#blue comet comics

[dinosaurgiantpenny]

L.I.F.E. Brigade

[amethystandemma]

Wally West: so are you two dating?

Dick Grayson: oh. No, we’re just friends

Wally: huh. On a completely unrelated note, what did your dad call your mom?

Dick: Murhi dragostia?

Aqua Charming: yes, my love?

Dick:

Wally: don’t ever try to lie to me again

[gins-stim-emporium]

laika (laika’s comet) stimboard ( for me ) ^_^

starry night / dalmatian / star slime

clouds / 🌟 / stream

pastel shapes / golden retrievers / white flowers

[superherobriefings]

The Red Comet

Creator(s): Cy Thatcher

Alias(es): Unknown

1st Issue w/Uniform: Planet Comics #20

Year/Month of Publication: 1942/09

pdsh.fandom.com/wiki/Red_Comet

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 7: Heart Attack]

A/N: Hello all! Only 3 chapters left!!! 🥰 Thank you so much for loving this fic and giving all my eccentric AU ideas a chance. I’m currently in Washington DC visiting one of my best friends, so if I’m a little bit tardy replying to your comments/messages then that’s why. Don’t fear!! I will check in as soon as I can, and I am still amazed by and will forever cherish your support. 💜

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (+18), drugs, alcohol, smoking, Shelby being a bigger plague than the locusts of Egypt, mental health struggles, references to violence and abuse, New Jersey, pregnancy, mini golf, lots of content for the Cregan girlies.

Selected Chapter Quote: “We’re meant to be together. We have so much history.”

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: ​​@doingfondue​ @catalina-howard​ @randomdragonfires​ @myspotofcraziness​ @arcielee​ @fan-goddess​ @talesofoldandnew​ @marvelescvpe​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @mariahossain​ @chainsawsangel​ @darkenchantress​ @not-a-glad-gladiator​ @gemini-mama​ @trifoliumviridi​ @herfantasyworldd​ @babyblue711​ @namelesslosers​ @thelittleswanao3​ @daenysx​ @moonlightfoxx​ @libroparaiso​ @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics​ @mizfortuna​ @florent1s​ @heimtathurs​ @bhanclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @heavenly1927​ @mariahossain​ @echos-muses​ @padfooteyes​ @minttea07​ @queenofshinigamis​ @juliavilu1​ @amiraisgoingthruit​ @lauraneedstochill​ @wintrr13​ @r0segard3n​ @seabasscevans​ @tsujifreya​ 

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

You type into Google as you hide in the public bathroom stall, pink tile walls and mint green porcelain, very 1950s, phantom drips of water and humming florescent lights: Can Plan B make your period late?

You scroll through the results, clutching your iPhone with both hands. Faintly, you can hear the rest of the band outside, chattering, laughing, slurping on Slush Puppies, smacking trees and rocks with their golf clubs. Yes, the consensus seems to be; Plan B can delay your period. Incidentally, so can pregnancy.

“Fuck,” you whimper. You peer down at your panties, as if you can force bloodstains to appear: sparce rosy threads of warning, dark red splotches like rust, you aren’t particular. You’ll take anything. “Fuck,” you say again, defeated. You get dressed, wash your hands, and head back out into the cloudless afternoon sunshine.

“Stargirl, it’s your turn!” Aegon shouts as you trot over to them: tenth hole, shaped like an L, featuring an intimidating loop de loop. The course is dinosaur themed; Rhaena picked it. Aegon points to Jace. “This deformed bastard wanted to skip you.”

“I told you,” Jace moans. His speech is garbled and lisping, his face comically swollen, bruised yellow-emerald-indigo and drooling blood, stitches above his left eyebrow. He just had his dental implants placed yesterday; the four teeth that he lost at Club Camelot could not be readily located for reattachment. “I can’t keep track of who’s next. I’m on like four different opiates.”

Baela frets over him. “Shh, shh, baby. Try not to talk.” There’s something about watching someone get almost-murdered that makes you want to forgive them, you suppose.

You grab your club and golf ball, dark blue, from where you left them by a tree. Rhaena gives you a covert little thumbs up and raised eyebrows. Everything good? You smile—too widely, insincere, a liar—and nod. Technically, you have yet to obtain concrete evidence to the contrary.

You take your turn, somewhat awkwardly due to the splint that still encumbers your dominant hand. You are thinking about anything but mini golf. Your ball goes halfway through the loop de loop and then comes rolling back. How many strokes? Four, five, you lose count, it doesn’t matter. Aegon is snickering, though not in a mean way, never in a mean way. Aemond is watching you. He does this constantly; you can feel his eyes—river water, otherworldly atmosphere—on you all the time, you can see him on the periphery of your vision. But when you glance at Aemond, he looks away. You’re wearing flip flops, a black NSYNC t-shirt, and bright pink shorts that Baela insists are of the very short variety. Aemond is staring a little extra hard today. Shelby alternates between glaring at him and at you.

Jace putts next. He misses the ball twice. On the third try, he hits it into a nearby pond. Golden koi fish scatter beneath the rippling sheen of the water.

“Loser,” Aegon declares mildly. “Criston, why the fuck are we in New Jersey?”

“Because you’re playing three shows at the MetLife Stadium in East Rutherford,” Criston says as he putts; his green golf ball sails through the loop de loop, bounces off a wall, and then rolls straight into the cup, a hole in one. “One Direction did it, Taylor Swift did it, and now you’re going to do it too. And if you don’t make it too unbearable for me, I’ll even take you to the beach while we’re here. Okay?”

“Okay,” Aegon agrees. He slurps on his Slush Puppie. “Oh, Aemond, I need the Netflix password.”

“You forgot it again?!” Daeron says. Jace, groaning softly, lies down on the ground in a patch of shade. Baela gets a bottle of Orajel rinse out of her purse and starts pouring it into his mouth.

“Get your own account,” Aemond snaps at Aegon. “I think you can afford it.”

“Bruh, that’s not the point! I don’t know where I left off in Grey’s Anatomy!”

They keep bickering. You stop listening. You can only hear the sounds of rustling leaves, squawking seagulls, the whistling of the warm August wind. You can only feel the weight of Aemond’s half-fascinated, half-resentful gaze on you. He wouldn’t believe me, you think. If I really am pregnant, he would never believe that it was an accident. He would never believe that I was that guilelessly, unambitiously stupid. Hell, I did it and I barely believe it.

You steal a glimpse of Aemond—black shirt and black sunglasses, white shorts, Adidas sneakers—and he turns away, pretending to pick dirt off his golf ball. Interestingly, he will talk to you about things not related to that night in Tokyo; perhaps it would be too suspicious not to, a neon sign for the rest of the band to read. But he never allows himself to be alone with you. And he never touches you, not even a grazing of hands or an absentminded bump as he passes you in aisles or hallways.

Bump, you think miserably. An inauspicious choice of words.

“We should watch Se7en,” Aegon is saying now. “Comet fam movie night.”

You mutter: “We’re not watching Se7en.”

“What’s Se7en about?” Rhaena asks.

“You wouldn’t like it.”

“What’s in the box?!” Aegon shouts dramatically—quoting the beautiful yet doomed David Mills, a name he once borrowed to schedule a Zoom meeting with you—and then cackles. It’s his turn. He clobbers his golf ball and sends it flying through the loop de loop; it pops over the barrier and disappears into a bush. Startled squirrels dart out of the leaves.

