#cicadas creations
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so I finally got clangen working on my chromebook, so here have some doodles of the leader/deputy/healer of my first clan, Thymeclan! Here we have Tallstar (he/him, compassionate and a masterful storyteller), Clawpatch (he/him, also compassionate and a masterful storyteller lol), and Weedspeck (he/him, sneaky and a strange dreamer)
I'll draw the whole clan eventually, and maybe do doodles of fun things that happen as I play :DD
#cicadas creations#clangen#ocs: thymeclan#oc: tallstar#oc: clawpatch#oc: weedspeck#warrior cat ocs#idk what to tag lol#ive been on a warriors kick lately lol sorry gamers#i don't really like the og books but Man I forgot how fun making warrior ocs can be
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Going for a swim in UV resin! Hopefully this will protect my delicate shell from breakage, and look at all the bubbles!!
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Cicadae, lantern fly, etc. Animate creation : popular edition of “Our living world” : a natural history - John George Wood et al. - 1898 - via Internet Archive
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A dumb hypothetical that I think about way too often is the "1 of every Pokémon VS a billion lions" one, because to formulate an answer to this question requires answering a bunch of subquestions to work out just how strong/effective a small handful of Pokémon actually would be in this scenario. Because while there are a lot of Pokémon who could fight a bunch of lions and win, a billion lions is in fact quite a lot of lions, to the point where we struggle to fully grasp the number. Even some of the strongest Pokémon who could arguably take down 100's of lions could still barely make a dent in a billion.
But the subquestions I mentioned don't all apply to the strongest Pokémon (a bunch still do though), but instead to a bunch of specific Pokémon who could be extremely effective in this specific scenario. I will now present some examples:
1. Do the Lions have any way of harming Shedinja?
Shedinja may be a posessed cicada shell with a whopping 1 HP, but it also has the ability wonder guard, which means that only attacks that are super effective can hit it. Lions don't use Pokémon moves, this is because they are lions. Shedinja doesn't need to eat or drink either, it just floats ominously. Therefore, unlike the lions it won't eventually die of hunger or thirst. Are the Lions even capeable of hurting it? And to expand upon this, are they capeable of harming any Ghost type Pokémon? If not, easy Pokémon victory.
2: What about Pokémon that are too hot to touch?
Firstly, I'm not talking about the whole "The Pokémon Sapphire Pokédex says Magcargo is hotter than the sun" thing, because we know for a fact that simply isn't true. However, that doesn't change the fact that there are Pokémon that are at least partially made out of lava/magma (does how you describe their biology depend on where they physically are at the time?). Just like us, stuff that hot is something the lions would want to avoid. How could they defeat these Pokémon?
3: "To protect its Trainer, it will expend all its psychic power to create a small black hole."
Ok, to quickly state the obvious: The Pokédex is pretty far from being a reputable peer reviewed journal. But it is also our best source of info on what Pokémon are capeable of, and it repeatedly states that Gardevoir can create "a small black hole". What a "small black hole" means exactly is honestly really unclear. Is it an actual black hole? If it is than Gardevoir could singlehandedly make a huge dent in the number of Lions.
4: Adjusting the Weather Forcast
So, flooding the entire planet would defeat the lions, and so would a permanent drought. These two are both capeable of causing one of those things each. But both really want to do their thing, and really don't want the other to do their thing. Could they come to a peaceful agreement in the face of a common enemy (the lions), or would they continue to fight? Also, would they even have time to complete their weather based win conditions? Kyogre's would work faster, but flooding the entire planet would take quite a lot of time…
5: The big one, what is usually the ultimate argument in favour of the Pokémon. Is Arceus actually God?
If Arceus is God, than instant undeniable dub for Pokémon with 0 questions asked. But, there's an issue with Arceus's divinity that many people aren't aware of. Arceus has claimed that it is God and that it created a bunch of the other legendary Pokémon, and the Pokédex corroborates this. BUT! The truth of this myth relies upon Arceus being the first Pokémon. This is where Arceus comes into question, because we already had a first Pokémon:
Mew, who has been in the series since gen 1, and who is theorised (in universe) to be the common ancestor of all Pokémon. Mew was therefore the first species of Pokémon, from which all other Pokémon are descended. But then how is Arceus also the first Pokémon? The question of whether Arceus is God or just an absurdily powerful Godlike Pokémon depends on whether you adhere to Pokémon creationism or Pokémon evolutionary theory. Basically though, there's a chance that Arceus may not actually be God, which changes things quite substantially.
Some less important questions that still Kinda matter (a little):
Just how hard is Registeel? It's hollow, but made of "a material that is harder than any known metal" (quote from Bulbapedia) could the Lions deal with that?
Yveltal steals the lifeforce of living things around it, Could it slurp up a billion Lions?
How many Lions could Guzzlord eat?
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Napoleonville [Chapter 5: The Haunted House]
Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.
Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, infidelity, kids, parenthood, Adventures With Aegon, Targ family dysfunction, bodily injury, no Willis this time yay!!! 🥳
Word Count: 7.3k.
Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.
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Every house is haunted, not just by phantoms of the past but by the ghosts of what could have been. They live in shadows, in doorways, in the periphery of your vision; you walk through them like smoke or mist. Their blood—pooled and pulseless—is a cold spot in a sweltering room, their fingerprints are the woodgrain swirls of floorboards. If you listen closely, you can hear them at night in the chorus of the cicadas and the owls and the wet westbound wind. They whisper questions you’ve never been able to answer: Have I made the right choices? Have I done the best I could? Is love a myth or does it only exist for other people? Am I a prisoner of the past or the future or myself? Why have I never been chosen?
In the bathtub, you stare at the pale blue walls veined with cracks like the legs of a spider. On the tree swing in the front yard—here long before you moved in, inherited from the effort and care of another family’s hands—you skim your bare feet over emerald blades of grass and watch the lightning bugs appear at dusk. In Cadi’s room, you play the Nintendo when she asks and try to forget who gave it to her; and when she asks about Aemond, you say he’s busy with work, because how else can you explain his absence to a child? In the kitchen, you break eggs into glass bowls of vanilla, sugar, flour, butter, baking powder, but you keep getting pieces of shell in the mix, something that almost never happens anymore. You snap, grab an egg, pitch it against the refrigerator where it explodes into calcium carbonate shrapnel and sterile yellow gore.
Amir looks up, startled. Behind his rectangular tortoiseshell glasses, his eyes dart between you and the viscera that stains the refrigerator door. At last he says softly, seriously: “What is it you liked so much about him?” Implicit in this statement are others: You’ve never liked a man this much. You’ll never see Aemond again.
You study your palms, tools of creation, tools that destroy. “I spend every second of my life consumed by responsibilities. The house, the car, the bakery, the bills, Cadi, Willis, myself, even you. There’s no one to tell me what the right thing to do is. There’s no one who can carry the weight for me. I can’t show it when I’m tired or frustrated or scared. And so to have someone who—even for an hour, even for fifteen minutes—could take care of me, and make all the decisions, and convince me to trust him…it’s the closest I ever get to being at peace.”
Amir gives you a sad, vanishingly small smile. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.” And you wet a dishcloth so you can begin to clean up your mess.
~~~~~~~~~~
It’s Thursday, and you’re coming home after delivering cakes for a birthday party down in Thibodaux. Your car radio is blaring Message In A Bottle by The Police. When you roll into the gravel driveway, the red Audi Quattro is waiting for you: parked right beside the house, like he belongs here, like he owns it. You throw open the door of your Chevy Celebrity and rage up the sloping, groaning steps of the front porch.
The first thing that hits you is the cold. There is an ambient humming, a chill that raises goosebumps on your bare arms. When you rush to the kitchen, you find an air conditioning unit in one of the windows, a metal box that turns the Fall-Down House into a tundra. They’re sitting at the hastily-cleared counter: Aemond leafing through the ledger book containing the financial records for the bakery, Amir beside him sipping a glass of sweet tea. Aemond glances up at you and then back down at the pale green pages, the lines of his face intense, focused. Amir greets you with a nervous titter, hiding behind his sweet tea. Ice jangles in the glass.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Our new air conditioner!” Amir says, overjoyed. “The customers are going to love it. No more waiting around in a stifling kitchen. You know how miserable it gets in here during the summer. We won’t be able to get rid of them! They’ll be purchasing cupcakes by the dozen just to have an excuse to get out of the heat!”
Aemond is still scrutinizing the ledger. “Why aren’t you buying more things in bulk?” he asks Amir. “The shelf life on things like sugar and flour has got to be six months at least.”
“We don’t have the liquid capital. We can’t spend cash if we don’t have cash.”
“And all these business expenses—mixers, coolers, pans, blenders, knives, the gas you burn when you make deliveries, the water you use to wash dishes—those are all tax write-offs, right?”
Amir hesitates. Aemond is aghast, his eyebrows shooting up into the blonde hair that shags over his forehead. The strands are damp with sweat and curling at the edges; he’s been working hard. He’s the one who heaved the air conditioner up onto the window ledge. His Marlboro jacket is draped over the back of his barstool. He’s wearing jeans, a black MTV t-shirt, and his Adidas sneakers.
“Please tell me you haven’t been paying income tax on money you aren’t actually keeping.”
“I didn’t know what we were allowed to write off, I was petrified to make a mistake! I don’t want to end up in Rikers!”
“They don’t put people in Rikers for tax evasion. You’d only go to minimum security.”
Amir rolls his eyes. “Well now you’ve convinced me.”
You are betrayed, furious. “You’re showing him the book?”
“He’s very bossy,” Amir says, slurping his sweet tea. “As you know.”
Aemond asks you, making notes on a legal pad he’s commandeered: “Do you have an IRA?”
“A what?”
“An IRA,” Aemond repeats slowly, emphasizing every syllable. “An individual retirement account.”
