#after what nine said on live i just needed to draw him

[vvstual]

totally normal about him💞

[feyburner]

I ??? woke up at 3am with this scene fully written in my mind palace and quickly jotted it down in the Notes app

*

Clark’s shaking his head before he realizes he’s doing it, and feels a twinge of embarrassment at his own bad manners when Bruce stops mid-word to look at him, brows raised.

“No?” he says.

“No,” Clark says, again without thinking, and again with the reflexive urge to apologize. Somewhere his mother is tutting without knowing why. But he doesn’t apologize, because he’s already saying, “No, it can’t—it can’t be that.”

“Okay,” Bruce says slowly. “Can you elaborate?”

He is, honestly, having trouble taking his eyes off the screen. The mockup design of his new suit is there, dark and sleek, ridged like tactical gear. The blue is like the last shade of evening before you can’t call it evening anymore, the color of nine PM in Kansas in July, so exact there’s a strong chance Bruce color-picked it from a photo. The yellow accents are the cool fluorescent yellow-green of lightning bugs. The red is dark as arterial blood. Every aspect of the suit has been updated—the colors deeper, the angles sharper, the S extending to the corners of its frame—but Bruce has done it without changing the fundamentals. It’s immediately recognizable as the Superman suit, just… well, a little cooler, maybe. A little more of the times. Even the tailoring is modernized. The neckline. The shape of the boots. Where the belt hits at the waist. Clark can tell just by looking that Bruce has not only spent a lot of time on this in general, he’s spent a lot of time designing it specifically with Clark in mind, Clark’s needs and preferences and the small discomforts of his current suit, things he might have mentioned offhand after a mission but never with the assumption that Bruce was listening or filing it away. No doubt the next slides of this presentation will detail all the hidden features of the new suit, and they’ll all be incredibly thoughtful if not slightly overkill, and Bruce will pretend his sole motive here was practicality and risk reduction and respond to any thanks with a curt nod.

And Clark wants to thank him. He will. It’s just.

“It can’t be… cool,” he says, inane. Bruce is watching him with that steady look that used to feel clinical, piercing, and now mostly reads as attentive. “It can’t be—like yours. Tactical, military-grade.”

“Lightyears beyond, actually.”

“It has to—Ma said once, a kid should be able to draw it with crayons. You know? I can’t look like a weapon. I have to—I want to look like a friend.”

He can feel himself flushing. It’s rare that he speaks like this, and rarer still that he does so while being stared at intently. Bruce may think of himself as the darkness, but his gaze is a spotlight: unwavering and revealing and more a little sweat-inducing, for one reason or another.

“Sometimes, when I show up, people laugh,” Clark says. “If it’s somewhere out of the way, where they haven’t seen me before. I show up and I look like a festival performer. It’ll be the worst day of their lives, and they’ve got no reason to trust my face, but when they see what I’m wearing—it goes from ‘Who are you?’ to ‘Who is this guy?’ And that’s a good thing.”

“Hard to be afraid of a man dressed in primary colors,” Bruce says, almost to himself.

“Exactly.”

“I see. Thank you,” he says, “for explaining.”

Clark tries not to show how surprised he is to hear that. Judging by the crook of Bruce’s mouth, his success is negligible. “Of course. Sorry I didn’t—I mean, thank you, obviously, for going to such trouble. I didn’t mean to come in here and—I really do appreciate it, I can tell you put a lot of work in—”

Bruce’s eyes cut away. “No. No need. I didn’t ask, before I…. It was only a first draft. If you’re amenable, I’ll incorporate your feedback into the second one.”

“Oh! Yeah. Yes, of course, but you really don’t have to—”

“If you have any further notes, I would like to hear them.”

There’s something determined in the lines of his face. Clark has the sense that this moment is important, that it’s a turning point, even if he’s not sure why. It feels like striking out into a sea of ice, a blank white expanse under which something precious and vital is hidden, has been hidden all along, just waiting for him to find it. To want to.

“Sure,” he says. He looks back at the suit and swallows, and knows Bruce will see the flicker of his throat and take some meaning from it, and wishes he knew what the meaning was. Or maybe Bruce won’t notice or read into it at all. Maybe Clark needs to calm down, in fact. “Um. I don’t want to assume, but does it… do things?”

“It does things,” Bruce confirms, after the barest pause. “Let me show you the next slide.”

[multi-fandom-imagine]

in regard to this post, I think that might actually heal a part of Ford’s soul at least a little because once upon a time he tried to hold a girl’s hand and she ran away screaming. Now he’s here with you and his touch has you on cloud 9.

A/n: YESS!!! Oh my god yes! Also let me know of you want me to write that out because i 100% will but

Ford meets you in college, does his best to ignore you but it's so hard when you end up as his roommate and it get's harder to hide his hand now.

Get's blown away when you said his hand is cute...cute? I'm sorry are you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital because no one has ever said a thing like that. Ford was so used to being called a freak the young man that an attractive girl like you just called his hand cute.

Finally get's the nerves to ask you out, Ford's heart can't help but stutter when you hold his hand. The smile you give him is everything, you didn't run away screaming no you stayed by his side, you stayed.

Sure you've held his hand, yes you made have traced his palm but you two have never gotten intimate like that before. Ford is sweating, he's nervous because he's never done this. What if he's messes something up? What if this is the moment you draw the line and dump him?

But oh! You moaned, you guided him a little and then once he gotten used to it. The little moans, your gasps the way you call out his name.

Maybe his six fingers weren't so bad after all, not when he had you by his side.

Because whenever you hold his hand, he can't help but feel like he's living on cloud nine.

[b0nten]

COOKIES

[SYNOPSIS] ˚⁀➷｡ baking cookies with ran

[NOTES] ˚⁀➷｡ fem reader, rindou guest appearance🤗; requested by anon !! not proofread

“girl, you know damn well we could’ve bou—”

“shut it.”

RAN snaps his mouth shut — as instructed — while his brows raise and eyes widen.

“yes ma’am.” he nods, looking at you expectantly, like he’s a puppy waiting to be rewarded after doing a trick.

he looks around the kitchen, and sighs. if it makes you happy, then he’ll bear the burden of spending the next hour in front of the stove, melting butter and sticky hands from separating eggs.

‘if it makes you happy’ has become his new mantra, at this point.

“come onnnnnnnnnnn!” a whine echoes from the living room, “i’m hun-”

“you go to your room.” you command, and rindou quickly shuffles away, shōchū bottle slipping from his hand and hitting the hardwood floor before he quickly picks it up again; followed by the sound of his door closing.

“now,” you hum, tapping your index against your chin, “preheat the oven at 170°C.” you say, and even though he barely understood half of what you just said, your boyfriend speeds towards the oven and starts turning the buttons, “and when you’re done, separate a yolk from the white, and keep it. then, sift me the flour.”

“am i gonna be doing everything?” ran complains, but quickly quiets down when you give him a glare.

how you managed to tame ran haitani might have to be considered a new wonder of the world, but in all honesty, it’s fun. he — somehow — behaves whenever you’re around, and whenever you need him to. and despite his childish antics, he’s actually quite sweet, especially when he wants to be.

“do you need the larger ones, or the smaller ones?” he asks, inspecting the eggs like he’s never seen one before.

“large, please.” you reply, stirring through your bubbling butter, “do you know how to properly separate them?” you add.

“i’ve seen you do it plenty of times.” he shrugs, and cracks the shell. you absolutely try your best not to laugh while he gags in silence — egg white slipping through his fingers into the sink — recoiling in absolute disgust.

sometimes you wonder how he can beat people bloody but he draws the line at a freaking egg.

against your initial expectations, ran actually does good — everything exactly as you ask him to. he mixes the dough, something he insisted on since he’s “the man of the house”;

(said louder than normal to elicit a ‘whateeeeeeeever’ from rindou)

and you don’t even have to ask him twice to pop the tray into the fridge for the cookie dough to chill. he even offers to put the cookies into the oven, all by himself, like the proud baker he’s become in the span on an hour.

and when you lay your head on his shoulder and say “wake me up in fifteen.”, accompanied by a small yawn, he feels like he’s on cloud nine.

except for the fact that he understands fifty instead of fiteen, so after fourty-five minutes you feel him nudge you gently.

“hey, sweetheart-babycakes-honeybunch?” he pokes your cheek sheepishly.

“hm?” you hum, eyes fluttering open to see him in his apron, gloves on his hands.

“i might have… accidentally..misunderstood you….” he says, “and…. kinda let you sleep for fifty minutes, and the cookies bake for about the same time… haha!” long, bouncy hair sways in front of your face while ran tries his best to look not afraid.

you glare at him.

“they’re still edible…!” he defends his creation, placing a burnt cookie in your mouth.

‘deep breaths.’ you tell yourself, ‘deep breaths.’

“NO THE FUCK THEY’RE NOT!”

looks like rindou’s good for something, too.

[silent-stories]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐑 - 𝟏𝟎 (𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞)

Pairing: Eddie x F!Reader

Summary: Aaron moved out and you and Eddie are together and finally, truly happy.

Part 9

"How long do you think this campaign is going to last?" You asked Wayne sitting next to you on one of the benches in front of the trailer as you waited for Eddie to come back.

"Sometimes it takes two hours, sometimes three, sometimes four... I really can't give you an answer, kid. That boy is unpredictable when it comes to that game." He brought a cigarette to his lips.

It had been a week since Aaron had left Hawkings, you saw Eddie every day at school and almost every afternoon at your house or in his trailer and you often spent the night in his arms.

Things were going well, Eddie was pretty sure he was going to finally graduate and you were about to get a job at a new shop that just opened in town.

"He loves you, ya know?" Said the man sitting next to you blowing a cloud of smoke out of his mouth. "He doesn't talk much about his feelings but I think you're the first person he's loved so much."

"Oh trust me, I know. He shows it to me every day." A slight smile formed on your lips just as a van came into your sight and parked in front of the trailer.

Wayne made a gesture with his hand towards Eddie getting off the van "Speaking of the Devil..."

"Hey sweetheart, sorry I'm late." He placed a quick kiss on your lips as he reached you, basically ignoring his uncle sitting next to you.

You giggled.

Too sweet for the Devil. You always knew that.

The sky was lit up with what seemed like hundreds of stars and the moon was shining almost full.

You and Eddie were lying on the roof of his trailer, your eyes were up at the night sky and you were cuddled up next to him, your head was on his chest and his leather jacket was wrapped around your shoulders because you had left yours in the trailer and neither of us wanted to go down and get it.

"Are you sure you're not cold?" You asked raising your head slightly towards Eddie.

"I'm sure." He muttered. "And you look too good in my jacket to take it back."

You rolled your eyes before your gaze fell on Bones as she walked with one paw after another on the edge of the roof of the trailer, staring intently ahead.

When you'd left your house to go to Eddie's she'd followed you and jumped into the passenger seat as if she knew you were going to see, now clearly, her favorite person.

You'd been trying to get her out for at least ten minutes but after she dug her nails into the seat and hissed at you, you gave up and decided Eddie would have an extra guest that night.

"What if she falls?" Eddie asked suddenly, you understood he was referring to the cat that was walking next to you.

"She has nine lives and always falls on her paws." You knew Bones wouldn't fall, she often climbed trees in your garden and sometimes even on the roof of your house via the balcony and she was always able to get down and stay alive.

"But it's cute that you worry about her." You added with a slight smile on your lips.

"She's my girl, of course I worry about her." He commented, a slight playful note in his voice because he knew what you would answer.

"Your girl? I'm your girl!" You exclaimed dramatically, exaggerating on purpose.

Eddie chuckled, his fingers found your hand and, and after grabbing it, he brought it to his lips to leave a kiss on the back of it. "You are."

"Mh, that's better." You said bringing his hand to your chest to play with his fingers and draw imaginary circles on the back of it.

You usually did that to calm him down when something was wrong, he was upset about something or someone made some redu comments about him or your relationship, or before a test he absolutely needed to pass so he didn't have to repeat the year again but eventually it became a habit.

"Shooting star, make a wish." You pointed up where something glowed making a trajectory across the sky.

"I'm pretty sure it was an airplane or something." He chuckled.

"Don't ruin the moment!" You exclaimed again. "Make a wish."

Silence fell between you and you lifted your head towards him, his gaze was already on you. "I have everything I need right here."

"Well, that was cheesy. Not metal at all if you ask me." You rolled your eyes knowing he was watching you, just to annoy him.

"Well, sorry if I'm trying to be a good boyfriend!" Eddie tried to sound angry but the huge grin on his face couldn't go away. He loved to bicker with you like that sometimes.

Your look softened. "You already are."

He didn't hesitate to imitate your tone.

"Well, that was cheesy. Not metal at all if you ask me."

"Oh, come on!" You exclaimed in exasperation and Eddie couldn't help but burst out laughing before wrapping a hand around your waist and if possible pushing you even closer to him. "I love you, you know that right?"

"Will you tell me I'm cheesy if I tell you I love you too?"

Eddie looked at you for a few seconds, as if the fact that there was a possibility that you loved him too had caught him off guard. "No, I won't."

You placed a hand on his cheek, pushing him towards you to make your lips meet. "I love you too."

He smiled with his mouth so close to yours that you could feel his breath on your lips, his eyes were glittering thanks to the moonlight that was bringing out the golden hues in them.

"Has anyone ever told you that you have really pretty eyes?"

Eddie hesitated for a moment. "My mom always did."

"She was right." A soft smile appeared on your lips.

When he finally kissed you, you realized you hadn't made a wish either. You didn't need it.

Your lips had to part as something jumped on Eddie's chest and he burst out laughing, resting his head on the roof.

"Bones! Get off my boyfriend!"

"Aww... someone is jealous."

"Are you talking about me or the cat?"

"Both of you."

"Eddie!"

"Don't worry, I love you more."

Eddie ran his two ringed fingers through Bones' fur as she purred, sniffing his hair curiously.

"Maybe."

"I heard you!"

The trailer was silent and almost completely dark when you rolled out of bed as Eddie was in a state of doze, his head resting on the only pillow on his bed and his curls scattered around his face.

His arm wrapped around your waist, ready to push you back against his bare chest before you could stand.

"Where are you going?" He whispered.

"I gotta go to the bathroom for a second, I'll be right back."

He didn't answer but his arm dropped onto the mattress after he softly caressed your side.

Your feet walked silently through the different rooms of the trailer and when you returned to Eddie's bedroom, you didn't see the desk that you hit with your arm, knocking over a notebook.

You glanced over at Eddie who seemed to be sound asleep and reached down to grab what had fallen.

When you pulled it up, a sheet fell out of it.

Before placing it back in the notebook, your eyebrows furrowed as you looked at the page.

Two stikman were on the left, one with curly hair and both smiling, the others on the other side of the paper had angry faces and smoke was coming out of their ears.

You smiled at the memory of the day you produced that awful drawing during a boring class while trying to get Eddie to come to Aaron's party.

Your smile only widened at the thought that although months had passed Eddie hadn't thrown away that drawing and he kept it in the middle of a notebook, safe.

You folded it up and put it where you got it before crawling back into bed next to Eddie and wrapping your arms around him, resting your head on his chest.

"Goodnight Eds." You murmured, thinking he was already sleeping.

Bones jumped onto the bed, looking for a space between you two to settle down.

"Goodnight Bones."

"Eddie!"

He giggled before placing a kiss on your forehead.

"Goodnight sweetheart."

It's been a lot fun writing this series, thanks to everyone who has read up to here! <3

Tags: @jacklesdeanvessel @morning-sky7 @pipsqueakkitten @navs-bhat @michaelfuckinglangdon

Love you from afar tags: @capitanostella @enam3l @saramelaniemoon @ang3lb44by @einkitty @themorriganisamonster @esme-viridian @daisyridleyyyy @whenshelanded @eggo-segual @comfortcharactercraze @callmeyn @expiredcum21 @unholyyylita @squidscottjeans @twilight-love-nochu-main @idkatee @bakugouswh0r3 @amira0303 @greatpizzascissorstaco @ebonybloom @emxxblog @lunaryasha @cherryobx @jasminelafleur @magicalchocolatecheesecake @tracymbcm @harrypotter-imaginees @eli-flower @mrsjellymunson @tttttttttttts-things @miabiar @wayfaring----stranger @princess-eddie @omgshesinsane @littlestarfighter03 @zoeymunson @tanyaherondale @bl4ckt00thgr1n @thebook-hobbit @eris-rose-86 @ly17 @jenuhlyn @ximi1315 @avocadotoastwithegg @lomljigg @urdad-hot @1paire2vans @praline357

[nebulablakemurphy]

Moves & Countermoves (Part 14)

Summary: No one ever wins the games, even fourteen years later, Y/N is still playing.

Prologue | One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen

Sunlight seeps through the curtains of Y/N and Haymitch’s room at the tribute center. Katniss and Peeta are taken to suit up for the games.

