#also the halo by making it bigger and it's floating at his back instead of directly at his head but im still testing

[eru-iru]

Do you have any more details on revived bedman au? It seems interesting

oh my revived bedman au ahaha it's been so long since i last touched on it (since i made it before even strive bedman? was announced) but mostly it's about delilah finding a way to revive back her brother, with some help from asuka and faust. asuka was the one who made the halo device for bedman so he can stay awake (what the halo can do are already noted in the art i did). he's still powerful but just limited unless he goes to sleep. since the au was before st bedman?, the story at that point only follows up to after story canon so the bed is gone after it fell down. bedman looked for it and found it and reused some of the parts (hence the arms since in here he's fighting as himself and not just using the bed anymore as a full on weapon while he sleeps). he can still summon the head to do stuff like task a ahaha. i made this au mostly for him to get back and find himself again after everything that happened. of all the wrongs he did and the things he lost. a redemption for him yeah ahaha he still has his faults and urges but slowly he's trying to be a bit better, esp for delilah who he's reunited with now and to be given this rare opportunity back in life.

[rubysunnday]

Dear Mother,

A/N: Inspired by the post about what Mrs Shelby’s name is. It’s also inspired by my first ever fic on here, The Letters, since it’s almost been a year since I posted it. 

Her name had become a taboo. No one dared to mention the same of Mrs Shelby - the woman who’d thrown herself into the Cut because she went out of her mind. It was always “Mrs Shelby” or “the Shelby’s mother”. 

Her name had died with her. She didn’t even have her name on the grave. Just mother. 

Y/N Shelby didn’t even know her mother’s name. It was nowhere to be seen within the walls of the house and there was no record of it in any photo album or bundle of letters. 

She was a ghost - a nameless whisper on the wind. 

Y/N never asked about her mother’s name. Her brothers had told her she’d died from an illness - slowly wasted away before their eyes until she was no more. It was the truth, in a way. Her mind had give up and her body had followed not long after. 

She’d thrown herself into the Cut and had sunk to the bottom - like Ophelia when her lover had murdered her father. Left behind was an already broken and bruised family who’s eldest members were about to go to war. 

Y/N didn’t remember her mother. She didn’t remember the screaming, the crying, Tommy trying to shield her, Finn and Ada from their mother as she went out of her mind. 

Committing suicide was no way to go. A mother committing suicide was another thing entirely. How could she be so selfish and abandon her children? 

That was were the fear and suspicion of the Shelby’s had begun. All because of their mother. And they used it to their advantage, quickly becoming the most feared and respected family in Birmingham.

But no child should have had to grow up hearing whispered secrets about their mother and how it wouldn’t be long before the children followed her into the cold, icy depths of the Cut.

Y/N Shelby had no mother. Polly tried her best but she was never a maternal person - the loss of her children had damaged her beyond repair - and Y/N missed the nurturing nature mother’s apparently had. 

She didn’t remember her mother. There were pictures of her in Tommy’s house - of her with John, Arthur, Tommy and Ada. She looked beautiful - like a Hollywood movie superstar. She was picture perfect, smiling at the camera with a loving hand on John’s shoulder and her arm around Arthur’s waist. 

It was a snapshot of a forgotten time - before the demons invaded her mind and ripped her soul from her mind. And it wasn’t a true snapshot, not really. She’d suffered with the demons for years before that image, but it only got worse.

But Y/N took that image of her mother - looking perfect and like a porcelain doll. And she wrote her a letter. She introduced herself, told her what she looked liked and what her favourite things were and put it in her desk draw.

For the next twelve months, Y/N wrote a letter to her mother every day. She poured her heart and soul out to this invisible woman who’s name no longer existed and who’s image was frozen in a dusty photo on her brother’s desk.

8th April, 1923

Dear Mother,

I turned nineteen today, Nothing spectacular happened - I had a nice meal out with Ada and went riding with John and Arthur. Tommy vanished off to London - again - and I didn’t see him all day. Not quite sure what I’ve done to piss him off but, alas. 

Polly gave me your necklace today The string of pearls you bought with the first bit of money Arthur made. I’m wearing them, and your engagement ring, as I write this. I look like a proper lady with my new dress on...

It’s been sixteen years since I last saw you. I’m doing alright without you but it’s hard. I see Ada with Karl and Polly with Michael and my heart aches for that. But i know I can never have it and will never have it. 

I hope you’re alright, wherever you are, mother.

All my love,

Your ever loving daughter, Y/N x

As the days and the weeks went by, the bundle of letters got bigger and more tattered. She told no one about her little ritual - she knew they wouldn’t approve. Her family never dared mention their mother for fear of bringing about a curse.

Y/N was never that superstitious. No curses existed - it was just poor luck and death threats. 

1st August, 1923

Dear Mother,

I feel like I’ve almost caught you up on the past sixteen years. The Great War, Tommy’s wedding, both of John’s weddings and his gaggle of small humans he calls children. There’s almost nothing else to say to you.

Not that you’re actually here, that is. I doubt you were ever really here.

I wrote my brothers letter when they were in France. That was different, though, because they wrote back and sent me little things. I still have the violet John sent me from the Somme. 

I have all your things. No one else wanted them - they say they’re cursed or some shit like that. I was never that superstitious, it’s just life attempting to play God. No one has a say on who gets to be a survivor and who gets to be a martyr. 

I like to think of you as Ophelia. She sang to herself as she drowned, oblivious to her death. I hope you were like that, finally at peace with yourself as you floated down the Cut with the fallen flowers and leaves around you like a halo. 

There’s me trying to romanticise your death. No one even mentions you by name so forgive me for trying to make you seem more alive than apparently you are.

Well, you’re not alive are you. You’re dead. 

You have a grave. It’s up on the hill by the old tree that was used for hangings back in the day. Near Tom’s house. It’s an alright spot, I suppose. Nothing special. No one ever visits you, however. Your name isn’t even on the pebble someone put there as a marker.

We couldn’t afford a headstone. We can now but Tommy would murder me if he knew I did that. He hates talking about you.

No one ever tells me about you. All I have are a few photos that are practically falling apart and your clothes and jewellery. 

Anyway, I need to go. Family meeting and all that shit.

Your ever loving daughter,

Y/N x

By the time Christmas came, Y/N’s desk drawer was full of letters to her non-existent mother. Each letter was bundled together by month with colour coordinated ribbons for each month. February was purple, September orange and so on. 

She’d told her mother everything she’d ever wanted to. Her first kiss, her first love, her first break up, the time she got shot, the numerous times she almost died. 

She had no need to tell her anything anymore. Her mother felt so much more real to her now than she ever had before. 

She made her decision on Christmas Day evening. Everyone else was inside Arrow House watching the children open their last few presents and drink the remaining of the wine and whiskey. 

Y/N slipped outside, grabbed her horse, and rode up to the hill were the old hanging tree had once been. Her mother’s grave sat to the left of the tree - a tiny mound of earth with a pebble as its only marker. Y/N dismounted from her horse and approached the grave, clenching the letters tightly.

Twelve bundles. Almost 365 letters. 

Y/N found some twigs and branches and made a small fire at the foot of the grave. A moment later it roared into life and crackled away, casting an orange glow over her face.

She spread Tommy’s coat out on the ground and sat down, cross-legged, in front of the fire, clutching the letters. For once, she wasn’t wearing a dress belonging to her mother. Instead it was a mismatch of her brother’s old trousers, shirts and waistcoats. 

She started with the first of January. 

Y/N untied the ribbon and pulled out the first letter, the date neatly scrawled on the top left of the envelope. She read it through once, flipped it over to look at the address and then put it on the fire.

The paper curled as it burnt away, the writing fading into nothing but ash and sparks. 

The second of January followed suit before the first of January had even finished burning. 

Each letter curled and burned in the fire, the words and the sentiments becoming nothing more than ash. 

Fifteenth of February quickly followed the fourteenth. 

Twenty-eighth of April was followed by the twenty-ninth. 

Each and every letter was add to the fire until she was only left with one. 

25th December, 1923

Dear Mother,

I’ve told you everything. 

There’s nothing left to say, now. I’ve spilled my darkest secrets and untold stories to you. 

I’ve moved on, now. I still wish I had you around but I’m coping with it. I wish you were more than just words and pictures and jewellery. But nothing is fair. 

I’ve burnt all the letters and I hope the words reach you. I hope their spirit and their meaning reach you and reassure you that your daughter is doing fine. 

You used to be mine but now you belong to the world.

I only wish I’d learnt your name.

All my love

Your ever grateful and loving daughter,

Y/N Miriam Shelby

[brightstarblogs]

I finally made my pregame boys in their demon au designs! They might make a cameo in my demon au fanfic when I end up making it, but the main focus will still be Knowledge snake demon Shuichi! These guys are just from my roleplay!

I included all the hc below because I wrote a lot for these two. Also, the cat is Hana (who some of you may recognise from the end of my Pregame au fanfiction. She’s a little different in this au)

Koko (sweet demon)

Sweet demons are rare and considered an endangered species. They are pretty passive and were hunted in the past because of this. They were also considered a delicacy by some demons

They’re horns almost look like halos and they have black feathery wings and little deer tails.

He can fly but not very high or fast

They eat sweets almost exclusively as it gives them more nutrients and energy than other foods (especially rock candy which sweet demons used to mine in the mountains of hell before the massacre)

As they are still demons they are often used to lure sinners to more powerful demons to be punished for their evil sins

They are often servants to other demons and to have one gives you social status

Their powers are unique too! They can summon 12 ‘cotton balls’ to help with cleaning and massaging. They act like a hive mind and don’t really have many emotions but do purr when happy and whimper when sad. They are very good at chores because of this. One can roughly fit in the palm of a person’s hand

They are designed to serve a ‘master’ and as such they can have their personalities wiped if their owner/master desires it. They can also be forced to shapeshift but this can hurt

They have a temporary for they can take when they are weak which is a special cotton form that is the size of a large pillow. Koko can’t talk in this form

Often when they fall in love a special cotton will be made! It forms on their head and when the person they love catches it it takes on some of their traits (see Hana’s section for more depth about this)

Koko himself is very kind and caring and loves to bake whenever he can

He serves a demon lord that looks just like him (one of Froakie’s au Kokichis!)

Unlike a lot of sweet demons he is allowed to speak his mind and even gets days off!

He originally was owned by a chaos demon called Jurou who would break off his horns and use him to lure children

He hated this job and feels guilty about it even now, but he never has to do that again. He only lures the worst of humanity now

Koko is mates with Shushu and loves him with all his heart

Sweet demons don’t get mad often, but if you hurt someone they love they become less passive and their teeth grow into long canines! They’re cottons turn back and they go feral

Shushu (shadow demon)

Shushu is a shadow demon!

Shadow demons are actually emotionless. Shushu learned to feel through his interactions with Koko. 

The most famous shadow demon is the demon lord Izuru!

Shushu is special when it comes to his race as he feels way more than they’re meant to

He uses his shadows to float as he has no wings to fly

His shadow tendrils are really sweet and unlike most shadow demons he takes good care of them instead of treating them like tools. They also help look after him when he’s being reckless. 

Like Koko, he has a temporary form! His is a single shadow tendril with an ahoge and a red eye. He takes this form when he’s weak.

He can’t stay in direct sunlight too long.

He also has a more primal form! His true form. This is a shadow cloud with big claw hands and glowing red eyes. He can’t speak in this form and can float (This is not to scale in the art. He’s huge!)

He will often take this form when he falls asleep as he can hold his humanoid form.

Because he will float away if he’s not careful, Koko has made him a special wardrobe for him to sleep in which has blankets and a monokuma plushie (because he loves the human show Danganronpa which in this au has completely different characters and is all fake. It’s still pretty popular)

He can teleport anywhere as long as there is a shadow and he has been there before.