Should I? Could I? What the hell is that? “Um. I don’t think so.”
Aemond sighs, exasperated. He jots down another bullet point on his legal pad. “You need one.”
“I need you to get out of my house.”
“Shh!” Amir pleads. “He bought us an air conditioner!”
“Do you know how much that’s going to cost us in electricity? The bill is going to go through the roof. We’re not going to be able to afford this. And he doesn’t care, because he hasn’t even thought of it. Drop an oil rig into a lake and solve the unemployment crisis. Throw an air conditioner in a window and buy someone’s loyalty. He doesn’t understand us. He doesn’t care about us. He’s not capable of it.”
“I’ll pay for the electricity,” Aemond says. Now he’s looking at you.
“Get out,” you demand.
He seems—perplexingly—to be genuinely wounded. “I’m trying to help you.”
“Get out!”
Aemond stands, walks to you, backs you up until your shoulder blades hit the refrigerator. The metal door is cluttered with Cadi’s drawings, secured there with multicolored alphabet magnets: dinosaurs eating people, Rambo, astronauts rocketing to the moon, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Aemond is so close you can smell the cigarette smoke and cologne and sweat on him, see the smudges of ink on his fingers. His right eye travels all over you, defiant and hungry. His left eye—and you only notice when there’s no space left between you—is an impassive, glassy, not-quite-identical blue that never moves. It’s an imposter, and a very good one; but it’s not him. You think, unable to say it: What happened to your face? Who hurt you? Instead you strike out to shove Aemond away with both hands.
“Get out of my house—!”
“You want to get rough with me? Will that make you feel better?” he murmurs darkly, ignoring your palms when they collide with his chest, his collarbones, his jaw. Your flesh can’t hurt him, it can only graze his skin like stray bullets. “You want to hit me? Go ahead. I’ve had worse. I promise you I have.”
“I hate you!”
But you haven’t said the right word, and you both know it. He grabs your wrists, holds them still, whispers low and menacing into your ear as you struggle to rip your hands out of his grasp. “I dreamed about you all night. Tying you down, stretching you open. I want that. I think you do too.”
“I don’t want it,” you hiss; but already you’re imagining him on top of you, inside you, in control of you, and to resist that is like trying to fight the instinct to seek water, sleep, sunlight.
“Then tell me to stop.”
You glare up at Aemond, raging, burning. His gaze locks with yours and stays there. You are suddenly aware of the heat of his fingers linked around your wrists, of the pressure of his hips against yours as he pins you to the refrigerator. You can’t say it. I don’t want him to stop touching me. I don’t want him to leave and never come back.
Again, Aemond dares you: “Tell me to stop.”
From the kitchen counter, Amir is gawking at you both, his eyes huge, stunned, painfully uncomfortable. Nonetheless, he doesn’t look away. “I’m not leaving,” he informs Aemond. Just in case you’re weak enough to agree to something you’ll regret later; just in case you need a friend.
The spell breaks, the curse lifts. Aemond releases you and takes several steps back. He breathes deeply, running his fingers through his damp hair, composing himself. “You’re a good person,” he says to Amir.
“Thanks. I’m afraid I can’t return the compliment.”
Aemond turns back to you. Now he’s penitent, measured. Already, a part of you misses the weight of his bones on yours. But that’s not why Aemond is here. “Let me talk. Let me explain.”
No, you almost say. I’m not interested. I don’t want you anymore. There’s nothing you can tell me that will make me feel at peace with you again.
Instead, after long moments colored by waning sunlight and the whirring of the new air conditioner in the window: “Okay.”
~~~~~~~~~~
You’re on the tree swing, gripping the ropes and swaying slightly back and forth as you push off with your bare feet, rocking from your heels to your toes and then back again. Aemond lights a cigarette and takes a drag as he sits cross-legged on the grass in front of you. Amir keeps peeking out from between the blinds of the living room windows. Aemond glances around the yard, and you realize he’s searching for the alligator. His Marlboro jacket is folded neatly on the ground next to him.
“The gator’s not here right now, Aemond. She’s probably over in the trees. She’s not going to hurt you.”
He nods, but he doesn’t seem convinced. He fidgets restlessly with his cigarette.
All that money, all that power, all that ecological ruin, and he’s petrified of a five-foot gator that’s probably never eaten anything bigger than a pelican. It’s ridiculous. You smile weakly. “I think you have a phobia.”
He gestures to his scar, to his ruined left eye. “I’m afraid one will sneak up on me and I won’t be able to see it.”
He’s never spoken like this to you before, acknowledging his limitations, his impairment. He’s trying to be honest. He really is. “Where’s Christabel?”
“Back in the U.K.”
“When are you getting married?”
He shrugs, uninterested. “A few months from now, I guess. July. August. It doesn’t matter. I’m not really involved in the planning.”
“You’re a cheater,” you say. It comes out less accusatory than mournful. Why did you have to disappoint me? Why did you have to ruin this?
Aemond is dismissive. He puffs on his cigarette. “Everyone cheats.”
“No they don’t.”
“Everyone from my world cheats,” Aemond amends. “You marry for money or status or land or whatever, to prove you can snag someone who should be above you, to make your parents proud of you, to make sure your children have the right last name and titles. Then when the novelty fades—and it does, it always does—you find passion elsewhere.”
“That’s barbaric.”
“That’s aristocratic. Poor people get divorced two or three times. They have public brawls and call the cops on each other. We just have a different solution to life’s inevitabilities. My mother cheats with Criston, Daemon and Rhaenyra cheated with each other, I cheat with you, Aegon cheats with…I couldn’t even list them. A lot of people.”
Aegon. So that’s the debaucherous brother’s name. “Not all fancy rich people cheat. Prince Charles doesn’t cheat.”
Aemond bursts out laughing. “Of course he does! He’s been fucking Camilla Parker Bowles since like 1970!”
Your stomach sinks. Poor Diana. “I thought they were just friends now.”
“Yeah, sure, that’s what the tabloids say.” He inhales smoke—cancerous, lethal—and then exhales it in a grey gale like fog. “I think they stopped for a few years after he got married. But presently they spend as much time as they possibly can rendezvousing at all their friends’ country estates. Charles and Diana are miserable, but they’ll never split up. She’s entertaining herself with a cavalry officer named James Hewitt. Who looks suspiciously like Prince Harry, by the way.”
“And who does your father fuck on the side? Nancy Reagan?”
“He prefers the memory of a dead woman to my living mother. I’d say that counts as infidelity.”
The photograph Aegon showed me on the Targaryens’ refrigerator. Rhaenyra’s mother. And what else had been on that refrigerator? Pictures of the rest of the family? Old sketches and report cards? Souvenirs? A calendar with upcoming birthdays circled or starred? No. There was nothing. You consider Aemond with a disorienting blend of pity and barbed, venomous frustration. “I’m sorry Viserys has never been a good father to you. But that’s not an excuse to ruin other people’s lives.”
“Look, what you did…” Aemond begins with sizable effort. He puts the end of his cigarette out on the sole of one of his Adidas sneakers. “To walk away from something you believe isn’t right when everyone else is telling you to stay…that’s not easy. And maybe for you it didn’t feel so insurmountable because you’ve had to learn how to survive painful things on your own before. But all I’ve ever done was break my own bones so my father would notice me. I don’t mean that as a metaphor. I’ve fractured my ribs, my hands, my skull. And it’s still not enough. Love isn’t given in my family. I have to earn it. It’s all I know.”
“You could learn something new.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t. I won’t. That’s not a language I speak.”
Exactly how bad of a father was Viserys Targaryen? “Aemond, what happened to your face?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
You study him. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to be my Camilla,” Aemond says.
“No. No way.” But you’re amazed by how badly you want to say yes. One word and he’ll touch me again? One word and I can have him back the way we were before? It doesn’t seem possible to resist that. It’s not something that should be expected of any mortal.
“I want to be around you. I want you to keep making me feel the way you do, because it’s…it’s…it’s not something I get from anyone else. And I want to make your life better. I have the ability to do that.”
“Because you’re an oil tycoon.”
“Yes,” Aemond agrees. “I was born to be one, and so I am. But even if I wasn’t—if I refused, if I died—it’s not like the trillion-dollar industry would just disappear. There’s Jade Dragon, sure, but there’s also ExxonMobil, Shell, British Petroleum, Chevron, Valero, Marathon, a hundred others. Someone would be drilling on Lake Verret regardless. But the person in charge might be less scrupulous than I am. I’m doing the best I can here.”
“Were you in Ketchikan when the spill happened there?”
“No. I’ve never been to Alaska. That was someone else’s project. It was a fuckup, it was Jade Dragon’s fault. But my father is the one fighting it in court. I have no control over that.”
Someone else’s project…
“Come to my house tonight,” he says.
“No, Aemond.”
“Then come over on Saturday.” And you think: He remembered which days Cadi is usually with Willis.
“I don’t want to be your mistress.” I want to be more than that, oh God, I want so much more. You think of Christabel touching him and wrenching nausea cuts through you like a blade. You imagine Aemond’s hands taking off her clothes—zippers, buttons, ribbons, belts—and you feel like there’s almost nothing you wouldn’t do to stop it from happening.
“We’re from two very different words,” Aemond says calmly, sensibly. “And it’s going to be impossible for us to understand each other unless we make an effort to learn about where we’ve come from. You’ve invited me into your home, your business, your family, and I’m very grateful for that. Now I need to do the same. And I think if you see more of my life, you’ll realize why I make the decisions I do and what it would mean for us to be together. Because in my experience, husbands and wives aren’t soulmates like they are in books or movies. It’s someone else who you actually…” He breaks off, then continues once he’s decided on the phrasing. “Spend most of your time with.”
