#atlanna

[dawnsedits]

Happy National Superhero Day!

[ormymarius]

how Orm looks at Atlanna is just the 🥺 emoji

[dawnquafam]

Things I'm emo about tonight

[caterpillarinacave]

Aquaman And The Lost Kingdom as pictures I found on Pinterest

Arthur calling up a glowing, iridescent, blue seahorse with a saddle to launch him onto the deck of industrial cargo ships under attack:

Dr. Shin basically the whole second half of the movie:

Arthur when Black Manta tries to fight him after losing the trident power:

Arthur dropping into Orm’s cell to break him out:

Arthur during all Council meetings:

Manta’s team in the mutated jungle:

Orm trying to do stuff he has never done and has no idea how to do on the surface:

Atlanna, Mera, and Arthur realizing Manta is gonna need royal blood and the baby is home basically unprotected:

Orm when Arthur says he doesn’t have plan and he’s just gonna wing it for the upteenth time:

Arthur fighting pirates with his scrunchies on his wrists:

Arthur @ Black Manta:

Orm after being raised alone by a walking red flag of a man, then tortured in a desert prison for four years:

Arthur on the iceberg after the final battle figuring out how to keep Orm out of prison:

Arthur with his son:

Everyone on Black Manta’s team when he comes out of the water glowing green with unobtainable knowledge, muttering to himself menacingly, showing extreme feats of strength, and drawing on ancient materials for reasons he won’t tell anyone:

Arthur @ Orm when the giant bugs start chasing them:

Nereus when Arthur suggests breaking Orm out:

Atlanna when Arthur suggests breaking Orm out:

[flyingraijinn]

I fell in love with the Aquafams family dynamic, Atlanna loving both of her sons equally, orm making amends with meras dad and saving his sister in law and nephew, thomas being the greatest granddad

[mathiwrites]

the justice league's moms' book club's guide to vampire slaying, a martha kent, alfred pennyworth, atlanna & hippolyta fanfic

Chapter 6 - Love, Love, Laugh

“You are telling me,” Hippolyta measures her words carefully. “That this book was selected specifically to appeal to me.” Judging by the cover, there is nothing that stands out to her. It is a woman in a green dress. Good for her. And yet, in her attempt to dismiss the culture of man’s world while remaining included, she has managed to miss the point entirely.

They are here, a part of this ‘club’ to bond with one another that transcends the invisible tether created by their children’s friendships. She may claim not to care about this world, but she has been paying attention. The people have raised good children and excellent allies for her daughter, regardless of gender. It is why she gave this any thought at all. 

“And you all thought that a book with a female protagonist, polyamory and a female love interest are what my tastes consist of?”

“Oh, I didn’t think. I know.” Alfred smiles.

The man spends too much smiling beneath that coiffed moustache of his. Hippolyta glares at him, loathing how he has been one step ahead of her this entire evening. From what they have told her, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo sounds wonderful. Though her disposition is tough, Hippolyta’s heart is as soft as her daughter’s. It was her who pleaded with the gods for a child, so that she could be a mother and impart boundless love on a precious little being. 

She blames her daughter for Alfred’s cleverness; she must have prepared him for this day, somehow.

“One day, I will wipe that smile off your face, but for now… Grin all you like.” She sighs. “This sounds like the exact story that I would enjoy, and perhaps encourage my sisters to reenact as a play.” Hippolyta folds her arms and steals Atlanna’s copy for safekeeping. She turns to Atlanna, resting her chin against her palm. “And will it take you seven husbands before you realize that I am the one for you?”

For all the velvet in Hippolyta’s tone, Atlanna remains unmoved. She laughs and waves her friend off.

“So, wait, did you two… really?” Martha motions between them. It’s unlike her to ask too many personal questions, but she’s genuinely curious about the lives her friends have led before they became parents to the world’s heroes. She has known Alfred for decades��and he never said anything about his life before the Waynes.

“Yes and no,” Hippolyta hums. “Themyscira has always had a political alliance with Atlantis, even before its fall. I have seen many Kings, but only one Queen.” She looks at her affectionately. “I have known the pleasure of her lips, and the softness of her gaze, but she will never be mine.” Her fingers reach out and caress her cheek. Atlanna catches her hand and kisses her palm.