He can also have his consciousness move between shadows. This means he can close his eyes and have it remain there but his soul will be elsewhere. When doing this the shadow he’s in has red eyes and he’ll try to use shadow puppets to communicate.

He has tattoos all over his body and wears a studded leather choker

As his humanoid form is a complicated illusion he can change what he’s wearing with just a thought! 

He eats meat but also loves a misty special fruit know as dark fruit which are infused with shadow energy

He loves Koko so much and makes sure he takes breaks

He will often also massage Koko with his shadow tendrils when his back hurts (he is very good)

He can be a bit lewd but he never crosses any lines and make anyone uncomfortable

Hana (shadow/cotton demon cat)

Hana is the result of Koko and Shushu’s love for each other.

As said before she’s a special cotton created by Koko who took on Shushu’s traits when he held her the first time. As such she is pastel blue instead of white like the other cottons and is slightly bigger. She also has a little hat but it doesn’t come off as this is part of her cotton form

She started tiny but slowly grew. She ended up larger than the normal cottons but smaller than Koko in his temporary form

In cotton form she can’t talk

After a while these cottons can take on an animal form when the sweet demon is given more power. In Hana’s case she is a blue and white cat.

As her ‘father’ is a shadow demon, she also has shadow powers. She has many tendrils as her tail and can also turn into a shadow cloud. However unlike Shushu, she can speak in this form and has paws instead of claw hands.

She has no horns and can float using her shadows as she has no wings

She can be used to summon Koko from anywhere if Shushu wishes

She can speak and be understood but she’s still a kitten so she doesn’t understand a lot of things. She’s basically a magical demon child Shushu and Koko created through love.

She can be quite loud like Shushu and has her wild moments just like Shushu does, but she’s also kind and caring like Koko and does her best to make him smile. 

When Shushu or Koko is upset this feeling is transferred to her and she can get hissy and scratchy until they’ve calmed down

[cetaceans-pls]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth Additional Tags: Momentary Vampirism, Discussion of Blood bags, Family Bonding

The one where Bruce gets turned into a vampire, and Alfred has to call in the cavalry to deal with him.

Or, Dick comes through on a Friday night to help wrangle a reluctant bloodsucker.

Bro I just kind of went off on the concept of short-term vampirism and silverware, so here’s some Alfred-Dick-Bruce bonding over Bloody Marys and the different sorts of magic. Please enjoy this pick-me-up I wrote in one weird, frizzy sitting!

On tumblr below the cut:

“I came as soon as I could!” Dick says, rounding a corner so quickly he skids on the marble floor. The text had come through almost an hour ago, but he had been on the tail end of a Zoom interview (quitting policing this pandemic has been both terrifically easy and terribly hard) so between putting on pants and getting through Friday-night traffic, this is how things lie. “How is he?”

“‘He’ is fine, Dick, thank you for concern,” Bruce says tetchily from where he’s sat in the centre of the Yellow Room, surrounded six foot deep by Wayne Manor silverware haloing out around him. The UV lights they use at crime scenes are blaring harsh violet lines around the perimeter, and further out by the edges of the room, 6 of their portable sun lamps are turned off but trained right on him.

“This is all pointless,” Bruce carries on, sweeping his arm ‘round wide in a grand gesture, hissing when a brush against a silver-plated serving trolley has his hand sizzling. “Alfred really shouldn’t have called you.”

Dick ignores him completely to turn to Alfred, who has 3 sets of rosary beads hanging around his neck and irritation hanging from his eyes. “Uhm. I didn’t read further down the text than ‘B was attacked, please come over when you can’. I’m guessing I missed something?”

“You would be guessing right, Master Richard.” Alfred whips off a rosary and hangs it around Dick’s neck, and plops three teaspoons into a blazer pocket. “We aren’t sure quite who is to blame for this latest conundrum, but Batman was struck down by something while making rounds by the Cathedral. Master Bruce appears to have become a, a…” Alfred makes a disgusted noise, “a vampire of some sort, and had insisted I lock him up in a cell till a magic-user from the League could come by and take a look.”

Dick’s ashamed to admit that on hearing the word ‘vampire’ his fist had curled tightly around a teaspoon. After all, the bluntest edge can still manifest as a shiv, if you shove it in hard enough. He’s further shamed that Bruce clearly catches his micro-movement, and he just downright  hates the pleased look B has at knowing that Dick is open to bodily violence against him.

Part of the commute time to get back to the Manor almost always involves him psyching himself up to deal with Bruce, and today it looks like it’s going to pay off.

“Okay, got it.” Dick deeply doesn’t, but bluffing can be as important as actually understanding, so. “Why’s he being kept here instead?”

“No master of the Manor,” Alfred says the way a lesser man would say ‘No son of mine’,”will be tossed into some cell while in full possession of himself, thank you very much.”

“I was going to start an automated protocol to have myself manacled and emergency-signal Superman to come by and potentially put me down,” Bruce interrupts from the near distance, “but I was lured here and now I’m trapped.”

Dick catches himself halfway through a laugh; he can’t help it. If Bruce really, really wanted to, escaping this room with its myriad hazards and shining lights would be possible, especially if the situation was so urgent that he was willing to risk serious injury for it.

If Bruce really,  really  thought he was a danger, thought deep in his messy little heart that he really, really could hurt or injure Alfred while it was just the two of them here waiting for reinforcements, Dick knows he would have grabbed the silver steak knife closest by and, ah, taken matters into his own hands.

It’s as ingrained a response as Dick instinctively putting himself between Bruce and Alfred even while his brain was still catching up to sudden vampirism, shiv-spoon (shvoon?) at the ready.

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, untenses muscles that had been ready for something awful since the text had come through. “You’re finally more bat than man, B, so don’t bother pretending to be upset.” Dick spies a tray laden with soup and bread on a little coffee table and heads over, giving up guarding Alfred because their much scarier guard dog has just sprouted fangs. “Oh, man, tomato soup and garlic bread? Alfred, you think of everything.”

“I do try,” Alfred primly says, clearly satisfied that Dick is on his side. “And if you could see your way clear to getting Master Bruce to also partake?”

“I said no, Alfred!” Bruce’s voice cracks like sudden thunder across the room, and it would have been mighty terrifying with its slight unearthly timber if the UV lights bouncing off forks didn’t make the room look a lot like a rave. Even with his eyes starting to turn red, even with the harsh edges of his shape blurring into mist, Bruce can’t quite manage to intimidate.

Everyone in the room knows that it’s just for show, now, so even paranormal powers manifesting doesn’t slow down Dick’s enjoyment of soup. “C’mon, Bruce. It’s just like a blood transfusion, except you take it through the mouth. We all routinely take worse things through the mouth.” Just last week Dick had crunched on something while eating a bowl of soggy cereal he’d accidentally left out overnight, and the certainty that it was some sort of super-armoured cockroach haunts him till this day. “Is it a supply and demand thing? You can have some of my blood bags, Alfred can take some out of me while I’m here.”

“What an excellent suggestion, Master Richard. My blood has unfortunately been turned down because Master Bruce has some spectacularly backwards thoughts regarding older folk, but surely there’ll be no complaint for yours.”

“There are plenty of complaints!” Bruce roars, now up on his feet and pacing in the little circle at the centre of all the silver. “I  will not eat anyone’s blood, I will stay in this space and meditate until Zatanna shows up and cures me. There is a magic user zapping vampirism into people in Gotham, and  none of this  will be solved by you sticking an arm under my teeth!”

His fangs are all the way out now, down almost to his chin, drawing scratches on stubbly skin. Under the native environment of the Bat, out in the night perched somewhere high, he’d be a terror.

Under the warm loving light of the Yellow Room, under the warm loving gaze of people who know him best, he’s more ‘angry hissing kitten’ than anything else.

Dick slurps the rest of the soup, and mops up the rest with the crusty bit of his garlic toast. “So, if it was me that got turned into a vampire, you’re telling me you…  wouldn’t  IV pump me full of blood fresh out your veins? If you lie to me I  will  throw a teaspoon at your head.”

There’s nothing but a mutinous quiet from Bruce, who’s huffing and misting and snarling and floating a good three inches off the ground. Good, at least he’s not feeling so pressed to the edge that he needed to lie.

“… I’ll take my own blood.”

Alfred sniffs, and it’s a dignified sound that somehow echoes in this fairly large room. “After your little altercation with Dr. Ivy last week, sir, your own supply is running unfortunately low. Two bags left, and I intend to keep them in case coming out of vampirism treats you poorly. No, sir, you’ll have a mug of Master Richard’s blood or so help me God I will tranquilise you and feed it to you myself.”

Alfred catches himself mid-rampage, and huffs a little while neatening the cuff of his shirt. “Those are your choices, sir. Pick one.”

Reading the room, it’s easy to tell that the hour it took Dick to get here from Bludhaven has likely been filled with that sort of tersely-worded bitching that Alfred and Bruce have down to the finest art. “A couple of pints of blood, Type D, coming right up. Bruce, I’d recommend just giving up right now. If Alfred works down the line, Jason’s coming in next, and that’s gonna end with a fist to the mouth.” Dick brushes crumbs off his hands, and jumps out of the crouch he’d been in on the arm of the sofa to head towards Alfred. “No one’s getting out of that without a broken finger or fang or both, so just take mine, okay? For us.”

Bruce doesn’t deign to actually say  yes  or  fine , just seems to fade into shadows he’s manifesting himself, but it reads like a grumpy acceptance of defeat.

 Good enough , thinks Dick. “Give us a sec, we’ll be right back. If you’re extra good, I’ll even make a Bloody Mary out of mine!”

Batarangs aren’t made of silver, but they sure do make a flashy  thunk  when they bite into a doorjamb a clean 10 feet away from the nearest person.

Alfred huffs a quiet laugh but Dick is much louder and substantially more insulting as they make their way down to the Cave.

-

The blood fridge is a thing of stainless steel tucked in a corner of the medbay, and it’s covered in magnets. The Wayne brood travel a lot, but Bats and Birds travel even more. It’s become a weird habit that got adopted like kids get adopted ‘round here; Dick looks at a cracked dinosaur magnet he’d bought at the Bludhaven Natural History Museum his first night out as Nightwing, and nostalgia hits harder than teeth in the neck. “We’re gonna need a bigger one of these soon, Alfred. We’re almost out of free real estate.”

“We shall persevere nonetheless, sir.” Alfred opens the fridge, and goes along the top row till he gets to the little placard with Dick’s face on it. The filing system remains sweetly, sweetly old-school, even if everyone knows where theirs is stored by feel alone, and each bag is barcoded with enough details to alarm even the most dedicated phlebotomist.

Looking over the racks, Dick whistles. “Bruce isn’t the only one who’s had a rough time recently, huh? Tim didn’t mention that the last Titans’ fight got him two bags down.”

For that, he gets his ear flicked. “Don’t snoop, Master Richard, it’s unbecoming.” Alfred takes a bag off Dick’s shelf and pops it into a cooler bag. He closes the door, and heads to the kitchenette in the Cave where he scrounges up a little metal straw. “Thank you for coming by so quickly. I was at my wits’ end trying to convince him to have just the littlest nibble. He tried to keep himself locked in the Batmobile when he came back via autopilot.” Alfred rinses the straw with more aggression than necessary. “I tugged on the handle, and the door was locked. A door, locked to me! In my own home!” He sounds as incensed as Alfred ever does, but he also goes to grab some tomato juice and a couple of sticks of celery, just in case.

“You wore him down for me, Alfred, I had it easy.” Dick quietly grabs another couple of bags of his blood, because deep deep down Bruce isn’t the only one hesitant about feeding on family, looks like. “Surprised you’d turn to me for this, though. Seems like more of a Tim thing, have him over with a 50-slide presentation on why vampirism’s really not that different to CPR, or something.” He swoops by Alfred’s side and picks up the cooler bag and the bucket of ice, because there are a lot of stairs from the Cave back up to Yellow, and kind men deserve kind things done on behalf of their creaking knees, thanks very much.