Part of you knows that this arrangement would be hopelessly inadequate; you would feel like you were settling for less than you want, you would feel unchosen. But the louder part of you is clinging to it like a life raft. I want him to touch me again. I want him to make me forget about everything else. “I’ll think about it. Visiting the house, I mean.”
“Please do,” Aemond says. “How was Cadi’s weekend fishing?”
He really does listen to you; he remembers things. Even things you mention once and then never again. “She loved it. Willis knows more about the bayou than I’ll ever know about baking. They caught three catfish, four breams, and a bass, and then they made them into fish sticks. Thank God she has one parent who can cook. Even if Willis thinks Hungry Jack mashed potatoes are a vegetable. You know what he puts in the pot instead of milk? Coffee creamer. Cups of it.”
Aemond doesn’t seem pleased to be reminded of Willis’ existence. He says, rather mechanically: “I’m really glad Cadi enjoyed herself.” He grabs his Marlboro jacket, rises to his feet, scans the yard for the alligator. She’s made an appearance at last: she’s sunbathing about ten yards away, nowhere near close enough to be a nuisance. Still, Aemond frowns. Then he clears his face and looks back to you one last time as he strides towards his Audi Quattro. “And Cupcake?”
You peer up at him, shielding your eyes from the late-afternoon sun. “Yeah?”
“When you come to the house…” He grins. Not if. When. “Bring your swimsuit.”
~~~~~~~~~~
You cut the engine and survey the grand entranceway of the house that the Targaryens call The Last Desire, words in Greek that you couldn’t pronounce. The blue merle Great Dane—Vhagar, you recall, yet another bizarre foreign name—is lurking between the towering white columns of the wraparound porch. “Fantastic,” you mutter, stepping out of the car. It’s Saturday, 2 p.m., hot and muggy and cicadas screeching in the southern live oaks. Green anoles dart across the cobblestones and freshly-painted white wood of the porch. Whooping cranes, haughty and fragile, ogle you with reptilian yellow eyes.
You pause when you reach the bottom step of the porch. The Great Dane growls at you, her lips curling up to show long fanglike teeth. You’re carrying two bakery boxes stacked on top of each other: one contains a dozen blueberry pie cupcakes, the second filled with fresh Cap’n Crunch Treats. You glance around for someone to assist you with the hostile dog situation. You have no interest in attempting to shove her away like Alicent did on the day of the engagement party.
Blessedly, the head butler materializes in the doorway and beckons you inside. When Vhagar snarls as you approach, the butler pulls a small plastic water gun from the pocket of his black dress pants. “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” he tells you, and then squirts the dog several times. Vhagar reluctantly lopes away. “Please allow me to escort you to the pool. Mr. Targaryen instructed us to be on the lookout for you.” Then he breezes into the house without checking to make sure you’re following him.
You trot after the butler through the white-and-gold foyer, the deep red living room, and then out into the garden. There is a long row of neon green lounge chairs on the side of the pool opposite of the water slide. Three of the chairs are occupied. Helaena is stretched across one wearing a frilly one-piece, floral with ladybugs; her chameleon is perched on the top of the adjustable backrest. Alicent is in the chair beside her, dressed in a turquoise blue coverup that matches the pool water and reading The Silence of the Lambs. They both wave nonchalantly, seemingly unsurprised by your presence. And then there’s Aegon. He’s smoking a joint as a black boombox beside him plays The Cure’s Why Can’t I Be You? You place both bakery boxes on a table shielded from the sun by a large green umbrella.
“What’s in there?” Aegon asks. He’s wearing pink plastic sunglasses, a radiant fuchsia sunburn, and a Speedo patterned with pineapples. His ferret is curled up in his lap and napping.
“Blueberry pie cupcakes and Cap’n Crunch Treats.”
“Yes! Pass me one of each.”
“Don’t be rude, Aegon,” Alicent says dully, turning a page of her book. “She’s not a servant.”
“She’s a literal baker. I’m asking for baked goods.”
“Dear, I’ve been singing your praises to every single person I cross paths with in this jungle of a town,” Alicent tells you, ignoring him. “Have you noticed yet?”
You hand Aegon his treats; he marvels at the miniature blueberry pie placed atop the cupcake frosting before scarfing it down. “I think we’ve had more customers than usual this week, now that you mention it. Thank you so much! Amir and I are more grateful than we could ever express.”
“Oh, it’s the least I could do, love,” Alicent says. Criston appears with a strawberry daiquiri and gives it to her, complete with a swirl of whipped cream and a little pink toothpick umbrella pierced through a wedge of lime. Criston wears a pair of roomy Hawaiian board shorts and his single gold earring. Alicent takes a sip. “Heavenly! I am completely revived.”
“Helaena, would you like one?” Criston asks.
“Yes please.”
“And one for Aemond’s friend too, please,” Alicent says. Criston nods and hurries off again. Nobody asks if Aegon wants a strawberry daiquiri. He gnaws moodily at his cupcake and then when it’s gone moves on to the Cap’n Crunch Treat. Helaena’s chameleon snatches a dragonfly out of the air with its tongue. Alicent shudders.
Aemond’s friend? Friend?? You sit down on the lounge chair next to Aegon, still wearing your pale pink coverup. He tells you: “Aemond should be back soon. He got a phone call and had to swing by the rigs after lunch but he didn’t think it would take long.” Then Aegon smiles toothily, and you notice he has residual white powder around the corners of his lips and just inside his nostrils. “It’s good to meet you properly this time, now that I’m aware of all your talents.”
“You know about Aemond’s…uh…preferences?”
“Oh yeah, and I knew he had a girl. He always has to have a girl. I just didn’t know it was you. He doesn’t usually bring them around the family.”
You steal a glimpse of Alicent and Helaena. If they’re listening in, they’re doing an excellent job of not acting like they are.
“I think we should address this,” Aegon says.
You are stymied. “Address what?”
“It would never work, me and you.”
“I hadn’t even thought of it.”
“Sure you haven’t,” Aegon says. He flourishes a hand melodramatically. “You need a dom. I am, lamentably, an irredeemable sub. I’m a sheep in wolf’s clothing.”
“Okay, Aegon.”
“I just needed to break the tension.”
“I think you’re imagining that.”
There are footsteps, the slapping of flip flops against the cobblestones, and then someone who looks like a younger, more cheerful, more sober Aegon arrives at the pool. He is dressed in royal blue swim trunks that stop at his mid-thigh; his wavy blond hair is down to his shoulders. Like his family members, he also does not seem at all surprised to see you. “Hi,” he says, shaking your hand. “I’m Daeron. I didn’t get to introduce myself at the engagement party. I’m sorry about that. I was entangled in a very competitive tennis match on the courts out back for most of the day.”
Alicent asks: “Daeron, love, would you like a strawberry daiquiri when Criston reappears?”
“Yeah, Mum, that would be great.” He parks himself on the available chair beside her and begins asking about her book. As they chat, a blue macaw flaps through the garden and uses its long, leathery talons to claim the backrest of Daeron’s lounge chair.
“It’s so sweet of you to take an interest in my reading, Daeron,” Alicent gushes. “None of my other children ever do…”
Aegon groans loudly. Everyone ignores him. Criston arrives with two strawberry daiquiris, one for you and one for Helaena. You take a sip through a plastic straw with several loops in it: icy cold and jarringly sweet.
“And one for Daeron too please, Criston,” Alicent requests. “Did you hear that he just got another article published? It’s about evaluating rock wettability.” Her tone suggests that she has no idea what this means; nonetheless, she is ardently enthusiastic.
“That kid is going places,” Criston says admiringly.
Aegon counters: “That kid’s had phone sex with Michelle Pfeiffer.”
You laugh, thinking that it’s a joke. Daeron just gives you a sheepish smile. Oh, you think. Not a joke.
Criston hustles back inside the house. An old man passes Criston as he strolls out to the pool. He looks around blearily, like he’s hungover or has just woken up from a nap or both. His bloodshot eyes skate over you without much interest. He squints at the pool floats that bob in the rippling, crystalline water, sparkly rings and an assortment of foam noodles and a giant cartoonish alligator.
“How was Kiribati?” Aegon says.
“Much better than here. This goddamn humidity!”
“I can’t believe you missed the engagement party, Father,” Alicent says glumly.
“Oh no, how could I! I’ll never have any way of knowing what transpired!” He plops down onto a chair near the end of the row. His bare feet are gnarled, his toenails long and yellowed. “Let me guess. Cake was served, champagne was toasted, people bragged about their stupid hobbies and their ugly children, that girl scuttled about with her perpetually-startled eyes and asinine comments. Do you remember when she tried to give me her condolences when she learned your mother passed away years ago? Why would I want some moonstruck idiot’s condolences? She didn’t know your mother. She doesn’t know anything.”
“Christabel is very young,” Alicent offers gently.
“She’s very something, that’s for sure. Very useless. Very irritating. This family would be in a much better state if Viserys wasn’t the one making all the decisions. His judgment has declined precipitously.” He casts a poisonous glare at Aegon. Aegon pretends not to notice.
“I like Christabel,” Helaena says. Her chameleon gobbles up a butterfly that ventures too close.
“Yes, I’m sure you do.” The old man’s voice is kinder now. “You see the best in everyone. But dear Helaena, we are in for a lifetime of insipid simpers and vapid conversations.”
“A lifetime?” Aegon says. “So not much longer for you, Grandfather. What a comfort.”
The old man glowers at Aegon. “We should have left you in Alaska to have your throat slit by those animals.” And you hear Aemond’s words reverberating in your skull: I’ve never been to Alaska. That was someone else’s project.
Aegon is rolling himself a fresh joint, accidentally spilling sprinkles of weed on his slumbering ferret. He snorts. “I don’t care what Alaskans think of me.”
Daeron says: “Aegon, you poisoned 1,000 square miles of the ocean.”
“The fucking ocean,” Aegon mutters. “What do we even need the ocean for?”
“Vacations,” Otto says.
