude's okay with murdering innocent people just to get to a goal that was gonna lead him to kill more people ANYWAY?

Yes, I understand his trauma. Yes, I understand why he's angry at the world. Yes, I do think he's a great villain because every good story needs a good villain. But one thing I'll NOT do is act like this man's actions are justified when they're not. His conquest to create conflict highlights a SEVERE lack of genuine care for the very people he CLAIMS to wanna help.

He's a grown man who had every chance and choice to become better and he never took it because he chose to take his anger out on everyone else since the one who ACTUALLY committed sin against him had already DIED.

And when the “What If” series came out, Killmonger turned on EVERYONE he worked with, took the gauntlets for himself, and tried to reset reality.

Sure, you could say that Killmonger is a representation of black rage and on some level, I'd agree with you in terms of a story telling perspective. But storytelling dynamics don't change the fact this man is a piece of crap.

Don't EVEN try lying to me. The only reason this man has simps on Tumblr is because he's played by someone who's attractive. I bet if he was played by Steve Harvey, you'd all change your tune. 

Trauma never is/will be an excuse to do horrible stuff. Once again, trauma can make a good villain and good villains are necessary. My ONLY issue with Killmonger is that he has a railroad of fans that try to justify his actions.

It's one thing to like a horrible character. And it's another thing to say a horrible character is justified in what they do. The reason why I think it's so dangerous to do that is because it CAN (not that it always does, but CAN) translate into real life instances where people defend ACTUAL human-shaped monsters for things they do as well (ie they're traumatized and/or attractive). That's why we have hybristophilic fangirls slobbering over Wade Wilson (if you know, you know).

But at the end of the day, everyone has choices. Killmonger made his.

Even Killmonger's FATHER was saddened by what his son became while speaking to him on the ancestral plane.

N’Jobu: No tears for me? Killmonger: Everyone dies. It's just life around here. N’Jobu: Well, look at what I have done.

DAWG, WHAT MORE PROOF DO YOU NEED—

[azsazz]

Lips of an Angel (Part 3)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Based on the song ‘Lips of an Angel’ by Hinder. Azriel left you for Elain. After finding out that he has a child he didn’t know about, he’s furious.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1,121

(Part 1) (Part 2)

Notes: Literally so short but hopefully it’s worth it. 💙

_________________________________________

Rhysand feels Azriel before he even arrives.

There’s a dark static in the air, charged like lightning ready to strike. The shadows of the room grow darker around him; seeping through the cracks of every floorboard, crawling down the corners of the walls, painting them in long, black strokes. Tendrils of anger soaked night billow in from the slats of the framed windows like thick fumes, as if Azriel is trying to smoke him out.

If Rhysand could understand their inky whispers, he thinks they would be screeching.

He feels his own powers reacting, zipping through his blood in excitement, eager at the chance to play. It’s his inner beast, calling and clawing its way up his throat in response to the dark power of his brother, trying to intimidate him.

His shadowsinger is looking for a fight.

Tendrils of black climb up the sides of his oak desk like an amoeba seeking a host, pincers ready to grab on and not let go. He has to plant his palms flat over his work to keep them from getting swept away in the tornado of rage.

Rhysand’s eyes glow violet as the faelight is swallowed by the onyx shadows. His heart beats unevenly in his chest as he waits, spine stiff and body frozen in his chair, the creature within him threatening to burst forth from his chest as he waits for Azriel.

The shadowsinger winnows into the room, splintering through his shadows with ease. They’re wailing like lost souls, coiling around Rhysand’s limbs to trap the High Lord in his spot should he try and pounce. He’s breathing harshly, well past the point of seeing red. His siphons are glowing the brightest he’s ever seen, thrumming with a newfound power he’d been hiding within himself for far too long.

Seven blazing blue beams are consumed by the wall of black he’s met with when he appears in Rhysand’s office. They’re vibrating with so much power Azriel’s half convinced that they’ll shatter like his aching heart.

Betrayal hangs heavy in the air and its putrid scent chokes Rhysand as it mixes with Azriel’s smoldering fury. Fingers sharpen into dark claws, scraping against the desk, tearing through the thin documents with ease and digging into the thick wood. It’s as much restraint he has, for if Azriel does not remove his shadows, he will take matters into his own hands.

Azriel’s furious as he realizes, the apples of his cheeks red with rage. He’s panting like a feral hound but acts as their master as he calls his shadows to him. They melt against Rhysands wrists, pinpricks of acid against his tan skin as the obey.

A shadow snakes its way back towards Azriel, weaving its way around shaking hands curled into tight fists. It rests at his shoulder like a crow, its caw of war is something even Rhysand can make out clearly.

Violet eyes meet blazing gold, a war between two brothers.

Rhysand had to give it to his spymaster. He could see how the male was spiraling, even without having to look into his mind. He had nearly felt the realm shift on its axis when his nightmarish powers released, sleeping throughout the city like icy death.

“What’s on your mind, Azriel?” Rhysand questions. His tone is the same coolness he uses when talking to Beron or Tamlin. It’s never been directed at Azriel before and it only makes him angrier, wings tightening and shadows hissing threats in his ears.

“Don’t play coy, Rhysand,” his shadowsinger spits. His fingers twitch, begging to uncurl and reach for the familiar cool hilts of his swords. He hates it. Hates that Rhysand is taking the easy way out and putting on his front as High Lord, making it known that he is the true ruler, instead of acting that as an understanding brother.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” The enervated lilt to his voice sharpens as he catches Azriel’s slight movements, his instinct to carve answers from the flesh of his brother. But Rhysand is no fool and he will not be treated as such.

He’s toying with him, of this Azriel knows. Waiting to see how he reacts. If he was a better male he would sit down in the plush chair across from his brother and talk about it. But he’s not. He’s steaming mad and Rhysand knows this. The beast lurking beneath his skin transforms the emotions to feral rage. Azriel blinks the red from his vision. Once. Twice.

Rhysand understands exactly why he’s here because the darkness has reported no other bodies within the River House with them. He’s sent his mate and his son away, sensing his burning wrath through whatever mental bonds he shared with them.

Protecting his mate and his kin.

Something Azriel has never gotten the chance to do, because he hadn’t even been aware he had a child of his own.

His stomach twists and the flare of outrage nearly shoves him over the edge. Acid rips through his organs and up his throat and Azriel takes a shuddering breath as he pulls on the reins with all his might. The darkness inside of him feels like that of a crow, picking at the cracks in his armor like a sledgehammer with its beak, slowly chipping away at his hold.

He growls at the feeling in his chest, a hot knife to his heart as he thinks about what Rhys has kept from him, from what he’s done to you, to his son.

“I have a son.” The admission alone both soothes and angers him. A storm of warmth and bitter darkness battle for power.

Rhysand only hums, and the darkness wins out.

Azriel bares his teeth, speaking before his brother deigns to respond with an indifferent goad that will only make him more furious. “Why didn’t I know, but you do?”

Watching the stars wink out of the violet skies that are Rhysand eyes should scare his beast away, but it only reacts to it, the gold of his eyes swirling with black shadows.

“You never realized or asked about what we were doing when you weren’t around because you were too busy with your head shoved up Elain’s skirts. Maybe I should appoint a new spymaster,” Rhysand rasps lowly, and they both flinch. A brutal admission that sends shame zinging up his spine. His knees nearly give out with it and he growls like a rabid animal in response, Rhysand’s power and his shadows swathing the room into complete black.

They’ve fought in his darkness before, and now, as Azriel launches himself across the large desk, Rhys is ready, his own beast waiting for him with raised fists.