Y/N does not want to leave this bed; she does not want to live this nightmare.

Haymitch startles himself awake with his own snoring. He had too much to drink last night, after Chaff refused his bangle and the alliance.

“No, Haymitch. Give those kids their best chance.”

They fought, then made up; the way brothers do. Still it is Finnick wearing Haymitch’s token into the arena.

Y/N turns over in Haymitch’s arms, resting her head against his chest, lulled by the steady rise and fall.

“I can hear you thinking.”

“Bullshit,” she calls it.

Haymitch huffs a laugh, “it’s true.”

“Fine. What am I thinking?”

He flicks her ear, playfully. “Never said I was a fucking mind reader.” I just know you.

“His leg.” Y/N confesses, “Peeta won’t be able to take the prosthetic off. It hurts when he leaves it on too long.”

Haymitch sighs, “the kid’s strong. He’ll pull through.”

“I won’t be able to live with myself if anything happens to them.”

“You’d be surprised by the things you can live with.” He knows first hand.

Y/N holds her tongue.

“I know it’s not fair and I know that it hurts you.” I hate that it hurts you. I hate that it hurts them. The damn kids that grew on him like warts.

She lifts her head from his chest, staring into those tired, blue eyes. Tracing the furrow between his brows, “it’s not your fault.”

“So you can read minds.”

“No, I just know that you hate yourself.”

At this Haymitch laughs, rumbling out from deep in his chest. “Hate is such a strong word.”

“I love you, Haymitch,” she tells him.

He half smiles, “now that is your own fault.”

————————————————————————

The viewing room is different this year, all sponsors have chosen tributes. The arena theme is unclear but the tropical setting will make for an interesting game.

Finnick will thrive there, which is good news for all of them.

Katniss is visibly shaken when she’s raised onto the pedestal. Peeta is placed strategically on the opposite side of the cornucopia.

“Let the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games begin. May the odds be ever in your favor. Ten, nine……”

“Something’s wrong.” Y/N covers her mouth with one hand.

“Eight.”

“Cashmere’s right there,” Haymitch points out. “She’s in a good spot.”

“Seven.”

“Brutus.” He’s on the opposite side, not really an enemy, certainly not a friend.

“Six.”

“Well there’s no perfect spot.” Peeta’s got Mags, and Parker. The male tribute from ten, without allegiance to the rebels or the Capitol.

“Five.”

People are going to die in the bloodbath, there’s no way around it.

“Four, three, two, one……” Cannon.

Katniss dives in, swimming toward the rocky pathway which leads to the cornucopia. Brutus comes up about the same time, hot on her trail for a moment, before jumping back into the water.

Gloss is keeping an eye on her as Cashmere reaches the weapons; securing her own, her brother’s and the bow. Gloss trips up, leaving Katniss alone when she finds Cashmere.

“Katniss,” the blonde says, gently. Extending the bow and arrows to her, with the arm sporting Y/N’s gold bracelet.

Katniss eyes the token. This is who Y/N’s chosen, above anyone else. After a moment she nods, accepting the weapon and drawing it quickly.

Gloss joins them, gathering his sword without a word. Prepared to defend them against the other victors. All three turn to Finnick, ready to strike.

“Good thing we’re allies, right?” He also flashes a bangle.

Leaving Katniss too stunned to speak.

“Duck.” Finnick warns, throwing his trident; it lands in district five’s male tribute. Cannon. “Don’t trust two. I’ll take this side, you three hold them off.”

“We need to find Peeta.” Cashmere says, shocking Katniss farther.

“I’m on it.” Finnick disappears, beyond the edge of the cornucopia.

A flicker of dark hair crosses the screen and Haymitch grabs Y/N’s face. Turning her away from the screen and holding her hostage as she bats at his hands.

“What are you doing?” She protests, continuing to push at him.

“Don’t look.”

A scream, the slash and stab. The blood that gushes out in its wake.

“Haymitch, please, who is it?” Y/N is panicking in earnest now.

Cannon. Her body tumbles into the water.

“Seeder.” Haymitch releases her, spared from the image forever ingrained in his mind.

“Mags found Peeta, he’s over here.” Finnick calls.

Peeta is grappling with Parker near his pedestal.

Katniss tries to line up a shot, but it’s impossible with the tangle of limbs. Eventually they both go down, under the water. Finnick dives in to assist but the cannon booms.

“Peeta?”

The viewing room is still, until that blonde head of hair pops out. Panting and disoriented, searching for Katniss. When he finds her there Peeta knows it is worth it. The bloodshed, the fight, the reason to keep on living is right here. “Katniss.”

“Peeta,” the archer reaches for him from the rocks.

Just that morning, Katniss told him she wanted no allies, only him. Luckily something seems to have swayed her. Cashmere, Gloss, Finnick and Mags have joined them. Together they set off into the forest for refuge, taking a moment to breathe about half a mile out.

The cannon sounds, five more times, in quick succession. “Guess we’re not holding hands anymore.” Finnick remarks.

“You think that’s funny?” Katniss sneers.

“Every time that cannon goes off is music to my ears.”

“Finnick,” Cashmere warns, with a shake of her head.

“Let’s keep moving,” Peeta insists.

The forest is deep, vines hanging in all directions. Peeta is at the forefront beside Gloss, hacking down the overgrowth to clear a path.

Katniss spots the shimmering ahead, something not quite right about the edge of her sightline. A forcefield. “Peeta, no!”

He rebounds off the electro current, knocking down the others. His body emitting hints of smoke.

“He’s not breathing.” Katniss cries, turning Peeta onto his back.

“Anybody know CPR?”

“I do,” Finnick takes over.

Katniss keeps a close eye, not sure that she trusts him.

Cashmere touches her back and the girl flinches, “it’s ok, Katniss.”

Haymitch watches intently, he does not turn Y/N away or even attempt to. Come on Finnick. Come on Peeta.

“Come on. Come on, Peeta.”

“Please, Peeta.”

The boy gasps, drawing fresh air into his lungs.

Y/N’s shoulders sag in relief, running a soothing hand over the lively child in her belly.

“Alright,” Haymitch huffs, resting a hand over hers. “Everybody calm down.” As if he himself hadn’t been in a state of unrest. He leans forward, addressing their child directly. “That means you too.”

There it is, the familiar brush of his lips against her stomach. Y/N realizes that she hasn’t felt it as frequently this time around. Perhaps she prevented it, she wasn’t ready and he knew it. She regrets that now.

————————————————————————-

After some investigation Katniss discovers that the arena is a dome.

“We’re safest with our backs protected, I say we set up camp here for the night.” Gloss says, eyes still scanning the area.

“I’ll take first watch,” Finnick volunteers.

“Not a chance,” Katniss grunts out.

“Honey, that thing I did back there for Peeta, that was called saving his life.” Finnick cocks his head to the side. “If I wanted to kill either one of you, I would’ve done it by now.”

“Enough,” Cashmere cuts in, they’re worse than a couple of kids.

“Just for a little bit, let’s get some rest.” Peeta squeezes Katniss’ arm as he passes. Tucking in comfortably, against one of the trees and falling asleep.

Finnick helps Mags get settled. Cashmere and Gloss break off in the opposite corner.

“We’ve gotta get them some water.” Y/N picks at her nails, anxiously.

“You want me to go?” Haymitch offers.

“I’ll go.” Sponsors this year are chomping at the bit to send essentials for their favorite tributes. All seated near the request booth. Y/N paints on a smile as she approaches them.

“Y/N,” a hand reaches out to grab her. “We’ve been waiting to help Katniss and the baby.” The Capitol woman coos.

“That is so kind, thank you.” She jerks her chin towards the desk. “Come with me?”

The woman squeals in delight, nearly leaving behind her pocketbook in haste.

“We’d like to send my tributes water.” Y/N tells the man working the booth.

“How many bottles?”

“Not bottles.” Y/N wracks her brain, “do you have any kind of filtration system?”

“Nothing portable.”

So they can’t use the salt water.

“Is this an arena without any fresh water?”

“There is water.” The man says, giving Y/N nothing to work with.

————————————————————————

Katniss can’t risk sleeping, so she sits up with Finnick as the sky grows dark.

“How’s Peeta?”

“He’s ok, I think.” Katniss croaks out. “Just dehydrated like the rest of us.”

The national anthem rings out over the arena, lighting up the sky with images of the fallen.

Katniss thinks of her mentors then. How many were their friends?

A chime finds their ears as the Horn of Plenty ends. A parachute. Water, Katniss hopes.

She moves for it, splitting open the metal container. No water, just a note and…

“What’s that?” Finnick wonders, looks painful to use.

“From Haymitch and Y/N, I think it’s a spile.”

“A what?” Finnick follows her to the nearest tree, watching as she hammers the sharp end in with a rock. The sound wakes Peeta.

For a moment there is nothing, Katniss slams her fist against the tree. She can survive without food, she’s done it before, but not without water.

“Why isn’t it working?” Y/N is fuming, ready to wring the man’s neck who sent the faulty tool. But then, by some miracle, a steady stream of water begins to flow.

Once everyone has had their fill, those not on watch return to sleeping.

“Well if you’re not going to sleep, I will.” Finnick decides.

“Go ahead,” Katniss nods, prepared to handle it on her own.

The viewing room begins to clear out, supply booths are closed and most sponsors have excused themselves. Y/N and Haymitch take the elevator up to their floor, switching on the projector as they ready for bed.

Cashmere comes to sit beside Katniss, noticing that she keeps dozing off. The blonde says nothing, just offers a soft smile before turning her gaze out to the forest.

Y/N dares to close her own eyes, wrapped up in Haymitch’s arms as he massages the back of her scalp.

“Ahhhhh!”

Y/N turns back to the games. Back to Katniss with blisters on her hand from the thick mist.

Haymitch hisses, “get outta there, sweetheart.”

“Run!” Katniss calls, rousing the rest. “Run! The fog is poison.”

Maybe this is part of Plutarch’s plan, make it believable.

Finnick has Mags on his back, bringing up the rear. Katniss and Peeta are between Gloss and Cashmere, offering whatever protection they can. But the fog is closing in from all sides, leaving no clear path.

Poison hits each of them in turn, Cashmere worse than Gloss, who doubles back for his sister. Peeta worse than Katniss when his foot gets caught on a root.

Finnick wails when the mist finds him. Mags is silent, though the pain is evident on her features, arms coming loose enough to topple them both over.

“Mags, please!” Finnick rushes her back on.

The six of them stumble over each other, fighting to clear the effected area which spans endless.

Peeta is down, unconscious.

“Peeta,” Katniss shakes him, patting at his face. “Peeta, we have to keep moving.”

“Shit,” Haymitch curses.

Y/N paces the small space beside the night stand, tethered by her husband’s hand.

Gloss has Cashmere tucked up under his arm, her skin a tapestry of raised blisters. “We need to get him up.”

Cashmere pants out. “I’m…it’s bad. Save Peeta.”

Finnick and Mags stop to assess the damage.

“Here,” Katniss approaches Cashmere, tossing one arm over her shoulder. “I’ll take her.”

Gloss does not argue, gathering Peeta and dragging him forward.

“We’re almost-”

“Katniss, you have to leave me.” Cashmere insists.

“No,” Katniss cuts her off.

In the end it is Mags who disappears into the fog, allowing Finnick to help the others. The cannon that follows is deafening, paired with Finnick’s agonized scream.

It hits Y/N square in the chest, her knees buckle, sinking back onto the bed. She does not cry. Allowing anger to fill the holes left by the games. It seeps into her blood, familiar and all consuming. Burning hot.

Haymitch can feel the shift, from grief to rage and he does not fault her for it.

Y/N blinks at the screen. “I can’t live with it.”

“I’ll help you.” Take it out on me, if you need to. Just let me make it better…at least let me try.

Part 15

Series Taglist: @praline357 @flowercrowns-goodvibes @justheretoparty420 @avocadotoastwithegg @treehouse-mouse @emo-markie @spilled-mi1k @magical-spit @greaser9902 @jessicamellarky @yourebuckingkiddingme @smuha2004 @sendhelplease @ninimackbrews @wittiestrain184 @r1dd1kulus @erenluvr69 @helpimhyperfixating @jackierose902109 @jellybear455 @dreammgc @dadbodfanatic-x @ftdtcmlovr

[samieree]

Banished Heimdall x Reader (Goddess of Nature)

(Request from wattpad) The part where Kratos spared Heimdall. Well let's say he did spare him and he came back to Odin to report what happened but the gjallarhorn was stolen and Odin banished him to Midgard and did the same spell like Freya had. And for years being stuck in Midgard, there he meet the reader who is actually the Goddess/Mother Nature, melting the snows and creating flowers for the end of Fimbulwinter.

~

Several years have passed since Odin banished Heimdall to Midgard for losing the Gjallarhorn. But he still didn't accept this fact, and exile did not soften his character at all. The winter didn't help much either. Luckily it was finally coming to an end.

Heimdall was tired of wearing thick fur. He definitely preferred the climate in Asgard, his clothes and peace there. And now he had to take care of himself, and it was driving him crazy. Especially at the beginning, ugh... He doesn't even want to think about it. He shouldn't live in the past.

He was just coming back to his house, grumbling about how he hates this world and this winter better be over because... Okay, he doesn't know what he's going to do, but it better be the end of this cold weather. Though... Then he'd have to boat across Lake of Nine and row, so maybe the cold wasn't so bad after all...

"Stop!" He heard a scream but ignored it. He continued walking forward, still focused on complaining. At least until some vines suddenly sprouted from the ground in front of him. "Are you deaf?"

"Are you looking for trouble?" Irritated, he turned to the place where the voice came from and was clearly surprised.

You were standing a few feet in front of him. With a slight smile on your face, dressed in a fairly light outfit, considering the weather. But... The aura around you looked like spring. Your hands emanated pleasant magic, and the smile itself seemed to melt the snow that was no longer around you at all. Nature was beginning to come back to life, green grass sprouted from under the snow, and the scent of flowers slowly began to fill the air.

You've met each other before, when he happened to be on a mission in Midgard. And it seemed like your character has stayed the same ever since. And he won't admit it, but... The aura you spread around you calmed him down and warmed his heart.

"Be careful, don't step on my flowers." You said, drawing back the vines that were blocking his path. You just finished that meadow and it was about to get trampled by some bitter guy.

"Do you really think I care?" Okay, maybe not the usual bitter guy, because as he turned to walk away you saw his shining eyes. And you've only known one person with eyes like that - other than einherjers, but they've been gone for a while.

So it had to be Heimdall. Very dissatisfied with having to be where he is.

"Respect nature and it will respect you." You followed him, and with you spring aura, letting the world know that it's time to wake up from winter sleep.

"I don't need it. Go plant your flowers elsewhere."

"I seem to have planted quite a few around your house. I thought there were some people living there, otherwise I probably wouldn't be so nice." You said half-jokingly, clearing the snowdrifts from your path with one snap of your finger.

"You did- WHAT?! Who asked you for this?!"

"Do you have to ask for gifts?" You replied, tilting your head slightly and aligning your step with him. "I don't think that's what it's about..." You smiled and extended your hand towards him with a flower in your hand.

"I don't want any weeds." He took off his coat and draped it over his shoulder as it was actually starting to get warm.

You rolled your eyes at those words and ran in front of him, now walking backwards but facing him. You were still holding a beautiful flower in your hands, flower with large, white petals for now.

"Look." You ran your free hand over the flower and its petals began to change colour. In shades of pink, purple and blue. Its stem took on a white colour with golden accents. You smiled wider and extended your hand to him, offering this newly created plant. "Here, this is for you. It looks like you." Heimdall stopped suddenly, and so did you.

No one has ever been so insistent about giving him a gift. In general, no one ever even wanted to give him a gift... It was even... A nice feeling.

In order not to lose his image, he sighed a martyrdom before taking the plant from you, the petals of which matched the colours of his eyes. As he took the flower, your hands touched for a moment. Your skin was very smooth and radiated a warmth Heimdall didn't know, but he could tell with certainty that it was pleasant.

"And what am I supposed to do with it?" He asked, examining the plant carefully.

"Plant. Need help?" You asked as you started walking back towards Heimdall's house. "You could plant a vegetable garden. Oh, or orchard!" You smiled at that thought. Walking with him towards his house, you kept doing your job along the way, here and there stimulating more plants to grow.

"Do I look like a gardener to you?" He grunted, his eyes focused on the flower. This small gesture somehow warmed his heart, which was especially aching after the things that had happened to him.

"I'd help you." You suggested. "Of course, when I'm done with spring." You added, walking over to him.

You reached your hand towards his face, but he immediately pulled away. He knew what you wanted to do and he absolutely did not want to let it happen. I will look like an idiot. You froze with your hand next to his face.

"What a favour from Y/n, the great goddess of nature." He said it with a hint of mockery in his voice. "Why do you want to help me?"

"I have a soft spot for things that need fixing." You said honestly. He would know anyway if you lied.