“Loser!” Jace slurs as he lies sprawled across the ground, vindicated.

“Stop spitting blood everywhere,” Aemond says. He putts next, and badly: poor depth perception. “You’re getting it on my sneakers.”

“Watch it, cyclops.” Jace points to his own stitches, bruises, surgically replaced teeth. “I let you have this one. Now we’re even. But next time I won’t be so charitable.”

“You’re not even,” Aegon tells Jace, abruptly severe. He whips off his aviator sunglasses, crouches over Jace, glaring and thunderous like a storm. Baela observes this warily. “Not even close.”

Jace is intrigued. “No?”

“No. Your face will heal.” Then Aegon pokes him in the jaw and Jace screams, tears slithering down his puffy, mottled cheeks. Cregan yanks Aegon away before Baela can scratch his eyes out. Criston repossesses Aegon’s blue raspberry Slush Puppie as punishment. Luke wins the game, five under par.

Comet’s first shows in the United States this tour start just like the last few in Asia: Jace is iced, painted with concealer, thoroughly medicated, numbed into semi-consciousness. He does lines of coke in the bathroom under Cregan’s supervision. He can’t perform without it. Criston tried to negotiate a month off for Jace, but the label’s message was clear: get him on stage, we don’t care how you do it, we don’t want to know about it, here’s a blank check, figure it out or we’ll find another manager who can. Now Criston watches Jace with his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes wounded and anxious, his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of what he believes is failure.

The story released to the press is that Jace fell down a flight of stairs but is recovering smoothly. He can barely sing; his mic is turned up, and during Jace’s verses Cregan or Luke layer their voice with his. He wobbles and flubs his way through Night 1 in East Rutherford. You spend the show staring up at the stage without seeing it. Baela and Rhaena are with you, but you aren’t really with them; you feel like if they reached out to touch you, their hands would find only translucent emptiness like a mirage. Shelby is flocked by fellow influencers that she’s invited in from New York City. Aemond is somewhere, somewhere: lurking in shadows, brooding, avoiding, musing, suffering, jotting down starlight-colored judgments in his black-paged notebook.

Per tradition, the band and their entourage coalesce in Jace’s suite after the show. Jace himself, the gracious host, promptly collapses on a couch and lies there senseless as the party spins around him like the planets of a solar system. Baela is perched dutifully beside him, holding ice packs to his jaw, wiping away drool the color of one of Aemond’s Brambles. A tattoo artist is inking a goldfinch, New Jersey’s state bird, to the top of Jace’s right foot. Criston is across the room and speaking—rather tensely, it seems—with cigar-smoking label executives. Shelby is snapping photos with her friends; they take turns posing each other out on the balcony, adjusting elbows and wrists and knees, swiping away stray flecks of mascara, rearranging hair, recommending plastic surgeons. Aegon is typing WhatsApp messages—mostly emojis, from what you can see—to Miley Cyrus. At Luke’s prompting, Aemond begins sharing his comments to the presently sentient members of Comet. He puffs on one of his Benson & Hedges cigarettes as he reads aloud. He kindly skips over any criticisms of Jace’s performance.

You can’t stand hearing Aemond’s voice; not because there’s anything wrong with it, but because there isn’t, because you can’t stop remembering what he said to you in that florescent-white bathroom at Club Camelot in Tokyo, because he uses his words on so many people who aren’t you, because sooner or later your time with Comet will be over and you’ll only ever hear him again through Spotify songs and YouTube clips from before the accident, because he will one day be a ghost who haunts you, rattling doorknobs and chilling pockets of air but never speaking. You escape to ask the bartender: “Can I get a Coke?”

“A rum and Coke?”

“No.”

“Like…white powder coke?”

“No, a Coca-Cola. With nothing else in it.”

“Okay, whatever,” the bartender says, perplexed. He fills a glass with ice and dark liquid that pops and fizzes with carbonation, then slides it across the counter to you. You meander out into the hallway where you can be alone, where you don’t have to pretend to be okay.

The carpet is gold but frayed, the walls adorned with faux marble columns and scuffs from recklessly handled suitcases. Even the hotels are worse in New Jersey. You sip your soda—nonalcoholic, huh? you think, then push it aside—and roam past suite doors and vending machines until you reach the cove of elevators. There’s a full-length mirror hanging on the wall there, gilded, gaudy. You frown at yourself, a reflection that suddenly looks a bit like a stranger. You’re wearing a short seafoam green dress, gold earrings and sandals, and an eerily vacuous expression. You turn and move your hair aside so you can peer over your shoulder at what’s been indelibly penned there since Rome: the tiny comet, the lyrics that encircle it.

I wanted to remember this band forever. To remember Aemond. You can feel your stomach drop as it grows heavy with dread. The pulsing music from Jace’s suite has followed you down the hall, Sugar by Robin Schulz and Francesco Yates. I think I might just have more than a tattoo to remember him by after all.

One of the elevators dings and opens. A man lumbers out, towering, broad, monstrous. You gape up at him: brown threadbare coat, heavy boots, unruly dark beard, grey eyes like a bleak winter sky. There is a miasma that colors the air around him with smoke and alcohol, sweat and earth.

“Hello there,” he says, politely enough. His voice is such a baritone rumble that it’s difficult to understand. He has a British accent, but not like Aegon’s, not like Aemond’s. He reminds you of someone you can’t quite place. “I’m looking for a certain young gentleman. I’m hoping you can point me in his direction.”

“Sure,” you reply, trying to disguise your shock so you don’t offend him. He could be someone important. He could be an eccentric producer or a consultant. Or a drug dealer. “Who…uh…who was it you were hoping to speak with…?”

He smiles: sharp canine teeth yellowed by nicotine, glinting eyes like silver coins. “Cregan Stark.”

“Okay,” you stammer. Drug dealer?? “Okay, okay, I’ll…uh…I’ll go get him.”

You hurry down the hall and into Jace’s crowded, smokey suite, clinking glasses and flirtatious titters in dim lighting like late twilight. You return your empty drink to the bartender, then tap Cregan on the shoulder and inform him that someone out in the hallway is asking for him. He doesn’t seem surprised to hear this. Drug dealer, you think confidently. Cregan gulps his vodka shot and follows you out of the suite. He steps through the doorway. He turns towards the stranger. And then he stops dead. His eyes go wide. The blood drains from his face. And Cregan—immovable, inscrutable, unflappable Cregan—shrinks until he is a child again.

Immediately, you know you’ve made a mistake. You reach for him. “Cregan, wait—”

“My son,” the monstrous man sighs. And of course now you’ve realized exactly who the mirrorlike grey of his eyes reminded you of. “My son.”

You can’t stop him. How could you stop him? Faster than you can think, he has crossed the space between you and entombed Cregan in a stifling embrace. Cregan stands paralyzed, his eyes shifting, searching for escape. Tentatively, appeasingly, his hands slowly rise to hug the man in return.

“Criston?!” you shout. But within the suite, he cannot hear you over the music and the berating of smoke-veiled, bejeweled label executives.