“It is a different kind of love. Hippolyta has my mind, but Tom is my one and my only. I will never love another the same way I love him,” Atlanna holds Hippolyta’s gaze, then turns to smile softly at Martha. “You know what I mean.”

“I do. He brings you balance and peace,” Martha nods.

“And I would only elevate you to the height of goddesses,” Hippolyta laments dramatically.

“But what about… multiple partners,” Martha asks softly and awkwardly. She’s not unfamiliar with the concept, but she worries about overstepping and misspeaking. 

The last time she had dallied was before Jonathan, her sweet traditional farm boy, and never with more than one person. Leaving the social circles her mother had practically worshipped for a small town shifted her entire world. It simplified it, and she focused all her love towards her husband, her son and what she can make with her two hands. 

She glances at Alfred. The two of them come from a time when people simply did not talk about these things. They just happened, and they were either accepted or vilified. 

“It’s not that simple,” Atlanna hums.

“It is not that simple here. Your world has many rules and hangups. Multiple partners can be compatible, but the useless baggage and insecurities.” Hippolyta groans, rolling her eyes.

“You speak from experience,” Martha wonders, out loud. 

And that comment has Hippolyta closing herself off. 

“It requires all participants to let go of everything they have learned in this modern society, and to choose love above all,” Alfred says softly, looking at his tea. 

“You speak from experience,” Atlanna says to him instead.

“Mhm,” he hums. “There are certain kinds of love that you do not let go, ever.”

Neither he nor Martha have ever spoken about it, even if he’d never hid it, either. Too long glances when they thought no one was looking, or overly indulgent touches. She had seen right through them, far too observant for her own good, but she never commented on it. She never asked, not until today, and even now, Martha did not direct her question to Alfred.

“Why didn’t you tell me? When they,” she swallows the agonizing thought. To lose not one, but two pieces of your heart at once. Martha cannot imagine the grief; when Jonathan died, his loss suffocated her. Alfred had been there for her, along with Clark and Bruce. “We would have been there for you. We could have helped with…”

“I know, but I didn’t have the words. I still don't.”

Martha reaches out to him and squeezes his hand. She sits there for a long moment, looking at him with empathy. 

The conversation is sobering, and it is wonderful. It reminds each of them that they are more than their roles, their stations and their accomplishments. They are individuals whose stories are not told, quietly tucked behind the legends they have raised. They do not need recognition, but this—what they have here—is freeing .

“My deepest condolences, Alfred,” Atlanna hums.

“If it is of any consolation, I know a place where you retrieve their sou—,” Hippolyta starts.

“I appreciate the offer, but no.” It is not in his nature to toy with life and death. He will let others do that, and he will face the consequences as they come. Alfred chippers up, lifting his chin. “Enough of this serious talk. I am on vacation. Let us leave the glowering to the Knights of Gotham. Tea, anyone?”

“Actually, I was thinking we could have dinner.” 

Outside, the sun has set. Normally, Martha would have had dinner by now, and readied herself for bed. A buzz settles in her bones as she washes the teacups and the saucers. She doesn’t stay up late often, and it’s exciting to have friends over. They’ve all agreed to stay. She also has no qualms putting the others to work. While she cleans up, Alfred has been tasked with putting the food from tea time away, and both Queens work together to set the table. 

Her mind wanders as her hands work. The farm looks different at night; she admires the way her berry bushes have begun to grow on the side. She likes to dream of happy little creatures nibbling on this season’s yield. In the distance, the barn looms over the farmhouse, but she knows it's a place of warmth filled with animals who want nothing more than chin scratches. 

The rest of her land is a forest of stalks—corn and sunflowers—but the verdant colours have turned into nothing more than a dark wall surrounding her home. Had she not spent the better part of her life surrounded by these fields, and had she not found the greatest gift in the middle of that field, then maybe she would have found the farm isolating. Intimidating.