"I'm not broken."

"Aren't you?"

Isn't he? He didn't know himself. And what does a not broken person look like? Behaves? Lives?

He was always lonely, even when he was surrounded by people. Even if he was in bed with someone, even if there was a family meeting. He always felt alone, as if no one cared about him, he meant nothing to anyone and the only value he had was what he was doing for his world. And now he didn't even have that. He lived from day to day, but he had no purpose. He just existed.

He sighed softly, then nodded slightly. After that small gesture, you gave him another warm smile and finally moved your hand. You touched his hair and tucked a flower like the one you gave him behind his ear.

"It suits you." You said, placing your hand on his cheek for a moment longer and it cost him all his stubbornness not to snuggle into it and it's warmth.

The warmth of sincere sympathy, caring, interest. Something he had never known, and it was an unfamiliar but pleasant feeling. And maybe, just maybe, he would like to experience it even more.

"Like a wreath suits a cow." He grunted, but there was no such obvious malice in his voice. "Can we go now or are you going to put so much weed in my hair that I'll never get it out?" Saying this, he started walking towards his house again and you followed him.

"I'll take them out, you don't have to worry." You said.

"Oh, and you think that I'm going to let you do that?"

"If you let me put a flower in your hair, you'll let me take it out." You answered with a wide smile, walking with him arm in arm and spreading your spring aura around you here and there.

Damn, she's right.

~

-> general masterlist -> God of War: Ragnarök masterlist

[anarchiii]

World’s apart-9 —ACOTAR x TOG AU

Part nine | warnings: mentions of blood!! Angst, kissing | Azriel x Celaena Sardothien

Summary; Pain and suffering one after the other, Azriel decides that maybe he’s not meant for this world, but maybe he is meant for another…

Note: this is an AU it’s not in the books.

Masterlist / Series Masterlist

Celaena’s POV

The shuddering of her breath and the whirling of an unnatural cold wind were the only sounds she heard, the feeling of blood trickling down her forearm was a familiar feeling, no longer did she wince from the sting or the ruby liquid, now, she embraced it, just as she did the freezing stone floor that she traced her fingers across, drawing the shapes she had seen in the Walking Dead, Wyrdmarks. Just thinking the name made a shiver go down her spine.

It was only when a steady hand laid on her shoulder did she stray from her thoughts, turning around, she met eyes with Azriel, she cataloged every mark and blemish on his face, saving it to memory, for this could be the last time she saw the Shadowsinger, perhaps forever.

Celaena didn’t want to admit it but she had grown fond of Azriel, he produced a silence she liked, a silence so different from the one in Endovier, she didn’t think she’d had any nightmares since he had arrived, no one else had done that before, not Sam. Not even her mother or her nursemaid. Until now, she hadn’t even thought of those things, perhaps when the Spymaster left—her life would once again become damned and meaningless. That scared her. She didn’t want that.

She had come to love reading with him, watching him coddle Fleetfoot, seeing him bicker with Chaol, pretending not to notice the small smiles he gave Dorian.

Tears welled in her eyes but she blinked them away before the male from her thoughts noticed, she cleared her throat, stating, “it should be done soon,” Azriel was opening and closing his mouth multiple times, like he wanted to tell her something but he wasn’t quite sure, she didn’t know if she wanted to know what he was trying to say either.

“Cel. . .” He finally said, she turned to him fully now, “I’ve been thinking. . .” She waited, he did that thing with his mouth again, like what he was trying to say could ruin everything, she nodded once, silently telling him to spit it out, “w-would you—” he tried again, she had never heard him stutter or be so lost of words before. It was an odd sight.

He seemed to get lost in his thoughts so she turned away again, continuing her precise lines of blood, the book had said a single mistake could ruin the whole thing or change the entire portal, Celaena was a perfectionist and she’d be damned if she messed this up—literally and figuratively.

“What if you came with me?” He asked finally, she whipped her head around, staring at him incredulously, “what?” Go with him? That was a horribly irresponsible and dangerous decision, what about her friends?—but did it really matter if she left them? She had no family. Chaol and Dorian should understand and they could just go on with their lives. . . What was really holding her back from accepting his offer? This place was her home, but, was it really? She had so many bad memories and experiences, she could have a fresh start, stay with Azriel, love Azriel.

But could she do it? Really leave everything behind? Everything. . . It was enticing, but, she didn’t know, she wished he had asked her sooner.

Azriel seemed to notice her hesitation and shook his hand, curling his fingers into her golden locks, “the offer will stand for a while, whether it be a year or five, I want to be with you more, Cel, I need to. You’re my salvation.” He said, she was going to say something, because no one had ever said such a thing, no one, but then the portal appeared, the Wyrdmarks flashing a bright green as it took form, the ground seemed to shudder in its wake. She could slightly make out trees and the smell of flowers, had it gone where she had wanted? It was supposedly a place in Prythian, supposedly.

She turned to the Shadowsinger, and in that moment, he knew the truth in her eyes, she wasn’t ready, maybe on day but not now, he swallowed harshly but nodded, he took her face in his lovely hands then, looking deep into her eyes, they knew this was the last time they might ever be together again, she had to make it worth it.

So she kissed him, hard.

-

Azriel’s POV

He had never felt anything like it before, the kiss—it was magical, no one else had ever felt this way, it was perfect, Celaena tried to pull away but he grabbed her and kissed her back, it was a stupid idea, to do this right as he was leaving but he couldn’t stop, she tasted exactly how he had thought she would, it was exquisite, she was exquisite.

A loud, hard knock rattled a door in the distance and the Golden one ended the kiss, turning lustful eyes into worried ones as she look up the staircase to the door, like she could see who was behind it, he knew it wasn’t Chaol or Dorian this time, fuck.

It couldn’t end like this, not when he hadn’t had a chance to properly feel her, taste her.

Her beautiful cerulean eyes met his own, so bright, even though she had seen the darkest things, he was so proud of her for getting through all that, would he get to see anymore of her accomplishments? Or would her achievements go unnoticed?

“Go,” she whispered, “go Azriel,” “no,” he answered, he couldn’t, not now, he heard the door upstairs slam open, hitting a wall, “go!” Celaena cried, “please,” her voice broke then, he shook his head sharply, she pushed him then, closer and closer to the portal, “I’m so sorry. Azriel. I wish we had more time, it was all borrowed time anyway, but I wish we had more of it,” tears fell in rivers down their faces, he couldn’t leave her, “I love you, I wish I got to know you better, love you better,” she continued, his vision turned blurry from salty tears, he heard loud stomping, they were coming, and he couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

She pushed him again, and this time, he went right through the portal, everything started fading but all he saw was her face, gold-ringed blue eyes in agony, her full lips parted in pain, her lithe body tense and stressed, her fingers reaching for him. Just as his did.

Reaching for a star too far up in the sky, fitting, for star-crossed lovers.

The End.

Note: oh man, guys, I was getting a little teary-eyed writing this 😣 did you get the little EOS Easter egg? (:

-Taglist

@cynthiesjmxazrielslover

@aelincaddel

@shadowsingercassia

@azrielslittleslut

@yashiw

[d3adlyromb3ar]

✰ sinking lily pads

— synopsis. he thrived in the sorcerer world, she was forced into it. how could two people that strayed so differently from each other become so close?

— pairing. gojo x oc!fem!reader (main), toji fushiguro x oc!fem!reader

— word count. 4.1k

— contents. mentions of child abuse, neglect, abandonment, angsty asf, injuries, blood/gore, depressing thoughts, dissociation, ptsd, mentions of death, jjk violence/fighting

series masterlist | previous chapter

✰ chapter two. lives left

He would’ve preferred to leave Moon’s room in a better mood, but the reveal that she had died on her previous mission had his blood boiling. 

All of a sudden he was seeing red, wishing to resurrect the creature that had killed her— just to kill them again. This time slowly, giving him time to make this evil being suffer. 

I have this technique for a reason.

Her words echoed in his head, and logically he knew she was right. She wielded the 9 lives because she was strong enough. She was meant to. Although, it never brought him comfort. He rather her never having to use the 9 lives technique at all. 

Despite all that had happened in the past with Moon and himself— he never stopped caring for her. He wished it could be like that, a switch that he could turn off. All too quickly, he knew that weren’t to be true. He’d always care about her, no matter how hard she tried pushing him away. 

Besides, he always knew there was something deeper to her. Something that had her thinking as such. He didn’t need the Six Eyes to recognize the pain she hid underneath her facade. 

He didn’t even know where he was walking, letting his feet guide him aimlessly through the school. His mind was empty of a destination, and instead forced him to remember that day. The one he remembered all too well. 

(Flashback to a year)

The sun shining through the treetops mixed with the cool breeze, it couldn’t have felt more perfect outside. The distinct smell of the flowers blooming, the sweet aroma filling the air. It was addicting, almost easy to let yourself get lost in the moment. 

Gojo had his glasses pushed up into his hair, the object being used as a makeshift headband. He leaned back on his arms, letting his face point towards the golden rays. It felt heavenly on his skin. 

“God,” Moon’s voice whispered next to him, “Feels so perfect outside.”

The white haired sorcerer tilted his head in her direction, giving her a smirk when they met eyes. 

“Of course it's perfect. I’m here after all.” He said. 

She rolled her eyes, fighting down her smile as she finished off her sandwich. Using the back of her hand to wipe off the crumbs from the corner of her lips. 

“You know, not everything is about you.” She told him, taking a sip from her juice. 

Gojo held a hand to his chest, gasping dramatically with mock hurt. 

“So mean!” He whined, “And here I thought we were having a nice time.”

She giggled at his antics, setting down her drink and leaning back on her arms– matching Gojos posture. He smiled to himself, the sound of her gentle giggles like music to his ears. Somehow he made it a mission to himself to always draw that sound from her. Whether it was because he just wanted to make her laugh, or maybe he just adored the sound so much. The way her eyes would crinkle– her smile contagious as he always found himself mirroring her. 

“We are having a nice time, just making sure I keep you in check.” She told him, glancing over at his smug expression. 

He tilted his head curiously. 

“Keeping me in check huh?” He wondered with an amused tone. 

She nodded her head as if what she was implying was so obvious. 

“Yup. Gotta keep you humble.” She told him. 

It was his turn to laugh, the hearty sound echoing in the distance as he fell all the way back– hands clutching his stomach. Moon couldn’t help herself from laughing at the sight. 

“Nines you kill me! You know that?” He managed to get out. 

“Ah see, already showing me how humble you really are. Admitting that I can kill you– because you’re so right.” She stated proudly. 

This had his laughs dying down, the dominance shifting from his aura to somewhere in between the two of them. Although it wasn’t fear he felt, not even a threatening feeling– he felt challenged if anything. If he was anything, it was arrogant for knowing he truly was the strongest. 

“Is that so?” He asked, sitting up and scooting closer to you. 

She watched him scoot closer, not thinking twice about the action. 

“Mhmm.” She hummed, running a hand through her hair. 

“You think you can kill me?” He asked her, his eyes focused on hers.

She leaned closer this time, getting inches from his face as she held his gaze confidently– no faltering. Gojo held his breath, letting his eyes dart from one to the other– her hazel ones capturing him in a trance. Her eyes always were unique to him– the inside always looking like a blooming flower or some beautiful explosion. He could sit and stare all day– depicting where the green stopped and where the yellow started, morphing into a gorgeous dark blue. 

“You know I could.” She whispered. 

Maybe he should have felt threatened. Maybe he should have felt the frustration that someone challenged him of his all powerful role. But he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He admired her power, because he knew full well that she was. He respected her strength, the abilities she possessed. She was magnificent, and he was truly captivated by her. He didn’t know if it was the power that first pulled him towards her– excited to meet someone that could keep up with him. All he knew is that he wanted to be around her– know her. He didn’t want to live a life without her involved in it. 

He’d never felt such a pull towards anyone in his life– therefore why he wanted to stick around. 

He felt himself getting lost in the moment, his eyes glancing down to her lips– watching her tongue wet the pair. The pink, plump flesh trapped him in his stare. The only thought swirling through his mind was how badly he wanted a taste. 

Moon saw the way his gaze traveled down to her mouth, the sudden realization of what he was thinking hitting her. She always had that weary thought in the back of her mind, but she never believed it would be true. If only she could have the true strength to submit herself to her own desires– but she didn’t. She already let herself slip up by letting a mere friendship bloom between her and the white haired sorcerer. But now in this moment, physically seeing the emotion speak within his eyes as they traveled back up to hers– she knew she had to stop. 

She’d never let anyone get close to her… again. 

She leaned back and turned her head back in front of her, facing away from Gojo completely. The sudden movement pulled him out of his trance, leaving him to attempt to mask the hurt he felt from the rejection. Even if it wasn’t spoken– he knew. Although he ignored his own feelings when he noticed the far away look she suddenly sported in her eyes. 

“Moon?” He tried. 

She took a deep breath, willing herself enough strength to walk away. Learn to stick true to her word and stay away from people. She knew it was unfair to him, but she couldn’t feel that pain again– the same pain that never left. After all these years, the wound still bled– and she never had the power to stop it. 

“I gotta… I’m gonna go–” She rushed out, gathering her things.

“Hey, hey, what's the rush?” He asked, sitting up straighter. 

Uncomfortable with the sudden shift in the mood. 

“I just… I just remembered I have to meet with Yag–” 

He furrowed his brows at her rushed movements, the way her hands slightly shook when trying to zip up her bag. He couldn’t help the worry bubble within him. 

“Did I do something?” He voiced out loud, wondering if he was the cause for her sudden distress. 

Her chest twinged with pain, her guilt doubling at the thought that he was already trying to blame himself. Her lips twitched with the urge to tell him otherwise– to scream out to him what she really felt. But she couldn’t, and would never. 

She faced him, trying to keep her face neutral.

“Not at all, just forgot I had something to do.” She explained casually, and hoped he bought her lie. “Gotta go, see ya.” 

Without another glance towards his beaten down expression, she hurried off to the steps of the school– making her way towards her room. She needed to be alone right now– she needed to think. 

Although she had thought she lied well to him, she didn’t realize that while she looked at him– he could see the pain written in her expression. 

He was left sitting under the tree by himself, letting himself get lost in his thoughts. All at the same time, feeling hurt and concerned. 

(Present)

His feet carried him towards the school stairs, and he gladly took a seat– letting himself come back to reality after the memory. 

It wouldn’t have been such a painful memory if things hadn’t changed drastically after that. She had isolated herself almost completely from him, everyone even. She didn’t talk as much as she did– although she was never that talkative to begin with. She kept her distance– staying calculated about the time of interactions. Gojo was the first to bring it to his friends' attention. Shoko and Geto barely saw it as an issue at first. 

She’s just going through something. Maybe she needs her space. They both told him.

For a while, he supposed he believed them. Perhaps that was easier than thinking it was something he did. If he scared her off or if, she truly didn’t feel the same way he did. The rejection was harder to accept, so he stuck with believing you just needed time. 

Now almost over a year has passed, and you still keep yourself far from everyone– from him. 

“With how hard you’re thinking, you’re gonna end up hurting yourself.” A smooth voice called out from behind him. 

Gojo already knew it was his dear friend Geto, making his way down the stairs. 

“I ain’t thinking that hard.” Gojo mumbled into his palm that he rested his head on. 

“I can practically hear it.” Geto joked, earning a chuckle from the white haired sorcerer.

His laughed died down, going back to staring aimlessly at the stairs that descended in front of him. The long haired sorcerer gazed with watchful eyes at his friend, curious as to what was bothering him so.

“Yaga’s been hinting at a big mission soon. I’m curious if that’s what got you so preoccupied.” Geto wondered.

Gojo had heard the same whispers of the same mission, but it definitely wasn’t what he was stuck in his head about.

“Nah. It’s Moon.” Gojo admitted, knowing when it came to Geto— he wouldn’t judge.

He was his best friend for a reason. Always able to calm him down when he felt slightly out of control.

Geto hummed and ran a hand through his hair, fixing some strands that fell out of place from the light breeze.

“Did something happen?” He asked his friend.

Gojo sighed, and glanced towards Geto with a disappointed expression— not directed at him of course.

“Did she tell you what happened on her mission?” He wondered. 

Geto shook his head with a chuckle.

“Do you think she would? Doesn’t seem like her style to come to me and vent.” He pointed out, although he wished she would. 

Geto cared for her, and knowing something was bothering her– it bothered him. He felt useless sitting on the sidelines, waiting for the day she’d finally express herself. When would that be?

Gojo scoffed, knowing he had a point– but disappointed nevertheless. 

Geto saw the worry etched into his friends features, and grew serious all of a sudden. 

“What happened?” He asked, despite not wanting to know the answer. 

“She lost a life.” Gojo whispered, his eyes dropping back down to the stairs. 