Helaena adds: “Sushi.”
Daeron is distressed. “Actually, the ocean is super important.”
“Why are we talking about the ocean?” Aemond asks as he strolls through the garden and pauses by the edge of the pool to dip a foot in to test the temperature. He’s wearing black swim trunks and nothing else, just his skin, just his scar and his glass left eye. He sees you, smiles, goes to the bakery boxes and lifts out a cupcake. He sits down on the edge of your lounge chair as he licks off the wave-blue frosting. No one makes any comment, and no one brings up Aegon’s role in the Ketchikan oil spill again.
Criston returns once more with a strawberry daiquiri for Daeron. “Well, I’ve just about killed the blender, so hopefully we don’t need any more—”
“But Criston!” Alicent cries. “What about Aemond and my father? Perhaps they are in need of refreshments.”
Criston sighs. Crestfallen, he looks at Aemond. “Do you want a strawberry daiquiri?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll just have a few sips of hers.”
Aegon says: “Can I get a pina colada?”
Criston turns towards the old man. “Otto? Daiquiri?”
“No, but if you could immediately teleport me back to the South Pacific, I would greatly appreciate it.”
“Pina colada??” Aegon says again.
“Okay, Aegon,” Criston snaps. “Calm down. Let me figure out if we have any more coconut cream.” Alicent’s part-time bodyguard and personal assistant, part-time babysitter, part-time affair partner vanishes into the house yet again.
Aegon lurches to his feet. “No one listens to me,” he tells you morosely. “You see that? No one remembers. That’s how you know they don’t care.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Alicent tells Aegon, not looking up from her book.
“Wait, someone is missing…” Otto muses, stroking his beard.
Aegon staggers to the edge of the pool, drags over a sparkly turquoise inflatable ring, and flops onto it. He paddles himself out towards the center of the pool. His ferret bounds after him, leaps into the water, and swims until it reaches Aegon, wriggling through the blue like a golden-furred snake. “Hey Sunfyre, you wanted to come too?” Aegon lifts the soaked ferret from the water and places it on his chest, soft and sunburned. “My bad. I assumed you’d prefer dry land.”
Otto—cantankerous and grating—looks around, baffled. “Wait, where’s Viserys?”
“He’s inspecting some of the rigs out in the Gulf of Mexico,” Aemond says as he finishes the cupcake and takes a slurp of your daiquiri. “He won’t be back until the end of the week.”
“Thank God,” Aegon exclaims from the middle of the pool.
Alicent changes the subject. “How long have you been baking, dear?” she asks you.
“Forever, basically. But I started getting serious about making it a business when my daughter was really young, about nine years ago. Now Amir and I sell hundreds of items a week, sometimes thousands.”
Daeron is nodding along, but he appears a little confused. He has gotten himself a Cap’n Crunch Treat and is feeding pieces of it to his blue macaw. “And you do that because…you want to?”
“Well I have to pay rent.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.”
“And I could have been a checkout girl at the Doller General, or worked seasonally harvesting soybeans or sugarcane, or begged my ex-husband to get me a job in the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office…but I wanted to do something that didn’t make me miserable. And something that was really mine, that I chose.” Aemond is watching you thoughtfully. The other Targaryens are a tad interested but far more perplexed. They can’t understand work the way you do. They can’t understand money as something that must be counted.
“Brilliant!” Alicent declares at last. “Well, maybe one day we’ll have you making six cakes for Helaena’s engagement party, who knows!”
“It would be my absolute pleasure. Do you have a potential husband hanging around, Helaena?”
She giggles, covering her blushing face with both hands. Her chameleon creeps down to cling to her shoulder, as if to make sure she’s alright. Its conical eyes flit in random directions, an unmitigated freak of nature. You should have more compassion for it.
Aemond grins. “Helaena is responsible for no less than three broken engagements. She can’t commit.”
“And she’s only into guys who look like Aegon,” Daeron adds.
“No!” Helaena objects. “That is such a lie, that’s not true!”
“Evander?” Daeron says.
Helaena pauses to think. “Okay, yes, he looked kind of like Aegon.”
“He did, didn’t he?” Alicent frets, nibbling at the fingernail of her pinky.
“Dimitri?” Aemond says.
“Oh no,” Helaena moans; but she’s laughing too. “Oh no.”
“Sebastian?” Aegon says, and now they’re all howling.
Otto shakes his head. “Freud would definitely have some thoughts about this.”
“Bloody hell,” Helaena whimpers, swiping tears from her face. Her chameleon nudges her jaw with its shimmering, blue-green muzzle. “I totally only date guys who look like Aegon.”
Aegon shrugs from where he’s floating in the pool with Sunfyre. “Good taste, I’d say. Fuck them all, homegirl.”
“Aegon!” Alicent shouts, scandalized.
Criston dashes out of the house and to the edge of the pool, clutching a pina colada that is swiftly melting. “You better paddle yourself over here, kid. I don’t offer in-water delivery.”
“You’d do it for my mother.”
“Probably. But you’re not her.”
Aegon groans as he splashes around without making much progress. “Okay, okay, give me a second…”
Aemond turns to you. “How do you like the house? I realized I never got the chance to ask last weekend.”
“I like all the stained glass, and I like that every room is a different color. The living room is red, the dining room is yellow, the kitchen is teal, Aegon’s bedroom is black—”
“Wait, how do you know?” Aemond is alarmed.
You chuckle. “No, no, not like that. I was lost and looking for a bathroom.”
“Didn’t do anything,” Aegon announces from his pool float. “Didn’t do it, didn’t try it, didn’t even think about it. Well…maybe I thought about it. But I definitely did not do anything.”
“Okay.” Aemond exhales, relived. “Close call.”
“What color is your room?”
He’s not going to waste the opportunity to extend an invitation. “Let me show you.”
On the same floor as Aegon’s punk rock bedroom and the lilac bathroom, you trail Aemond to the end of the hallway. At last he opens a door to reveal a room that is a deep, vivid blue like sapphires. The bookshelves that touch the ceiling are filled not with texts on engineering or the energy industry but histories of people whose names you don’t recognize. He has a massive wooden canopy bed swathed in dark blue velvet patterned with circling koi fish made of stars. He has a writing desk, a wardrobe full of suits, a television with an extensive VHS collection. The stained glass windows are a whirlpool of cerulean, navy, aquamarine, indigo, steel, azure. When you peer through the glass, you can see the gleaming currents of Lake Verret and the twisted dead ends of the bayou that forms at its edges, treacherous and untamed.
And when you start to feel that if Aemond tried to grab you, undress you, tie knots around your wrists you wouldn’t stop him, you tell him that you want to go back outside to the pool; and Aemond listens, and he doesn’t try to touch you even once.
~~~~~~~~~~
It’s Monday, two days later, and Aemond calls to ask if he can bring you and Cadi dinner. He shows up with all the trappings of what he insists is real Italian food, doubtlessly prepared by his family’s private chefs: focaccia, caprese salad, ossobuco, risotto, Bolognese, panna cotta. He forgets the red wine, so you drink sweet tea instead, the three of you crowded around the kitchen counter, ceaselessly passing dishes back and forth while the little pink Panasonic boombox plays You Spin Me Round by Dead Or Alive.
“Hey Mom?” Cadi says as she chomps on a hunk of focaccia.
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t you ever cook dinners like this?”
There’s a tiny little gut punch, something you’re used to swallowing down even if it bruises you to the heart, to the bones. She doesn’t know any better. You can’t cry, you can’t get mad. You shrug, dispassionate. Aemond glances over at you, abruptly tense but not saying anything. “Well honey, it’s probably because my job can be really busy sometimes, and I spend most of the day in the kitchen, so when dinner time comes around the last thing I want to do is cook. But we always have food to eat, right?”
“Yeah. Like Amir’s leftovers or frozen pizza or something. But all my friends’ moms cook nice dinners most nights. Can’t you do that? When I go to Michelle or Erica’s house for dinner their moms make barbeque ribs, gumbo, seafood boils, etouffee, tasso ham, homemade macaroni and cheese, like real dinners. I want us to have that too. What if my friends want to eat dinner here sometime? I can’t bring them over and then just throw some Swanson’s meals at them.”
Aemond has put his fork down on his plate and is clasping his hands together, trying to figure out what to say. But he shouldn’t say anything. It’s not his place.
You tell Cadi, as calmly as you can: “Different families have different kinds of dinners, and that’s okay. I bet your friends’ moms don’t have cakes and cookies around all the time, but you always have tons of dessert options. Our situation looks different than theirs, but there’s nothing wrong with either one.”
“But desserts aren’t even good for kids. Dinner is way more important. You can’t say I get cakes instead of dinner, too much cake will give me diseases or something.”
“Okay, Cadi. That’s enough. Let’s talk about this later.”
“I’m just saying it seems totally unfair that my friends get real dinners and I almost never do.”
Michelle and Erica’s moms don’t work. They have husbands to support them. So they can spend all day babying a fucking tasso ham, but I don’t have that luxury. And I don’t want to be chained to a man. I don’t want to trade having a say in how my life turns out for being able to slave away over dinner for four or five hours. “I regret to inform you that I’m not like Michelle and Erica’s moms.”
“I wish you were,” Cadi murmurs, entirely unaware of what she’s done. You bite your lower lip so you don’t snap at her, or try to explain, or break down sobbing. You taste blood, hot sharp copper that blooms like wildflowers.
Aemond stands up. His barstool squeals against the sloping wooden floor. “Hey, can I talk to you outside for a minute?” he asks Cadi.
“Aemond, what…?” you begin, but he’s already headed for the front door.
Cadi blinks up at him, horrified. “Why?”
“You’re not in trouble or anything. I just want to show you something. Come on. It’ll be quick.”