Movement snaps her out of her reverie. The stalks don’t move, not normal. They stay still, watching her with the same intensity that she watches them. Martha stops the water, leaning forward on the counter and looking outside the window. 

There. 

A quiver of leaves, and then it’s gone again. She squints, willing herself to see what’s there. 

An animal?  

Most animals that roam freely through the farmlands are too small to cause that kind of movement. The neighbours must have lost a goat again. Her own cow, Bessie, has been known to wander. 

Your mind is playing tricks on you, she mused, looking down to dry her hands. The moment she looks up, she sees it.

A dark figure standing among the stalks, its head illuminated by the moonlight, but its features darkened by shadow. It stands there, watching her. Chills ripple across her flesh, lighting her up from the inside out with a certain kind of fear. 

“Martha?”

She nearly jumps out of her skin. Atlanna looks at her, as if she has grown three heads. Her gaze follows Martha’s out the window, but she sees nothing. Atlanteans eyesight is not made for the surface. Her body may have adapted after all these years, but seeing at night is still difficult.

“Are you alright?”

“Oh, yes. It’s just this new generation of teenagers. They have no respect for others.” The lie is a comfort, but not for Atlanna. “I’ve slow roasted beef. A spin on Alfred’s recipe,” she grins. “I’ll be with you in a quick sec. Have a seat.”

One last glance out the window, and all she sees is the dark row of stalks—corn and sunflower.

That’s what I get up for staying up late.

[dailydccomics]

the artist made sure to draw Diana and Arthur equally as pretty Multiversity: Harley Screws Up the DCU #4 art by Logan Faerber

[trashedits]

Aquaman and the Lost Kingdom (bra: Aquaman 2: O Reino Perdido)

[neverscreens]

— AQUAMAN AND THE LOST KINGDOM.

Part One, 420 Screencaps.

Part Two, 420 Screencaps.

Part Three, 422 Screencaps.

Like or reblog if it was useful, every interaction shows us that we should keep making screencaps for y'all ♡

[dcstuffz]

Atlanna in Aquaman and the Lost Kingdom

[dawnsedits]

Mother? Oh, my son.

[ormymarius]

my family…..

[dawnquafam]

Orvax: I’ve made a perfect king

Atlanna, coming home to find Orm screaming at his brother to kill him: You screwed up my perfectly beautiful son is what you did. Look at him. He’s got anxiety

[caterpillarinacave]

The fact that Orm added chest armor after getting blasted by Manta, but didn’t insist on it beforehand makes me wonder how much that’s because appropriate battle wear is important for the sake of oneself and one’s teammates, and he shouldn’t expect to to reach victory if he’s distracted protecting himself, how much that’s because Arthur doesn’t wear much armor and therefore didn’t even think bring any for Orm, and how much because Atlanna made him wear it.

[flyingraijinn]

So did Orm exchange words with Arthurs dad or should I delete headcanons like Thomas introducing tea to his step son because Atlanna loved it too?

[mathiwrites]

the justice league’s moms’ book club’s guide to vampire slaying, a martha kent, alfred pennyworth, atlanna & hippolyta fanfic

@not-another-robin, YES FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY!! HAVE ANOTHER ONE

Chapter 8 - Everyone Needs a Batfriend

The conversation comes to a lull; Martha’s absence is felt, even for just a couple of moments. None of them are foolish enough to think that Martha would be alarmed over damned teenagers . No, she is a woman of experience who leads this farm with great care. Atlanna keeps eating, but Hippolyta keeps glancing out the window while chewing on her fork, thoughtfully.

“I should—,” the Amazon queen starts, but a gentle alarm blares in her sensitive ears.

Alfred looks at his watch with a frown and gets up. Hippolyta follows suit. Earlier in the evening, he had arrived with the food in their travel carriers, an overnight bag should the evening run long and a neat suitcase that simply didn’t suit the event. He unbuckles the suitcase, revealing the laptop encrusted within. The screen reads ‘ perimeter breach ’ as his slender fingers soar across the keyboard.

“I will fetch Martha,” Hippolyta decides, after perching over his shoulder for a moment. All she needs to know is that someone has invaded her friend’s territory and she will move to defend it.