Geto felt his stomach knot up slightly, concern for Moon growing more intense by the second. He knew a great amount about the 9 Lives technique– knowing how traumatic and difficult that was to possess, to experience. Knowing she had gone through it, all alone. It made him feel sick. 

Gojo lifted his gaze back up to his long haired friend, the silence making him wonder where his thoughts were. By the look on his face– he almost knew what he was thinking. 

“Oh Miss Dair…” Geto trailed off, frustrated that you didn’t come to him– or anyone for that matter. This was serious and you were trying to isolate yourself. “Does Yaga know?”

Geto glanced to his friend, watching the white haired sorcerer shake his head. A part of Geto wanted to tell Yaga, not to get you in trouble– but to bring awareness to your odd behavior. 

“He should know about this.” Geto stated, irritation lacing his tone. 

“She wouldn’t want that, you know. She’d be furious with us if we told him.” Gojo told him. 

Geto scoffed, shaking his head this time.

“She already acts indifferent with us– would it really matter?” Geto questioned, genuinely offended, how Moon treats them. 

Gojo again couldn’t argue, knowing Geto had a point.

“I hope she’s okay.” Geto suddenly softens, his worry overcoming his frustration. “Losing a life is like losing a piece of your soul, I can’t imagine what she had to go through.”

Gojo perked up at that information, swallowing with difficulty through his tight throat. A thought suddenly popped into his head, and despite him truly not wanting to know the answer— he found himself asking.

“What happens when she only has one life left,” He whispered into the air, glancing over to Geto’s unfocused expression. “Will she be… herself?”

He watched closely, narrowing his eyes when he saw the long haired sorcerers eyebrows twitch. The silence was killing him, although it had only been a mere few seconds of it.

“I don’t want to lie to you, my friend. Though I am not positive what will be the outcome, I doubt she will be the Moon we know now.” He admitted solemnly.

Gojo tensed from his words, running a hand through his white locks. It was all theories— he knew that. But it didn’t calm him from his anxious thoughts. How much longer did he have to live his life being concerned to death for his friend. It was exhausting— yet completely out of his control.

“Don’t let my words alarm you Satoru,” Geto placed a hand on his shoulder in comfort, “This is Miss Dair we’re talking about. She’s a strong one.”

The white haired sorcerer nodded, but couldn’t find the relief that his words meant to bring.

“We all have an ending, and she won’t be meeting hers any sooner than she’s meant to.” Geto assured him.

Gojo wanted to ask how he could possibly know that— but couldn’t bring himself to.

Geto gave his friend’s shoulder a squeeze before standing up— brushing off his robes.

“You should get some rest. Our lives are about to get much busier.” Geto suggested.

Gojo knew he was right— again. The sorcerer life wasn’t one of relaxation. He knew all too soon there would be a mission to keep them occupied.

“Now— get some rest.” Geto called out as he walked away.

Leaving Gojo alone on the stairs, still stuck in his head. He needed to push all these worries away for now— there were bigger things at hand. He needed to focus.

Not too far from the school stairs, Moon stood in front of her bathroom mirror– staring intensely at her reflection. She couldn’t figure out what bothered her so much about what she saw– although there was indeed something. An evident change in her appearance– 

No… I look the same… yeah. She argued with herself. 

She gripped the edges of the sink, leaning closer to her reflection’s tip of her nose. It wasn’t until she focused harder on her eyes, when she finally recognized the unfamiliar haunted look in her gaze. 

With a frustrated huff, she pushed off of the white porcelain– stumbling backwards from her reflection and into the door with a thump. Her chest started rising and falling faster– her breathing erratic as she felt herself losing control. 

Her eyes squeezed shut as a violent image from her most recent fight came flashing. The destruction, the loud screech from the monster as it ruptured her ear drums. Last of all, the indescribable feeling of death. The anxiety when your senses start to dull. The last thing she faintly heard was the struggling pounding of her weak heart– attempting to keep her awake for a few more seconds. It was all too much.

The thought came and went like a fleeting shadow, but nonetheless it appeared. 

Sometimes I wish I could’ve stayed dead. 

Her hands gripped her hair, pulling and squeezing as she shook herself out of the images, the memories of what she had gone through. It would haunt her– it haunted her now as she struggled to keep sane. 

Her chaotic state had her stumbling around the bathroom, her body leaning harshly against the shelf next to her shower– causing the furniture to tip over and smash against the tub. The sound rang and echoed throughout the porcelain walls, the noise causing Moon to flinch back– stumbling back into the bathroom door. 

She was overwhelmed, feeling helpless as she couldn’t do anything but let herself succumb to the panic she was trying so desperately to fight off. She cried out as she held a shaking hand over her chest, the pain suddenly sticking out to her. Her lungs felt constricted, like someone was squeezing the air out. 

The pounding intensified in her head, causing her to miss the knocking coming from her main door. 

Geto stood patiently outside of her door. He just needed to see for his own eyes that she was okay before he let himself fall asleep. The talk from earlier– the reveal that she lost a life. He needed to check on his friend for himself. 

After waiting another minute, he started to wonder if she had fallen asleep. Disappointed that he wouldn’t get to see her, he started to walk away– making it a goal first thing tomorrow to see her. 

Before he could take his first step to leave, he heard the faintest cry coming from her room. He furrowed his brows in confusion and leaned his ear closer to the wood– listening again for something. 

Perhaps he’d heard something that wasn’t actually the–

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard another cry, louder this time. Immediately he grew tense and knocked again– more urgent this time. 

“Moon? It’s Geto, I heard something in there. Everything okay?” He called out, listening again when he didn’t hear her answer. 

Although he could hear lots of noises, and what had sounded like whimpers– her whimpers. Her broken sounds panicked Geto– making him wonder if you were hurt. 

Geto sent a hurried text to his friend, not even a second later– the white haired sorcerer was appearing before him. 

“What’s going on?” Gojo asked, his voice stern and serious. 

“I heard distressing sounds coming from inside, but she wouldn’t answer me when I called for her. I’ve been knocking for a bit, and she won’t answer.” Geto rushed out, worried deeply for his friend. 

Gojo thought quickly and mumbled under his breath before placing his hand on Geto’s shoulder.

“She’s gonna hate me for this.” 

Before Geto could ask, Gojo had teleported the two of them inside her room. The sounds of her whimpers louder and so clearly coming from the bathroom. The noise broke both the men, the two giving each other a look before moving towards the bathroom. 

“Moon, are you okay in there?” Geto asked, seeing as Gojo grew suddenly silent. 

The whimpers died down, the shuffling almost stopping immediately. The two men glanced at each other– trying to figure out what she was doing. Before they could talk amongst each other– the door suddenly opened. 

Moon walked out, glancing at the two standing before her in her room. 

“Yeah I uh… my stomach’s been off. Must’ve been something I ate.” She explained to them, keeping her gaze on the floor as she walked towards her couch and plopping down. 

Her episode had tired her out, and she felt ready to pass out at any moment. 

Geto was the first to study her, his eyes trailing up and down for injuries– but stayed stuck on her pale and clammy face. Her skin looked a little sickly. 

“Sorry to hear that, and sorry to barge in– we just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He explained this time. 

She waved him off, giving him a weak tired smile. 

“I appreciate it, but I’m fine.” She assured him. 

Geto wasn’t entirely convinced, but he was happy to at least see her with his own eyes. No injuries were enough to keep him relaxed for now– but he was still worried about her. Always would. 

The long haired sorcerer glanced over to Gojo, who was gazing intensely at Moon. His blue eyes exposed and studying her features, memorizing every freckle– every inch of her skin. 

Moon lifted her gaze to Gojo, swallowing nervously when she became aware of how deeply he was looking at her. It was an overwhelming sensation of feeling seen– like someone could finally see her pain written all over her body. The pain that she refused to reveal. 

Despite Gojo having so much to say, to ask– to know. He stayed silent and followed Geto as he said goodbye and left her room. 

Moon sighed in relief, a part of her grateful that they hadn’t caught her in such a state. Although the other part of her longed for them to stay– for him to stay. She wanted to tell him everything, but instead she kept telling him nothing. The way it should be.

The two sorcerers walked in silence next to each other, both too lost in their thoughts to create small talk. It was almost as if they knew they were both thinking the same thing, or at least they had the same ideas– same theories about what exactly was going on with Moon. 

Geto was the first to break the silence, after taking note of the concerned look on his friends face. 

“Satoru…” He started, but was quickly interrupted. 

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be focused for the mission.” He rushed out, running a hand through his white strands. 

Geto frowned and stopped walking, causing Gojo to turn and study his friends expression. 

“Let’s not shut each other out, okay? We already have that issue at hand.” He started, his tone stern but his expression soft. “I just need you to be honest with me. I’m worried about her too– so I need you to talk to me if you feel there's something wrong.”

Gojo’s eyes softened and his shoulders slumped, knowing he was right. It was easier to ignore the issues– ignorance was bliss. Although, he knew all too well that it would only be worse at the end. 

“I just want our friend back.” He whispered, his gaze dropping to the floor.

Geto let his hand rest on his friends shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze– bringing Gojo’s attention back on him. 

“Our Moon is very much there Satoru… we just have to keep being there for her.” He reassured him.

Geto wasn’t pigheaded, he knew very well that Gojo was blaming himself heavily for this whole situation. Despite it being completely out of his control– he knew Gojo well enough to know that wouldn’t matter. 

“I feel like I’m not doing enough.” He expressed, his voice weak.

Geto gave his shoulder another warm squeeze before removing his hand from him completely. 

“You are, my friend.” He promised him.

The dark haired sorcerer left in the direction of his room, leaving Gojo alone with his thoughts. But he knew there wasn’t much else he could say to comfort him. Geto knew he would just have to keep reminding him he was doing enough, until Gojo believed it himself. Meanwhile, maybe his own words would convince himself too. 

Gojo did feel comforted by his friends words, but he knew that all too well that the pit in his stomach wouldn’t stray away. 

Where’d you go Nines… Gojo thought lastly before heading to bed. 

ending notes. hmm, now we are starting to see the two different perspectives of why they aren't close anymore. poor miss moon is kinda a mess 😭 feedback is appreciated as always 🤍

[goth-mami-writer]

🩷Subservient🩷

~(AU) Kento Nanami × f!reader one-shot. ⚠️(18+, smut warning)⚠️

~POV: You were placed into an arranged marriage with Nanami, and he comes home late while being wounded~

(!!Not my art!! Artist credit- TWT: @ ayushnz)

《 You kept your back turned when you heard him come in that night. You were fed up, if that even sufficed your feelings enough. He came in at all hours of the night if he even bothered to come home at all. And here you sat. Bound and dutiful to his every need. Dinner was cold, matching your attitude as you stood in the kitchen, putting what was left of the meal into the refrigerator.

You had been arranged in marriage to Kento for nine months now and your parents wanted you to be an obedient, loving wife. And you were. Kento wasn't cruel or treated you cruelly as you lived together now. Actually, he was kind and you were grateful that the union you'd been placed into wasn't miserable but the love was certainly taking its time.

Now, your parents wanted to know why there wasn't a baby on the way. The answer was simple.

He was never here long enough to even mistakenly get you pregnant.

When you heard him drawing closer to the kitchen, your discontent only grew and your lip quivered not to tell him that you were ready to talk to a lawyer and tell both of your parents to go to hell if they wanted better of you.

But his briefcase hit the floor in a thud.

You turned with a startled spin to see him clutching his bloodied torso and you dove forward through the kitchen to meet him. You swore with your eyes widened in fear and you told him harshly as you applied a kitchen towel to his weeping gash,

“I told you. I fucking told you this would happen.”

He winced when you applied pressure, and his mouth tightened to tell you with his best attempt at staying civil amid your reprimand of his actions,

“I had it under control. Ungf- I just need to clean this some more and let it heal.”

“I've called you nearly all night-” You said, trying not to be so heartless even as you were so hurt that he'd let this happen.

“And you see…why I couldn't answer?” He replied, doing his best not to argue as the pain coursed through his body.

You shook your head, wondering how he didn't need stitches. Slowly, you helped him up the stairs to nurse his wound in your ensuite bathroom, where you kept the small stock of bandages and other supplies. You had him sit on the edge of the tub while you nonchalantly stripped him of the bloodstained shirt.

Trying not to blush from seeing the bare skin beneath his button-up, you ran cool water over a cloth to begin cleaning him. He flinched, seeing that you were about to kneel in the floor for him in nothing but your thin nightgown and robe, making him stutter in pain to notice your selflessness for him,

“Darling- I can stand up.”

You urged him to relax and you knelt in front of him to begin dabbing the cloth to blot away the red blood painting his skin. He knew you must have been moments away from hating him and you were entitled to the feeling. He was never here and when he was, he carried himself like that of a ghost that moved room to room undetected and unheard. Now, here he was an hour past midnight, barging in wounded and helpless.

Softly, trying to be gentle, you administered a disinfectant to his clean gash after applying what little you knew of adhesive sutures. You stuck on a more stable bandage that wrapped around his torso and even shook a pill into your hand for him to take for pain. His eyes softened in awe of what he was witnessing when you pressed the wrinkles away from his gauze and he knew now that arranged into this marriage or not, there was love between you.

He reached down at a moment when he knew you didn't need one hundred percent of your focus. His rough hand took you by the underneath of your chin in a grip, and he bent down to place his lips on yours in a kiss. Your body shook in delight, never having a kiss so spontaneous as this one before, and it warmed your entire body to experience. You kissed at your wedding, of course, and you kissed on your honeymoon while you… consummated your marriage, but kissing wasn't a part of your routine as a pair.

Slowly, he pulled away, telling you with a firmness as his voice remained low to compensate for pain,

“You're giving too much. You had every right to tell me to fend for myself with this. Why didn't you?”

His face was reddened from the kiss but he waited for an answer. Your eyes blinked in the silent search to find it before the truth slipped out on your own,

“I married you. I have to take care of you-”

“I leave you alone and abandon you in my house, yet you remain a subservient wife. I want you to tell me why?” Kento asked, nearly demanding an answer with soft eyes.

Your lip quivered, knowing that your sincere answer wouldn't be easy to tear away from your throat but you told him with a sputter as your insides felt exposed now of how much you did care for him,

“....you're a good man. You're a shit, absent husband that does the bare minimum most of the time but you're a good man. And…I do love you..more than just what my parents want me to.”

He was struck by the honesty and his jaw clenched in knowing that there just wasn't anything he'd done to deserve devotion like that. Not from someone who was practically a stranger who was shoved into a room to acquaint with before being married. Now that the cards were dealt, he'd been given a good wife and it was time for him to start goddamn acting like it.

After making sure his new wrapping was secure around him, he picked you up to lock your legs around him. He pulled you into a kiss before you could register his next move but you melted. You welcomed him into you but noticed he was moving to the bed outside of the ensuite.

You were worried he was trying to over exert himself after just being hurt and you pulled away to tell him amidst your kiss that you weren't going to risk hurting him further. He lied you to the bed, already breathless and he said while taking down your thin underwear from under your gown,

“You don't need to do anything.”

Your mouth fell agape to see his head ducking down now between your legs that had opened for him almost involuntarily once his mouth met your pussy. His knees planted into the carpet as he was the one kneeling down now and he began to eat you out carelessly and open on your bedspread. His tongue swathed and his head jerked and bobbed for what you liked to feel.

He used your sounds and twitches to guide him along but he took his time and let his working tongue find it's way across your clit that throbbed for him. You moaned loudly and realized that he'd never done this since you two became married and you had never expected him to. Your love making was very cut and dry to make each other cum with short foreplay leading to casual penetration. Oral was never involved.

You held his head, making his eyes close to know that your body was liking it. But after months of feeling unseen, you felt adorned and worshiped under his tongue that flitted so deliciously. Your back arched, and your eyes closed tightly to his sensations, and he watched your every move from below. The strap to your nightgown began slipping, and with a jerk, he tugged the bodice of it down entirely to let your soft chest be free for his viewing as he consumed you.

“Ugh-Yes..! Yes..!” You moaned with your eyes half lidded.

Your trembling hands clutched at your nipples, making Nanami grunt in want to see you touching yourself so wanton during your pleasure. You raised your head up, needing to watch as he delighted you, and he made a soft little show now that your eyes were on him. The tip of his tongue flicked side to side to show you how much he knew of your body's need for pleasure even if this wasn't a favor he'd ever given you.

“I'll cum, Kento...!” You whined as your knees began to shake, making him rest your weary legs across his shoulders, allowing his hands reach below you to pillow your pelvis more comfortably as he ate.

“Moan for me when you cum, darling. I want to hear it.” He said with his face wet with your arousal and you wriggled from the heat it gave just by a look.

When his lips circled around your small sweet spot to gently suck and massage with his mouth, your orgasm began building and you begged him not to stop. You heard his belt unbuckling, and you knew just by the sudden movements of his arm that he was pumping his cock in strokes as he continued to drive you over the edge. You felt a chill knowing he was pleasuring himself to your needful orgasm and his eyes spoke of pleading words that asked you to please, please cum.