“You certainly have a point, Master Tim can be alarmingly persuasive with his statistics and, ah, unblinking stare.” Alfred doesn’t acknowledge Dick helping him with his things, just looks a little glad to have a hand free to hold on to the handrail, which is acknowledgement enough. “However, I have to admit that when I am at my wits’ end with Master Bruce, I always want to turn to you, Master Dick.” He pauses at the top of the stairs, turns and smiles his neat little smile at Dick who is finding balance harder to maintain than usual. “You have kept me company in my never-ending fight to care for Master Bruce longer than anyone else, after all.”

(Longer, longer, longer even than Bruce’s parents, God love them both.)

Alfred reaches out, pats Dick’s hand and nimbly reacquires his wares. “Do not under any circumstance tell the others, of course, but an old man is allowed his favourite ally.”

Dick is a whole-ass adult who’s lived through more things than people 15 times his age, he’s dressed in a smart suit and tie after an interview for a position as a flight paramedic, and he’s helped ward off the apocalypse at least on three separate occasions.

He knows enough about enough to know that their vampire-magician is deeply, deeply outclassed by Alfred’s mastery over spacetime, because right now Dick knows that if he looks down at himself, he’ll be 9 years old again, wearing oversized pyjamas as he tries not to cry because it’s his birthday and Alfred had made him a stack of pancakes the size of his head, while Bruce skulks by the door holding five separate tubs of ice cream, looking uncomfortable and uncertain and bound and determined to be a responsible parent

(like he’s bound and determined to be a responsible vampire).

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dick murmurs under his breath, rubbing his cheek to break the spell.

“Language,” Alfred’s voice floats back towards him, as they make their way back to the Yellow Room.

-

There’s a bit of a scuffle, trying to get Bruce to actually drink the blood. When Dick had casually tossed a bag at Bruce, it had been batted right back at him like the world’s weirdest opening to a game of ping-pong. Another fight almost broke out then, because at least a third of all of Gotham’s collective stubbornness was sat in the room at that point, but Dick managed to force through a resolution by making a Bloody bloody Mary for Bruce, and regular Bloody Marys for himself and Alfred.

They sit where they want, Bruce in his circle, Dick perched on a windowsill, and Alfred on the sofa, and they sip at their meticulously non-identical drinks. They’re on their third round of Bloody Marys and sweet idle conversation when the message comes through that Zatanna’s on her way, and the tension in the room drains as smoothly as they do their drinks.

“Ah, what perfect timing,” Alfred says like he hasn’t worked his way through an alarming amount of vodka. “Just in time for a really early breakfast.”

It’s 3 AM, and hopefully after unraveling vampirism Z will be interested in some god-tier chicken and waffles. Dick’s stomach is already rumbling, and he’s in an unspeakably good mood. It’s a trinity of trinities, three generations of Wayne and Wayne-adjacents, three Bloody Marys each, it’s three o'clock in the morning.

There’s a father, a son, and Alfred counts as their Holiest Ghost, probably. Funny that Bruce has to become unholy to make Dick feel gently religious, though that might be the vodka and dreams of fried chicken futures. “How’re you feeling, Bruce?”

Flushed with blood, Bruce looks healthier and heartier than he does on average, which is a fight to tackle a different night. “… Better,” he admits, digging a fang into a celery stick with an expression of deep concentration. “I could fly if I tried, I think.”

Dick whoops, and nearly drops his glass. “It’s that vitamin D, bay-bee.”

It even earns a chuckle from Alfred, and Dick can feel god in this Yellow Room tonight. “I think,” Dick says with utmost seriousness, “that being a vampire is a good look for you, B. Feels good to get you something, even if it’s just a drink.”

Feels good to be able to provide for you instead of the other way ‘round, is something a more sober Dick would think.

From his corner, Alfred raises his glass in a steady-handed toast. “Just a drink is plenty when just a drink is all you need. So here’s a toast to you, Master Dick. Thank you for coming to our rescue.”

In the middle of a sea of silverware, Bruce raises his glass too, and oh, now Dick’s the one gone red in the face.

“Any time,” he says, and he’s glad to know he means it. “Honestly, this makes me feel like B should get turned into a vampire more often.” There’s a lot of magic in the Manor tonight, and only the tiniest fraction of it has to do with their rogue magician. Dick can’t remember when he last spent this much time with just Alfred and Bruce, and it feels like a loose anchor digging in juuust right.

The world’s in turmoil and his personal life has seen better days, but there’s a tether that comes off from the Manor and these two men. Sometimes, it’s a noose.

More often than not, it’s a lifeline, and what a fine feeling it is to know that that goes both ways.

Dick doesn’t know what’s showing on his face, though by how Bruce is now sat up and intensely staring at him, he’s probably revealing way, way too sopping much.

Bruce clears his throat, and his flush deepens into a rosy, rosy red. “Well. As being a part-time vampire does have its advantages, it’s. Hmm. I will discuss it with Zatanna, and see what I can do.”

And geeze, time-travel magic must be inherited too because Dick’s been forced back to his 9th birthday again, to Bruce Wayne-the-literal-Batman hovering uncertainly while holding way too much ice cream as he tries to accommodate Dick in that stupid, awkward, and hideously embarrassing way only he knows how.

“I’ll toast to that,” Dick says, ignoring the terrible scratch and crack in his voice, and he and Bruce both only nearly lose it when Alfred raises his glass again, and

quietly, quietly

murmurs, “Here’s a toast to my family”.

[softstanwrites]

freelancer 6.1, changkyun x reader

an: I broke this one into two parts because I really just wanted to post something. also got a lil lazy towards the end. 

word count: 1860

warnings for mentions of blood and makeshift surgery i guess.

She froze, the feeling of her own consciousness floating above her. Her eyes went a little blurry as she tried to focus on the situation at hand. His voice became instantly recognizable, even after not hearing it for three years, and threw her thoughts into a flurry. She never thought she’d see him again and definitely not like this. 

“Changkyun,” She spoke breathlessly. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He groaned, moving his head to look up at her with blurry eyes as she shuffled closer to him. The harsh light from the hallway light framed her adding a halo around her. Angelic, he thought. A smile came to mind but he couldn’t will it to his face because of the immense pain that he was in. Instantly, the harsh throbbing in his body, he let out another strained groan as he fought to keep himself awake, slumping down further against the wall. His arm dropped to his side and she could see what was causing all of his pain. A wound, on his abdomen and it was bleeding profusely. 

She jumped in shock, “Wha - what the fuck? Were you shot?” She asked and received no intelligible answer. Changkyun instead mumbled something and rocked his head back and forth. She pulled his shirt up and away from his injury to get a closer look. As she’d expected, a bullet wound not any bigger than 10 mm. She steeled her nerves before taking a look at the wound closer. She couldn’t see the back end of the bullet. It was deep inside of him and that was going to be a problem. 

“Changkyun,” She called to him and she covered him with his shirt again. She looked over his face. His eyes hazed over with pain and brimmed with un-cried tears. “Changkyun,” She waited for him to respond back. “I’m going to go get my phone. We need to call the ambulance.” She said moving up away from his crumpled form on the floor. But before she could he mustered up all the strength he could, jolted to her and grabbed her arm, stopping her but sending waves of intense pain through his side. 

“No” His hoarse voice shouted out. She was dumbfounded.

“Changkyun, you’ve been shot!” She exclaimed but remembering where she was she lowered her voice. She had been trying to keep herself calm, invoking her doctor’s persona. But with Changkyun showing up unexpectedly, hurt, and now refusing actual help, it was enough to make her want to pull her hair out. “You need medical attention. Now, is not the time for you to be a stubborn bastard.” She stirred to get up but he held onto her arm. She wanted to remove his hand but she could see that his eyes were nearly closed and his mouth mumbling words. She moved closer to his face putting her ear to his mouth. 

“Please Y/N, don’t call. Just help me out right now.” He begged in a strained voice. “I’m not going to make it if you leave me here. Please, it hurts so much.”

She looked down at him, seeing him in so much pain made tears come to her eyes. Her breath became ragged as she watched his eyes close, pain still written all over his face. He was still breathing but his breath had become extremely shallow. She couldn’t keep her composure and quiet tears slipped from her eyes and fell down her face.

“Fuck,” She whispered out, removing herself from him. She shakily made her way back into the apartment looking down the small hallway inside. She could still hear Sojung’s loud music playing from her from her room. As long as she didn’t come out of her room she could move Changkyun into her room and go from there. She puts turns to put a stopper in the door before returning to his side. She wrapped her arms around his body, making sure to steer clear of his injury.

“Okay,” She braced getting ready to use her strength to pull him up. “I need you to stay quiet, Sojung can’t know I'm bringing you in here.” She didn’t get a response from him, not even a strained muffle and it made her heart quicken in panic. In one fell swoop she brought him up to nearly standing position, almost falling before centering his body weight with her own. Slowly, she shuffled through her open door and down the hallway to her bedroom. “Alright, we’re almost there,” She whispered to him, beads of sweat starting to form on her forehead. The two of them were in the home stretch, already passing the living room and the kitchen and just making it past Sojung’s bedroom door on the left hand side. Her bedroom was just past the hall closet on the right side, right before the bathroom that sat at the end of the hallway. Before she knew it she was shuffling through her door, Changkyun in tow. 

She placed him on the bed before checking his breathing. He’s breathing but it’s so soft. Barely even there, She noted, before exiting the room. She ran back to the front door checking in the building’s hallway to see if any evidence of Changkyun was left, thankfully, nothing was there so she closed the door and locked it before moving to Sojung’s room. Y/N needed to make sure that she wouldn’t come into her room. She knocked on the door and waited for a muffled come in over all the music before opening the door. 

“Hey.”

“Hey, what’s up?” Sojung said, turning from her art that was in front of her. It was a large canvas that she had propped up against her wall, the undone painting seemed to be of the Seoul skyline at night but it looked skewed and offset. She grabbed her phone, and turned down the music that was blasting through her speakers. 

“Nothing much, I’m just going to head off to bed.”

“This early?” Sojung questioned, not knowing Y/N to really be the type to hit the hay before 1 am.

“Yeah, I’ve got a meeting to go to in the morning before my shift so I need to wake up early for it tomorrow” The lie running off of Yn’s tongue with ease.

“Oh, should I turn the music down for you?”

“Oh no no,” Y/N acted, pushing off her concerns. “I'm probably going to listen to some asmr or something till I fall asleep. I just wanted to let you know.”

“Okay then, goodnight Y/N” Soojung said, sending her friend a soft smile.

“Night” Y/N mimicked Sojung and smiled back, even sending her a little wave before closing the door to her room. Y/N waited for a heated moment for Sojung to turn her music back on before rushing back into her own room. Once inside, she locked the door and turned on her desk lamp, pointing it at her bed. 

Changkyun laid on her bed almost completely still, the sight of him almost lifeless made Y/N panic. But she took deep breaths to calm down, reminding herself of all the training that she had gone through. Y/N rummaged through her supplies that she had in her room. Some of it was medical supplies that she had used during college on dummies that they had allowed her to take home, some of it was things that she had brought on the internet with a discount that her job had given her. She grabbed the thing she would need to help him like gauze, towels, large tweezers, skin glue and antiseptic fluid and cream. She carefully took off his blazer and started unbuttoning his shirt when he started to stir in her grasp and his breathing became heavier and more weighted. Y/N watched as his eyes strained open and he looked around the room. 

“Hey, I asked you to help me out, not help yourself.” His voice came out strained and rough but she welcomed it. It was a good sign that he wasn’t on the brink of death like she had assumed and had enough strength in him to still be his annoyingly witty self. 