“Okay,” Cadi says doubtfully, looking at you. You give her your best reassuring smile, and she slides off her barstool and follows after Aemond. The front door opens and shuts. You don’t hear shouting, you don’t hear much of anything except the air conditioner and the boombox and the mourning doves, the long-eared owl, the cicadas, the bayou, the universe. You go to one of the living room windows and part the blinds to peek outside.
What you see is strange. Cadi is sitting on the swing, and Aemond is kneeling in front of her so they’re just about at the same eye level. You can see half of Aemond’s face; Cadi is blocking the rest. He’s explaining something to her with patient yet insistent gestures of his hands. Cadi says something, and Aemond nods and replies. He points to his scar, his glass eye, and says something else. Cadi asks a question, and Aemond hesitates. Then he acquiesces and moves closer to where she is perched on the tree swing. He reaches up towards the scarred side of his face, but you can’t see his eye. When he lowers his palm, there’s a small piece of curved, oval-shaped glass that glints in the dying sunlight.
“Cool!” you can hear Cadi exclaim, muffled through the windows that are now closed on account of the new air conditioning unit. She says something else, and Aemond agrees. You watch her hand extending towards his face, towards the injury he has revealed to her for reasons you can’t comprehend. You rush to other windows, trying to get a better view, but there’s no way for you to get a clear line of sight. Before you know it, your hear their footsteps drumming up the porch steps. The front door opens just as you’re scrambling back onto your barstool.
“Everything alright?” you say, more nervously than you intend to.
“Yup,” Cadi replies. She climbs into her seat and resumes wolfing down focaccia and Bolognese.
You look over at Aemond, bewildered. His glass eye is back in its socket. He appears composed, but you notice the fresh sheen of sweat on his forehead, at his temples, at the nape of his neck. He gives you a casual little smirk and then returns to his barstool. He picks up his full glass of sweet tea and drains it in three massive gulps.
“Hey Mom,” Cadi says, and your throat is suddenly full of embers.
“Yeah, honey?”
“Tonight is really fun,” she says. She twirls her fork in the pappardelle pasta of the Bolognese, splattering red sauce over her cheeks. “This is great. I want to do this more often.”
And the embers in your throat cool, vanish, are replaced by something vast and free.
“You really do need a new house,” Aemond says as he helps you clean up after dinner; Cadi has already abandoned you both for her Nintendo. “There are new constructions a little further down Route 401, between here and Lake Verret. Three bedrooms, two baths. Not a castle or anything, just the right size for you and Cadi. We can go look at them sometime.”
“I don’t need a whole new house. There are midcentury homes all over the place down here. They’re small, and they might need fixing up, but they’re a lot cheaper.” Then you add, because it sounds less pathetic: “And maybe it’s nice to have a house with some history, some character.”
“Old can be charming and quaint, sure. But brand new is better.”
“Why’s that?”
He smiles. “No ghosts.”
#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond one eye#aemond x reader#aemond fanfiction#aemond#aemond x you#aemond x y/n
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headcanon people, i need help coming up with ideas for ancient mudwing artifacts. here's what i have so far-
Pieces of a giant bowl that indicates the sharing of prepared food.
Deep bowls used for soups.
Painted pitchers that indicate the creation and consumption of mead and beer.
The stummel of a pipe fashioned to look like the head of a python. Indicates consumption of recreational drugs.
A massive vessel used for fermenting food items. Once again indicates the preparation of food.
A petrified wooden totem that seems to have been carved after petrification. As a result, it is the most well preserved piece of mudwing wood art and it has become an important cultural symbol in the modern era.
Half of a highly detailed wooden crocodile mask made for a seemingly massive dragon. Its purpose and origins have been highly debated, but it is most likely a depiction of the deity Genesis used for ritual purposes.
Carved dragon bones detailed with pictograms of war.
Teeth carved into pendants. Cicadas and frogs are common subjects, more rarely seen are fish, caiman heads, and fruit.
Large wooden guiros once thought to be weapons of war, now known to be instruments.
if you have any other weird mudwing headcanons, let me know i need them for undisclosed reasons
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no place for strangers
in which BigB realizes that there are a significant number of difference sbetween him and his friends, and in which BigB decides he doesn’t really care that much.
(2333 words)
A portion of the night sky, night for only a fraction of time, is blotted out by the shape of two dark, mottled-grey wings.
He supposes he's a little jealous of that, the wings, how they shed loose feathers, how they flutter and swish and practically make no noise at all when extended. He's a bit jealous of Grian, known Watcher, much more powerful, hands twisted in the reigns of his own creation—the games. He's as much a pawn in this one as he has been in the others. But unlike BigB, he's hungry. The killing doesn't do it for him. Neither does the dying. Grian’s new—the Watchers don’t let him stay full. They chastise him for a million things and make sure he suffers, and at this point, BigB watches it happen. There isn’t much left he can do. He does less Watching and more supervising.
Maybe he's jealous of Pearl, with thin black and gold wings like a moth, ears wispy and pointed up toward the sky. The way her drooping eyes never dim, the way they both glow, silver and gold. She’s got it just as good as him, doesn’t she? Secretive and distant. Away enough to matter but not enough to cause a fuss.
But maybe he isn't. Isn't there something lurking behind his eyes when he stares at his reflection too long? Wouldn't redstone glow in his presence? Wouldn't the forest go silent and the earth hold its breath as he waited, as he watched? Wasn't there the purple remnant of where he once stood?
It doesn't matter. BigB stares up at the messy splotch that is Grian against the night sky and sighs something profound. He tried to understand him. To love him. But Grian is a widow, and everyone that loves him suffers the same. They just have, actually. Joel and Jimmy. And now Grian perches and watches and BigB watches him and there's a muted sting behind his eyes as he does. Grian doesn't turn. But his wings flutter.
"Good to know that some things stay the same," BigB says, cutting through the warm night air with a voice he hopes matches it, but he isn't sure. Grian hums, mostly questioning. His feet stay planted. BigB starts to scale the wall.
"Don't know what you mean by that," Grian questions. He turns his head slightly to the sound of BigB climbing the ladder to the top, but doesn't do much else.
"You," BigB huffs. He rests his hands on the top of the wall, pulling himself over the flat edge. He swings his legs over, and his heels bounce against the cobbles. It’s an uncomfortable resting place. He watches Grian shift from foot to foot, and wonders if the same cobbles are digging into the soles of his feet, the same way they dig into the underside of BigB’s thighs.
“Me?” Grian parrots. His eyes flick over to BigB, quick, but not so quick that BigB doesn’t catch the nervous glint of them. He rests back on his hands. The rough rock presses back against his palms, cold and uncomfortable. Luckily, the air around them is thick with humidity, heat, and a faint metallic smell. And the hum of cicadas. Their drone blocks out everything else, except the words bouncing around in BigB’s head.
"You're still no good at the emotions thing, are you?" he asks. He tilts his head as he says it, cocking it to one side as he looks over at Grian. He watches Grian’s nose wrinkle, the beginnings of his teeth baring back, as if he could bite and make anything more than an impression. BigB almost laughs. He gets it, he really does.
The thing about Grian is that he’s not an easy shape to love, and an even less easy shape to hold. Like every bird, he fears being caged, and arms are no more than a cage, and someone holding his heart is no more than a cage, so he can’t sit still, even now, even on the edge of a wall. BigB watches his wings twitch. They’re gorgeous, but there’s a sharp line through them where the flight feathers should be. They’re not much more than deadweight. Anyway—where was he? Right. Grian. Impossible to love, impossible to hold. A widow, of sorts. The words tumbled out of Scar’s mouth one time, scorned and scoffed. Grian was no more than a widow mourning the first partner he took—Scar—trying to find someone who fit the hole but wasn’t him.
But Grian kills. Who could say it was even his fault? Scar. BigB. Jimmy. Joel. Everyone he tries to love, in any shape, dies. He’s forced to starve. He’s forced to feed a higher cause.
BigB can see Grian’s calloused fingers from here, at least the pale shape of them, balanced over his shins as his wrists drape over the sharp edge of his knee. He studies him in the dim lighting before he looks away, feeling something curdling in his stomach. BigB knows his time is short. Unremarkable. And normally forgotten. That doesn’t really bother him, though. He knows the importance of his impression, here. But he wants to tug this string, just once. He knows where all the strings lie—even his own, unfortunately. Maybe that’s the one thing he knows better than Grian—he’s aware of the outcome before it happens. He doesn’t have to stop to wonder what his odds are.
“That’s not nice,” Grian begins, and BigB shrugs. The cicadas stop singing. BigB’s voice cuts through the night like a knife, cool and even.
“I’m just being honest,” he starts. He watches the stone of the clock tower for movement, eyes flicking over the shape in the dark. “Jimmy and Joel just died and you’re already trying to replace them.”
Grian huffs. He sounds indignant, almost twinged with hurt. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”
BigB raises his eyebrows, tilts his head again. Grian catches his eye for a second longer, this time, and his eyes are dark and wide. His jaw is tightly set. He looks like, at any moment, his lips might curl back and expose blunt, powerless teeth. BigB wonders what that might feel like—surely unpleasant, to have someone bite down on you with the intent to do harm, but he wonders if Grian could kill him on purpose and if it might rid him of anything. It might make the smell of guilt worse, actually.
“I think you do,” BigB says.
“Enlighten me, then,” Grian grits out, teeth closing around the words with a sharp snap. “Since I can feel you trying to figure me out.”
“Not me,” BigB says. Grian shuts his eyes, pinching his eyebrows together, before he twists his body around, fast enough to hear the slight pop of his spine as it cracks. BigB can feel the hair rise on the back of his neck as Grian searches, eyes scorching the earth for any sign of—
“Pearl—”
BigB hums, but it sounds more like a laugh.