Your eyes shut tightly and Kento felt you throb softly to the very center of your sensitive clit and your loud, calling voice cried what he wanted to hear. You didn't have to call his name but you bellowed it into the dark of your bedroom repeatedly as you rode the waves of your pleasure. He moaned for the first time as his tongue circled and cleaned your body with care. He would pull away, thinking he'd had his last taste but his mouth would often return like an impulse to let your flavor ride his tongue once more.

He kissed your wet thighs as you climbed down from your high and you watched his large hands wrap around them lovingly and sweet before his gaze fell back up to you. Gently your hand tussled his light hair, inviting him upwards to get some air and he stood before wiping his wet face with a cloth. You didn't care if he was still slick with your climax or not when you pulled his mouth to your own.

The kiss was slow and lulling as you realized that he cared far more than he actually let on. You thought those many late nights were a good indication of his attention, but you saw now that perhaps you could be wrong.

He wanted you to keep lying to his bed and he brought your hands to his face when he mentioned with a solemness as his next words sounded like a vow being promised,

“You deserve…to be made love to every single night. And any man that gives you less, shouldn't have put the ring on your hand. I've been a very neglectful husband and I hope you can have patience with me to mend what I've done.”

You kissed his mouth tenderly and said realizing that maybe after this night you'd have a subservient spouse instead of one that might as well only exist on paper. He rested his forehead against yours as your lips parted and you mentioned facetiously with half lidded eyes,

“I don't mind being left alone. But you could atleast do something like get me pregnant to pass the time?”

He always enjoyed your sense of humor and his mouth curled into a smile. He nodded to tell you as he joined both your hands sweetly, hearing your wedding rings knock together as your fingers intertwined,

“We'll certainly work on it.” 》

Send me more JJK submissions to my ask box for more! ♡

[ynbabe]

Batfam x male reader

Jason: How did you know there would be an extra uniform in the bag?

Tim: Everyone knows flight attendants are required to carry extra uniforms, in case they get called to work unexpectedly.

Dick: Or if something happens to the one they're already wearing.

Tim: Everyone does not know that. How did you both know that?

Roy (yes he’s a bat now, no idgaf abt queen): Worked airport security.

Jason and Y/n: *Simultaneously* Slept with a flight attendant.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Jason: *sighs* I have no friends...

Y/n:

Y/n: *coughs* Bitch, what am I? A roach?!

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Tim: I can’t go, Dick’s mad at me 

Y/n: Why?

Tim: Well there was too many people watching on the Netflix account so I texted him and told him to check the news ‘cause Batman was dead and when he saw I was lying he couldn’t get back onto the Netflix because I had taken his spot

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Jason: [on the phone] Hey do you remember when I said that me and Y/n were gonna have a calm night out?

Steph: Yes?

Jason: How much bail money do you have?

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Jason: [takes off his shirt and jumps into a fighting stance] Fight me you bitch

Y/n: [picks up Harley’s shirt and puts it on] What’s your next move?

Jason: Wait what-? Gimme my shirt back

Y/n: No you’ve made your decision 

Jason: L/n I’m cold

Y/n: Should’ve worn a shirt then

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Dick: Damian loves the outdoors

Dick: That time we went camping he was like Mowgli running around those woods

Dick: I swear Y/n, he was that happy that I honestly thought about just leaving him there

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n: Are you all caught up on homework?

Tim: I have a project due on Tuesday and I’m not saying I haven’t started but if you ask to see what I’ve done so far there wouldn’t be anything 

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n: Pete, why did you put syrup on the shopping list?

Steph: Cause I like syrup

Y/n: Yes but now it’s all sticky

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n, serious: Don't go falling in love with me

Jason, also serious: Yeah, that's not a problem

*A few days later*

Jason: *yelling as he runs to Dick's room* DICK, I HAVE A PROBLEM

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Dick: Do NOT drink the night before the awards ceremony 

Jason: Yeah yeah, be on time, don’t mess things up

Dick: NO. Alfred’s booked a bagpipe choir. You do NOT want to be hungover for a bagpipe choir

Y/n: Oh fuck

Dick: We’ll go out AFTER the ceremony

Dick: When the bagpipe choir has left the premises 

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n: Tim got so drunk last night he puked all over my living room

Tim: It was the laughing! You made me laugh and I threw up!

Jason: Yeah it wasn’t the nine vodka sodas, it was the laughing

Y/n: “Oh my god! I drank so much laughter before this!”

Tim: 

Jason: You owe us a new rug

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n: [climbing down the side of the building]

Tim: Y/n!

Tim: Y/n come back! You’re gonna miss your cocoa!

Y/n: [in the distance] I know!

Tim: Well can I have it then?

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Jason, after getting Tim duty: Horror movies don’t scare Tim

Dick: But Chuckie is so creepy though

Tim, spending wayyy to much time on Y/n with this: If I had to fight Chuckie I’d stand in an open field and kick him like a soccer ball every time he came towards me

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n: We need to find Dami, do you have a picture of him?

Tim: No but I can draw him from memory 

Tim: How tall is he? Like 2 feet?

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n: Have fun at your party

Tim: Thanks

Y/n: You know what they say: “Liquor before beer, never fear. Don’t do heroin”

 Tim: It’s a parent-controlled sociale for rich kids in Gotham I’ll be back before 9

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n: Fuck sake Bruce you said I had to babysit one kid

[Dick, Jason, Steph, Cass, Tim, Duke and Damian waving]

Bruce: They don’t exactly come separately... and you only need to look after Damian

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n: [waking up from a near death injury] You were scared

Jason: Nah, I was waiting to inherit your millions

Y/n: Let me know where you find them, huh?

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Bruce: Can’t you leave Damian alone?

Tim: I got all the Justice league, young justice, teen titans, titans, everyone at WE and a bunch of interns to sign this notebook I had and then I wrote “Sign here if you think Damian is stupid” on the cover

Tim: He almost cried 

Tim: It was great

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Dick: Kid, could I have a moment in private with Y/n?

Tim: Sure, I’ll just plug my ears and sing an old sea shanty

Dick: Wait-

Tim: There once was a ship that went to sea-

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Tim, crushing on Y/n: Can I just say that I’d love to listen to you talk about Hell all afternoon Y/n

Jason, dating y/n and having met in hell: And can I just say that if I had my guns right now I’d shoot myself

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n: Uhhh

Damian: *scoffs*

Y/n: You want a beer?

Dick: He's ten!

Y/n: I don't know, what am I supposed to do with him!?

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Damian: I wanna ride a horse

Y/n: Alright sweetie here’s the horse

Damian: That’s a horse? 

Damian: [picks up book] I thought this was a horse?

Y/n: Damian that’s a cow

Damian: I wanna ride that

Steph: Me moo

Y/n: You’re not helping 

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Tim, clearly drunk: I don’t even know how to drink! I’ve never had one! Like what do you even mix vodka with?

Y/n: A straw

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n, at a PTM meeting: Wait- that guy is the bullying you?

Cass, under strict orders from Bruce not to fight: Hmm 

Y/n, knowing Bruce can’t say shit to him: [powering up] Not my first human, doubt it will be my last 

[teddy-bear-baby]

Their Deadly Flower - Twelve

(A/n: Been putting off finishing this story for a while now because I've poured so much time and love into it, but I think it's time to put it to rest. Sadly, I will be finishing this story with around 15 chapters and maybe an epilogue. Hope you all have enjoyed this story as much as I have. As always enjoy this chapter, my Lovelies and don't forget to leave feedback.)

Pairings: Ghost X GN!Reader, König X GN!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of violence and torture, angst, slightly crazed reader

Prolog - One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven - Eight - Nine - Ten - Eleven - Here - Thirteen

     Ghost and König agreed on only two things. One, you meant far too much to both of them for this stupid fighting to continue. And two, they were completely and utterly fucked in their current situation.

     Both men sat facing each other, bound to chairs and gagged. Their masks had been removed a few hours ago when they were placed into these godforsaken seats. The lack of facial coverings allowed both men a good look at each other’s features as they silently communicated. Using only their eyes and minimal facial expressions they’d begun to slowly devise a plan of escape.

~~~~~

     Two days. It’s been two fucking days since anyone has seen Ghost or König and you are in an absolute downward spiral. Your thoughts are consumed with worry and fear. Dreadful images flooding every corner of your mind as the endless possibilities recount themselves to you, for what feels like, the millionth time today.

     “Iris?” Soap’s wary voice cuts through the thoughts swirling around your brain. Concern evident in his features as he stares at you. “It’s going to be alright.” He attempts to reassure you as your eyes finally meet across the bare living room of the old house. “They’re going to be alright.”

     Gaz nods in agreement with the same cautious concern in his eyes. “We’ll find them and bring them back safely.” 

     All three of the men standing with you had been trying to calm your nervousness and worry for the past two days. Though they should be a calming force, having been like family to you for so long, nothing they said or did had helped much at all. Not since Price had admitted that Alice had said something odd the night before your two men had been stolen away from you. “I might be here with you, but believe that there are people planning in the background, just waiting for their chance.” You were sure in that moment that Alice’s people had taken something important to you either to prove a point, or to draw you out. To get you to do something reckless, like run headlong into danger to keep those around you safe from wraith that was aimed toward you.

     At first Alice’s anger was on the 141 in general for all the trouble we’d given her and her people. But after everything she’d gone through trying to get information out of you for two years, you’re almost certain it’s personal now. A vendetta against you specifically for not only wasting two years of her time but also playing a part in her capture.

     “Iris?” Fingers snapping in front of your face cause you to once again jolt from your dreadful thoughts. Price’s fingers to be specific. He stares at you with an understanding glint in his eyes. He’s worried too, though he’s better at keeping calm in most situations. “Come on,” His hand rests flat against your shoulder blade, applying a little pressure as he begins leading you toward the front door. “We’ll get you a drink, calm your mind a bit and go over what we know again. I need you focused if we’re going to get them back.” His voice trails off slightly as though he wanted to add something to the end of that statement but decided not to.

     Price’s words have the opposite effect of what they were meant to. If we’re going to get them back? You’d at least expected him to say something like “By the end of the week” or “Anytime soon”. You understand though. In a situation like this, when there’s no clear evidence of where they’ve gone or who had been responsible, there is no guarantee that they’ll return alive. If they return at all. 

     A heavy sigh escapes your lips as you step out of the house for the first time in almost four days. The light of the early evening sun burns your retinas and causes you to squint in order to see your surroundings. “Do you really think drinking is a good idea at a time like this?” Your voice comes out strained from the incessant crying you’d done over the past 48 hours. “Ghost and König are out there somewhere, likely being tortured or killed, and here we are going out for drinks.” It felt wrong even if it wasn’t for enjoyment purposes.

     “If it gets you to calm down enough for a proper conversation, I’d say it’s more than worth it.” Soap comments from behind you as he closes and locks the rickety door. 

     You let out another sigh as you climb into the passenger seat of the car they’d come in. You weren’t going to enjoy this one bit. You’d gotten so used to drinking with Ghost sitting across from you, you’re sure you’ll break down more than once.

~~~~~

     It doesn’t take long to get to the local pub, which seems more like a nightclub with the music booming in your ears before you even enter the building. The inside is dimly lit, the music getting exponentially louder as you and your three companions push past a few people lingering around the entrance. Your eyes rove over the crowd of bodies bumping and grinding in the center of the large room. A migraine begins to form in your temples as Soap grabs your arm and tugs you behind him through the crowd. 

     Groaning you allow him to pull you toward a small table in the back corner away from the rest of the patrons. You find it hard to pull your eyes away from the group of people dancing and having a good time, feeling almost envious of how joyful and carefree they are. You wish more than anything that you could be out there dancing and laughing with König while Ghost sits in the corner watching over you. Images of your fantasy flash behind your eyes; König’s bright eyes crinkled at the corners as you dance together a large grin on your own face as you look over to Simon whose eyes have been on you the whole time.

     A harsh shaking of your shoulder pulls you from your blissful daydream. Price stares down at you intently with furrowed brows. “Welcome back to reality, care to stay for a while?” His mouth twists into a small sarcastic smile, his mustache curving with his lips as he attempts to lighten the mood a little.

     You take a deep inhale, allowing the air to stretch out your tired chest before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” Taking in your surroundings once more you realize you’re already sat at the corner table, Soap and Gaz are sitting across from you sipping on pints of amber liquid. “Sorry, I’m trying to separate my emotions from work, I really am but-”

     Gaz cuts in and finishes your thought. “But you’ve made a mess of that whole philosophy. We know.” He takes another sip from his glass as he glances around the room.

     You grumble a bit as you pick up the pint that had been set in front of you at some point, draining half the glass in seconds. You can only hope it’ll help numb the emotions enough for you to focus on the present moment. You needed to know exactly what the plan was to get your men back. “How the hell are we going to find them?” Your question is followed by silence and brief glances among the four of you as you look for the others to answer. 

     After a few moments Price speaks up. “Well, the plan was to look for any evidence in the house and hope it’d point us somewhere.” He cocks his head slightly as he idly fiddles with the rim of his glass. “But whoever did it was more prepared than we hoped, left nothing but that handprint. Only thing we can go off of is what Alice said, but that’s not proof of anything.” He sighs and takes a large gulp from his glass, his stress and worry over the situation showing more than before. His composure only slips further the longer you all go without any answers.

     You all go over the events of that morning multiple times, each of you proposing different ideas of what could have happened. None of them end up making any sense or giving way to new leads. The only thing that made sense in your mind was that Alice’s people were out for blood or her return, neither of which were comforting thoughts. Either outcome could and would leave good people injured and dead. Ghost and König likely being among the first to succumb to those afflictions.