“Shut up, I need to be able to see what I’m doing.” He wanted to laugh at her reaction but his wound made it too painfully. “I need you to breathe slowly and deeply, okay?”  Changkyun nodded as she took off his shirt and re-positioned him on the bed. She tossed the two items on the floor before grabbing a pair of latex gloves and putting them on.  She tied two pieces of gauze tightly around his abdomen, above and below the gunshot, to stop most of the bleeding. Then she started to inspect the gunshot. With gentle fingers, she pressed around the injury to see if she could locate the bullet and when Changkyun flinched and groaned, she knew she had found it. She turned to grab her tweezers and sanitize them, ready to remove it when he spoke up.

“Wait, wait,” He sounds exasperated, the remnants of pain not leaving his face. “You’re just going to go in? No morphine? No nothing?”

“Well maybe if you had let me take you to the hospital, I could get you all that but I don’t have any of that stuff here. You’re going to have to tough it out, babe.” 

Y/N didn’t realize that the world slipped out until it was already hanging in the air. Turned back to him and thankfully for her, his head was facing the other way. She waited for him to say something but he hadn’t reacted to what she said. Not a little quip or snarky comment, or even a grunt from him. So she decided there wasn’t a reason to address it. Besides, she had to focus on the task at hand. She scooted back to the bed in her chair and carefully inserted the tweezers in his side using her hand as a guide. 

She had found that the bullet was pointed outwards and if it had more momentum it would exited his body. She wished it had because this would have been an easier job to do than to watch his face scrunch up in pain every time she pulled on the bullet but finally she got it out. From what she could tell, it had hit no major arteries or organs.The only thing now was the healing process and hopefully avoiding infection. She cleaned the wound and dressed it antiseptics before closing the wound with skin glue. She cleaned it again before covering it up with gauze and wrapping his whole lower abdomen.

She cleaned up, taking all the bloodied materials used and either cleaning them or sneakily throwing them down the trash chute in the building. When she returned back to her room, Changkyun had already fallen asleep. His chest raised and fell at a slow but steady pace and after watching him intensely for over 10 minutes, she figured that he was stable enough for her to get some sleep as well. 

[huntsman-ash]

RWBY V8E4 LiveThoughts

And were back at it again, this week with turkey and Italian preserved sausage as a snack! Lets see what RT has for us this week.

Oh, 20 minutes. Are they normally this long?

Oh, wait, the openings almost 2 minutes long. Thats more like it.

And now to Robyn and Qrow. Seems Robyns actually liking Qrow a little bit now. 

Guess the cells aren’t secured if a fly got into Schnee’s. This a “Fly on Mike Pence’s face” reference?

Qrow sounds more growly again. Did he get smacked back two seasons by Clover dying?

If by “darkness” you mean “Tyrian” then, yes. Also dude, its Clover. He was shit anyway. All the Aces are shit. Dont feel too bad about him.

And he’s got a point too. If Clover had thought with his head instead of his dick (yes, Im sure they were gonna fuck, Fair Games totally a thing), he probably wouldnt be dead now, and Tyrian would be the one with the sword through his chest.

But of course this is RWBY and V7/8 so things cant go their ways.

Ouch. Deep thoughts of Qrow. And some interesting stuff from Robyn too. I still think I’d prefer hopeandharmonizing’s Briar, though.

Marrows glare gives me life. Hare’s just a moron right now though, but thats no real surprise. She’s immature emotionally.  Honestly, shes...kind of like a less bad version of our current President. Always has to be the best at everything, fastest, leader, whatever.

Thats probably why this is grating on her so much. Even though shes TECHNICALLY the Ace’s leader now (I think? Seemed like she was Clovers lieutenant, so by rate of succession she’s in command now)

A glance at the little floating control pad... “Clerance access only”. Okay, that...seems weird. Shouldnt it say something like authorized personell only? Maybe it means access by clerance only or something.

Then Robyn’s name, and then process ID 4591-27. No idea what thats useful for but its there.

Also Marrow seems to be the only competent member of the Aces rn. 

Ah now we get to see some of the hills around Atlas. For those of you who have seen my headcanons on the Hunter-Killers and their base of operations, Fortress Academy, its out in these hills somewhere.

The music sounds like a boss fight.

The screen on Ren’s hoverbike reads “HVB Rhino” and “HD5800″ I can only assume HVB stands for “hoverbike” and Rhino must be its name, like how the dropships are Mantas. No clue what the number is. 

Also apparently the cold in Solitas is so bad it corrupts machinery?

Ahh, good, some action. Lets see what we get now. Ohh, teamwork. And again, signs that aura allows you to move faster and farther than a normal human

Heh, it really is like a boss fight, like the chase scene at the end of the first Viking level in For Honor.

Oh, and it can call for reenforcements literally out of nowhere? Or is the whole tundra of Solitas just CRAWLING with Grimm?

Yes, yes it did just call for backup, Yang. Maybe these are all forward scouts and ambush units from the Grimmstorm. They did say its the biggest...

Another banger from Casey Lee Williams...

What the hell happened in Solitas to cause this geography? Seriously, its a line of bridges over a gap in two cliffs...that cant be natrual, not that equal in distance.

Man, those bikes didnt even last half an episode...I guess thats fair, they are facing obsurd odds. Or maybe they just want Yang to be the only one with a bike.

And there goes the dropwall. Woops.

Also you can just kinda see it but they bounce off the rock and thats why they slow down. Useful.

Also this part with them falling off the edge reminds me of the ending cutscene of Halo 4s Forerunner level, where Chief flies out of a portal and almost goes sailing off a cliff in a Ghost.  Except here, the bike stays on the land and THEY go off the cliff.

I paused at just the right time cause YANGS FACE XD

Holy shit what are Ren’s weapons cables MADE OF? The one atop him is holding him AND the weight of his two teammates. And the one below has both Jaune and Yang. No sign of slippage or breackage at all. 

Ahhh there’s the whaleship (Monstra? Fuck it Im gonna keep calling it the whaleship). So yeah my headcanon now is the mountain its right next too is Menachite, where Fortress is. 

Oh hey back to the Schnee manor of all things! Does...this mean military invasion of the Schnee grounds. Hey Whitley. Lesbians are here. 

Someone make a video cut of Weiss banging on the door to the “Knock knock open up the door its real!” part of that one song.

Hehehehhe. Nice Weiss.

Also convenient about the house staff. Good thing RT doesnt need to animate them or Willow now...

I hope the staff took some of the silverware and some paintings on the way out.

Why is MAY the one carrying Nora.

Ah so now they’re stuck out there with no cell service. Hehe.

Ah okay so the cold in Solitas DOES eat aura. Good, my headcanon still kind of stands. 

I wonder, does wearing proper cold weather clothing (like bundled up stuff) help? Or does it cut right through...

Why is JAUNE the one hauling the bike? Isnt Yang the strongest? Or maybe they take turns.

Ahhh inter-team talking. Also, outpost. Hmm. Atlas one? Overrun if I had to guess. Unless he saw Fortress. Which I doubt.

I do love the circling shot here, with the light on Yang’s hair and the shadows on Ren. Its...really artistic and emotional. GREAT WORK RT. 

Rens got points. And hes saying stuff I myself have been saying for ages, which is good. I wonder why this is how Ren is now...working with the Ace Ops? Being afraid of loosing Nora? No one tell him what happened last episode.

Also, Jaune’s hair seems to have gotten less crazy in recent episodes. It looks less like a banana and more like a close tactical cut.

Yangs got a point.

Ahhh and now we get to see the inside of the whale. 

SALEM FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP SHOWING THE FUCK OFF. SERIOUSLY. WE GET IT. 

...this is gonna be a really criingy torture section, isnt it.

Someones gonna take that “hound didnt break you” line in the WRONG direction 

It is amusing the only thing holding Oscar down is the Hound actually. 

Ah so they’re still searching the remains of Beacon.

Also I like how Salem calls them “her forces” as if its anything but a random bunch of expendable monsters. Like, bruh, you cant search anything with THAT.

Ignoring the boring chat between these two, notice how the Hound’s shoulder literally flexes and shifts when Salem touched it. I dont think this thing is solid at all aside from the head and the bone claws...the whole thing is just amorphous Grimm material that can adapt to whatever situation it requires. A specialist unit. A...Hunter hunter.

Yo what the fuck was that. Magic? Huh. Did we actually SEE magic for once in the show? Only took us 8 FUCKING SEASONS...

Doesnt seem to be anything but an energy blast/pain never firing though. I assume his auras still gone, cause its completely singed his shirt, but it didnt do much else.

...Im not impressed.

She really needs to stop touching his face, its creeping me out.

HAHA SHE CANT DO IT HERSELF SHE HAS TO RELY ON HAZEL BEATING THE SHIT OUT OF HIM. I think we know where she stands now, doesnt she...say what you will about her letting Hazel have his vengeance (which is very valid, even he admits hit), but me? I think she A) cant actually beat up on Ozma herself because she still cares and B) shes almost out of magic too. Its weakened as the Gods have been gone and shes been forced to rely on the Grimm and on pawns. Basically, once she and Oz are both gone? That’s it for magic. Remnant will belong to the Grimm...and to technology. 

At which point without Oz around to hold them back Atlas is going to go fucking BONKERS and basically ensure the Grimm get pushed back into a corner and then finally permenantly STAMPED OUT.

More Whale insides. Seems like most of its empty grandious spaces. Or possibly muscle? Hard to tell. Either way theres a lot of open air in there...with tight corridors. If you fired a thermobaric warehead into one of the chambers the resulting blastc could possibly blow the doors off and send a raging fireball through the entire thing...Hmm. Filing that away for later.

NEO IS SO SHORT ITS FUNNY TO ME. I know its just positioning BUT SHE LOOKS EVEN SHORTER IN THIS SHOT THAN USUAL.

More note on the Hound; the “flesh” around its right shoulder spike actually sinks down when it stops moving. Its neck shifts and moves too, like the material isnt solid, but recirculating.

I also dont see any eyes. And it looks like it has some kind of...forehead mouth? Def looks like teeth down the ridge of its spine.

Oh boy yeah that...whole thing is basically melting in on itself.

I wont lie; hearing Cinder get berated by CORTANA (and yes, I still hear Cortana in Salem, espeically now that the two characters are kind of one and the same, both megalomaniacal leaders of giant armies, bar the fact that one of them is about a TRILLION times more dangerous than the other because one of them has access to Guardian Custodies and the other one is...well kind of lame and has to have beefy dudes beat up on small children etc) is pleasing to me. 

Get fucked, Cinder.

And THERE is Cortana again too.

Neo Marry Popins’s Ya’lling is fucking CUTE. And I love her little smirk.

Wait the whale’s that close?

..oh my...hold on.

...thats it. THATS ATLAS’S AIR FLEET!?!

12 AIRSHIPS? 12? EXCUSE ME!?

ARE YOU LEGITAMETLY TELLING ME THE BIGGEST MILITARY ON REMNANT HAS FEWER AIRSHIPS THAN THE SMALLEST NAVY ON EARTH HAS FRIGATES? YOUR FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT? THERE HAS TO BE MORE SOMEWHERE. THIS IS A JOKE, A STRAIGHT UP FUCKING JOKE.

...

No, thats...thats it. Thats Atlas’s airfleet. 12 tiny vessels. I swear it was bigger last season...

...HA! HAHA! HA! Oh, Ironwood, and Atlas as a whole...you deserve everything your about to get. I hope you die SCREAMING, and that when your bodies fall bleeding and shattered to Mantle, the people down there will realize that, no. You cant just assume Hunters will do all the work for you

THIS IS REMNANT. ITS KILL OR BE KILLED. YOU EITHER MAKE A FORCE POWERFUL ENOUGH THAT THE GRIMM RUN FROM YOU  OR YOU DIE INSTEAD. ATLAS FAILED. NOW THEY SUFFER.