“Did you forget about me, huh?” the man asks Cregan gruffly. And as he steps back he grips one of Cregan’s shoulders: not like Criston would, not like a father, like a vice, like a bear trap. He shakes Cregan once, not too hard. “You can fly your private jet all over the world but you can’t call your own father back? Huh? Huh?!” He shakes Cregan again, harder.

“Criston!” you scream. “Security! Somebody!”

Nobody can hear me. Nobody is coming.

You sprint into Jace’s suite, seize Criston by one hand, drag him out into the hall. On the blurry periphery of your vision, you can see Aemond getting up off the couch to follow you. The second he spots the monstrous man, Criston is roaring. “No no no, get away from him!” He pushes between Cregan and the giant, terrifying, wrathful. The man dwarfs him. Criston doesn’t seem to know it. “You can’t be here. We’ve been over this, you’re not allowed to be here—”

The man tries to reach around him to clutch at Cregan’s shirt. Aemond pulls you away from the scuffle. Criston hits the man in the solar plexus; he is momentarily stunned, wheezing. By the time he straightens up, Criston—louder than you, bellowing and fierce—has summoned security. They are swarming the man and escorting him back down the hallway towards the elevators. Aemond goes to Cregan. Criston looks at you. You’re quivering, penitent.

“I had no idea…he asked for Cregan…I would never have…I thought maybe he was a friend of the band…”

“He’s on our no fly list,” Criston says. His voice is tired yet patient. “But you wouldn’t know that.”

You try to apologize to Cregan, but he isn’t listening to you. He’s listening to Aemond. Aemond is speaking to him, low and calm, too quietly for you to hear. “I’m okay,” Cregan says unsteadily. “I’m fine.”

“It’s alright if you’re not,” Aemond tells him.

And you know that right now you are unnecessary, intrusive. Criston goes downstairs to figure out how Comet’s security guards in the lobby didn’t catch this and—presumably—to ensure that the invader is properly dealt with. Aemond slings an arm across Cregan’s shoulders and leads him back to the party where he is cared for, welcome, valued, safe. You hide in your own suite and try not to think about the dates on the calendar—missing blood, summer days ticking down towards zero—as you steep in a hot bath and attempt to scrub everything you’ve done wrong, today, yesterday, ever, off your skin. Then you change into an oversized Backstreet Boys t-shirt and your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants.

You try to sleep but of course you can’t, surrounded by a silence that only gets louder. When you hear the swipe of a keycard and the creaking of your door, you don’t know who to expect: Cregan, Criston, Rhaena, Luke, Baela, Jace, Daeron, Shelby, Aemond, ghosts. The clopping of his Crocs gives him away, neon pink to match his tank top. “I’m really not in the mood for anything resembling sex.”

Aegon replies as he kicks off his Crocs: “Did I ask, succubus?” He crawls into the bed, throws an arm casually across your waist, rests his head on your belly as your fingers thread through his chaotic blond hair, fond and tender. He burrows into you, into your softness and your warmth and your truth and your mysteries. Sometimes you feel like you’ll give until he falls into you like a trapdoor, the bones of his hands tangling around your spine, his blood vessels spilling into all of your rage-scarlet cavities, hollows of the flesh, hollows of the soul. “You’re sad.”

You stare up at the ceiling. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what. That’s the strange thing. Usually I can tell.”

“You’ve been gone.”

He looks up at you, confused. “I’ve been right here.”

“You know what I meant.”

Aegon doesn’t argue with you, doesn’t try to defend himself, doesn’t make promises both of you know he could never keep. He only lays his head down on your belly again and pulls himself closer to you, closer, closer, melting into your melancholy, dissolving into dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I was eleven when he broke my arm. Thirteen when he cracked my skull for the first time. Then I got big enough to hurt him back.” Cregan looks out over the waves: blue currents, white froth, sunbeams like glinting blades. As Criston promised, Comet is spending an afternoon in Seaside Heights. You and Cregan are sitting on the sand together twenty yards from the others. “I grew up in a two-bedroom cabin with no electricity or running water. We had a metal wash tub outside, ate deer and squirrels and rabbits, never had clothes that fit, never saw a doctor except when what was wrong might kill us. We had a woodstove and chopped down trees to burn in the winter. I had eight siblings, six of whom are still alive. Barnett overdosed. Courtland drove his friend’s Nissan into a brick wall. I’m not sure it was accidental.”

Your words are soft like a whisper, like gentle hands. “Cregan, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not…” His voice breaks. He stops for a while, composes himself, begins again. “It’s not something I talk about. Not because I’m trying to forget it. I can’t forget it, I’ll never be able to, I understand that, believe me. There’s just nothing to be gained from talking about it. I never feel better afterwards. I always feel worse.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“I know that. Don’t you think I know that?”

You wait, watching him. There’s something he needs to say. Down the beach a ways, Baela is doing yoga, her bare feet sure and agile in shifting sand. Rhaena, Luke, and Aemond are flying kites in the breeze: black dragons, green dragons. Shelby is, predictably, filming them from where she stands on Aemond’s good side. Aegon and Daeron are swimming so far out that you’re beginning to worry about sharks. Criston is parked under an umbrella with an unconscious Jace, reading Memoirs Of A Geisha and eating a sandwich full of something called pork roll.

“After Comet happened, I got all of them out,” Cregan continues. “My mum, my siblings. Good houses in safe neighborhoods. Security in case Dad makes an appearance. He does, every once in a while. He’s locked up, he’s free, he’s locked up again. He has nothing else to do but haunt us. I’ve been waiting for him to die since I was old enough to understand what a graveyard is.” Cregan looks at you. “Does that make me a bad person?”

“No,” you answer immediately.

“The thing is…” He holds out one large hand, palm down, like he’s resting it on a table. Then he shakes it. “Nothing ever feels stable. Nothing ever feels safe. No matter how much money I see stack up in accounts, I lie awake at night wondering what I’ll do if it disappears. So many people rely on me. I can’t stop worrying I’ll end up back in that cabin somehow. I can still hear drops of rainwater seeping in through the gaps in the roof. I can still smell burning wood.”

“The fact that you feel this way, given your history, is completely logical…even if the fear itself is not. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Cregan says. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Do you think it would help if we sat down and looked at the numbers and did some math? Because I suspect that even with a hundred dependents, you’d easily be able to float them for the rest of your lifetime just using the money you already have. And there will be royalties from Comet’s songs forever. Maybe if we can show you exactly how improbable your worst case scenario is, that fear will begin to fade a bit. Not go away, not completely, maybe not ever…but I think you’ll be able to quiet it down.”

“I’ll give it a try. If you recommend it.” Cregan lights a cigarette and takes a drag. Criston glances over and then pretends he didn’t notice. “I have a daughter,” Cregan says; and you can’t stop the shock from hitting your face like a fist. He smiles faintly, wistfully. “I know. I’ve worked very hard to make sure she is kept away from…” He gestures broadly. “All of this.” Fame. Debauchery. Tabloids. Reddit threads. “I was way too young. And her mother and I…we were never really together. It was contentious for a while, but we’ve sorted through things. I support them financially, obviously. And when I’m not on tour or in the studio, I disappear up to Lancaster for a few weeks at a time and no one is the wiser.”

You study him as wind tears in off the Atlantic Ocean, as seagulls swoop and screech overhead. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate how you’ve protected her once she can understand.”