     Your stomach turns, whether from the alcohol, the thoughts, or both, you're not sure. Not that it really matters. What matters is making it to the bathroom before your drink comes rocketing from your throat and all over the table. You jump up from your seat clutching your stomach before rushing toward the restroom. You ignore the concerned looks from your companions as you race through the room, pushing through crowds of people. Bile stings the back of your throat, a sour taste forcing its way onto your taste buds as you slam the restroom door open.

~~~~~

     A growl escapes your throat as you deliver another harsh blow to the man’s gut, watching with demented glee as his body tries to fold in on itself. A wheezed breath follows his pained grunt as he tugs against the bindings that hold his wrist to the arms of the old wood chair. “I’m getting tired of the games, Ezekiel.” Your voice flows through the room, bouncing off the cement walls of the basement with a bone chilling sweetness. Your eye twitches slightly as he glares at you through swollen eyelids, that same glare he’d given you just before you’d knocked him unconscious a few hours ago.

     Letting out a shaky breath you tear your eyes away from the reflection in the mirror, unable to stare at your tired face any longer. It’s a clear visual of how badly Ghost and König’s disappearance has affected you and it only served to make your mind spiral further.

     You make your way quickly out of the restroom and back into the loud, crowded pub. You’re about to move toward the table where your companions are seated when your gaze lands on a pair of eyes that seem all too familiar. One orb is a bright emerald green and the other is a dark, almost black, shade of brown. You don’t recognise the rest of the man’s face. Those eyes, however, they’d be recognisable anywhere. Your mind races as the pieces of this terrible puzzle fall into place. 

     This man standing only a few paces away from you was present at many of your negotiations with Alice. His all-too-unique eyes give him away even if he’d worn a face covering to every meeting that he’d accompanied her on. You’d done some research into her and the team she worked with to better equip yourself just in case a negotiation went sideways. His name is Ezekiel and he’s known to be one of the more dangerous members of the group.

     The only question now is what the hell is he doing here? Not that you had to think too much about it after the thoughts that had plagued you for the past two days. It was glaringly obvious to you now that the theory you’d come up with about Alice was almost certainly true. She’d most likely had this as a backup plan if she was found out. But there was no way for her to have known how important Ghost and König were to you. Unless she had someone, a mole of sorts, watching you and your team. 

     Before you can think through your actions you’ve stepped up to the man. He’s large, not as large as König, or even Ghost, but he could definitely be lethal based solely on his build. You could handle him though, especially if he’s not as well trained as the members of 141.

     His eyes move to your form as you step into his space, a quizzical and almost flirtatious look crossing his features. “Something I can do for you?” His voice is like satin, caressing your eardrums in the most spine tingling way. If he weren’t the enemy, and someone who is more than likely involved in the disappearance of König and Ghost, he’d be a nice catch.

     Your mind whirls with visions of ripping his throat out with your teeth before beating him into a mass of blood and bones. You want to tell him off right there, scream at him to give back the two men you hold so precious. You don’t though, knowing it would only cause a scene and give away who you are if he hadn’t put that together already. “You’re eyes,” You manage to force the words out slowly with a small flirtatious smile. “They’re gorgeous.” The words taste like battery acid on your tongue and guilt begins to form in your chest. If you’re lucky you might be able to smooth-talk this guy into leaving with you so you can get some answers out of him.

     It really was that easy. You sweet talked your way past the sour taste in your mouth and managed to get into his head. Ezekiel was all-too-desperate to be taking someone home and you were all-too-happy to follow him out to his car. 

     Wasting no time once the two of you were secluded in his car, you give him a sweet smile. “I would apologize for what comes next, but I have no empathy for scum like you.” You watch his brows furrow as he glares over at you just before your fist makes contact with his temple. He slouches forward against the steering wheel with a soft thump. The only thing left to do now was figure out how to tell your three companions about the reckless move you’d just pulled.

     “So tell me, where are my men?” Your voice comes out low, your harsh tone accompanied by a dangerous glare. You stare him down as you slowly circle around him, a predator studying their prey.

     Ezekiel lets out a low chuckle, something he’d done multiple times since you started questioning him three hours ago. It was different this time, a hint of nervousness seeping into what was meant to be a sound of mocking. “I’m not tellin’ you shit.” His voice is gruff and strained from the number of blows he’d taken to the abdomen. 

     It was an answer, not the one you were looking for, but he’d indirectly confirmed that he knows something about Ghost and König. Whether he was directly involved or not, you now know he has some sort of information that could be useful. A relieved feeling settles low in your belly, knowing now that you’re not wasting precious time with this unconventional interrogation.

     You grin widely at him as you lean down and look him directly in the eyes, certain you look completely insane at this point. “So you do know something about it.” Excitement and intrigue lace your words as you grip his face hard in your left hand. You watch closely as his expression shifts, his brows furrowing as he realizes he slipped up. “Let’s try this again, hmm?” You straighten yourself to stand at full height as you pull out the switchblade König had given you a few weeks ago. “Perhaps I can persuade you to tell me the truth.” Your eyes linger on the knife in your grasp as you flip it open, admiring the way the blade shines in the dim fluorescent light of the musty basement.

      You feel absolutely crazed, finding enjoyment in tormenting this man more than you should. You wanted answers, wanted to find your men and this insect, this pest was keeping you from that. You’re breaking, becoming unstable from the emotional distress of the whole situation. Your mind is slipping, the want to find them giving way to dark thoughts. Thoughts of all the ways you’d enjoy tearing the information from this man’s lips. All the rage you’ve held in over the years is creeping up under your skin, flowing straight to your fingertips as you play with the knife, like lightning to a rod.

     Ezekiel’s eyes stare intently at the blade as he appears to consider his options. "So what, either I tell you what I know or you'll kill me?" He asks incredulously, eyes still focused on the sharp blade. "Isn't that against your code of conduct or something?" He's desperately trying to remain calm but the smallest hint of panic has worked its way into his voice, and that sends a thrilled shiver down your spine. “You’ll go to prison for this.”

     A small laugh burst from between your lips. "Oh, darling Ezekiel," You coo at him as you place the tip of the blade against the underside of his chin, forcing him to look you in the eyes once more. "Do you see a uniform? A badge? Any symbol that would represent a professional bound by some such code?" Your grin widens, a maniacal glint flashing in your eyes as you watch his panic become visible. "No," You shake your head a little while pressing the knife more firmly into his chin. "Not here, not now. You see, right now I am someone looking for something important to me. And you," You pull the knife from his chin and point it directly at his face, enjoying the way his eyes widen as it nearly touches his nose. "You are simply an obstacle standing in my way. Believe me when I say I will dismantle you piece by piece until you give me the information I'm asking for."

     Ezekiel's eyes flit rapidly between the blade and your face, a look of contemplation gracing his features. "You won't do it." His voice is shaky and quiet, filled with uncertainty. Whether he’s uncertain of his own words or your willingness to follow through, you’re not sure.

     Your head cocks to one side as you move the blade to his cheek, swiping the sharp edge swiftly across the flesh. "Are you willing to bet your life on that?" You ask in a low, menacing tone as you force your eyes away from the streak of red on his cheek, looking to his eyes instead. You find your answer there, in his mismatched orbs. A look of pure horror echoed by the way he flinches away from your gaze. "Good. Now then," You slowly pull the knife away from his blood streaked face, wiping it clean against the leg of your pants. "You have three choices here. I can start with your fingers, I can start with your toes, or you can give me the information I'm asking for."

(Don’t forget to ask about joining the tag-list: @josieguts @strangepuppynightmare @theredviolets @poohkie90 @giulia2372 @fillechatoyante @buckysjuicyplums @running-writing @darkravenqueen98 @bigman101 @birdiiiiiiiiiii)

[sasster]

Devils and Deals

Don’t expect this kind of sustained output as finals approach. Man, I sure do love when things start making some sense around here! [Doc]

—

The dreamer snaps out of her sleep with a start, drowsy eyes begin to scan the room she awoke in with a dull sense of urgency beating in her chest. A small part of her hoped to wake in her room, surrounded by the comfort of her sheets and righteous anger against Cylion. Instead, she finds herself in the same dreary living room she’d fallen asleep in. Her eyes quickly adjust to the darkness of the room and she finds that they are drawn to movement in an area she thinks might be the kitchen.

A bad taste creeps its way into her mouth as she pieces more of the interaction she’d had before falling asleep together. She’d made it to the House of Restoration, there was a bad man, she couldn’t move her legs. He said Cylion sent him, that couldn’t be true.

Just as the thought enters her mind, she lets her gaze fall to her hands, open and palms facing upward.

One…Two…Three…Four…

He wouldn’t send the source of so many daymares after her.

Five…Six…Seven…

What would such a bad man be doing outside the House of Restoration otherwise?

Eight…Nine…

If Cylion knew she were going out, he would have followed her himself. There wouldn’t be a need for a third party.

Ten…

Her runaway thoughts are interrupted by soft footsteps entering from the direction of the kitchen. The purple blood enters the room with two small cups in his hands, stripped of his vest and face dressings, and sporting the same teeth-baring grin as when he loomed over her outside of the church.

“Ah, little goddess. Awake at last? I trust you slept well.”

Nymira lifts her gaze from the cups to the man's face and then lets it continue to drift upward. The smell of peppermint digs its teeth into her and grounds her further into this reality that she wishes was untrue. “I didn’t.” She mumbles absently.

Persep sits at a chair in front of her and sets the cup down on a glass table with an audible clink! that draws her attention back to him.

Once again she counts her fingers, this time when she arrives at ten she puffs her chest up, filling it with her own indignation.

“I would like to leave now.”

Persep lifts his cup from the table and takes a sip before he replies, the picture of serenity in front of her. Nymira envisions a calm ocean front just before a storm breaks out and beats the shore in its fury. She would be lying if she said it did not poke a few holes in her resolve.

He wouldn’t show up in all of those daymares if this was the extent of whatever ire she’d earned from him.

“I am sure that you would,” he says simply, setting the cup down again. “Not yet though.”

A stubborn, childish huff escapes her and her indignance crosses her arms over her chest. “I want to leave.” She repeats, enunciating clearly.

“I heard. Look, this is all very simple,” he starts, leaning toward her in a way that indicates her resolve has very little effect on him. He practically looms. “Do what I ask, then you get to go home to your brother.”

Nymira’s face screws up, first into a frown, but quickly morphs into a glare levied up at the purple blood. “Maybe I don’t want to be sent home to my brother.” She says with another huff. Then, finally, her expression softens. “What do you want me to do?”

Persep sits back in his chair, obviously satisfied with how easy it was to see that the godling acquiesced. As upset as she might have been with her brother, being angry at him while locked away in her tower like a forgotten princess sounds infinitely more appealing than having tea in a depressing living room with a bad man, with unclear intentions, who leers and looms. She deflates a bit beneath his full attention.

“I only need you to help me retrieve some lost items.”

She blinks and tilts her head, letting her confusion spell itself out in furrowed brows and a helpless pout. “I can’t do that.” She says firmly. “I can’t take things from this world.”

He smiles, one that she thinks might be a little too eager for how he carries himself the way it borders on ecstatic, and tilts his head very slightly.

“We don’t know the extent to what you can do. I’d like to find out.”

Nymira looks down at her hands and begins to counter her fingers again.

—

This time when Cylion visits Persep, it is much more expected. Gone is the forest of the puppet master’s youth, replaced by a vague approximation of the gardens just outside of the prophet’s own church.

A flutter of annoyance sends a small ruffle through his wings. Dreams are his domain, why should Persep get to flex mastery over it so brazenly? It is a small mercy that such lucidity is limited only to his own dreams.

Imagine the trouble he would cause.

Cylion finds him sitting near the fountain, focused on the door he can’t possibly know is only used by the prophet’s hulk of an ancestor. At the thought of that man, phantom claws clasp around his skull in memory of a threat. If given much more though, they’d manifest right then. He sighs and shakes the nightmare from his mind, then he seats himself by the man he intrudes on.

Persep crosses one leg over the other, choosing for some reason to sit in a way that seems uncomfortably rigid. The fountain bubbles behind him.

“Your sister is quite remarkable, holy one.”

“Everyone certainly seems to think so,” Cylion says with a roll of his eyes. “I trust you are treating her well.”

“As well as I can, though you may well know my current living situation is not conducive to accommodation.” The words fall from his mouth bitterly, his hatred for the apartment palpable in the thick atmosphere Cylion is used to negotiating around in dreams. “She is stubborn.”

“I certainly think so,” Cylion replies perhaps a bit too quickly, for Persep grins at his frustration. “I would like to see her home now.”

“About that,”

He feels the strings of a deal made with the devil constrict around him, because of course there was the issue of repaying the favor. It is just that he did not expect it to come about so soon. The prophet grits his teeth and the sky above them grows heavy with a purple tinted fog that very quickly obscures the moons.

“I am going to hold onto her a moment longer.”

“That wasn’t the deal. I didn’t even send you after her this time.”

“Lucky I was in the neighborhood,” Persep muses, tilting his head upward to acknowledge the change in the atmosphere. He waves the pregnant fog away with a lazy hand, bringing back the clear night he’d originally dreamt up. “Plans change, Cylion. Consider me out of your hair when I get what I want.”

“What exactly do you want--”

“Ah, are our dealings not always a no questions asked sort of arrangement?”

Cylion, a man of his word, balls his hands into fists in his lap and stares now at the ground. “How long?”

“I’ll send for you.”

“How long?” He repeats with more force, a growl he doesn’t expect cutting through him, the fog returned to bathe them in his anger. “When will my sister be home?”

“Testy,” Persep says, smiling around the word, moving as though he means to wave the fog away.

It stays with them this time, Cylion looks up in time to catch the near imperceptible twitch of the purple blood's shoulders under the weight of his anger.

“Persep.”

“A week?” He concedes, raising both hands up to quell Cylion’s growing anger. “You can’t really rush art. I’d hate to push her too quickly.”

The prophet feels his legs begin to bounce as anger blows through his veins burning hot. “Three days.”

“Five.”

“Four.”

Persep rolls his shoulders, possibly to cover up the fact that he is struggling to keep control of his own dream. To hide that the lack of control is getting under his skin. “Deal.”

“And Persep,”

“Mhm?”

“Best that you don’t hurt a hair on her head.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, holy one.”

—

Persep sits on the floor near Nymira, idly leafing through the replica journal that he’d had her pull from her dreams during their first exercise together. The thing itself is unimpressive. Barely a replica, honestly, once the cover is open.

What he was surprised to find was that the words on the page were not any that Orfuse’d ever penned, they danced around on the page, phasing in and out of reality as they deemed fit. The contents of the book moved about in the way that magic runes might in a show meant for wigglers.

It was much better than anything he’d expected.

Beside him the dreamer sits in a sort of trance, once that was like pulling teeth for him to get her in, not quite asleep and not quite awake. Her legs are crossed and her tail fans behind her in a semicircle. Persep thinks that there must be paintings of the little godling that look just so.

Only these paintings would perhaps feature her asleep, maybe in the arms of a prophet or another, glowing in her opulence.

Reality isn’t always so sparkly as it were, this scene only features his drab apartment living room as her backdrop.

Nymira mumbles something under her breath and as she opens her eyes, sparks do actually fly, blue light glowing around her hands and encompassing an object that was not previously there. The object itself was nondescript, save for its smooth glassy facade and the ever shifting iridescent black that swirled just beneath its surface.

“Welcome back, little goddess,” he greets, clearly pleased with the development. “How does it feel to come into your power properly?”

“This is not proper, this is sacrilege.” She holds the stone out to him, which he accepts, setting the book down to get a closer look at the item. “I want to go home.”

“Mhm. In time. And who decided that it was sacrilege? Is it not the God of a religion that decides the rules?” He raises the stone above his eye level, marveling at the way it catches the light. “Why is it that your prophets get to make the rules?”

Nymira opens her mouth to protest, but not finding a satisfactory answer, she just stands abruptly and exits the room.

[kristannafever]

Mountain Man - Nine

Kristanna Modern AU Rated: M WC: 2573

Collab with @lukin08

Chapter Index

---------------------

Anna wandered out to the bathhouse.  Kristoff had shoveled the pathway again.  She imagined it was a non-stop battle in the winter to be able to get easily to and from his various buildings when it snowed.

She felt like shit for making yet another dig at how he chose to live his life.  She knew she needed to accept it and move on as much as that seemed to hurt.  It was stupid to get hung up on trying to change someone who did not want to change.

Peering through the door he had his back to her, building a fire in a large stove at the back.  Anna stepped up into the structure.  To her right was the wash basin and drying line for his clothes, and to the left, an antique-looking clawfoot tub.  Above both was a large window with opaque glass, letting in the light without need for a lantern, unless, of course, it was dark outside.

She settled her gaze on Kristoff.  “Can I help?”

His back stiffed a little, then he resumed what he was doing.  “You can fill the buckets with water,” he said quietly.

Anna noticed there were four large metal buckets on top of the stove.  She went over and grabbed one, looking down at his face.  He refused to meet her eyes.

The fire was roaring by the time she was finished with the third bucket.  He passed her on her way back in with the fourth.  A minute later he came in and placed it on the stove with the others.  Then he turned around and grabbed another bucket that Anna just noticed was sitting by the door.  He went outside, filled it, and dumped it in the empty tub.

“Oh, is that because when the water is boiling, it stabilizes out the temperature?”

He finally looked over at her.  “Yeah.”

“I can help you fill it.”

“I got it,” he said, walking past her and heading outside again. 

Anna followed him.  “Is it okay if I borrow some of your soap and shampoo?”