Emerald stop simpin.

Also that is...the SHITTEST outpost...I have ever seen in my life. My overall thought process of Atlas is...sinking even LOWER than before. 

Though it seems more like a waystation. Bed, Dust, some dudes coat on it. Dead heater. Its probably a rest spot for Specialists out in the tundra.

Ren does the emo sit. Lol. Yang even says it. Brood himself to death.

Alright whats this now...something forcing itself out of the tundra?

And thats it for today! Cool ass concept art at the end there too. 

[myriadimagines]

Which of your fics...? (tag game)

i was tagged by @locke-writes !! these tag games are always interesting bc it’s so strange to go back and really look at your writing/answer questions about it 

Did you think would get a bigger reaction/audience than it did?

all of them lmfao jk jk but on a more serious note i’m at the point where i really don’t expect my shit to get notes anymore so i don’t ever really expect my writing to blow up. i guess one that comes to mind is One for Six (Reader x Steve Harrington)? i think i posted it around when season 3 came out so i figured stranger things would still be trending/relevant enough to gain some traction, especially since i was seeing a lot of other stranger things/steve harrington fics floating around with like hundreds of notes, but it just did ok. and tbh i only just found this fic while going through my masterlist but i’d say the same goes for Savior (Reader x Poe Dameron), again because i posted it around when the rise of skywalker and it just did alright.

Got a better reaction than you were expecting?

lots of my old pieces, probably because they’ve existed for longer so they’ve gained more notes that way? i don’t know why else they would be so popular bc they’re like 3 years old and i don’t even remember writing them bc they’re that forgettable. i almost don’t want to link them because they are literally so so bad like there wasn’t really a request so bc of that there wasn’t really a plot? but yeah Don’t Tell Me You Actually Doubted Me (Reader x Stephen Strange) & I’ll Hurt The Suit (Reader x Eggsy Unwin) both have around 700 notes which is kind of ridiculous

Is your funniest?

i feel like i don’t really write humorous pieces? i feel like i might throw in some funny moments here and there but overall i wouldn’t describe the tone as funny. i guess one that comes to mind is Quite The Contrary (pt. ii) (Reader x Jaime Lannister) because it has some lighthearted vignettes with jaime trying to impress the reader that kind made me laugh when i pictured them in my head. and come to think of it my most recent fic is also pretty lighthearted, so i’d also say Off Limits (Reader x Cassian Andor).

Is your darkest or angstiest?

akjsdhalksdhajksdhasd i feel like everything i write i just outdo myself with the angst because i feel like the only time i feel like writing now is when i’m sad. i guess top pieces that come to mind are Grief (Reader x Donna Troy), God’s Soldier (Reader x Matthew Murdock) & Games (Reader x Michael Gray). i feel like Games is a different type of angst compared to Grief and God’s Soldier, but it still made my heart ache while writing it

Is your absolute favorite?

i feel like i think some pieces are my favorite when i write them but over time i just find them average and am really not impressed with myself alsdhjakshd but i suppose Cursed Blood (Reader x Renfri) & Quit (Reader x Billy Russo) are two i haven’t completely managed to hate yet.

Was easiest to write?

ohhhhh i’m not sure because i feel like i always struggle at one point when writing something. i think i’d have to say Games (Reader x Michael Gray) because it was based on a gif imagine i had already written so i had a pretty concrete plot in mind? so all i needed to do was flesh it out and go in detail.

Was hardest to write?

oh jeez probably all the pieces with characters i don’t like/am indifferent toward/am not inspired for. i also went through a phase on my blog where people just asked me to write one shots based on gif imagines, some of which were really obscure requests already and weren’t really one shot material, but i ended up just trying to do it. so all those one shots i forced myself to write content for were hard to write and not good at all. there’s too many to link.

Has your favorite lines/exchanges/paragraphs?

Quit (Reader x Billy Russo): So instead, you let him burrow inside of you, let him make a house out of your body, your ribcage the white picket fence while he takes comfort from the warmth of your fireplace heart. You’ll never try to make a home out of him. His bones are brittle and empty, collecting dust over abandoned furniture. You’d be picking glass out from your feet if you tried to enter, broken things that had been there long before you ever arrived.

God’s Soldier (Reader x Matthew Murdock): Father Lantom told him that God speaks in whispers, yet he’s never met with anything but silence, deafening, overwhelming silence. He has never heard anything from God. He never has, and he doubts he ever will.

Wholeheartedly (Reader x Klaus Hargreeves): He had rested his head in your lap, looking up at your smiling face as you braided wildflowers into his curls. The sun hung overhead, shining a golden halo around your head. The two of you always joked you were the Kings of the park, two boys in love with flowers in your hair. // If Klaus tried to focus hard enough, he could almost taste the lemonade on your lips when you kissed in that very park for the first time.

Have you re-read the most?

i don’t really reread my work.

Would you recommend to someone reading your work for the first time?

i feel like i have two categories of fics with one being more traditional with like a clear plot, dialogue and all that, and others that is just me word vomiting and it’s more abstract/vague. so going with that, i guess some fics i’d recommend that are more straightforward/traditional:

Professional (Reader x Dick Grayson) / Just A Scrape (William Brandt x Reader) / Savior (Reader x Poe Dameron) / Games (Reader x Michael Gray) / One for Six (Reader x Steve Harrington)

and fics that are more abstract:

Quit (Reader x Billy Russo) / Cursed Blood (Reader x Renfri) / One Day (Reader x Poe Dameron) / Grief (Reader x Donna Troy) / Wholeheartedly (Reader x Klaus Hargreeves)

sorry i basically just repeated the same couple of one shots, bc i literally only acknowledge pieces i’ve written maybe from last year onward bc anything before that is trash. but anyway, i’m gonna tag every writer who sees this bc this was fun!!!

[melekinh]

I redid the Inquisitor as companion thing 😳 I couldn’t find the original person who posted the template so I put it in a google doc here. If anyone knows who the OP is please let me know so I can credit them!

Inquisitor’s Name: Vianni Lavellan

Race / Class / Specialization: Dalish Elf, Dual-Wielding Rogue (Tempest) & Mage (Rift Mage)

Gender Identity: Nonbinary Woman

Varric’s Nickname for them: Magpie

Short bio:

Vianni grew up with their clan alongside their younger sibling Nialros, who they practically raised after the deaths of their parents. They were married to their childhood sweetheart, Danishan, when they came of age, and they had a daughter named Vylara together. Vianni’s role as an ambassador for the clan often took them away from home, and when they returned from one of their trips to find Vylara had died in their absence, it broke their heart and tore them and Danishan’s marriage apart. They left the clan and traveled for a few years, researching Elvhen history independently and offering aid to the elves in the cities they passed through. Vianni’s reserved and withdrawn, but feels a strong compulsion to help others that inspires others and makes it easy to follow them.

Initial Companion Card:

(The Hermit) Walking into the treeline of a forest, with their face partially covered by a hood. A city they’ve just departed from is in the background, and their eyes look both sad and determined. They hold a dagger in one hand, and are producing a soft light to guide their way with the other.

Recruitment Mission:

Leliana’s people would have gotten wind of someone stealing supplies from the rogue templars and mages and redistributing them to refugees in the crossroads. The inquisitor finds Vianni outside the templar encampment in the hinterlands, but they disappear before the fighting begins. They reappear after the inquisitor has taken out the templar camp, having already looted it for supplies during the fighting. They thank them for getting rid of them- they’d been stealing small odds and ends from it for weeks to help the refugees. They offer their services to the Inquisition after seeing they could probably make a bigger impact by working with them.

Where they’d be in Haven/Skyhold:

In Haven, inside the apothecary helping Adan mix grenades.

In Skyhold, in a nook in the library

Personal Quest:

Vianni will suddenly become withdrawn from the Inquisitor, and upon being prompted reveals the seven year anniversary of their daughter’s death, Vylara, is approaching, and they would like to visit her grave near the frostback basin for the first time since they buried her. If the Inquisitor agrees, Vianni is locked into the party. Upon arriving, you find the area is riddled with demons and rifts, and every time you near one, a wisp-like spirit helps the party seal the rift. The closer you get to the grave, the clearer the wisp’s voice becomes, and Vianni (who’s very distressed) says it sounds familiar. When you finally close the last rift, the wisp takes the form of Vianni’s daughter. Vianni begins to break down, apologizing to her for not being there to save her. If Solas is in the party, he tells them the spirit is not actually Vylara, but a spirit of curiosity. The spirit reveals that Vianni’s daughter had been a mage, but had been keeping it secret until Vianni came home from their last trip. The spirit and Vylara had been friends, and the spirit wanted to tell Vianni that Vylara wouldn’t want them to blame themselves. Vianni embraces the spirit, and their daughter’s form melts away. Vianni asks the inquisitor to help them clean their daughter’s grave. They greatly approve of the inquisitor helping, and slightly disapproves if they don’t.

They ask the party to return to Skyhold without them- they want to spend the night there, and go back to their clan for a short while.

They return a month later, looking more at peace with themself than before. They thank the inquisitor for their help, and depending on how the conversation goes, their romance is locked in here.

How to get their approval/disapproval:

Vianni has a strong instinct to protect those who cannot protect themselves, and will slightly approve of anything that helps the less fortunate or the oppressed. They would slightly approve of the inquisitor asking them respectful and genuine questions about the Dalish, and slightly disapprove of ignorant or rude questions. They wouldn’t approve of sit in judgement decisions that result in making anyone tranquil.

Break down of Approval Ratings for Major Missions:

Fate of the Mages

Conscript: Slightly Disapproves

Ally: Approves

Fate of the Templars:

Disband: Approves

Ally: Slightly Disapproves

Inquisitor’s Lead:

A Dwarf/Elf/Qunari stands for us all: Approves

Example as a Mage: Slightly Approves

For Faith: Disapproves

For Order: Slightly Approves

For What’s Right: Greatly Approves

To Stop Corypheus: Approves

For Personal Power: Greatly Disapproves

For Vengeance: Slightly Disapproves

Fate of the Wardens:

Exile: Disapproves

Ally: Approves

Ruler of Orlais:

Gaspard: Greatly Disapproves

Briala (Through Gaspard): Greatly Approves

Celene: Disapproves

Reunite Celene & Briala: Slightly Disapproves

Public Truce: Slightly Disapproves

Arrest Florianne: Approves

Save Celene: Slightly Disapproves

Kill Celene: Greatly Approves

Abelas Alliance

Ally: Greatly Approves

Reject: Greatly Disapproves

Drink from the Well:

Non-Lavellan Inquisitor Drinks: Slightly Disapproves

Lavellan Inquisitor Drinks: Approves

Morrigan Drinks: Disapproves

Are They Romanceable?

Yes- I think their romance would have to do with them and the inquisitor becoming comfortable enough for them to confide their past in, and building the trust to move on from the pain of their previous marriage. They’d be an attentive and sweet partner, who falls into domesticity with ease. They’re bisexual and romanceable by an inquisitor of any race or gender, but it will be harder for them to trust a human enough to let their walls down.

Can you have sex with them?

Yes

Are they open to polyamory?

No. They don’t have a problem with it, they just wouldn’t be comfortable with it in their own love life.

If they can be romanced and are not, will they begin a relationship / relationships with other character(s)? If so, who?

Yes- if not romanced by the inquisitor and taken out in the same party past a certain point, Vianni and Solas will begin having academic discussions that become more and more flirtatious. They will also start to appear in the rotunda instead of their usual location in Skyhold, sitting with a book on Solas’ couch. They stay with the Inquisition after he leaves, but are considerably withdrawn after.

Who are they friendly with?

Vianni is generally a very amicable person, but is closest with Solas, Josephine, a softened Leliana, Sera, and Varric.