“I don’t know how to be a father. Not a good one. But I try. I don’t just show up for movie nights and birthdays. I take her shopping for school supplies. I put her back to bed when she has nightmares. I take her to the dentist, to the park, to the library. She really likes pigs, so I adopted a few from a farm animal rescue and we learned how to raise them together.”

“You caring about being a good parent puts you ahead of a lot of people already,” you say. “Nobody in Comet knows?”

“Just Aemond. Once, years ago, her mother needed something and I was out of the country. I had to let somebody in on the secret, somebody I could trust. I chose Aemond. I chose right.” Now Cregan is amused. “He’s the one who suggested the pigs.”

“Of course he did,” you say; and you can’t help but smile. “How old is she?”

“Six and a half. Do you want to see a picture her?”

“Absolutely. If it’s alright with you.”

Cregan pulls his iPhone from his pocket, swipes around for a while, and then turns the screen so you can see. She looks like him, a lot like him, but with round cheeks and long dark lashes. And Cregan is beaming as he says: “Her name is Iris.”

“So you didn’t have to do the Maury paternity test thing.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I knew from the second I saw her she was mine.”

“She’s lucky to have you.”

Cregan shrugs, pensive, evasive. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” And he believes that you mean it; you can see it on his face. Aemond is watching you and Cregan, you notice now. He glances over, pretends he didn’t, glances again. You gesture to the crashing waves and say to Cregan: “If Aegon gets attacked by a shark, will you jump in and punch it or something please?”

Cregan chuckles. “Yeah. That’s my main job here, I think. Stopping people from dying.” And then, seriously: “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I haven’t done anything that warrants it.”

“No. Really.” Cregan reaches out, takes your uninjured hand, squeezes it briefly before releasing you. “Thank you, Stargirl.” Then he stands and walks to the water’s edge, letting the surf rush up over his ankles, for just a moment feeling nothing on his shoulders but the sunlight.

Aemond gives Shelby his kite and, as she glares bitterly, makes his way over to you. He takes off his sunglasses so he can see you better and hooks them on the waistband of his swim trunks: black, of course, his usual color. You’re actually wearing black today too, a flowing coverup over a pink swimsuit. You feel very much like hiding. When Aemond speaks, there is perhaps a hint of envy, green like leaves of poison, gleaming like snakeskin. “What were you and Cregan talking about?”

“Fatherhood.” And then you realize how it might sound.

There is a split second where Aemond looks startled; then he remembers Iris. “Right. Not so easy for people like us to navigate.”

People like us. Celebrities, boy band members, haunted men. You scramble for a nonchalant way to feel out the subject with him. “How does Louis Tomlinson handle it?”

“He’s a saint,” Aemond says. And you think: Patron saint of baby daddies? “Freddie was very, very unplanned. The mother was a nobody, a rebound. And a lot of people assumed she did it on purpose to try to keep Louis. Or to get eighteen years of a luxury lifestyle out of him. Or to just get fame in general. Personally, I believe it was all of the above.”

“Right,” you say, sweating heavily beneath your coverup.

“But none of that is the kid’s fault, and Louis is a good enough guy to realize it. So he plays nice with Freddie’s mother and they don’t go to war through tabloids anymore.”

“So, uh…” How can I put this? “You’re good with kids too. Cregan told me you had the pig idea.”

And the look that crosses Aemond’s face, the look: caustic, incredulous, night-dark, self-loathing. “Are you insane? Have you met me? I terrify kids. And I should, but not just because of the eye and the scar. What the hell do I know about being a decent father? What do I know about being a decent anything? I’d have no idea where to start. I’d fuck it up even if I tried desperately not to. I’d end up with kids like Aegon: addicts who hate themselves, people who are irrevocably lost.”

You say meekly: “I think Criston is something like a father to you. He could be a role model.”

“I’m not half as good a man as Criston is.”

Change the topic, change the topic, before Aemond gets suspicious. And there’s something else you’ve been meaning to ask him. “Aemond…after you almost murdered Jace…when we didn’t know if or how he was going to be able to perform until he healed…did anyone ask you to come back to Comet and fill in for him?”

“No,” Aemond says. And he’s thunderstruck by the thought, appalled, petrified.

“You don’t think that it might have been a good idea? That it might make sense?”

“No,” he says again instantly.

“But…in Tokyo…when Daeron made that speech at the last show…I think the crowd’s reaction was pretty powerful, don’t you? People still care about you. They love and respect you. And I think…maybe…it might help you with what you’ve experienced. To get back on stage—even just one last time—and prove to yourself that you still have what it takes. To know that if you do leave Comet, it’s your choice, not anyone else’s.”

“They love who I was,” Aemond says. “Not who I am now. And that’s easy to do. They don’t have to look at me.”

“Goddammit, there’s nothing wrong with how you look, Aemond!” you burst out. “You look fantastic. I never get tired of looking at you. I want to look at you all the fucking time. I’d hang life-sized portraits of you on every wall in my apartment in Kansas City. That’s how much I enjoy looking at you.”

He thinks you’re joking, he thinks you’re trying to make him feel better. You can’t stop him from thinking these things. And yet still, as he turns away, he is smiling: just a whisper of a curl at the corner of his lips, secretive, fragile.

As Comet is leaving the beach, you stop at a souvenir shop on the boardwalk to buy your keepsake for this tour destination. You settle on a pink frisbee that has I love the Jersey Shore! embossed on it in large, abrasive letters. You think your parents’ Australian cattle dogs will enjoy fetching it when you get home. Home feels so much closer—both literally and figuratively—than it did just a few weeks ago.

Criston is browsing through the t-shirts. “Hey, what size is your mom, Aegon? Medium?”

“How the hell would I know? Probably.” He holds up a pair of red, white, and blue bikini bottoms that say Firecracker across the ass. “You think my dad would mind if you sent her these?”

Criston is blushing. “Aegon, stop.”

“You could get her a bikini top too. Oh look, that one over there is red, it matches. And it says MILF across the tits. So that’s pertinent.”

“Stop!” Criston cries, distressed, and flees the store.

Halfway through the hour-long drive back to the hotel, Aegon insists that Criston stop the Escalades so he can get a hoagie from a Wawa. Aegon has never had a hoagie before. He says he cannot truly experience America without one.

At the ordering counter, Jace—slightly less bruised and swollen today, and thus in better spirits—taunts Aegon: “Are you sure you need all that bread? You’re going to be wearing a muumuu on stage by the time we get to the Midwest.”

“You know, just because you said that, now I’m going to get two hoagies…”

On the television mounted inside the Wawa, CNN is reporting on a group of tornadoes that just struck Wichita. And it occurs to you that tornadoes don’t have trajectories to calculate like hurricanes or airplanes or comets; they are climatological sharks. They strike quickly, indiscriminately, and then they’re gone again. They aren’t named. They aren’t enshrined. They don’t even have a belly to cut open and retrieve pieces of your loved ones from. If they take someone, they’re just gone.

While the rest of the band is in line to order their food, and Aemond is scrutinizing the dried fruit and nuts selection, you sneak through the other aisles.

It’s time. I have to find out eventually. I have to know.