He paused and turned around.  “Yeah, of course.  It’s all in the bottom of the nightstand.  Help yourself.”

Anna nodded her thanks, grateful that some of the softness had returned to his tone.  She turned to get it when he spoke again. 

“All the clothes in my chest are clean.  Help yourself.  Towels are in there too.  And after, leave your dirty clothes on the floor.  I’ll wash them.”

“I can wash my own clothes, Kristoff.”

“I’ll wash them,” he reiterated, and began to pump water into the bucket. 

Anna sighed and went back into the cabin.  She grabbed the soap and shampoo first, set them on the table, then went to the chest to rummage through his clothes.  She found a plain black t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a draw string.  She’d be swimming in the clothing but at least they were clean.  She hadn’t realized how dirty she felt until Kristoff brought up having a bath. 

She went back outside and placed the soap and shampoo on a shelf built to hold them, and hung the clothes and towels on two hooks fastened to the wall beside the door.  Kristoff had the tub half full and was keeping an eye on the water in the buckets in the stove.

He looked over at her, his expression blank.  “Should be done soon.”

“Thank you, Kristoff.  I really appreciate this.”

“Don’t mention it,” he mumbled, turning his attention back to the water. 

Anna wrung her hands.  “Look, I’m sorry about-”

His head turned in her direction.  “Just drop it, okay.  I get that you think living this way is insane.  I don’t really need a constant reminder of your opinion.”

He sounded almost defeated and she opened her mouth to apologize again when he turned his body fully towards her.

“You haven’t once taken the time to appreciate what I might enjoy about living this life,” he said.  “And there is a lot.  It’s the peace and the quiet of this place.  The way the sun rises and sets over the mountains.  It’s natures beauty as far as the eye can see, unhindered by power lines or radio towers.  It’s not having to worry about bills or mortgage payments, or dealing with crappy neighbours, or crime, or solicitors knocking on my door.  I don’t sit in traffic for hours to and from work, staring at billboards enticing me to buy things I don’t need.  I don’t have a boss who tells me what to do and when, and gives me a shitty paycheck after it all.  I am extremely fit and I never have to work out.  All you see is loneliness.  I see a life unburdened by all the things that tend to bring people down.”

Anna pinched her trembling lip in her teeth, her eyes stinging with tears.  She nodded, turning her eyes to the floor.

“Don’t cry.”

“I’m not,” Anna choked out, turning around and wiping her wet eyes.  He hadn’t talked with any sort of tone, in fact he sounded at kind of at peace to explain it, and Anna felt bad again for the little digs she’d been taking at the way he lived his life.   

She heard him walk up behind her.  A second later his warm hand was on her shoulder.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to be harsh.”

“You weren’t really, at all” she said, wiping her eyes once more, getting a firm handle on herself.  A deep breath and she was good.  “You were just setting me straight.  I didn’t understand.”

He gave a gentle sigh and his hand slid off her shoulder.  Anna turned around as he walked back to the stove.  “Should only be another minute.  And when you’re done, just leave the water in the tub.”  A pause.  “Please.”

Anna nodded, focusing hard on letting Kristoff, and his way of life, go.  

-------

Anna toweled off her hair, relishing in the warm, steamy bathhouse.  The fire kept the space delightfully warm. 

She felt fantastic.  The temperature of the bath had been spot-on perfect.  Anna lounged in the water for a long time until it started to cool.  There was nothing better than getting clean after a couple of days getting dirty.   

She slipped on her coat and hat, and shuffled through all the snow that had fallen in the pathway since Kristoff had set up the bath.  The ends of her hair not covered with her cap immediately froze.  Inside the cabin was just as warm and nice as the bathhouse.

Kristoff looked up from where he was sitting at the table, looking through a familiar stack of photographs.  “How was the bath?”

Anna let out a delighted moan.  “So good.  Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, his cheeks deepening in colour.  He stood and gestured to the stack of photos.  “Dug these out of my chest.  Progress on the cabin when I built it and a few others.  If you’re interested.  Or whatever.”

The way he dismissed himself wormed its way back into her heart for how endearing it was.  How protective he was of his way of life.  “Thank you.  I’d absolutely love to see them.”  It wouldn’t hurt anyone to leave out the fact she’d already snooped at them.  At least now she could take a nice long look.

Kristoff went to the door and began putting on his boots.  “I’m going to have a quick dip then wash our clothes.”

“Okay.  I’ll help you fill the buckets.”

Kristoff paused, finished pulling his boot on, then straightened slowly, looking at her.  “Please don’t think this is creepy, or gross, or anything other than me being tired and just wanting some convenience, but I am just going to hop in the tub, wash, and get out.”

“Oh,” she said, cheeks lighting up with heat.  She had no idea he planned to use the bathwater after her.  She’d assumed she wanted the water left for some other reason for whatever else went on around his homestead.  It didn’t creep her out, but it did embarrass her a little.  What if she was dirtier than she realized and he got grossed out.  “I’m sorry, I… took my time.  The water isn’t very warm anymore.”

“Anna, half the time I take my shampoo to the river in the summer.  Lukewarm water will feel tropical.”

“Still, I don’t mind helping.  You deserve a nice hot bath too.”

He shook his head.  “I am not going to waste a tub of soapy water, even if it is cold.  I’ll be quick, okay.  Make yourself at home.”  He plucked his clean clothes off the back of the chair, tucked them under his arm and went through the door, shutting it behind him.

Home.  How could she make this anywhere near what her actual home was like.  She thought about her running water, the heat in her house, the electricity and the full fridge and pantry with anything she desired because that’s how she shopped.  This could never be home, and that drove the last nail in the coffin that was her maybe thinking someday that it could be. 

She shuffled over to the table and sat on the log, picking up the stack and looking down at the first photo; an impossibly young Kristoff and their friend Frank.  He’d taken it out of the frame so it was apparent he wanted her to see it with the others.  She took her time, flipping through the photos of his progress, trying to take it in through his eyes.  Nearing the end, seeing everything he had accomplished with his own two hands, she thought that she understood him a little better.

Then she flipped to that photo of the purple lupine flowers.  She swore she could smell their sweetness looking at them.  Perhaps the next time she brought him supplies, she’d get him a picture frame and he could hang it on his wall.  Maybe next to the one of him and Frank.

Anna flipped past the picture, thinking she’d be back at the beginning, when her eyes settled Cliff and Linda with a young boy.  One look at his features confirmed that this was Kristoff as a child.  Anna smiled.  He looked so goofy and gangly, smirking that lopsided grin of his.  In his hand was some kind of certificate, only Anna couldn’t make out what it said.  She flipped over the photo.  On the back, scrawled in cursive it said:

Scouts Wilderness Training Certificate

She flipped back to the front and studied it again.  He would have been maybe nine or ten.  Definitely tall for his age based on how he appeared next to Linda, who was herself probably only five feet.  Anna went to the next photo, delighted to see another one she hadn’t looked at before.  

It was Kristoff, as she knew him now, only with a long beard and even longer hair.  He looked seriously at the camera, a shot that he had clearly set up himself.  He was wearing a rugged jacket that looked like he’d made himself and he was standing over the carcass of the largest wolf Anna had ever seen.  She recognized the fur right away.  It was the one now sitting on the floor in front of his wood stove. 

Anna looked at it for a long time, eyes roaming over his as he stared back at her.  Then she flipped the photo and found she was back at the start. 

*****

Kristoff bathed like he did everything else; with efficiency. 

The water was cold, and that really didn’t bother him.  He washed his hair and body, rinsed off by plugging his nose and slipping under the water, then pulled the plug and got out.   He dried himself and pulled on his only other pair of sweatpants since Anna was wearing his favourites, then tugged the long sleeve t-shirt over his head and went about washing their clothing. 

He set up a bucket to get warm and stoked the fire, then filled the wash basin with one bucket of cold water from the well.  He added the two when the one on the stove was boiling, dumped in a bunch of soap, and used the washboard to get them clean.  Once rinsed, he hung them on the clothes line to dry.  Then he pulled the plug on the wash basin, put his damp towel over his head, and trudged back to the cabin.  Inside Anna was sitting on the fur in front of the fire in the stove.  She looked over at her shoulder and smiled.  It struck him in the heart.  Anytime she smiled at him it did. 

“How was your bath?  I hope it wasn’t too cold?”

“It was just fine, thanks for asking.”

“I was going to start dinner,” she said, getting up to her feet, “I just didn’t know what you wanted.”

“What do you feel like?

She gave him an amused look.  “What are my options?”

He chuckled.  “For meat, caribou.  For the grain, I have pasta, rice, quinoa…”  Anna pulled a face at the last one and he had to laugh again.  “Yeah, I know, it sucks.  But it does fill the hunger void.”

Anna nodded, eyes going a little sad again whenever something like this came up.  He had no stock, or butter, or much of anything to make his food taste better.   

She said, “Could we maybe have that dish you made on the noodles with that cheesy tasting stuff in it.  The… nitch?”

“Nooch.  Yeah, I can definitely whip that up.”

“I can help.”

His stomach suddenly twisted in a weird way and he hoped he wasn’t getting sick or anything.  He hadn’t been sick since he moved away from people, but Anna was a person who had germs, and she was sleeping in his bed.

And you kissed her…

He cleared his throat, forcing the thoughts away.  “Sure, can you please start boiling some water?  I’ll grab the meat.”

Anna did as she was asked and he went to the cellar to grab two packages of ground meat, thankful once again that this meal wasn’t going to be rationed.   The night before, when they’d gotten drunk, Kristoff had made them a couple of cans of Chef Boyardee Ravioli his parents sent him; something he rationed carefully and only ever ate as a treat when he was beyond too tired to prepare food.  Anna had of course, thought it was the best thing ever – just like the rum – and they had heated up and devoured his only three cans.   He had even brought the chocolates to the table after.  Between the two of them, mostly Anna, they finished the rest of the top layer, and after every one she popped into her mouth, she gave a rather loud moan of satisfaction.

Another reason why he had kissed her. 

Kristoff shook his head and went back up into the cabin, closing the door and flipping the rug back in place.  They both made the dinner, talking about what tasks they were going to accomplish tomorrow.

After they ate and cleaned up, they were both tired and crawled into bed.  He did not want to push or assume she’d want anything from him, then she asked if he wouldn’t mind holding her so that she would stay warm.  He obliged without hesitation.

--

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

[piedpiperart]

Can We Keep Him pt 4

Chapter 3

Jason winced in sympathy when Dr. Thompkins drew the kid’s blood. The little guy was in Jason’s lap on the living room couch, curled tight and gripping his tail like a teddy bear in his lap. For his comfort, they decided to keep the kid somewhere comfortable for the checkup instead of going down to the cave. Even in Jason’s arms, he wasn’t soothed even when Alfred attempted to draw blood. He didn’t seem to be a fan of Leslie, even if she gave him some snacks upon their meeting. 

After a few scratches, Leslie agreed to give the kid a small sedative to keep him calm. That was where they were now, with the little guy crying in Jason’s arms on the couch while Alfred checked him over. They all felt a pang in their chest every time he whined. Jason tried to soothe him by petting his hair, but he still clung to Jason like he was trying to stick like glue.

 Sooner than later, they had the kids height, weight, blood pressure, and blood samples that Bruce was running. “Well, thanks to his similarities to a raccoon, he has a sort of immunity to a lot of parasites. Scavenging for food wouldn’t harm him,” Leslie stated. Jason thought bitterly that the kid would never have to scavenge again if he could help it.

“He is malnourished and lacking a few vitamins, but again, nothing worrisome,”Leslie continued. “He should be up to a healthy weight in no time, but he might need some vitamin supplements in the future. Like raccoons, he seems to be more flexible than most kids his age, and might have some forms of super strength or speed if you test for it. The boy has the vocal chords necessary to speak, but given his lack of socialization I wouldn’t take it personally if he doesn’t for a while. He’s still in survival mode, so its not abnormal for him to be entirely focused on food for the time being. We can revisit any behavior patterns when he gets more acclimated to human society.”

 The little guy got a bright blue Superman bandaid to the crook of his arm, one that Jason had to constantly keep him from peeling off. He seemed to calm down when Alfred gave him a cookie to nibble on, after which he climbed under the couch and slept off the sedative. 

Jason was worried about the kid,and brought over a blanket, but the teen couldn’t get far under the small gap under the couch. It was a show of raccoon traits that the kid was able to fold himself under the couch. 

“Perhaps it is best if he is given time to comeout on his own,”Alfred hums. “More than likely, he is feeling that under the couch is safer for right now.”

“But what if he never comes out?” Jason whined. 

“He will,”Alfred hummed,”Just give him time. In the meanwhile, you and I can make a list of what he might need from the store tomorrow.”

“Like clothes or toys?” Jason asked, grabbing his phone to pull up the notes app. HE had some ideas. 

“I’d recommend you get him a communication picture book,”Dr. Thompkins added, stepping into the room. “If he is having trouble with words, you’ll be able to communicate easier with pictures. It will help for him to connect words to things in order to relearn the language.”

“Relearn?” Jason asked, and turned to see Bruce wearing a solemn frown. “What’s wrong?”

“His name is Timothy Drake,”Bruce said, and it didn’t raise any bells for Jason. Something must have shown on his face, because Bruce went to explain. “His parents, Jack and Janet Drake, are our neighbors.”

“You mean that house we pass on the way to school?” Jason exclaimed. He was still processing the kid’s name, much less that they were neighbors. Was that why he’d ended up on Wayne property?

Bruce nodded. “He was reported missing at age 3… six years ago.”

Jason gaped,”He’s nine?? But he’s so small!”

“It’s likely Timothy will grow more when he feels like he doesn’t need to be in survival mode anymore,”Leslie cut in.”Granted, I’m not sure if his raccoon traits are playing a part in his small stature. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you what his baseline is. His abilities are very unique, so try to record any sort of changes or new things you might see. He might have certain allergies common to raccoons.”

Bruce and Leslie continued to discuss while Jason sat on the couch in shock. He heard a chirp from under the couch and bent down to peer under it. His eyes glow, Jason thought to himself. Cuddled in a ball with the blanket Jason gave him, Timothy looked at him with sleepy eyes. “Timmy?” Jason called, and was delighted to see a bit of recognition in the kids eyes. 

Responding with a chirp, he wiggled closer until Jason was able to pull him out from under the tight space. He went willingly, practically melting in Jasons arms as he cradled the kid. “Hey, Timmy,”Jason whispered. Bright blue eyes looked up at him inquisitively. He resisted the urge to cry for the little abandoned boy who lived in the woods behind his house for six years and just held Tim closer. 

Bruce soon came into the room again, sitting next to Jason and Timothy on the couch. The little guy seemed content to hang out in Jason’s arms, but looked Bruce over for any snacks. Seeing his searching, Bruce pulled out a pack of fruit snacks from his pocket. Jason snorted at the action, wondering how long it took for him to start carrying snacks on himself when he learned of Tim’s food attachment. 

Tim snacked on the gummies while Jason breathed through the thoughts crowding his head. “Did they do this on purpose?” Jason asked. He didn’t need to explain what he meant. Bruce knew. 

“It’s very likely,”Bruce frowned. Jason held back the tears forming at the thought. His parents had likely kicked him out into the woods when his appearance changed. It was only due to those raccoon traits that he’d been able to survive all those years. Not to mention how awful it would be to survive during winter in Gotham. And all this time, he’d stayed close to home. 

Jason wondered if he’d hoped that one day his parents would open the door and let him back in. He wondered how long he’d begged at the door to be let back in before he gave up. It made his heart hurt just thinking about the first night Timmy had to spend outside. Looking at the little rascal in his arms, he couldn’t ever imagine thinking he was anything but sweet and adorable. Not the monster his parents clearly thought he was. 

“We’re keeping him,”Jason said wetly. He couldn’t look at Bruce just yet. Not if he wasn’t agreeing. “Right?” He croaked. 

“You wouldn’t mind?” Bruce asked after a pause. Jason nearly froze at the unexpected response. “He needs a lot of care, especially to reacclimate to society. It might be frustrating sometimes to be unable to communicate with him.”

“No- I’d be fine having him around,”Jason chuckled. “I’ve always wanted to be a big brother. I’d be happy to look after him. He’s a sweetheart.”

“I think we’d all be happy to have him stay,”Bruce hummed. He reached over and pulled the two into a hug. 

He’d have to call Gordon to finalize an adoption, and report the Drakes for their crimes. Of course, it would have to be on the down low, and Gordon would be the best man for the job. They wouldn’t want Tim and his distinctive meta abilities to be leaked to the media. Bruce only hoped they’d be able to persecute the Drakes without having Tim appear in court. 

For now though, Bruce was content to hold his sons.

Chapter 5 coming soon

[girldragongizzard]

Chapter 7: Ptarmigan’s folly

Saturday isn’t the best day to start work on your own name change, but it’s the seventh of September and I have a fresh SSI deposit in my bank and no rent I need to pay. So, after the morning song, which I manage to initiate by starting just a smidge early, I settle down in the coffee shop with my tablet to learn about how to do it, and maybe pay the fees to get it started.

It looks like the procedure is pretty easy in Washington state, but there are two little snags.

It’s expensive. I can afford it, because I’m not paying rent. Kind of. That money is ideally going to go toward food now, though. But I can supplement my diet with seagulls if I have to.

And, I need more identification than just my enhanced state ID. Like, my birth certificate. And that’s in the stuff that’s supposedly been boxed up and sent to Nathan’s place to put in his garage. When Joel crashed through my apartment wall and trashed the place, I got evicted and trespassed. So, we’d arranged for that, and Nathan says it all seems to have arrived safely, but I haven’t had a chance to go through it all because he lives in another dragon’s territory.

I double check my Discord server for whose it is.

Ah, the individual I’d nicknamed Godzilla, who on my server is going by gronk_lizard.

I shoot him a DM asking if I may have permission to visit Nathan’s garage and look through my stuff that’s stored there. And then fret about the response, which doesn’t come immediately, or for a while.

OK, there’s a third and fourth snag in the name change process, but I’ve already talked about those, and plan to just deal with them when they come up. If I have to, I can send a human emissary to get permission from Waits to enter their territory to go to court. And there’s got to be some kind of concession for altered appearances with a photo ID, especially since other trans folk exist and go through this in their own way. Maybe that’s what the birth certificate is for.