Who do they dislike?

I think they’d dislike a hardened Leliana, and probably have a rocky or distrustful start with Cassandra and Bull that would lead into mutual respect. They’d like Blackwall until they find out about his lie, after which they’d hate him.

Companion Card Changes: (use a text desc. if you don’t have visuals)

Loyalty: (Three of Swords in Reverse) Vianni’s hood is no longer drawn, and three daggers float in the air suspended by their magic. They have a warm smile on their face, and a halo of gold shines from behind them.

Loyalty Alternative: (The Three of Swords) Vianni’s silhouette walking into the mountains, sparing a last look over their shoulder at Skyhold

Romanced: (Two of Cups) A close-up of Vianni grasping the inquisitor’s gloved hand in their own in what looks to be a handfasting ceremony, gazing at the inquisitor with a loving smile

Side Missions:

Bookwyrm: Vianni will ask you to help them find a ruin in the Emerald Graves that they suspect holds Elvhen artefacts. Upon finding the ruin, you fight dragonlings and walking corpses within, eventually fighting a possessed dragon in the lowest chamber. After killing the dragon you find an ancient Elvhen tome, which you can give to Vianni (resulting in Great Approval)

Opinions on mages / templars / how the world is going to shit?

Vianni thinks mages should be free, and while they think circles aren’t necessary they think something like them that offers mages the option of an education should be available to those who want it, rather than being forced on them. While they personally are more predisposed to trust mages than templars, they can empathize with the plight of the templars as well after learning more about them from Cullen and Cassandra, and actually thinks it makes more sense to get their help to close the breach. (but they think the Inquisitor should disband the Order rather than ally with them.)

They’re afraid for everyone in the world who’s defenseless and can’t make a difference, which is why they feel obligated to do so.

Something guaranteed to make them leave the party:

Vianni stays with the Inquisition unless asked to leave.

Special Events:

Imprisoned at Redcliffe: How is your Inquisitor holding up in Redcliffe, being slowly infected with red lyrium over the course of a year?

They are distraught and furious, and want to crawl out of this broken skin that doesn’t feel like it belongs to them. They have no desire to live, they just want to go down fighting.

At the Winter Palace: Does your Inquisitor enjoy the party, any special events with them at the Palace?

Vianni was the ambassador for their clan years ago, so they excel at and delight in political intrigue. They are very fascinated with Briala, and would try to covertly talk to the servants to hear if Briala’s work is helping them, and if so, how they can help Briala.

If romanced, you will be able to share a dance and a kiss on the balcony.

In the Fade: Your Inquisitor’s reaction upon entering the Fade? Fear’s taunt, and Inquisitor’s response? Epitaph on their grave?

Their reaction would be a mixture of uneasiness and academic curiosity- they would love to get the opportunity to spend more time observing how physical objects interact with things in the fade and what secrets are to be found there, but ultimately stay focused on the goal to escape.

Their epitaph would say: ‘Not Changing Anything’

The Nightmare will taunt Vianni by telling them it’s their fault their daughter died, and who she would’ve been if she’d lived.

Trespasser: What is your Inquisitor up to two years after Corypheus’ defeat? Any special events with them over the events of Trespasser?

Vianni stays with the Inquisition, staying close to the inquisitor in their travels after the defeat of Corypheus, assuming they ended on good terms. Their sibling Nialros joins up as well, and the two have been working alongside Dagna studying magical things in Solas’ absence.

During Trespasser they’re happy to see everyone come together again, but are worried about the future of the Inquisition and the inquisitor themselves. They will be shocked and confused by Solas’ identity initially, but not be too surprised after ruminating on it more.

Vianni stays with you no matter what if you romanced them (or if you had high approval with them and they did not get together with Solas.)

If they got together with Solas and had high approval with the Inquisitor, they decide to stay with the Inquisition to try and stop him/save him, depending on what the Inquisitor chooses to do.

If they got together with Solas and the Inquisitor did not have high approval, they will try to do what they can to protect him from the inside- though they could be swayed into believing his death is a necessity.

If the Inquisitor told Vianni to leave, and they had gotten together with Solas, Vianni is on Solas’ side and working with him.

Other Major Events: Any other major events that happen with them over the course of the main game?

nah I’m tired lol

[blukoffee]

Out of Place, Out of Time (AU Oneshot)

Okay, so. I rarely (read: never) post original stuff on here, so this is a learning curve for me, pleasebenice, but I swore/promised/crossed my heart that I would contribute to @intricatecaprice 30 Days Dead Men’s Tales. And here we are! This’ll probably be messy and not nearly as pretty as the rest of those gorgeous posts, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?

So, I of course had the idea of Isabeau being plonked into the lap of one Cursed Capitán. I mean, who wouldn’t? But as it is currently being wonderfully done by so many talented authors, I decided to stick with my human Salazar. But this is just a small scratch of satisfaction to that itch. I hope you enjoy!  (Also, just wanna note that this isn’t the Monarch and these are different prisoners than those in the beginning of the film. I tried to make that distinct, but just want to clarify. Also, this is purely self-indulging, so please excuse any errors.)

Prisoners Should Know Their Place

It was the screams that told Isabeau her luck was about to change for the worst. And that was a feat, since she was pretty sure her luck had already hit rock bottom.

The guy in the cell next to her, barely a few years older than her, if even that, began to whimper in terror, his fingers tugging at dirty red hair. The wrinkled old man with him started muttering prayers under his breath, the gaps of missing teeth flashing every now and then.

Pretty sure that's not gonna help anyone, dude. Isabeau sighed, then grimaced when her ribs protested the movement. The nasty bruise from the officer's boot would take a while to heal, especially since he hadn't bothered holding back when he'd literally kicked her into the cell.

Asshole. I hope he was one of the ones that screamed like a little girl.

Despite the tone of her thoughts, Isabeau was worried. Whoever had boarded the Victorious were going through the crew with lightning speed, and nothing outside gave away any hints of who the attackers were. For all she knew, they'd be worse than the British she found herself prisoner of.

Great. This day really can get worse. I honestly didn't think it could.

There was a couple of loud crashes up above, and a distinct sound of crackling that sent tendrils of alarm snaking down her limbs. 

Fire. I smell fire. 

Cinders began to float down through the cracks in the boards and she struggled to keep the primal part of her brain from sending her into a panic. 

The younger guy apparently had less control and suddenly threw himself at the bars with a loud crash, screaming at the top of his lungs. The old man tried to calm him, to keep him quiet, but he was thrown off.

Mere seconds later, slow footsteps began to thump heavily down the stairs to the brig. 

The screaming man instantly quieted, staring up at the deck above in horror.

Isabeau looked up from where she sat curled in the corner, surprised by the prickle of unease that skittered with spider legs across her nape.

Whatever was coming their way wasn't anything good.

All three of them froze as boots suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs, slowly descending to show a large man leaning heavily on a cane as he made his way down the steps.

It wasn't his sheer, intimidating size that made Isabeau's breath freeze in her lungs. 

It was the way his hair wafted around his head in a halo of black strands, like he was underwater. 

It was how flakes of ash floated in his wake whenever he moved.

It was his burnt and decrepit uniform, shifting and following his movements in a way that wasn't natural.

It was the grey skin, covered in ashen cracks and the splintered skull with sharp, jagged edges of bone.

It was the burning amber eyes, almost glowing with their brilliance in the dark.

They all stood staring at each other for a brief second, then the man was joined by more men, men that had similar appearances of unnaturalness.

Isabeau was grateful she was already sitting down, else she would have collapsed on the floor.

They had walked through the walls. They had simply walked the walls, as if it'd been empty space.

What...the fuck…

The old man next to her began to moan his prayers, a note of bleakness in his tone that said he knew he was about to die. 

Isabeau wasn’t feeling much more optimistic, but she had bigger things to worry about. Such as why the apparent leader of the ghostly horde was now staring directly at her, and he hadn’t blinked since he’d spotted her.

In her short experience in an 18th century world, she’d come to the quick realization that women were simple commodities to be acquired, to be seen and not heard. To actually have intelligence as a woman was considered unnatural, a short step from being pronounced a witch or insane.

So the fact that any man, not merely a ghostly one, was staring at her with such unnerving focus was not a good thing.

She bit her lip, blood seeping on her tongue in an effort not to snap at the man to ask what he was looking at.

The older man’s moaning grew louder, the other man trying to figure out if he was going to fight while there was a distinct stain on the front of his pants, his blue eyes wide with terror.

Apparently, the imposing figure staring at her had had enough. A slight jerk of his head towards the other two prisoners and one of the ghostly apparitions behind him stepped forward, through the cell bars, and thrust a corroded sword straight through the moaning inmate.

Silence instantly echoed through the brig following the thud of his body.

And still the man continued to stare at her, making her skin itch under his perusal, making her want to curl into herself to hide from his burning gaze.

Finally, he stepped forwards, and no, she hadn’t been imagining things.

His entire body passed through the iron bars, sliding through them only a faint resistance and leaving them sizzling and smoking in his wake.

Definitely not human, definitely not human!

Isabeau pressed backwards into the corner, curling tighter as the man or whatever he was continued to move towards her with slow, steady steps. She kept her eyes lowered, so as not to seem as a challenge, and was surprised to find him crouching in front of her.

She squeezed further into the corner, bracing herself for another boot, or possibly a hand, when she heard a deep voice rumble, “Look at me.”

It should have sounded like rocks grinding together, as deep as his baritone was, but instead it sounded like liquid honey, like the purr of a lover, his accent making it roll through the air like music. She could hear a gravelly rasp to it that only added a smoky flavor, making her skin shiver and tingle in the wake of the sound.

Carefully, she slid her eyes up, taking in the once elegant uniform that still flattered his powerful body with its faded stripes, the tattered cravat that floated and swayed in a nonexistent breeze, until her gaze landed on a face that would haunt her dreams.

She sucked in a quick breath, surprised by how utterly handsome the ghostly man was, even in death. Her eyes skimmed over strong, mature features of a male in his prime, who would have been beyond devastating had he been alive.

Nor had he missed her interest, something flaring visibly in those burning amber eyes that made her swallow convulsively.

The man straightened, towering over her, and turned to gesture at another of the men that accompanied him, one with an eyepatch over one side of his face.

Unfortunately, the other inmate still alive had apparently found his courage, if not his brains.

He slammed his hands into the bars, one of his fingers crooked as if he’d broken it, and sneered at the man standing in front of her, “What use do you have of some whore, Spanish dog? You can’t-”

He never got to finish before the man whirled and his hand flashed out, instantly wrapping around the inmate’s throat. He was lifted off his feet in a frightening display of strength, while the man in the striped coat hissed, “She’s mine, and you would do well to remember that.”

Isabeau honestly thought he was going to kill him, but instead he only held him for a few seconds more, just long enough to make sure his point got across, then dropped him, leaving the man in a crumpled heap on the filthy floor.

Wait. What does he mean, “she’s mine”? 

“Moss, bring him.” The man before her whirled around with blazing speed, reaching down to grab her arm and hauled her to her feet.

Isabeau gasped at the feel of his icy fingers on her arm, as unbreakable as any manacle, before she was dragged after him.

One of his men broke the cell lock and he continued to yank her along, making her ribs scream in protest.

“...wait,” she gasped as he headed towards the stairs. “Wait!”

She threw herself backwards, no mean feat when her weight was being continuously dragged forwards, and the man holding her whipped around to glare at her, his eyes a burning crimson.

“I will not wait, chica. You are my prisoner now, and I do not wait for prisoners!”

Prisoner. That hated word burned in her gut. She’d heard it more over the past few days than she ever cared to again, along with a good many more slurs against her simply for her gender.

Fury made her hiss up at his face, “I’m not your fucking prisoner, now let - go of me!”

With a burst of frantic strength, she managed to wrench free of his grip, which had slackened a hair in his surprise at her outburst.