You pluck a pregnancy test—cute, pink, nausea-inducing—off a rack, purchase it with truly impressive speed at the checkout counter, and race to the bathroom. It’s surprisingly difficult to piss on a tiny stick of doom, especially when your primary hand is in a splint and only partially useable. Eventually, you manage. You put the cap back on the pregnancy test, set it on top of the toilet paper dispenser, and stare at the metal door of the stall. The Wawa speakers are playing The Fray’s Over My Head.

It won’t be positive. It can’t be positive.

You think of pregnancy test commercials you’ve seen: happy couples rejoicing, happy single women getting negatives. How are you supposed to react to bad news? Nobody ever tells you. Do you scream, sob, beg for forgiveness, schedule an appointment at Planned Parenthood? Do you kick the bathroom stall door down in mindless feminine fury? Do you throw yourself off a balcony?

There’s no way it will be positive. It was one time. Just one goddamn time.

And who knows if that will ever happen again with Aemond. This does not improve your mood.

You pick up the pregnancy test. It is unequivocally positive.

You shove it into the small rectangular trashcan for pads and tampons, things you won’t be needing in the immediate future. You get dressed, leave the stall, go to the sink and wash your hands. Then you grip the cool, slick, white porcelain and gaze at yourself in the mirror under nowhere-to-hide florescent lights. What do you feel? Everything, nothing, things you can’t name yet. You’re a raw nerve, you’re completely numb.

The bathroom door swings open. Shelby enters. She squares up with great purpose. Your eyes roll to her, slowly, with no tolerance left, not a drop of it. “Stay away from Aemond,” she demands.

“Make me.”

She is in disbelief. “I’m sorry, what?”

You turn all the way towards her. “Fucking make me, Shelby.”

“I knew you wanted him,” she says, she seethes. “I saw you in those paparazzi photos from Reykjavik and I knew you were already twisting your claws into him.”

You hold up your hands to show her; your thoughts are fuzzy, dazed, without inhibition. “I have no claws whatsoever. If I did, you’d know about it. Believe me. You’d be able to look down and watch your heart beating through the gashes.”

“You don’t belong here. Some Midwestern farm girl running around in flip flops and Cookie Monster pajama pants? You’re trash. You’re a user. You’re a nobody. And if you’re trying to steal a taken man, then you’re a whore too.”

“I’ve been called worse things by better people.”

“I can make them hate you,” Shelby says indignantly. “Comet. The world.”

“Good luck with that, Malibu Barbie. Nobody even knows I exist.”

“Stay away from Aemond,” she says again, trembling with her futile bleach-blond rage. “We’re meant to be together. We have so much history.”

“And yet no future.” You smile sweetly, breeze past her, step on one of her perfectly pedicured feet with a thoroughly unpretentious flip flop. By the time you return to them, the band is almost ready to leave Wawa.

You’re not hungry, but Aegon coaxes you into taking a few bites from his hoagie. You’re not able to focus on what people are saying, but you hear Aemond mention that he wishes Comet had time to visit a planetarium in some nearby town called Toms River. You think about what it would be like to lie side by side with him under the stars, under the sky where comets appear again after vanishing for centuries. You wonder if there’s anyplace where you and Aemond could ever be truthful with each other.

At night you can’t sleep. There is no shortage of reasons why. You wander from your bed to the gold-carpet hallway to the vending machines, where you stare brainlessly at the options. Am I supposed to not be drinking caffein? Did I get any Vitamin D today? How much sugar is too much? You buy a bottle of apple juice—surely a safe bet—and head back to your suite.

As you walk by Aemond and Shelby’s door, your steps slow. Some nights you can hear them in there arguing: Shelby reiterating all the reasons why they’re perfect for each other, clearly a rebuttal to an accusation you weren’t privy to. Some nights you hear muffled casual conversation or episodes of Cosmos. Some nights you hear nothing at all. Some nights your imagination colors in the gaps before you can stop it: his hands on her, his mouth on her, things you know you have no right to dread and yet you do. But tonight, Shelby is momentarily removed from the scene. You can hear the distant pattering of the shower, and then Aemond alone in the living room gathering up plates and glasses. He’s singing something very quietly, so quietly it takes you a while to recognize it. It’s not even a Comet Donati song. It’s Through The Dark.

You sit down in the empty hallway, your back to his door. And you lean your head against it as you listen to Aemond singing softly to himself, doubt sinking into you the same way that trapped blood fills a bruise: Maybe it wasn’t as good for him as it was for me. Maybe he doesn’t talk to me because he doesn’t want to. Maybe I don’t belong here anymore. Maybe I’ve invented a history that we don’t really share. Maybe he didn’t mean it when he said he loves me.

“What am I going to do?” you whisper, scalding tears brimming in your eyes, shivering hands settling on your belly. In a few months, you’ll be showing. “What the hell am I going to do?”

[codeopathy]

TW for domestic abuse mentions

Hi. I never usually make theories or analysises in depth but I wanted to do one for @laikascomet cause I think the series is so fuckin neat

Under the cut will be a SPOILERS zone so please read the comic before you read!!

Okay so! There's a lot to this chapter so I'll probably make this post specifically about the colors of this chapter + some small details relating to it.

Firstly, the chapters run into each other subtitle wise.

Start -> You can only move forward

End -> Don't look back.

This can be read as "You can only move forward, don't look back" OR "Don't look back. You can only move forward." which are two VERY different tones to me which relates heavily for the chapter we have before us.

When Laika first enters into the dimension/dreamworld, it's all really pink and coated in hearts. This is TYPICALLY a sign for innocence, love, and whathaveyou BUT I also want to add on another idea that could subert our expectations;

It is more safe on the outside than inside...

So to explain it'll probably need some color context. For Laika in the dreamworld, she's mostly coated in pinks or colors like pink much like the world around her. Which before hand, it's seen she has a loving family and she doesn't have many issues in the present moment beyond possibly getting in trouble.

Now for Mars...

They are mostly blues with pink eyes. Which if the first instance of the blue rabbit isn't telling (full on going to attack Laika who notes; "...That's the most hostile I've ever seen [them get]...") then we have a general color association scheme already happening.

Pink -> Safe

Blue -> Unsafe

So moving on! Mars has photos depicting the comet falling onto their house (or a piece of it) as well as a potential friend? [Photo below]

SHOULD ALSO NOTE. THEIR ROOM IS PINK, THE DINING ROOM IS BLUE. But anyways the photos show the story of the comet and potentially what happened (though not EVERYTHING) as the characters go on up!!

Though note here that the parents DO NOT have pink eyes.

This could potentially be how kids are still more innocent over the adults but also how Mars still sees safety in what they live in over Laika who IMMEDIATELY knows shit is wrong in this place and Mars shouldn't be here. Also another color thing.

(Pink for innocent/safety)

(Blue for fear/no safety [in this case in regards to mars])

Which I think after I make one more note, I can confidently place down a potential theory for Mars. There's the scene where Laika intercepts a potential traumatic flashback for Mars and they snap back with:

Which I find interesting it's more of an orangey pink over a blue- Could mean Mars is attempting to be honest BUT also is repeating things They heard their parents say to them when Mars tried to speak up as well.

((Also just noticed this but GOD the little detail of the plate breaking and Laika getting cut in the same area is so NEAT btu also considerably heartbreaking if you consider THOSE implications.))