“You’re just no good at it,” he says after a beat. Grian resettles, but his wings stay fluffed, body tight with tension. He radiates energy like a coil tightly wound. BigB can feel it seeping into the seams of him, and shifts as it prickles over his skin. He leans back on his hands a little further, hoping they can carry the weight. He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t know what that means, BigB,” Grian sighs, short and through his nose. His hair blows into his face. “What d’you—” He sighs again, cutting himself off with a wave of his hand.
He seems annoyed about the whole prospect of their conversation. It’s not unfounded, honestly. BigB did just climb up the ladder and start unpacking years worth of issues in front of Grian, trying to dig at the soft, bleeding center of the thing. He’s pretty sure Joel’s blood is still under his fingernails. He’s not sure if he saw it all happen. He definitely didn’t see Jimmy’s body hit the ground. Lucky, that. He’s not sure if he could watch people so used to flying be unable to use their wings when they needed it most. He thinks he might’ve seen Joel in the moment before Jimmy disappeared—Joel who was never one to let fear and grief trump anger. Or maybe the anger was his grief, like it was Tango’s, or Scar’s. Not that he saw much of that, either. Stories, mostly, things that get passed around a dim campfire at the end of the world.
Jimmy was probably just a near-lifeless body in Joel's arms, right before he was gone. Poor guy. Grian didn’t even get to them in time before it was too late. He was too late for Joel, too. Joel was ash before Grian could even make his mouth into the shape of his name. BigB wonders if they got a grave. Grian was good at building graves, so he’d like to think so. It only made sense. Grian seemed to get over it faster when there was something to mourn to.
BigB takes a second to think, pressing his tongue between his back teeth. The air is quiet around them, still, like it, too, holds the tension in Grian’s spine, like it might be twisting it taut.
“You just don’t understand how it works, you’re not good at grieving, and you’re not good at the whole grief thing, either.” BigB shrugs again, shoulders lifting just enough to be visible. He’s still not watching Grian, as much as Grian isn’t watching him, aside from the hum of them both, something wholly inhuman brushing shoulders with something that craved humanity more than anything else in the world, but could never figure out how to get it.
“You don’t get it.”
“I do.” Grian starts.
“No, you don’t,” BigB turns toward him, finally, furrowing his eyebrows. “Grian, dude—you’re faking this whole human thing to begin with, and it’s not working—”
Grian whips around to face him. His face is sharp, jaw set. “Stop—”
BigB waves him off. His voice, unlike Grian’s, stays level, twinged with annoyance, rather than anything else.
“You don’t understand what you should be guilty of, but you’re feeling it like it’s like…rotting something inside of you but you still don’t know why, and jeez, Grian, you’ve made it a crime for you to feel something.”
He sighs, waving his hands around as if it could help bolster his point any further. He feels something ache in his chest—something aching to explain it in a way that Grian could understand, in a way that he wouldn’t just fight. Grian visibly bristles, feathers on his ears rising, the red and yellow tips of them stark in the night, even in the lantern light.
“You’re on this planet too, you know, you’re allowed to let yourself feel. Messy and gross as it is. I mean, they died, man, is that anything?”
Grian swallows. BigB doesn’t watch the bob of his throat, or the way his feathers are still raised in alert as he jerks his head away. He follows Grian’s line of sight down the clock tower, where Bdubs and Cleo are talking. Bdubs looks over after a second. BigB feels a cold line run down his spine, but refuses to break his gaze. There are no sounds now, not even of his own heartbeat.
“No,” Grian manages.
BigB relaxes. Something of an easy smile finds his face, softening the shape of his eyes and the line of his jaw. He shakes his head. Grian shies away from him, but his feathers lower, and his posture sinks. He finally lowers himself to a sit, throwing his legs over the side of the wall. His hands cradle in his lap, and he stares into the palms of them. BigB remembers them as calloused, cold, and hard to hold properly. But he’s sure someone out there enjoys them.
“You’re a really bad liar,” he laughs. Grian shakes his head. His voice is much quieter as he speaks.
“I don’t care. I don’t care.”
BigB turns his head. There, for a short moment in the moonlight, he watches the shape of Grian’s left shoulder turned toward him. They rise and fall as he breathes, shudder when he sniffs and sighs, move as he shifts his body, likely feeling those same, cold, hard cobbles pressing into the soft back of his legs. He sees where the back meets the wing, where the wing relaxes down and where feathers brush stone. He sees where they rest against the cobbles, half held and half upright, as if he wants to be ready to leap at a moment's notice. As if he doesn’t know that he, too, would die on impact. BigB reaches out, settling one soft hand on his shoulder. Grian tenses, but does not jump.
“‘S alright, buddy.”
Instead, Grian deflates. BigB runs his thumb over the side of his shoulder, a friendly, comforting thing, as Grian leans back to his hand. His posture sinks to the touch, muscles weakening, wings folding back and down. Every molecule of his body, and BigB almost feels this in the air, grows heavy and tired at the subtle comfort. Grian draws what he can from it before he speaks. His voice sounds even, now, and tired.
“I miss them…” He starts. He swallows. “I missed you, too. I missed Scar.”
BigB sighs, giving Grian’s shoulder a long, warm squeeze before he lets go. Grian sways but catches himself on his hands. His body stays curved into itself.
“I know,” BigB says. “But you’ll never be over it if you never break that cycle.”
Grian shrugs. The steel starts to slip back into his voice, firm.
“I will when I win.”
BigB smiles.
“Maybe,” he says. He’s not sure he can see the end of that string yet, but the results don’t exactly look promising. “Who knows what’s in the cards?”
#bigbst4tz2#bigbstatz#bigb#grian#limlsmp#limited life smp#limited life fic#limited life#mcyt fic#mcyt#fics#text#:3 i love bigb so much#i dont know what possessed me to write him but i plan on doing it MORE#MORE BIGB!!!! MORE THINGS ABOUT HIM#HE IS SO SPECIAL TO ME!!#this was also called 'no place for strangers' i'll probably link the ao3 when it gets posted
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Your genuine delight over Goncharov made me really happy ☺️ If you have more thoughts on how/why this happened on a meta level, I’d love to hear them! 💕
Look. Look at me. Look at my face. This is the compounding and expanding creation you see in something like tiktok going ham over sea shanties (loved that, shanties are great) and the original one, that ended up with like, 9... mixes? add ons? idefk i don't use tiktok. But see. see. tiktok has fame and engagement baked into the mix. Its your face. you want followers for it. Your followers can gain you money or influence or whatever the hell. and this doesn't have that. in part because this is tumblr, we couldn't create a market friendly influencer if our lives depended on it
But this is ALSO a joint collaboration in the scope of something like fucking qanon. and yes, qanon is a full on fascist breeding ground so I hate to use it but thats how desperate i am to find a reference point. Bc it started as a single drop on a website that one person encourage and then it spiralled into full offshoots. BUT its also totally not the same bc it was made wiht an agenda and purpose and the intent to convert and persuade people
And sure, maybe some of the first posts were people going 'haha this'll be funny' and yeah, looking at the note counts, some people are drowning in the reactions for the elements they made, but this isn't done with an agenda. It's all Yes, And, never a disagreement except in the sense of people bickering over which of their meta analyses of a non existent movie is more accurate.
Maybe something like Cicada? or or. the way they dropped the joker image??? Or the album that dropped early by leaving random fucking USB drives in bathrooms at concerts???? But cicada was secretive and antagonistic to each other in a lot of ways. And Joker was built by a marketing team. and the USB drives weren't as effective as they wanted?
Geocaching?? but there's an element of accumlating clout and bragging rights there that excludes it from comparison.
But its such a pure creation that I keep reaching back to the kinds of myths that that we told before we left africa. the stories that pervade humanity so far back in time that we can't find the origin. They were made and told and retold solely because we are humans and we want to share this thing we made so others can see it and enjoy it and share it again.
LOOK. This. it's. Look at my face. This is a work of spontaneous public art. This is a thing that the greatest artists of the last hundred years would saw off their testicles to achieve. They would with a smile on their face. People literally HAVE spent millions and millions of dollars trying to force this stuff. they have tried to carve this out of people. This kind of genuine engagment. People hire teams to work for years to make a tiny fragment of this happen and they cant bc it always feel false???
And! This! Just! Happened! Spontaneously! That first rush was in like. 30 hours?? idk, I need to build a timeline. But even if it happened over 72, this is. this is. idefk its so amazing send help I'm back to rambling
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Firstly ❤️ your works, I think my favorites so far are Amaranthine & Miraculous AU. Secondly, which of your miraculouses would fit the canon versions of the characters as your versions of them are more fleshed out?
So, firstly, thank you so much! Truly
Second, while I've done that kinda with All That Remained, that is a canon divergence. So, why not have a little fun with this one? Let's crack into it:
Marinette - Pig of Ignorance
Adrien - Butterfly of Transformation
Alya - Wolf of Intution
Nino - Tiger of Valor
Chloe - Rooster of Animosity
Sabrina - Bee of Devotion
Marc - Dog of Love
Lila - Fox of Deception
Felix - Black Cat of Destruction
Nathaniel - Chameleon of Imagination
Kim - Cow of Body
Max - Owl of Knowledge
Alix - Ladybug of Creation
Rose - Rabbit of Connection
Juleka - Peacock of Beauty
Luka - Swan of Souls
Kagami - Cicada of Reality
Zoe - Horse of Freedom
Ivan - Bat of Fear
Mylene - Dragon of Nature
Nathalie - Turtle of Protection
And if I were to include Gabriel, I would give him the Butterfly still and Adrien would likely get the Raven of Sorrow
#miraculous#miraculous ladybug#miraculoustalesofladybugandcatnoir#miraculous au#au#alternate universe#ask and you shall receive
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These are the BSD ocs I drew a while back in these posts here, here, and here. I'm finally going to introduce them - they are both named for famous haiku poets (two of the 4 Ts!).