She turned and bared her teeth in a snarl at the one-eyed ghost that stepped in front of her. His eye flickered over her shoulder and he moved out of her way, staring at her with such hostility that her anger faltered.

Two others paused in the act of dragging the unconscious man out of his cell, his dirty red hair hanging lank about his face.

Isabeau shuddered, glad she hadn’t been put in the cell with him, and limped towards the room where her bags had been carelessly tossed. Sighing at the sight of her clothes thrown haphazardly on the bench, she closed her eyes wearily, just wishing this day had never begun.

She heard wheezing breaths behind her and knew that the man had followed her. The one who had claimed her as his prisoner. The one who stared at her with uncomfortable intensity.

Squeezing her eyes harder before opening them, she stepped forwards and began picking up her things, the smell of smoke gradually growing stronger.

“You are not English. What are you doing in an English cell?” the man asked suspiciously, stepping around to peer curiously at her belongings before swinging his gaze back to her.

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” she muttered, then finally couldn’t take it anymore and pulled her shirt over her head, not caring if she was being watched or not.

She heard a wheezed curse and felt her face burn in embarrassment, then quickly  grabbed another of her shirts and slipped it on.

Grabbing the rest of her things and tossing the strap on her big bag over her shoulder, she turned to see the man had given her his back out of some form of courtesy.

Claiming her as his prisoner or not, she appreciated the gesture.

“I don’t even know your name.”

He turned to face her, his stance proud even with his slightly hunched back. “Capitán Armando Antón Salazar de Estrada. And yours, chica?”

A spark drifted down from the ceiling and she sidestepped it warily, suddenly realizing just where they were. And what was happening to the Victorious. “Isabeau Revanne. Okay, fine, I’m your prisoner, take me to your brig.”

She’d been trying to expedite matters to get off the burning hulk, but apparently the only thing she’d managed to expedite was Capitán Salazar’s temper.

He stepped forwards, towering over her even without a straightened spine, and glared down at her. “Sí, you are my prisoner, and prisoners should know their place.”

Isabeau swallowed as she struggled not to stare at his face. “My place is in your brig, isn’t it?”

Salazar stared at her for a good long minute, making her grow more and more nervous as heat began to filter down to the room, before he suddenly smiled.

It was a smile that made her extremely uneasy.

“Perhaps I have another purpose for you. Your companion in the brig had a good idea, no?”

Her companion? Wait, the one who had called her a-

“I’m not a whore!” Isabeau spat indignantly, gritting her teeth in outrage at the suggestion. She’d been called worse since she’d been tossed into that cell, but honestly, she’d somehow been under the impression that Capitán Salazar was different.

His burning gaze flickered over her, taking in her clothes that must seem incredibly strange to him. “That remains to be seen.”

Both their attentions jerked upwards at a loud crash, but Salazar was quicker to recover.

Isabeau yelped as she was suddenly lifted into the air, wheezing as a broad shoulder was wedged into her stomach.

Salazar turned and snapped an order, one of his men slinking forwards to pick up her belongings.

Clinging to the back of his coat, Isabeau struggled to breathe as she was carried along. 

Salazar paused at the top of the stairs before moving over to the railing.

What is he-

Her thought vanished as he leapt over the railing, the sudden shock of it sucking the scream right out of her throat as she saw pitch-black water rushing towards her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, only to feel herself suddenly jolt to a stop.

Confused, she cracked open one eye, then both went wide in shock as she still saw water beneath her, yet it wasn’t getting any closer.

Salazar was walking on water. He was walking on water.

An explosion of fire and noise drew her attention away from this new knowledge and she hissed in pain when one chunk of burning debris grazed her arm.

Salazar instantly jerked to the side, swinging her out of the way of another piece of debris before breaking into a run.

Another explosion and she looked up to see a cannon sailing straight towards them. “Look out!”

The massive metal construct whistled by them as Salazar swerved at her warning, his pace increasing to a lithe run as he put distance between them and the exploding wreck of the Victorious.

Finally, he began to slow down to a rolling jog, then coiled his big body into a crouch before springing upwards.

They landed lightly on the deck of a rotting hulk of a ship, a vessel twice the size of the one she’d been on, if not bigger, but all she caught was a quick glimpse, catching sight of the red-haired man sprawled on the deck where he’d been dropped before Salazar turned and carried her down a corridor, 

Indignation began to fuel a burning strength. She’d spent the last several days locked in a cell, she’d woken up in this hell hole of a time period with no warning, she had no idea how to get back, and for the icing on the fucking cake, she had been kidnapped by a stupidly handsome ghost whose intentions she didn’t have the slightest clue about.

And she was tired of feeling his shoulder digging into her stomach!

“Put. Me. Down!” Isabeau thrashed and threw herself back against his restraining arm, ignoring the screaming in her ribs at the sudden movement.

Salazar grunted at her unexpected struggling, then shoved his way through a door, slamming it closed behind him.

Isabeau found herself flung into the air with a squeal and she flailed wildly before landing on something plush and slightly lumpy. She laid there for a second, sucking air into her lungs as her bruised stomach ached, then carefully sat upright, staring at the ghostly captain warily.

But to her confusion, he wasn’t looking at her face. Instead, his gaze was somewhere lower, and she glanced down in alarm, only to see that her shirt had ridden up when she’d been tossed onto the settee. And the bootprint bruised into her ribs was clearly visible.

“Which one?”

Isabeau’s attention flashed back to Salazar, his deep voice ominously quiet, rage turning his irises a bloody crimson. Black blood ran down his chin as he bared his teeth in a snarl. “Which one?!”

Slowly, she inched her shirt down to cover the bruises. “One of the officers. I’m pretty sure he’s dead now.”

Sanguine eyes flicked to her face. “Did he touch you - anywhere else?”

She quickly shook her head, even as she wondered why the mere thought of it enraged him. Surely such a thing was commonplace in this time period.

Salazar made a noise in his throat, almost a growl, his face still stern and unyielding in his anger. His fist tightened around the hilt of his rapier, which she just now noticed was still gripped in his hand. 

Isabeau edged backwards along the settee warily, then yelped in alarm when he lifted it up and plunged the tip into the floor with a loud thud, the blade quivering from the force of the blow.

They were both frozen for a second, then Salazar straightened and sent her a harsh glare. “Do not move.”

And with the ominous implications of what would happen if she didn’t obey his orders hanging in the air, he whirled and walked through the door without opening it, leaving wisps of ash trailing behind him.

Isabeau didn’t feel like moving from her spot on the settee. She had seen how deep the blade had plunged into the floorboards and felt it was wise not to incite the captain’s temper. Though that didn’t stop her curiosity from lifting its head and creating questions about the man.

She didn’t realize that she’d dozed off until she felt weight depress the cushions next to her.

Something cool was spreading soothing bliss over the aching bruise on her side, making the pain fade to a background hum.

She cracked open bleary eyes to see a man sitting next to her, huge and imposing, yet his touch was gentle as he feathered calloused fingers over her skin.

“Thank you.”

Salazar paused at her words, then resumed rubbing whatever it was into her bruise. “You are welcome.”

Isabeau was quiet for a second, watching him groggily before blurting, “Why are you helping me?”

This time he didn’t pause, merely pulled away for a second to wipe his fingers off on a rag. “You are my prisoner, therefore my responsibility.”

She couldn’t help but be fascinated by his smooth, efficient movements, the complete unnaturalness to him. He shouldn’t exist, but here he was. Still, questions continued to bounce around in her mind.

“Why did you bring that other man too?”

He chuckled ominously as he suddenly leaned over her, those eerie eyes fixed on her face. “Because I always leave one man alive to tell of me. And since I’m not letting you go, I needed someone else.”

She swallowed nervously as she felt his fingers stroke her hair back behind her ear, felt his weight depress the cushions around her. “What do you mean, you’re not letting me go?”

His hand slid under the back of her skull, huge and powerful against the bone, and he held her still as he leaned closer. His hair flowed downwards to tickle her cheeks when he stopped, his nose almost touching hers. A black grin spread across his lips. “You’re mine, now. And I don’t let go of what is mine.”

[no-other-words]

later is now

synopsis: two years worth of photos on Hinata’s Instagram and not a word from kageyama. you’d think after an entire high school career spent with the most sociable human on earth, he would’ve pick up some communication skills but here he is—sitting alone in the locker room crouched over his phone, brooding over the fact he can’t even press ‘like’ on a harmless picture, let alone comment. #major manga spoilers ahead #post chapter 370 #slight angst? and fluff? #pre-relationship

Don’t be dramatic, dumbass. You’re making it sound like I died.

‘then where have u been? where did u fuck off to kageyama?

---

His thumb hover dangerously close over the heart sign, frozen in mid-air just like how he’s been frozen in time for the past years. There’s a calm before the storm until the nerves eventually get to Kageyama and his hand recoils as if the photo he’s staring at is a violent wake up call.

Hinata’s gotten a bit more tanned from the last time he posted a picture. Darker around the arms and legs, it highlights the toned muscles developed over the years. He’s got an even larger presence than the one Kageyama holds onto in his memories. Still the same smile though—vibrant, bigger than life, and nothing held back.

It makes his chest hurt.

The photo is of Hinata posing on a beach alongside a fellow volleyball player. He’s wearing a sleeveless tank and Kageyama finds himself staring at the biceps bared to the world. His account is private right? It better be private. Thirsty messages should not be welcomed in the comments.

He hears his name being called from outside the locker room. It’s time for practice.

Stolen moments are just that—fleeting minutes playing catch-up with Hinata picture by picture. Then, it’s back to reality and the court in front of him.

In the end, Kageyama decides on doing nothing and shuts off his phone. He pockets it in the jacket, his last name printed gloriously over the V.League team’s red and white jersey.

Two years’ worth of photos on Hinata’s Instagram and nothing from Kageyama.

You’d think after an entire high school career spent with the most sociable human on Earth, Kageyama would’ve pick up some communication skills but here he is—sitting alone in the locker room crouched over his phone, brooding over the fact he can’t even press ‘Like’ on a harmless picture, let alone comment.

Pathetic.

---

Thinking back, he should have said something. They were once partners for god’s sake, and now they might as well be strangers from the gap Kageyama’s unwittingly carved between them.

His last interaction with Hinata from the chat box, when Kageyama follows him on Instagram a few months after he’s landed in Brazil. He’d been immediately DM’d, Hinata calling him out for being late on the social media game.

‘ur now a part of a professional team! u need to make ur presence known or ur fans will be real sad’

Kageyama hadn’t responded.

He hasn’t done anything, in fact. No messages, no likes, no comments, no replies. The only thing that holds to his account is a profile picture of a Mikasa volleyball on the old Karasuno jersey. He’s here to play volleyball on the national stage, his game can speak for him.

By the time he’s realized his mistake, Kageyama finds himself frequently checking Hinata’s Instagram page and revisiting old posts. That—he’s allowed to do, no? And it’s an impressive curation—hundreds of photos narrating his two years stay in Brazil. Two years’ worth of change, growth, learning, and memories that Hinata’s making.

Two years without him.

Kageyama finds it hard to keep up sometimes. Following his life in the form of mere pictures and captions doesn’t really fill the void.

---

The only wisp of connection he has to his old team is through Tsukishima—the salty bastard of all people. When the blonde messages him though, Kageyama is already aware.

For the first time, Hinata has posted a video. It’s short—capturing only a few seconds but those seconds are enough. The pants Hinata wears are tight and moves enticingly with his quads. They bend, expand, and hup—from the sands, Hinata soars above the net, his wings in the form of haloed sun-rays, and passes the volleyball to his spiker.

Hinata has learned to set. And what a beautiful set it is.

Kageyama smirks. Nothing less from a starved crow.