ANYWAYS.

Now for the actual theory or well. ya know.

I feel like Mars was potentially in what we will call a "hidden" abusive home where on the outside everything seemed lovely and nice but the inside... Not so much. Mars obviously seemed to have much more comfort in their bedroom, isolated away despite it ruining their mental health. But when they are out and eating with their family (meals that likely weren't as sustaining or delicious as what they should have), it felt overstimulating because of how their parents talked. Which it was like static noise that they have to sit and eat through to just be able to run back and stay in the pink safety zone.

And Mars had to witness potential domestic violence or even more to themselves considering how everything is so violent as Laika pointed out (and even Mars implies in a scene as well I realize which is included below)

Which if this is the case, everything we see is a replay of their trauma from their home. Which happens a lot with children who experience horrible things, they tend to "act out" the scenes to process through it and generally make it "not as bad" in their heads.

TDLR; Pink and Blues mean so fuckin much in this chapter as well as that Mars likely is relieving their trauma with the star powers due to not knowing any better.

So with that, I think this story is so wonderful. I myself grew up in a similar home and it's nice to see Mars potentially get help in the future.

[repunk76]

Rip Her to Shreds [Song by Blondie] Oh, you know her, would you look at that hair Yeah, you know her, check out those shoes She looks like she stepped out of the middle of somebody's blues She looks like the Sunday comics She thinks she's Brenda Starr Her nose job is real atomic All she needs is an old knife scar Yeah, she's so dull, come on rip her to shreds She's so dull, come on rip her to shreds Oh, you know her, "Miss Groupie Supreme" Yeah, you know her, "Vera Vogue" on parade Red eye shadow! Green mascara! Yuck! She's too much She looks like she don't know better A case of partial extreme Dressed in a Robert Hall sweater Acting like a soap opera queen Yeah, she's so dull, come on rip her to shreds She's so dull, come on rip her to shreds She got the nerve to tell me she's not on it But her expression is too serene Yeah, she looks like she washes with Comet Always looking to create a scene Yeah, she's so dull, come on rip her to shreds She's so dull, come on rip her to shreds She's so dull, rip her to shreds Oh, you know her, "Miss Groupie Supreme" Yeah, you know her, "Vera Vogue" on parade Yeah, you know her, with the fish-eating grin She's so dull Yeah, she got the nerve to tell me! Huh, she's so dull Yeah, there she goes now She making out with King Kong She take her boat to Hong Kong Well, bye bye sugar And not a minute too soon

[radiofreederry]

DC invites you to pitch ten comics to them. What do you go for?

DOCTOR MID-NITE (miniseries): House, MD meets Daredevil as blind vigilante doctors Pieter Cross and Beth Chapel handle cases at St. Camillus, the hospital for superheroes, where an emerging plot to use the Earth's superhumans as a transmission vector for a deadly disease forces them to race against time.

TEEN TITANS (ongoing): A coming-of-age story as Superboy assembles a new team of Teen Titans, featuring himself, veterans Static, Robin, and Solstice, new Titans Thunderheart and Animal Girl, and new characters Blue Lantern and Space Cadet, to provide a space for young heroes to come into their own and find themselves.

THE SPECTRE (miniseries): The Lord's Spirit of Vengeance comes to Earth to mete out justice in a horror story with a heavy dash of theology.

ADVENTURES IN THE DC UNIVERSE (ongoing): An anthology series in the vein of 52 which features rotating casts of second- and third-string DC characters, fleshing out their stories and giving them time to shine.

MYSTERY IN SPACE (miniseries): It's a galactic whodunit as Captain Comet and Adam Strange must team up to solve a murder at a United Planets summit before events spiral into a cosmic war.

STARFIRE (ongoing): Koriand'r moves to Malibu to start her life on Earth fresh, but this attempt at a reset is disrupted by threats from beyond the stars, seeking vengeance on Tamaran for crimes long forgotten, as well as the possibility of new romance between herself and Dick Grayson.

PIED PIPER (miniseries): Hartley Rathaway struggles to reintegrate into society as an ex-con, even with the support of his friend Wally West, the Flash. He is soon forced to re-don his costume and sonic weapons after he discovers that a serial killer is targeting Central City's homeless population.

MARY MARVEL (ongoing):After Billy Batson is forced to take the Wizard's place at the Rock of Eternity, his sister Mary steps up as the main bearer of the power of Shazam. She must now juggle superheroics and a normal life as she begins classes at Fawcett University, even as Billy's enemies target her for revenge.

DOCTOR FATE (miniseries): As war breaks out between the Lords of Order and Chaos, threatening to swallow the world in mystical pandemonium, Khalid Nassour must find a way to save the world and restore the magical balance.

BOOSTER GOLD AND THE LEGION OF SUPER HEROES (ongoing): During a mission gone awry, Booster Gold is de-aged into a teenager and stranded in the 31st Century. He joins the Legion of Super Heroes while searching for a way to restore himself, and his self-aggrandizement and materialism causes endless conflict with his altruistic and science-minded teammates.

[shycroissanti]

Irina Gonshira, the Blue Sun hashira... Star hashira? Comet Hashira?

I think I never really explained the breathing that Irina uses, right? Which I actually don't even know how to specify XD

She's not officially a hashira. When Irina was still a child, she was always running and playing around, she lived close to Rengoku's house, so she loved going there and watching Kyojuro training and that's why she learned about hashiras and breathing styles (Irina and Kyojuro became friends at that time). One night, she was returning home alone, daydreaming about how she wanted to become a hashira, then a shooting star passed by beautifully, Irina's heart was full of hope! She wished with all her might that she would be strong enough and that she would become a hashira in the future. The star shone bright and so hopeful, Irina was mesmerized by the beauty... THEN SHE DIDN'T REALIZE THAT THE STAR WAS A COMET THAT FELL ON HER!!!!! Yes, Irina was hit by a small comet. She almost died, but a strange energy kept her alive, gave her flaming powers of blue supergiant stars. Since that incident, Irina has changed a lot, she used to be a calm girl and even a little shy, but after the comet, she became completely loudy and extroverted, she doesn't sit still for a minute!! For a long time, she needed to train and get used to all this energy because if she lost concentration for a few seconds, she would catch fire. Another thing is that many people turned away from her due to her uncontrolled behavior, so she spent a lot of time alone, training her new powers based on the movements she learned by observing Kyojuro. This is one of the main reasons why most Hashiras don't consider her, but she moves on because no matter how crazy she is, Irina always wants to protect everyone around her.

I know this might be very poorly written and cringe, but I tried... I intend to make a comic about my OCs and I think it will be much better (≧ヘ≦　)

[rosenroot]

Hi, i love your work so much❤️, the sansa looking at the red comet is my favorite one, your sansa is so cute, so I'd like to suggest the scene on sansa VI in AGOT the "Maybe my brother will give me your head" part, or perhaps Dany IV ACOK with the blue heart in the house of the undying

This is more a comic than an illustration but I couldn’t capture all the thing in just one picture ;p

[proxissima]

Least favorite Ozai take you know (you can also name more if you like too)

Even after taking a thorough break from the ATLA fandom in the past year, that Ozai "isn't the sharpest tool in the shed", that people seem to think that he's the dumbest member in the royal family is the take that came to my mind immediately, and it's the one that I still abhor to this day.