“Wait,” Alfred says, even but stern. Hippolyta waits for no man. He unhooks a headset and speaks into it. “Martha, can you hear me?” 

And that is reason enough to give Hippolyta pause.

***

A pale face rises onto the slanted rooftop, appearing in the barn’s only window. She’s too late. Even if she were close enough, she would have to reach out to pull the swinging doors inward. It’s an immense demand for her to process her impending end and what exactly stands before her. Half-man and half-corpse, the thing smiles at her. She hadn’t seen it from afar, but it’s teeth—it’s teeth are like a shark’s, jutting in every which way, and nothing more than sharp pointed tips. It would shred her to pieces in seconds. 

She prays to God that her hard head and her pitchfork is enough to buy her one more day, one more minute or one more second on His green earth. With grace and with the power of miracle, He answers.

A metal grid slides down over the opening, moments before the thing can lunge at her. Its shrieks reverberate against the barn, and slithers down her spine, making Martha shiver. It bangs, and bangs, and bangs itself against the reinforced window. It wants in.

“Hello? Martha, are you safe?”

“Oh thank God,” she breathes, falling to her knees on Clark’s worn rug. Her heart is going to fall right out of her chest, she knows it.

“Alfred will do,” and she can hear the smile across the speakers.

“Is this what you boys were doing when you were repairing the farm?”

“This and more.”

“I should have known,” she ‘tsks’, but Martha is eternally grateful for Alfred and Bruce’s caution. It’s unfair to put all the responsibility on Clark to listen to everyone in the world at the same time. He’s got enough on his plate, and she’ll worry about the aftermath of this attack once they survive it.

“Martha, what have the teenagers done?” Hippolyta’s voice crackles from holding the microphone too close.

“ That was attached to my head.” Alfred complains.

“It wasn’t teenagers. I don’t know what it was? It was… It looked like a man, but something was wrong with his face?” It’s the best she can do under the circumstances. Martha needs a moment to  breathe, and then another one to process.

“I will fetch you and slay that man.”

“No, I’ve got it,” Atlanna chimes in. “Do you have weapons here?”

“There are knives in the kitchen drawers.”

“There is no need.” There’s a sound of a mild struggle as Alfred snatches back his headset, and his voice comes through a lot clearer. “I’ve opened a latch beneath the barn, you should see it next to Clark’s ship . Follow the tunnel and it will lead you straight to us. You… may have to crawl.”

“Alfred,” Martha snaps. The boys may have shown forward thinking in locking the barn down and providing her with an escape route, but they did not factor in her hate for closed spaces. “I can’t leave the animals. What if it gets in?” Even if she didn’t mind the tight space, her animals are important to her. 

“The barn is reinforced all around, not just the entrances, with a steel and nth metal synthetic. If it gets in, it’d have to be as strong as Clark.”

“And do not think that this will not go unpunished. Atlanna and I will hunt down these creatures for daring to cross your territory.”

The promise of violence is not reassuring, but the thought that she isn’t alone calms her. Martha sighs and starts heading down to the ground floor. She drops into the hidden space carved into the barn’s floor made to hide Clark’s ship—the one he arrived in as a child. Were she as technologically savvy as Alfred, perhaps she would have tried to fly this out of the barn and used it against her enemy, but that thought is so far beyond her reality, she abandons it as soon as it pops into her mind. Martha makes sure to close the entrance above her, in case it tries to follow.

With the flashlight, she spots the tunnel, lit up from the inside. At least, she won’t be trapped in a dark enclosed space. Martha climbs in and finds that the tunnel is also made for someone much larger than her to fit through. It’s… not as bad as she thought. The door slides closed behind her and she starts moving.

“You’re doing great. You’ll be back in no time.” Alfred encourages her over the intercom.

“Thanks, Al.”

The crawl feels eternal and much longer than her walk towards the barn. The metal yields to her weight in some places, making a loud echoing sound that makes her jump. Otherwise, it’s too quiet. Martha stops about halfway through to take a break. It’s hard on her knees and now that she knows she (and her animals) are safe, she figures she earned it.

It starts slow.