I’m really hoping that asking permission with other dragons is going to work for visiting their areas of the city. This is so new, and I don’t think we’ve really tested this before. But, I think I’d be pretty reasonably chill myself if another dragon asked me, especially after my encounter with Astraia.

Gotta try it someday, why not today?

And I did. And I’m fretting, because gronk_lizard isn’t returning my message yet. He’s not even online, though.

As I take a moment drink my coffee, I realize that I’m hyperfocusing on this because maybe I feel the need to get back into, or establish, a mundane daily routine. I’m trying to ground myself in my identity, which is fair. But now that I’ve done what I can for the day and hit a hurry-up-and-wait snag, it kind of hurts.

The events of the last week, finishing off with that conversation yesterday, have been a bit much.

Especially that conversation. Especially the idea that I might be an Artist.

The idea feels absurd to me.

I don’t have an Art. Not that I know of. I don’t draw or write. Though I’m definitely thinking about writing! But I have no practice in it. I don’t do music. I don’t program. All I’ve ever really done is watch movies, read books, and daydream about being a dragon.

A lot of daydreaming about that. Especially as my chronic fatigue set in and I couldn’t do much else. Which.

I don’t have chronic fatigue anymore and it turns out I’m actually a dragon. So, what do I do?

I fucking go flying, eat seagulls, fight other dragons, and get in a turf war with the biggest, richest wizard in town, apparently!

Or, am I?

Is David Säure an Artist?

Or, did I misunderstand what Ptarmigan was saying?

I think about the main points of yesterday’s conversation, and realize that so much of what was said by both Ptarmigan and Chapman could be interpreted several different ways. And Chapman’s been talking like that since I met hir.

When Kimberly asked Ptarmigan her age, and Ptarmigan responded with “forty-nine”, she didn’t specific of what. Forty-nine years? Seconds? Eons? Heck, she didn’t even say, “I am”, so it might not even have been an answer. Just, “Forty-nine, I think.” Like, “I’m thinking of the number forty-nine.”

And, the reason this sticks with me is because I caught when Kimberly asked more directly if Ptarmigan was forty-nine years old, and Ptarmigan said, “No.”

I take a glance around the coffee shop and the street outside through the windows, and don’t see anyone I know well besides Nathan and Cerce behind the counter.

For some reason, my thoughts feel more private knowing I’m basically alone, and I continue puzzling this.

Maybe Ptarmigan was just saying that Daniel Säure’s involvement in local dragon politics is due to the work of an Artist, not that he was one.

I don’t want to give a billionaire any benefit of the doubt, but I’ve gotta concede I don’t know anything about him. Not even why he’s gone personally reclusive lately. And he could just be this hapless human being with way too much money and way too much interest in local politics.

The part where Ptarmigan was painfully honest and transparent, though, was when she admitted that she didn’t know if I was an Artist, only that it was a guess, and that she’d used divination to find the center of the global metamorphosis and it was apparently me.

Either she was outright lying there, or I was the center of it for some reason.

So, like, we’ve got this pair of immortal beings, supposedly. Or people pretending to be immortal beings, but they can definitely do magic of some sort. And they both have this habit of telling partial truths, or phrases that might as well be partial truths, to mislead or hide the actual truth. It creates this precedent of communication where I guess I expect them to keep up that habit.

So, when one of them then goes, “I don’t actually know. That was a guess. But what I found is that you’re at the center of this dragon event,” well, it stands out. It’s not the same pattern of communication.

What does that mean?

This is going to give me main character syndrome if I think about it too much.

If I take Ptarmigan’s report at face value, does that mean that my dream that night, in which I tore off my human disguise, was indicative of something bigger?

If I’m an Artist and don’t know about it, would that have been me subconsciously practicing my Art? Does dreaming count as an Art?

Or, maybe it’s transformation that’s the Art, but dreaming was my expression of it at the time.

If I had paper and could write this down, I feel like it would make sense on it. But, emotionally, it’s not clicking with me. I just feel numb and disconnected with it when I think about the idea that my own transformation, my own personal desires made manifest, actually affected the entire rest of the planet.

It’s just too much.

But I lift my chin and tilt my head like that one meme, and think that transformation would be a pretty fucking fantastic Art to have. Phenomenally powerful.

If I could somehow do that, transform myself or other people or things, I could use that Art to smooth out so many problems the, uh, global dracomorphosis is causing. At least locally, I think.

And trying it would either confirm or debunk Ptarmigan’s claims.

I could maybe get into that.

I’m honestly at a loss for what else to do, besides to continue networking with my new friends and trying to build a local coalition of dragons while some billionaire tries to ship us one by one out of the county.

There’s been no helicopter for the past two nights, though, that I know of, so it seems like we’ve got a bit of a reprieve. And I should probably take advantage of that.

Networking should only take a couple hours each day, at most, ideally. So the rest of the day I can use for planning, scheming, processing the idea of being somehow immortal or something myself, and experimenting.

Doing that might even keep me out of trouble with my neighboring dragons. You know, by mostly keeping to myself.

Except, I do want to move forward on this name change thing, and that is going to take some leg work. Or wing work.

Well.

I drink some more coffee, and focus on the process of doing that. Like eating, it's also pleasant, if nothing like what I used to do with a human mouth.

The best part of it for me, now, is tasting the air above the coffee before drinking it. There’s just so much detail to the aroma of the steam, so many volatiles lifting away in it. Each one is a different note of flavor. It's almost like I can taste each individual molecule as it alights on my tongue.

But, then, bathing my tongue in the liquid is a totally different beautiful experience, too. There's even more flavor there, but it all blends and swirls around my taste buds as I immerse my chin deep enough into the bowl to function as kind of a ladle, and lick.

Three licks and swallows with snout in bowl gives me a sense of drinking sips kind of like before. And then I lift my head up and back to swallow the gulp of fluid in the bottom of my mouth.

A huff and my tongue is swathed in the warmth of coffee breath and a whole other set of flavors, and I feel like I’ve permeated myself with the myriad of fascinating chemicals that make up the hot extract of coffee beans. Head high, eyes closing, I allow myself to float on the sensations and the memories they bring of doing this almost every morning since I awoke to my true self.

I hear the front door bell chime and jingle and have to stop myself from imitating the noise in response. I close my eyes tighter to distance myself from it.

After a couple of seconds, I hear Ptarmigan speaking to me her desert thunder of a voice.

“We should go for a walk,” she says. “Or, if you know some place private, that would be better. I want to work with you on something, if you’re up for it.”

I open my eyes and look at her in the collarbone. She’s dressed in exactly the same clothes as yesterday.

I’m not done with my coffee yet, so then I look at it, and then look back up at her.

“I’m sorry. You can take your time. I mean, I would like to meet with you some time today, if possible,” she says. “Can you? Will you? Do you have a good place for that?”

“Yes. Okay. Stay,” I say, without pulling out my tablet. Then I go for another mouthful of coffee and make a demonstration of it.

I don’t exactly dislike Ptarmigan. I’m intrigued by her. But I feel like she has disrupted my life just as thoroughly as Joel did when he crashed through my wall. And I do not trust her.

That lack of trust seems more important than anything.

And what she’s revealed to me has damaged my trust in Chapman, too, and I am not grateful for that.

I find that I don’t really want to do anything with Ptarmigan without Rhoda by my side. But she does have her own life, and she’s not here right now.

After sitting with the fumes of my last gulp of coffee for long enough that I feel I’ve made my point, I pull out my tablet and ask a simple question with it.

“What?” I inquire.

“I want to help you explore what I talked about yesterday,” Ptarmigan says. “Privacy would be good so that you don’t feel so self conscious about it. I like going for walks, but I understand your territory is smaller these days. Maybe your roof would work?”

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what I’m in the mood for doing right now. I’m so anxious today, I think I’m done with my coffee, despite how I’ve been trying to wallow in it.

I may not trust Ptarmigan, and I’m not exactly confident in my own decision making skills lately. But I’ve been really great at learning new stuff from my mistakes, and I’m desperate to be doing something productive and new.

I put my tablet away again and stand up, saying, “Okay. Go.” And then I walk out the door and lead the way to the fire escape.

It’s got one of those sets of stairs that only lower when weight is put on them, but I can reach that easily and pull it down, which I do. I climb partway up that and then wait for Ptarmigan to follow. And then we both climb to the top floor.

Leaping up to grab the roof from there is much easier than the last time I did it, and I’m sure I’ve grown a bit in length now.

Once up and in my new home, the rooftop, I turn around and watch Ptarmigan to see if she has any manner of getting up here herself.

She just watches me back, passively.

OK.

My haunches and tail are heavier than my front, so I figure I can help her up while using my hips as a fulcrum. I keep my wings folded and held as far back as possible while I walk to place my hind claws near the edge of the roof. Then I crouch and lean down and offer Ptarmigan my foreclaws, my tail rising in the air and arching behind me.

Then, when she grabs my foreclaws, I flap my wings furiously and lift with my legs to pull us both back up.

She walks up the side of the building with her feet and it all works pretty well.

I allow myself to be pleased with my feat of balance and strength.

Then we make our way to the center of the roof. And as I flap my wings a few times to stretch them again after working them for our ascent, her duster billows.

I find that I wish she was wearing a pair of dark black rimmed wrap around sunglasses, but she’s not.

“OK,” she says. “We can go about this a couple of different ways. We should try both. What are your hobbies? Do you do anything creative?”

“No,” I say. I hesitate for a moment to let that sink in, but then I pull out my tablet, and she watches me as I turn it on and make sure my app is open. “I used to read,” I take the time to say. “I used to daydream.”

“What do you do now?” she asks.

“Know Artists. Fight. Be dragon. Eat seagull. And fly,” I say, completely deadpan as usual. 

I’m being subtly funny, but it’s also basically the truth. Ever since my metamorphosis, I’ve been so content in a way I’ve never been before, despite all the stressors, that my usual coping mechanisms haven’t had any draw to me.

“Huh. OK,” my oblique reference to a meme seems to go right over her head. “What were you doing the night of the metamorphosis?”

“Dreaming,” I reply. “Woke up dragon.”

“Right. What was your dream about?”

“Removing human disguise.”

She points at me.

I figured as much.

“That’s it.” Then she sits down on the black tar roof, and says, “Now, describe that dream in detail, please. I’ll wait.”

I huff and look at the sky.

Then I oblige. This dream has stuck with me strongly since that night. I remember it as if I lived it while awake. And I’ve described it before, but it’s worth reviewing it.

I dreamt that I was back in school, college specifically, and it was one of those naked dreams. I spent about half the day interacting with professors and classmates before I really noticed, and I was in just my tighty whities, which is better than being completely naked, but not by much. What I hated more, in the dream as in real life, was my hairy chest and arms, the stubble of my beard, and the obvious bulge in my underwear. These were things that had been plaguing me since puberty, but I never felt like I could do anything about them. If I’d been willing to upend my whole life by admitting that I was a trans woman, which I absolutely never wanted to be (thank you internalized transmisogyny), I wouldn’t have been able to afford transition anyway.

Of course, with the Affordable Care Act, Washington State made it so that Medicaid and Medicare would cover transitional healthcare, including surgery if I’d wanted it. But, for some reason, I just couldn’t bring myself to come out. Not even after I’d lost the last attempt at a job I’d ever had, and settled into the Magnolia apartments friendless and hopeless and exhausted beyond belief. I didn’t have anything to lose anymore, but I couldn’t see how embarrassing myself by publicly transitioning would make my life any better. I was doing everything I needed by living as a woman online, I thought.

That history followed me into my dream, of course. And it colored everything and made me feel even worse and more desperate. I couldn’t believe I was back in school when I had such severe chronic fatigue, and I couldn’t even answer emails or voice messages anymore due to my C-PTSD.

And then, in the dream, one of my classmates, someone I’d made the mistake of considering a friend at the time, asked me why I’d decided not to wear any clothes.

And I turned to him and said, “Because dragons don’t need clothes.”

And then I ripped off my human disguise and woke up.

I simplify this considerably for Ptarmigan, condensing my personal history down to, “I’m trans. Was male in dream. Am female.”

She nods, and scratches at the stubble on her chin.

“Yeah, that shit sucks,” she says. “I’ve dealt with my own dysphoria in some terrible ways. I wish I could have done what you did.”

“You are Artist. You incarnate. Don’t you choose?” I ask.

“I’m not the Poet,” she says. “Sometimes I use words badly. But also, my existence is contradictory. I suspect yours is, too, if you look close or deep enough.”

“Explain.” I’ve decided I’m not putting up with any more vague bullshit from Artists. “Make me understand.”

“Yeah,” she says. Then she walks over to the southern edge of the building and looks out over the sound. “Being trans is part of my nature when I live as a human. I can’t stop from being it. All Artists are queer or neurodivergent or deviant in some way. This is one of my ways. It comes with the Art. In my case, I’ll choose one sex or another, and end up being a different gender from it. Kids these days would say that my sex is defined by my gender, and I like that. But I can’t explain what happens to me with those words because I’m not exactly born. So I’m not assigned the wrong sex at birth.” She looks back at me. “I choose, but then my choice is taken from me, by my own nature. But it’s even more absurd to me, because the whole gender thing as it is today is a construct of white supremacy. It should be irrelevant.”

That last comment seems like a confirmation to me that she’s Indigenous. But I don’t really know. The right thing to do is wait for her to share that information directly. And, she’s an Artist, not a human. Ethnicity may be irrelevant to her, too. There are more important things to consider at the moment.

“What’s your Art?” I ask.

She grins for the first time I’ve seen yet. It’s an awkward thing, full of ruefulness and stilted self consciousness, but her eyes twinkle.

“Nightmares,” she says.

I think about that for a moment, and she lets me, so I ask, “Did you cause mine?”

“No, I don’t cause nightmares,” she says. “Well. Not all nightmares. I navigate them. I find them. I dig into them. I pull them apart. And I learn from them. Or try. The world is full of so many of them, I’ll never read them all. Ever. But, similar to how Chapman’s Art works, it also turns out to be a pretty good way for making divinations. Which is how I found you.”

“What’s Chapman’s Art?”

“Physics,” she replies. “Sie is the Physicist. I’m the Nightmarist. And I’m trying to figure out what you are.”

“What if not Artist?” I ask.

“Then I’m thinking you’re something even more interesting, and I think you’ll want to know that as much as I do,” she says. “Your dream is definitely a big huge clue, too.”

“What is Säure?”

“A billionaire and an asshole who hides behind his carbon offset credits and social clout,” Ptarmigan says. “But I haven’t really taken a good look at him yet. I don’t know more than that. We’re going to have to find out. Chances are pretty good he’s just human, though. Most people are.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“Humans aren’t to be underestimated, though. They make tempting playthings for us Artists. And probably look tasty to you dragons sometimes. But they collectively control everything right now. And their short lives make some of them really bloody minded and rash.”

I don’t say anything to that. I’m not sure what to make of it. I agree with a lot of the words, but the sentiments are weird to me. A little off.

When it comes to my humans, at least, I just can’t bring myself to be that cynical.

“OK,” she says. “I think I want you to try daydreaming first. That will probably be the easiest test. I expect nothing from it, except maybe to be able to do a divination off of it if you daydream the right thing. But it’s the least amount of effort right off the bat. Are you up for it?”

“What about?” I ask.

“If my hypothesis that you’re the Artist of Transformations, or something like that, is correct, then that’s what you should daydream about. Try to recreate something like that dream you had, but while you’re awake.” She nods. “The next step is to put you to sleep and have you dream a nightmare like that for real, but that’s more invasive and more work. I’d rather not do it. Maybe if I learn the right things from this, we can try something else.”

“Okay,” I say, and then start pacing around the roof, looking at things, and thinking about what I should daydream about. What kind of transformation I should envision. And maybe what kind of nightmare scenario that transformation would solve.

Well, I’ve got a ready made scenario, at least. Säure’s next attack.

And my immediate emotional response is that I want to be bigger and tougher and able to withstand bullets. And to breathe fire indefinitely.

So, sure. I sit on my haunches near where Ptarmigan is standing and daydream about what that battle would be like. And about what it would be like to change my body into that greater draconic form.

While I do this, Ptarmigan pulls out a tiny sketchbook and a pen and starts scribbling in it while occasionally looking up at me. She sits down cross legged beside me after a few moments, and really gets lost in her work, flipping pages to work on new ones when the old one becomes too full of ink. And as she’s doing this, I feel a constant soft hum in the fabric of reality that has a harmonic in one of my nerves, like a slowed down and quieter version of the shift I get from Chapman when sie uses hir art.

In my mind, I’m taking to the sky and flying so high that it’s almost like I’m in orbit. And I’m so big and so impervious to everything that I can’t help but imagine that as being a form of intangible existence, like a spirit or a celestial being of some sort. A dragon made of starlight and lightning.

Bullets of any caliber are useless and helicopters go down in flames.

“Yeah. No. That would have been too easy,” the Artist of Nightmares says.

I break my revery and look over at my tablet before walking to it and tapping the screen for a bit, “Not work?”

“Oh, I read you just fine. You’re just not the Artist of Transformation,” she reports. “From what I can see, you’re just a dragon. It’s bewildering, frankly.”

“Told you,” I say.

“Sure,” she says. “Good solid nightmare visions, though. Thank you.”

I don’t have anything else to say to her at the moment. I’m once again at a loss myself. But, as I watch her, her eyes narrow.

“What?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’m definitely not done with you,” she says.

Whatever, I think to myself. At least I’ve made some personal psychological progress today. I now have something I can reliably daydream about when I want to relax.

“Done today,” I say. “Please go.”

“Sure,” she says again. “I need to think about this, anyway. Thank you for working with me.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Take care,” she says, then wanders over to where the fire escape is and lowers herself onto it carefully and disappears down the stairs.

I huff and look out over the water again. I have some more thinking to do of my own.