Takajo Mitsuhashi
Ability: Fern Hell/Shida Jigoku - A passive ability with an active component. Passively, she has a connection to what may or may not be a kind of life force - she can sense the presence of every individual, making her near impossible to sneak up on. Throttling the connection between person and life force either denotes a strange effect on their ability, or can shut down their life functions and kill them.
Age: 17
Birth Date: January 24th
Height: 162 cm
Weight: 116 lb
Blood Type: AB
Likes: Abstract art, meditation, cicadas
Dislikes: Restrictions, too much noise
Additional notes: Unused to feeling strong emotions, but is far from expressionless in intonation - she tends to be polite yet laid back and mildly cocky, especially when poking holes at authority/She was formerly an assassin/She also has the capacity to barely feel any pain and keep moving, even from deep injuries. This is not an ability. It's implied she trained to be able to do this./Becomes fascinated by Yosano and regularly observes her and her choices/Cannot understand why Takako doesn't think she's cool and then feels frustrated that this upsets her.
Takako Hashimoto
Ability: The Red Thread/Beniito - Allows the creation of a thin red thread, which, when connected with an object or person, acts as a rope to allow her to pull objects closer or drag them. Connections to people sometimes involve her gaining flashes of their emotional state and core desires.
Age: 16
Birth Date: January 15th
Height: 166 cm
Weight: 130 lb
Blood Type: B
Likes: Snow, yubari melon, dancing
Dislikes: Loneliness, feeling left behind
Additional notes: Born to comfortable wealth but has since given that up for unknown reasons/Sociable and empathetic but rarely talks about herself/Has an unfortunate tendency to throw herself into danger without thinking it through, much to Takajo's frustration/Tends to fangirl over people she thinks are cool, like Agent Hisajo/Thinks Takajo is one of the coolest people she's met but pretends she doesn't think so out of embarrassment of admitting that. This leads to childish spats.
They are part of a story involving Takajo attempting to find a powerful ability user-made artifact. Takako is the only one who can locate it, and therefore, they strike a deal to work together. They conflict with an offshoot of the Special Division, which essentially blackmails the girls into helping them find it and store it securely - but both girls are in agreement that the artifact needs to be destroyed (the one thing they do reliably agree on).
Though at first they are only working together out of a shared goal, they eventually come to care about one another deeply.
...ok. Running off now byeee
#storyrambles#*throws them at you and hides*#ugh i'm just always worried that my creations will be disrespectful in some way to the authors. but then i remember that this is#a series where authors are turned into hot anime people and have superpowers.#anyways#bsd#bsd ocs#bsd takajo#bsd takako#hope you like them...!#i never know what weights should be. i throw a dart at the board and shrug#my art
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I'm interested in your will wood songs for specific podcast characters if you'd like to share! The ones you've chosen for the podcasts as a whole are very good btw! :]
SORRY I TOOK SO LONG TO ANWSER 🥲
From The Magnus Archives
Martin - Willard!
Jon - Cotard's Solution
Elias - Laplace's Angel
Jon And Martin - Love Me, Normally
From Malevolent
Arthur - Against The Kitchen Floor
John - Front Street
Kayne - Outliars And Hyppocrates
Arthur And John - 2econd 2ight 2eer
From Welcome To Night Vale
Cecil - Lysergide Daydream
Carlos - Chemical Overreaction
Kevin - Mr.Capgras Encounters A Secondhand Vanity
Cecil And Carlos - Becoming The Last Names
From Hello From The Hallow Woods
Nikignik - Cicada Days
Nikignik And Marolmar (And His Creation) - um, it's kinda a lot
From Red Valley
Warren - (Self-) 2012
Gordon - Dr.Sunshine Is Dead (-ish)
Warren And Gordon - Vampire Reference In A Major Key
#tma#the magnus archives#jonathan sims#jonny sims#martin blackwood#welcome to nightvale#wtnv#cecil#cecil gershwin palmer#wtnv carlos#wtnv kevin#malevolent#arthur lester#jhon doe#red valley#red valley podcast#malevolent podcast#red valley warren#red valley gordon#hello from the hallowoods#nikignik#hfthw#will wood#will wood and the tapeworms
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little nikola doodle + banner for my sheezy.art :3
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stupid shit i believed (and did) in as a kid
I thought parrots could talk. Like, talk for real, like a cartoon character. When I visited my aunt, who kept a parrot as a pet, I kept trying to engage in small talk with it, and was pretty disappointed when I realised all he could say was my aunt's name.
I once read this comicbook story about a magical tree that was immune to the flow of time, and such its leaves did not change colour during autumn nor did they fell during winter. I live in a tropical country, and all the trees here are like that, so I just assumed they were all magical as well.
If you ate fish and drank water afterwards, the fish would come back from the dead inside your stomach.
I thought these things (idk how they're called in english) were tiny DVDs for ants.
I would refuse to eat seedless fruits. It didn't matter if they tasted good, it didn't matter if they were cheap. They were an unholy creation of mankind and would never be welcomed inside my mouth.
When my mum yelled at me, I would go to my grandpa and ask him to ground her. It did work once.
In my head, the Moon was a giant living being that could see us from where she stood on the sky, and I was 100% sure whe was following me wherever I went.
Wasps were the boy version of bees.
I believed George Washington was like Santa Claus for Americans and he also wasn't real.
Whenever I heard a cicada singing (or ringing? idk), I would sing back to them so they wouldn't feel lonely.
When presented with a new kind of food, I would first imagine myself eating it. If I didn't like the taste inside my head, I wouldn't even bother eating the actual dish. There's still a shitton of stuff I have never tasted because of that rule.
When I was like, seven or eight, I watched a few clips from the Chucky movie on youtube. After that, I started to believe all dolls had the potential to become evil muderers, and so I would always be nice to the ones I owned (asking them if they were okay, sitting them comfortably on my bed instead of laying around on the floor) so if they ever turned evil they would at least spare me.
I believed the voice in my head was a different person, and whenever "it" got mad at me, "it" would start endlessly listing all of the things I feared in order to make me anxious. I still don't know how to explain this, but I'm glad they stopped doing that.
For over eleven years of my life I genuinely believed everyone in Greece still went around wearing togas and worshipping the twelve Olympians. I was rather disappointed when I learned they are mostly Christian nowadays.
I was one hundred percent sure the Easter Island was not real, and it was instead some sort of fictional fantasy place like Wonderland that at some point became public domain and everyone started using it. Even nowadays, I still go "oh, right, this exists" whenever someone mentions the place.
When I raised my hands in a windy day, I could feel the wind passing between my fingers. I thought I was the only person who could do this, and this I had secret airbending powers that would show up when I got older or something.
Johnny Bravo was the grown-up version of Johnny Test. I mean, they were both blond, from the same channel, and were both named Johnny. It made perfect sense.
Whenever I closed my eyes to wash my hair at the shower, a demon showed up in my bathroom to try and kill me, so I had to open my eyes as fast as possible, even if I got some shampoo on them by accident, otherwise I would die.
I couldn't sleep in total darkness, I always needed some light source near me, however small it was. I wasn't necessarily scared of the dark, or anything lurking in it, I just believed that if my eyes suddenly vanished for whatever reason, I wouldn't know I had been blinded if it was dark. I don't understand that part either.
I thought Halloween was an American celebration about having burned all their witches and the reason we didn't celebrate it in my country was because we still had witches here.
My mum once gave me this fancy plastic cup with a built-in straw and a small extra cavity to store tiny things and I loved it so much I would only drink water from that specific cup. I also started drinking water a lot as an excuse to use it, and whenever I was sad, I would drink more water because using the cup made me feel a little bit better. To this day, I still drink a lot of water when I feel upset.
I had my own place at the couch, just like Sheldon Cooper from Big Bang. I wouldn't mind if anyone sat on it, but I would never sit in another part of the couch unless explicitly forced to.