Dishonourable mention goes to Ozai being also the most talentless and/or weakest firebender, which tends to go hand-in-hand with the above-mentioned take.

People who spout this nonsense with such confidence make me wonder if they even watched the same show as the rest of us or if they transferred here from some parallel universe, because what part about Ozai shooting lightning like fireworks during Sozin's comet, what part about him sensing the end of a total eclipse in a bunker deep in the earth, from his inner fire alone (all while regular firebending soldiers hadn't even noticed that their bending was gone in the first place!!), what part about Ozai being the only person that was able to summon lightning from both hands simultaneously (in the OG show tbf), near instantaneously and with just a sliver of the sun (never mind that by this point there were only two other people in the world that were even able to generate lightning and neither were on his level), gave the impression that he's an unskilled or untalented fighter?

And that's just listing his feats regarding his lightning, not even his general technique and bending.

Ozai is both powerful AND capable of extreme precision, something people also just love to ignore when they're forced to admit that Ozai is no chump in the power department.

EOS Azula would absolutely NOT defeat prime Ozai and Iroh would at least have a hard time with him. Jeong Jeong, however, is decisively getting smoked, never mind anyone less than a master; some people need to come down from cloud cuckoo land.

On a side note, I like how in the bottom right picture, it looks like Ozai is bending blue fire when he's unleashing huge lightning bolts in reality.

Another take I despise is the common notion that Ozai wanted to have Zuko dead since his birth, or that he couldn't wait to kill his infant son, which is factually wrong. Even the comics, despite instigating this whole mess, made it clear that Ozai wasn't that bad.

Okay, further tonal whiplash incoming, but there's another topic on my mind. That's your warning.

I also used to hate the notion that Ozai is a rapist and that the relationship between him and Ursa was one of constant abuse. (I think it was a bold move of Bryke and generally everyone to portray Iroh, of all people, as the polar opposite and a demure character, considering his history with women... but Iroh is a whole different can of worms.) Let it be said that I still think the plot of the comics is complete horse-shit in that regard, so my opinion on that hasn't changed.

However, I won't lie and say that there isn't a certain, morbid appeal in Ozai using sex as a weapon to exert control over people.

There was a fic, I think it was called Queens and Consorts that portrayed Ozai's manipulative and subtle side quite well, where each chapter is written from a different woman's perspective that all are either in or have some business with the royal family. Ursa felt unloved, but when it turned out that she was the only one Ozai truly loved? *Chef's kiss*. The fic deals with the inner workings of not just the royal family but also the political intricacies of the royal court in a captivating manner. I remember it being worth a read, but I digress.

Back to my original point though, I do also have to give Dominion credit where it's due, because the particular chapter, chapters? where Ursa departs, written from her POV, were an interesting read that gave insight into Ozai's character and their toxic and abusive relationship. I liked that Ursa was actually in love with him, but turned to despise him all the same. One part that has stuck with me was, paraphrased, how Ozai would sometimes forcefully take her, but she would spread her legs for him willingly on enough other occasions.

The abuse, in general, is a touchy topic and it's a delicate balance to strike, between giving Ozai edges, without taking away from his humanity entirely, and avoiding making it grotesquely obscene, but if done right, it can add a whole lot of complexity to their dynamic. Needless to say, the comics busted it miserably. Like, so thoroughly, a twelve year old could come up with a more cohesive and interesting plot.

I think this type of characterisation of Ozai works best, when it's not just him, but also the rest of the family to be depicted to have extremely dubious morals that serve as a reminder why exactly no one was objecting to perpetuating a century-long war their ancestor started, but also why practically every member of the following generations was either willing to carry out a genocide/mass murders on their own, have successfully done so, or were actively endorsing it. (It's certainly noteworthy that we know nothing about Lu Ten's mother, and that any of Iroh's past in the military has been carefully tiptoed around in all official portrayals post-ATLA.)

All of this being said, I don't get it when Ozai is the one portrayed as this depraved, sadistic rapist, all while characters like Azulon and especially Iroh, out of all people, are treated as the bastion of moral superiority in the meantime, or something, like they'd genuinely be outraged by... (marital) rape and abuse. These two. It's a bold assumption at best.

It's just kind of a pointless endeavour, trying to apply modern-day (western) morals on the setting ATLA takes place in and pretending [favourite] characters would hold those same values and act accordingly, when it's more comparable to the late 19th century. (Yes, there's enough people on stan Twitter and Reddit who actually seem to forget about this)

Obligatory disclaimer that I've got nothing against modern AUs or whatever. I just don't like it when people are genuinely pretending that is how characters would be thinking in canon.

[amethystandemma]

Donna Troy and Roy Harper in the Sims 4 - Part 3

Donna and Aqua taking a selfie

Now Donna and Dick

Donna introducing herself to Kole Weathers (I freaking love her and Joe Wilson)

And Donna, Kole, and Joseph Wilson

Donna and Raven meeting

And Donna and Nathan (Batboy) meeting while Raven is cooking(?)

Let me know who else you want to see in this series!

BONUS: Dick Grayson on his way to work

[katnissgirlsmakedo]

like i’m just saying in the final version of seventeen they all sang lines relevant to either their characters (jughead “brand new sheriff’s come to town” after his dad just became sheriff. toni “still i miss you i’d be honored if you’d let me be your friend” after she just got back together with cheryl that episode) and archie’s is “high school may not ever end” and EYE am saying that it is. about the cycles and the narrative and high school MAY NOT ever end for archie he’s trapped in riverdale trapped in high school trapped in skin too scarred for his young age and too thick for his idealized innocent persona. and now he’s back in high school. in the 1950s. as though he’s incapable of real growth and has to be reset over and over again (LIKE A COMIC BOOK CHARACTER) and he cannot escape riverdale high and that blue and gold varsity jacket. (which he DOES in the song. they all shed their jackets ie outer layers ie metamorphosis ie SHEDDING. what sheds? SNAKES. what’s another word for a snake? SERPENT. what’s the name of jughead’s gang? exactly. anyway in the song they all shed those layers and are capable of breaking free from the shackles of the heathers narrative on the stage but in their real lives they can’t do that, illustrated by jughead with the fact that as he takes off his flannel for the metaphor of the song, he puts his beanie back on, effectively performing an escape from the narrative while digging himself deeper inside it) and the POINT of all that goes back to the comet the fact that they are all now literally trapped within a narrative that is not their own, they’re no longer on a stage and the metaphorical escape isn’t enough to save them, they have to actually escape in order to regain the lives they lost in the reset, they have to actually metamorphasize or high school REALLY won’t EVER end. how do they do this? jughead. the only character even aware of the reset and the past (that’s actually the future) and the only one capable of kickstarting the journey back to real life. how do they kickstart this? break the narrative, shed the skin, take off the letterman jacket and get out of high school and get out of the narrative, the narrative that wants archie to be a wholesome football playing american boy with two girls waiting for him to choose between them and a picket fence for the one he picks. how does he break that narrative? jughead. jarchie longcon real xoxo

[superherobriefings]

The Red Comet

Creator(s): Arthur King

Alias(es): Unknown

1st Issue w/Uniform: Planet Comics #4

Year/Month of Publication: 1940/04

pdsh.fandom.com/wiki/Red_Comet

[writebackatya]

Wip Preview: Let’s All Go to the Movies!