A distant scratch, scratch, scratch reminiscent of Krypto playing in the yard when he isn’t stationed at the Fortress, or the Watchtower, or wherever Bruce isn’t that day. Martha wouldn’t have heard it over the sound of her breathing. 

“Alfred, how deep are these tunnels?”

“Approximately six feet, why?”

“It’s digging.”

The tunnel is plunged into darkness, leaving Martha alone with her panic. She doesn’t wait for instruction, she turns towards the house and crawls as fast as she can.

***

Before Alfred can answer, the lights cut out. He tries to get the remote generator started, but it must be out of gas or… what they’re dealing with is an intelligent being that would think to cut off access to both the generator and the solar powered back-up system (to the back-up). 

“I am going after her.”

“She’s coming to us, there isn’t a need to go after her.”

“There is a need to teach invaders a lesson.” Atlanna agrees with Hippolyta, though she has long outgrown violence-as-a-solution. Not with Orm always trying to challenge his brother at every turn, and every other week. She pulls open the kitchen drawers, tossing Hippolyta the knives by the hilt and keeps the forks for herself.

“The forks, really?” Alfred cocks a slender brow.

“They’re better balanced,” she shrugs. She also plucks a loaded baked potato and stuffs in her mouth. In her experience, in surprise combat, the food usually gets ruined. It’s no wonder Arthur has a monstrous appetite, he gets it from his mother. There’s also no better time to eat than before battle, she’ll need the energy.

Hippolyta pulls open the front door and there stands a tall man, clad in worn black clothing. His mouth is stained red, and without the lights, it appears dark on his face. He raises a clawed hand, wiggling his fingers in a mocking greeting. Oh, she’ll give him a proper greeting. Her punch happens in a flash with little to no tell, a sign of her millenia of training and the monstrous man catches her strike in his palm.

“My turn,” it slurs, words caught in its fangs.

He slams his palm into her chest so hard, she flies back across the living room and into the wall. It’s not enough to deter her, only surprise her. There aren’t many creatures left that can stand toe-to-to with an Amazon; there aren’t many creatures Hippolyta cares to know that can withstand a direct blow from her. To think, she was being nice.

The laptop is no use, so Alfred shuts it as he skips over Hippolyta as she pulls herself out of her hole in the wall. “Well, best of luck, ladies.” He smiles and dashes up the stairs, a man on a mission.

Atlanna wastes no time, launching her forks at him. She throws them with enough strength that they embed into his shoulder, but he doesn’t bleed. Interesting. She hops over the kitchen island, sliding across it and sending the desserts clattering to the floor. See? The food is always the first to get ruined.

The grin on her face and Hippolyta’s signals that they aren’t worried or afraid; it’s been a long time since they’ve been able to engage in a killing dance. The improvised weapons and unknown enemy makes this even more fun.

***

Alfred does not flee. He never has and he never will. What he does is trust in the ability of his peers to defend themselves while he executes his own part of the (unspoken) plan. While he has always openly commented on Bruce’s unnecessary paranoia, there is a reason he indulges his son. More often than not, Bruce is right. 

The best vantage point in the house is the attic, an unofficial third floor to a two-story house. He pulls one of the old boxes marked ‘Old Christmas Tree’ and digs out a case at the bottom. Alfred positions the rifle at the circular attic window. He cycles through the different scope settings, noting that the infrared does not pick up on the creature digging for Martha.

Deep breath in, old pal.

And on the exhale, he fires his first shot. 

The creature releases an ear shattering screech, but he calmly puts on bat-ear-muffs. The gun was never for Bruce’s use, just a simple anticipation that Alfred would be spending more time here. He gives the monster no reprieve, firing three more bullets to buy his friend time to complete her journey and yet, his target does not die. He doesn’t even think he’s bloody slowing it.

The thing snaps its head towards Alfred, and this time its scream sounds more like a war cry. Out of the stalks, several more of those things swarm and begin to race towards the farmhouse. 

“Well, at least the animals are safe,” he mumbles to himself, hauling ass downstairs to politely inform her highnesses that he has made a very slight miscalculation.