#story time#stories#it got better#tumblr stories#fyp#fypツ#memes#tumblr fyp#explorepage#explore#hilarious#funny#fypage#foryou#fypシ#foryoupage#viral#meme#dumb shit#shitpost#shitposting#tumblr#haha#lol#memories#childhood memories#childhood
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Kwamis
An Updated List of all my Kwamis including the Canon Kwamis some of which I've altered to fit my Headcanons since I've realized my old list was very outdated xD. (Just something to keep in my mind I'm horribly indecisive and all of these are subject to change)
Mother Box-
Tikki the Ladybug of Creation (Alpha)
Plagg the Black Cat of Destruction (Alpha)
Trixx the Fox of Deception
Pollen the Bee of Subjection
Wayzz the Turtle of Protection
Duusu the Peacock of Manifestation
Nooroo the Butterfly of Transmission
Mullo the Mouse of Multiplication
Stompp the Ox of Determination
Roaar the Tiger of Confrontation
Fluff the Rabbit of Evolution (Timekeeper)
Longg the Dragon of Acclimatization (Elemental)
Sass the Snake of Repetition (Timekeeper)
Kaalki the Horse of Migration (Spacekeeper)
Ziggy the Goat of Imagination
Xuppu the Monkey of Derision
Orikko the Rooster of Illumination
Barkk the Dog of Loyalty
Daizzi the Pig of Love
Great Plains Box-
Kiikaa the Thunderbird of Electricity* (Elemental)
Maii the Coyote of Wisdom
Katta the Cougar of Passion
Liiri the Eagle of Freedom
Rummpa the Buffalo of Prosperity
Lokko the Wolf of Detection
Sorren the Falcon of Victory
Amikaa the Beaver of Innovation*
Livv the Deer of Vegetation
Pekk the Woodpecker of Dimension (Spacekeeper)
Slipp the Salmon of Apathy
Grizz the Bear of Soul
Ommen the Raven of Probability*
Hoppi the Rattlesnake of Beauty*
Tyyto the Owl of Truth
Honnk the Goose of Cooperation
Zibbi the Otter of Jubilation
Banditt the Raccoon of Avarice
Wandering Box-
Tangg the Mantis of Order (Alpha)
Kastorr & Poluxx the Hydra of Chaos (Alpha) **
Kirrin the Qilin of Light* (Elemental)
Rassi the Spider of Destiny* (Timekeeper) **
Slikki the Snail of Stagnation* (Timekeeper)
Deed the Stick Bug of Distribution (Spacekeeper)
Etterni the Salamander of Resurrection
Mikka the Ant of Conflict
Renn the Crane of Peace
Fianna the Koi Fish of Perfection
Finn the Shark of Fear
Døddie the Moth of Scarcity
Deuill the Dove of Mercy
Jellos the Jellyfish of Corruption
Hunduu the Cicada of Ruination
Taachi the Weasel of Secrets
Murrae the Eel of Elongation
Zodiac Box-
Flikker the Firefly of Hope
Emburr the Phoenix of Combustion* (Elemental)
Atticus the Sparrow of Oblivion (Spacekeeper)
Gemm the Chameleon of Transformation
Gloss the Ibex of Friction* (Aries)
Urazz the Aurochs of Preservation (Timekeeper) (Taurus)
Oskrr the Squirrel of Duality (Gemini)
Cerra the Crab of Emotion (Cancer)
Rroy the Lion of Action (Leo)
Duchess the Swan of Dreams (Virgo)
Vivvy the Vulture of Justice (Libra)
Scorro the Scorpion of Vengeance (Scorpio)
Spikke the Porcupine of Precision (Sagittarius)
Akwaa the Seahorse of Perception (Capricorn)
Nøkk the Kelpie of Hydration* (Aquarius)
Nerrea the Whale of Compassion (Pisces)
Savannah Box-
Gaale the Griffin of Air* (Elemental)
Zipp the Dragonfly of Progression (Timekeeper)
Taamus the Hippo of Gravitation
Snapp the Crocodile of Adaptation
Parra the Giraffe of Confusion*
Equus the Donkey of Mathematics
Duune the Camel of Transaction
Mnemmi the Elephant of Memories
Kuuji the Gorilla of Connection
Irris the Hawk of Vision
Gorrge the Hyena of Consumption
Kallik the Jackal of Guidance
Azuure the Scarab of Thought
Keraas the Rhino of Substance
Zella the Antelope of Elusion
Gnuu the Wildebeest of Courage
Purr the Cheetah of Agility*
Grevyii the Zebra of Clarity
Chatter the Lemur of Negotiation
Jungle Box-
Tonna the Quetzalcoatl of Earth* (Elemental)
Legmm the Sloth of Isolation (Spacekeeper)
Saffi the Frog of Purity
Belaa the Jaguar of Imperception*
Ecco the Parrot of Communication*
Vammp the Bat of Absorption
Rivver the Piranha of Contempt
Bubiic the Mosquito of Plague
Ravanna the Skunk of Despair
Clikk the Dolphin of Sound*
Flairr the Toucan of Pretension
Ocellus the Stingray of Immersion
Charmm the Angelfish of Gentleness
Polaritti the Gecko of Magnetization
Tropical Box-
Allcy the Kingfisher of Sacrifice
Prrysm the Platypus of Distortion* (Spacekeeper)
Dontii the Pufferfish of Expansion (Spacekeeper)
Kicc the Kangaroo of Endurance*
Aumm the Koala of Relaxation
Lekyys the Pelican of Zonation
Alliss the Frilled Lizard of Extortion
Dideea the Shrimp of Patience
Xiphiaa the Swordfish of Honor
Prikk the Echidna of Boundary
Conkky the Wombat of Temperance
Tazz the Purinina of Temptation
Arctic Box-
Shaade the Grim of Darkness* (Elemental)
Tawnii the Lynx of Intuition* (Timekeeper)
Maarus the Walrus of Realization
Demiis the Penguin of Glaciation
Fawnna the Elk of Wilderness*
Attlantis the Octopus of Choice*
Frijj the Snow Leopard of Silence
Curri the Narwhal of Wonder*
Pinna the Seal of Altruism
Sotaa the Wolverine of Aggression*
Hidden Box-
Vitaa the Panda of Life* (Alpha)
Shii the Crow of Death* (Alpha)
Uunice the Unicorn of Magic* (Elemental)
Italic- Canon Kwamis
*- Any kwami marked with an asterisk either belongs to my close friend @graaythekwami or draws from elements of one of their kwamis that I'm incorporating into my own headcanons
**- Any kwami marked with two consecutive asterisks draws inspiration from @this-wildchild-writes and their original kwamis
#miraculous ladybug#ml kwamis#miraculous headcanons#miraculous ladybug headcanons#kwamis#oc kwamis#kwami oc#chinese miracle box#mother box#native american miracle box#zodiac miracle box#miracle box#miracle boxes
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this even though you dont write rn
🥑🥤💌🌻🧃🍄🪐📚🍬🦷❄️🥐🏜️<- (general art creation) 🦋🐚🐝🌸🎨🧩
YOU ARE INSANE
🥑 - you accidentally killed somebody, which mutual(s) do you text for help?
@fuzziecorpse @bathtubswooo and @h3xrts4-me
🥤- recommend an author or fanfic you love
sing, sweet cicada on ao3! my partner and i loved it so much that i bound a copy for him!
💌 - how many unread emails do you have right now?
22!
🌻 - tag someone you appreciate but don't talk to on a regular basis
@crikey01 your tag games are so silly i love them
🧃- share some personal lore you never posted about before
ooh fun question!! whenever it rains i try to go lay out on the roof of my car, it’s very fun :3
🍄 - share a head canon for one of your favourite ships or pairings
its so hard for me to pick just one pairing BUT currently jmart is on my mind so! i think martin likes having little streaks of color in his hair and jon likes to dye his grey streaks to match
🪐- name three good things going on in your life right now
i got my brother into one of my favorite shows, i’m working on a fursuit, and prom is next week!
📚- what's the last thing you wrote down in your notes app?
a fic idea i had at literally 2am yesterday
🍬 - post an unpopular opinion about a popular fandom character
genuinely i cannot think of oen LMAO
🦷 - share some personal wisdom or a life hack you swear on
learn to sew!! it’ll have you a lot of money on things like hemming pants/dresses, repairing clothing, and making them too
❄️ - what's your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best?
i’m always a sucker for coffee shop aus man…..
🥐 - name one internet reference that will always make you laugh
my brother and i always use “empty the compartments of your pantaloons” and one of us will respond “FOR WHAT PURPOSE???” and it always makes me giggle
🏜️- what's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work?
those ones that are like “SCREMAING CRYING SOBBING THROWING UP EATING MY WALLS”
🦋 - share something that has been on your heart and mind lately
JMART 🔥🔥🔥
🐚 - do you like or dislike surprises?
i like them usually!
🐝 - tag your biggest supporter(s) and say one nice thing about them
@fuzziecorpse hiii i love you <3
@notroadkills u are so funny king
@crikey01 YOUR ART IS SO GOOD LET ME EAT IT
🌸 - do you have any pets? if you do, post some pictures of them
my baby bunny easter (she is actually terribly old)
woe, baby be upon ye
🎨 - link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it
this martin art. specifically the second one 😭😭 that little image was ALL that was on my mind when i was in my ACT today
🧩 - what will make you click away from a fanfiction immediately?
NO PARAGRAPH BREAKS OR PUNCTUATION
PLEASEEEE I DONT WANT TO READ A BLOCK OF TEXT MY EYES ARENT MADE TO HANDLE IT
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Hm.
Hmm...
Hmmmmmmmmmm!
Okay, let's talk about avatars.
No, not that avatar.
No, not that one, either.
THERE WE GO!
So! In S3, we get two very interesting scenes:
Sandy is the fandom confirmed!
Seriously though, I think it's pretty safe to assume that he and Pigsy are the reincarnations of Sha Wujing and Zhu Bajie respectively and Mei either is one for Ao Lie or she got a familiar feeling due to the Samādhi Fire (I personally believe the latter, if only for the sake of variety).
But what about Tang?
Well, one would think he's a reincarnation too, right? And I would be quick to believe that as well... if not for the appearance of the golden cicada. Which brings us to avatars, incarnations of deities on Earth. Now, I do want to make it clear that while the two religions do share similarities, the concept is really more aligned with Hinduism than it is with Buddhism. But just for the sake of this post, I would also like to point out that one of the things chi manipulation (which I've already discussed here) is capable of is Avatar Creation. So what if, for whatever reason, Tang Sanzang created a separate version of himself to live on Earth, with all of the knowledge but none of the memories?
Either that, or the golden cicada—if taken literally, considering it's appeared twice now and the second time wasn't even to Tang—was sent by Buddha or some other Heavenly being instead, rather than it literally being Sanzang. Or maybe Tang really is Tripitaka himself and either lied about not remembering anything or really does have amnesia.
Because the alternative is reincarnation and if Tang is one, then that just opens up an entirely new set of questions if you know how the concept is often viewed in Buddhism, never mind the ending of JttW (which I know the show is taking alot of liberties with), unless it was willing. And with all this in mind, this does make me wonder about Sha Wujing as well, but unlike with Tripitaka, there's nothing to imply that he might still be around.
I don't know, it's just interesting that even though he apparently doesn't remember anything about the past, Tang still doesn't seem to be the least bit surprised that he has powers the first time it's shown, even though he's mortal. Granted, no one else ever brings it up either, implying that he's always had them, but that's exactly the problem—it just isn't commented on at all.
Either way though, the idea of Tripitaka still looking after his disciples in any way is really sweet to think about!
#monkie kid#lego monkie kid#lmk#monkie kid spoilers#lego monkie kid spoilers#lmk spoilers#tang#tang sanzang#tang shifu
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