So I’m writing again. It’s great the only problem is that it turns out this fun little Duckverse June prompt might be another one of those stories that comes out longer than I anticipated because of all the fun little ideas I have for it. The solution? Show a preview cause it’s Wednesday. Thanks to @tokuvivor for helping me decide what to show. He wanted to see the context of who Gosalyn called a hipster. So I’ll show that. Hopefully this’ll get done by the end of June or early July at the latest:

“NO! Stop that right now!”

Fenton and Gandra’s kiss ended the very second they realized the three kids they were watching were watching them.

“Aw don’t be mean, Gosalyn.” Webby chimed in, “I thought it was cute.”

“Well I don’t want to see or hear any more of that when we get inside the theater,” Gosalyn demanded, “I came here to watch the Titanic Trio kick butt and save the dimensional multiverses, not listen to you two make-out the entire time.”

“Oh don’t you worry, Gos.” Gandra smirked. “Fenton and I will keep our hands to ourselves so you can hear Comet Man give all his speeches about doing what’s right as well as punch the bad guys.”

“Comet GUY!” Dewey corrected.

“Right, my mistake.”

“He’s my favorite!”

“I never would have guessed…” Gandra stated as she looked down at the Comet Guy shirt Dewey was currently rocking over his usual long sleeved blue shirt.

“He’s the coolest! He travels the galaxy in a spaceship that is also his hat! And he’s like the greatest dancer ever!” Dewey explained.

“Yeah Comet Guy is cool and all, but he’s nothing compared to the Scarlet Brigand!” Gosalyn commented as she unzipped her jacket to show off her Scarlet Brigand hoodie. “Nothing more badass than a bad bitch bandit who knows how to use a sword!”

“Um, Gosalyn?” Fenton spoke up, “I don’t think Drake would approve of that lan-”

“I’ve always been a big fan of the Masked Mallard!” Webby responded to Gosalyn as she put on her Masked Mallard mask and started punching the air. “No powers or weapons. Just pure intelligence and strength!”

“Wow, sounds like the characters are just different enough for each of you to project yourselves onto.” Gandra observed.

“Yeah!” Dewey replied. “Do you two have a favorite character?!”

“They don’t have to be a member of the Titanic Trio!” Webby added” It could be anyone from the ACU! That’s Awesome Cinematic Universe. Based upon the Awesome Comics of course.”

“Don’t tell me,” Gosalyn smirked up at Gandra, “your favorite character is probably one of those lame F.I.E.L.D. Agents.”

A small scoff left Gandra’s mouth as she rolled her eyes back at the teen duck. “Look, I’m sorry kids, but I’ve only seen like three of these movies from the past decade and don’t really remember the characters.”

“Wait, what!?” Both Dewey and Webby gasped in unison.

“You’re telling me that you’re walking into the third Titanic Trio movie without watching the previous two Titanic Trio movies or the previous Super Snooper movie?!” Webby asked as she looked up Gandra. “You’ve at least watched any of the Masked Mallard or Comet Guy movies?!”

“I think I might have watched one of the Masked Mallards-, wait Super Snooper? I thought this group was a trio not a quartet.”

“Oh they are, Super Snooper is not a member!” Dewey happily clarified for Gandra, “Super Snooper: The Rise of the Resurrection introduced the Brainteasers who are going to be the main enemy of this movie!”

“Ooh, I loved that one!” Fenton chimed in. “I’d say Super Snooper is my favorite character from the ACU as well as the Awesome Comics.”

“Well you’re in luck, Fenton!” Webby assured the older duck, “I heard from the Sabrewings that he may or may not play a small role in this movie!”

“Really!? Yes!” Fenton celebrated while Gandra shook her head in amusement at her boyfriend as the group continued their journey towards the theater.

Dewey and Webby continued walking beside Gandra.

“Since you’re out of the loop, we can tell you everything you need to know before the movie begins!” Webby suggested to Gandra.

“Yeah! I’m a real genius when it comes the ACU!” Dewey bragged.

“Can’t say that I’m surprised to hear that.” Gandra stated.

“Go ahead! Ask me anything!”

“Okay, did the superheroes win in Super Snooper: The Rise of the Resurrection?”

“Yeah! It went down li-”

“Thanks, I’m all caught up Dewey.”

“So what, you��re too cool to enjoy the ACU?” Gosalyn inquired as she placed her hands in her pockets.

“Just never really liked superhero movies…” Gandra responded.

“Are you joking, Gandra? You don’t like superhero movies?!” Dewey gasped in shock. “But you’re a nerd!”

“She’s the worst kind of nerd, Dewey” Gosalyn observed, “a hipster.”

Gandra scoffed. “Yeah, sorry to disappoint you kids.”

“Well regardless, I’ll be sitting right next to you Gandra in case you have any more questions!” Dewey assured the hen.

“Oh, super…”

“And if you don’t wanna talk during the movie I actually wrote down notes and wrote down all key details that anyone will need to know before seeing Titanic Trio: Interdimensional Fractured Multiverses!” Webby went ahead and handed Gandra her sparkling notebook.

“Uh thanks Webby but I-…wow, this is all actually really well organized and well-written.” Gandra observed as she shook the glitter off her hands. “Suit, have you ever seen anyone be this efficient with their notes.”

Fenton looked at the notebook. “Oh wow! All color-coded, nice graphs, key details as well as extensive ones. Webby this is impressive!”

“Aw, thanks!” Webby smiled bashfully at the two adults.

“Sheesh, can you believe we’re the only non-nerds in this group?” Gosalyn whispered to Dewey as she held her fist out for a fist bump.

“Nerp!” Dewey bumped his fist against Gosalyn’s.

You know a mutual once asked me “Why do you think Dewey and Gandra should’ve been a team? Wouldn’t he annoy Gandra.” Yes. That is precisely why I think they should be a team

[capricioussun]

Hi. I am re-opening in-character asks again for a bit if anyone is curious and would like to talk to/question some guys :*)

List of Them below vvv

Main

Undertale - Rus & Sans

Underswap - Stretch & Blue

Underfell - Edge & Red

Swapfell Metal - Copper & Gold

Fellswap Glass - Ghost & Haze

Vesselfell - Void & Perp

Horror

Horrortale - Dove & Patch

Horrorswap - Rust & Coal

Horrorfell - Dusk & Eclipse

Mafia

Mafiatale - Hawk & Sparrow/AR

Mafiaswap - Luck & Cue

Mafiafell - Boss & Snare

Outer

Outertale - Pictoris & Ara

Outerfell - Antares & Boötes

Outerswap - Aurigae

Outliers

Lovefell - Lace & Cire

Sweetswap - Clover & Berry

Invertedfell - Ice & Pin

Demonfell - Elester & Raviel

Glitchedswap - Uno & Sky

Outcodes

Glitchfell Papyrus - Dos

Tale Gaster variant - Wingdings

Comic Papyrus - Comet

(Orangefell, Undersell, Heartfell, LoveSwap, MafiaLoveFell brothers, and Outerswap Sans will not be available for questions since they are still so heavily under construction and/or don’t have proper nicknames yet)