He re-watches several times, unable to let go of the breath he’s been holding. If he does, the magic will go away. Something tightens in his chest. It spreads and grabs hold of his stomach and twists and turns and evolves into a fierce wanting.

Tsukishima’s text repeats in his head.

Looks like he’s aiming for FIVB World Cup. Maybe you’ll see him in the next Olympics?

He watches the video again. Memorizes the form of Hinata’s jump, the curve of his spine, the reach from his arms. His hair floats airily in a poof orange cloud, his lips slightly opened in concentration.

Alluring in every possible way.

This time, he doesn’t hold back. kageyama.t leaves a heart on the post along with a simple comment.

You can do better.

---

‘kageyama? omg zombie-yama has resurfaced from the dead!’

‘both a like AND a comment? wow did i do to deserve this? has hell frozen over?’

The twelve-hour difference between them has never had an impact for Kageyama. They don’t even talk anymore so what’s it to him if he misses a few instant messages from the person he’s been silently following (stalking) online since forever?

Apparently, a great deal.

It’s already 11PM in Brazil, Kageyama impatiently notes. He should know better than to wait until it’s a better time for Hinata. But like a landslide racing towards the end, the compulsive words are typed and sent before he knows it.

Don’t be dramatic, dumbass. You’re making it sound like I died.

‘then where have u been?’

Kageyama almost drops his phone, not expecting the quick turnaround from Hinata. His heart beats annoyingly loud and it’s the only thing he hears in the room.

Why are you still awake? Isn’t it late over there?

‘i cant sleep. u know how i am. a ghost from my past decided to come back to life’

The sad thing is he’s right. Kageyama knows him all too well. He swallows the hard lump in his throat.

‘dont u dare ignore me. where did u fuck off to kageyama?’

He also knows Hinata rarely gets mad. This is one of those rare times. His head starts to buzz.

Nowhere. Volleyball’s been keeping me busy.

‘too busy to talk to a friend?’

His breathing quickens in short and shallow bursts. Questions, fears, and doubts swell into his mind and he needs to look away from the screen for a bit. Calm down—Hinata has all the right to call him out.

Maybe it’s a mistake to like his post.

No. Hinata deserves that and way more.

Maybe that’s why he should’ve reached out earlier. Ease it in. He should’ve responded to that first message.

He should’ve done a lot of things.

‘dont ignore me. ur not a coward.’

Kageyama stares at Hinata’s words. Damn him for always being right, for pulling him back. For saying things as is and pushing him to further ends.

I don’t know what to say.

‘well ur in luck. u can practice whatever u need to say with me soon. can u pick me up from the airport this weekend?’

What

‘im coming home for a visit. plane arrives at 4:30pm jst. terminal 1’

Home. He likes the sound of that.

Why me?

‘y not? my fam’s out of town and u owe it to me.’

Sneaky little turd.

Kageyama bites off a smile.

Fine.                                                            

‘come prepared. u and i have a score to settle’

You and I. Him and Hinata. Sounds familiar.

Sounds fitting.

---

When they meet, every memory made at Karasuno comes rushing like a giant wave riding the high winds.

First year nationals when they suffered a defeat with Hinata off-court. Hinata’s struggles in the academics and Kageyama’s equally abominable grades. Their makeshift practices during lunch on the school rooftop and late-night snack runs after training. Second year’s expected yet satisfying loss to Dateko and a hard-won third place in third year. The utter thrill of the orange court, the intensity of the game. The fleeting glances, the accidental touches.

The implicit words. Unspoken feelings.

The unequivocal promise after a splendid receive from Kageyama’s serve.

See you later.

Hinata unabashedly marches up to Kageyama, suitcase in tow, and punches Kageyama hard on the chest.

He expects it just as much.

The shorter man doesn’t pull back, instead spreads his hand wide and presses against Kageyama’ body. In the middle of a large, well air-conditioned airport, the spot where Hinata’s touching him is blazing hot.

“Damn it,” Hinata hisses through his pout, “you’re still bigger than me.”

Kageyama snorts. Figures he’d say something stupid first.

He’s stumped at what to do next. Two full years of going radio-silent on the man (man, not boy anymore) has him doubting again. What’s acceptable, what’s appropriate, what’s allowed?

He starts to open his arms and Hinata jumps into him instantly, strong arms over his shoulder and his face buried in the crevice of Kageyama’s neck.

A fresh whiff of his hair and Kageyama softens. Things are…alright. A void is being filled.

Hinata’s voice is muffled against his neck, absolute yet frail. “I missed you.”

He did too.

“I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.”

“We have a lot of things to iron out.”

Kageyama gulps. “Okay.”

“Kageyama?” Hinata pulls back, determination flashing in his eyes. “It’s later.”

He still remembers that perfect form Hinata had embodied on the other side of the court, meeting him halfway in both passion for the sport and a knowing smile.

See you later!

Someone probably has already recognized him as a member of a V.League club, but he doesn’t care. Tightening his hold around Hinata, feeling the defined muscles hot under his grasp, Kageyama lays his forehead on Hinata’s shoulder in an act of release.

“Yeah, later is now.”

---

a/n: because the way i cope with the recent chapter is creating headcanons and writing them out

[duhragonball]

Dragon Ball Z 261

Last time, Gotenks and Piccolo escaped the Hyperbolic Time Chamber, but not soon enough to prevent Majin Buu from turning everyone on the Lookout into chocolate and eating them.    Gotenks, now a Super Saiyan 3, is determined to avenge his mother(s), so you’d think he’d finally make some headway in this fight.  But not really.  He seems to be able to go toe-to-toe with Buu this way, but he’s not exactly dominating the guy.

At this point in the battle, Buu is using his elastic body to stretch and contort himself out of the path of Gotenks’ blows.   The first time I saw this, I wondered why he hadn’t done anything like this before, but now it’s clear to me that Buu never needed to before.   Until now, Gotenks’ punches and kicks weren’t even hurting the guy, so there was no need to dodge him at all.   The only thing SSJ1 Gotenks did that hurt Super Buu was the Super Ghost Kamikaze Attack, and even that wasn’t enough to put the guy down.  

Even now, I doubt Buu really needs to bother with this.  He’s just toying with Gotenks here.

Then Buu swings him down through the Lookout, and chases him through the hole he just made. 

Buu follows Gotenks to a lake on the Earth’s surface, and somehow Gotenks manages to sneak up on him, commando-style, which seems kind of odd considering how much power he must be putting out just to maintain SSJ3.

Then he busts out a new move: Brain Crush Hammer.   

This... cuts Buu in half, which is pretty cool, except it doesn’t exactly live up to the name “Brain Crush Hammer”.

Gotenks blasts both pieces with the “Finish Flash”, which I guess is like the Final Flash only he keeps his hands apart and fires in two different directions.  

From the Supreme Kai Planet, Goku, Kibito, and the Supreme Kai watch the battle in a crystal ball, and they’re all pleased with Gotenks’ performance.  Goku’s so high on the job he’s doing that he’s beginning to think Buu will be defeated before Gohan even gets a chance to fight.

This is especially frustrating to Gohan, because he has to sit here for 20 hours as part of the Elder Kai’s power-up spell, or whatever it’s called.   He’s got to be at like 19:57 by now, but he can’t watch the battle with his dad, and if he gets distracted, it’ll just take that much longer to finish the work.   On top of that, even the Elder Kai isn’t required to focus on this.   He’s been reading comic books this whole time.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one, but Gotenks did this big flashy move on Majin Buu, and he thought he had this in the bag, only for Buu to reassemble himself and turn the tables on him.  This is pretty much every fight Buu has been in.   The only difference is that stronger characters just manage to last longer, but the results don’t really change.

I think that’s kind of a problem with this guy.    It’s not as bad as Frieza, where people knew he was invincible, attacked him anyway, and then they were all surprised to see that he wasn’t even scratched.  It got old really fast, and that’s why I always get bored watching the Frieza Saga up to the part where Goku turns Super Saiyan.  

I’d suggest that this is part of the reason why I like the Saiyans and Androids better as villains.   We know the Saiyans are beatable, because Goku’s a Saiyan and he could be beaten, provided his opponent is strong enough.  The androids were presented as invincible, but #19 is the first one we see in action, and he gets beaten without a lot of trouble, so it offers a glimmer of hope that the stronger androids that follow have their own weaknesses.   

What makes Cell so awesome is that he’s eminently vulnerable.   He needs to feed on humans to get stronger, and then he’s dependent upon the androids to achieve his final form.  Even in his ultimate form, he still takes all sorts of hits, if only to show off his regeneration powers. He’s a daunting challenge, but there’s still lots of ways to attack him. 

WIth Buu, I think the idea is that no one really knows what they’re getting into when they fight this guy.   Dabura thought he was a joke, and even Babidi was worried when Dabura ran him through with a spear.  Except Buu could just regenerate and turn Dabura into a cookie.   Vegeta seemed to do better against Buu, almost lulling you into thinking he had a chance, but really, that fight was just a repeat of Dabura’s effort.  Vegeta could damage Buu, but Buu would just pull himself back together and keep fighting.  

This move right here that Gotenks is using is called the “Super Balloon Bomber”, but it’s basically just more exploding ghosts.   The SBB is simply Gotenks making thirteen ghosts all at once instead of making ten ghosts one at a time.  Also, he says these ghosts pack a bigger wallop when they blow up, which makes sense, considering Gotenks is at Super Saiyan 3 this time.   

And Buu can’t dodge these guys as easily as the last set, so maybe these ghosts are faster too.    Makes sense.

But the outcome is basically the same.    Buu gets blown up, but he can still pull himself back together.  

It irritates him whenever he has to do that, so I don’t know, maybe this is draining his stamina every time, but it sure doesn’t seem like it.   No one ever observes that Buu ki is getting slightly weaker.

And Gotenks is lulled into this false sense of security, because he did an impressive move on Buu, and even Buu is upset about it.  He thinks he’s winning, but when you get down to it, what did the Super Baloon Bomber accomplish that the Finish Flash didn’t? 

And this is why I have my doubts that Goku ever really stood a chance against Fat Buu back in episode 245.  He only thinks he might have been able to beat him, but all he really proved was that he could last longer against Buu than Vegeta did.   Just like Gotenks is proving that he can last longer than either of them.   But it doesn’t do any good to last longer if you can’t put the guy away.

Now, I’m pretty sure the whole fight down on Earth was filler.   If I recall correctly, Buu and Gotenks stayed on the Lookout the whole time until it was destroyed, but in the anime, Buu knocks him down to the ground, they fight there for a while, and then Buu shoots him back up to the Lookout, and they resume there.  But it’s hard for me to tell the difference, because the filler parts of the battle scenes fit almost seamlessly with the ones adapted from the manga.   It’s a simple formula. Hero does a big move, Buu either no-sells it or recovers a few seconds later.

Meanwhile, Piccolo’s been having a nervous breakdown over the Lookout getting destroyed by all this fighting.   It’s easy to lose sight of this, what with everything else getting trashed.   The world below is nearly deserted, most of the main cast is dead, and there’s really nothing stopping Buu from just blowing up the whole planet if he wants.   But the Lookout has been an institution on this show for years.    It’s pretty wild watching it get smashed to pieces like this.  It’s like Toriyama decided he would use the Buu arc to just tear down the entire world he had built over the past decade, and it’s awesome to watch it all fall apart.  Z stands for the end.

Meanwhile, Mr. Satan and Bee are still trudging through the wasteland.   Satan seems to think there should be people here, which I don’t understand, since this place looks like it would be deserted even before Buu showed up. 

Then they spot a city, and that boosts Mr. Satan’s spirits somewhat.    Surely, there must be survivors there.  

But no, this town might have been spared from Fat Buu, but Super Buu wiped out the population with the Human Extinction Attack.   Mr. Satan doesn’t realize that, because even though he saw the attack like everyone else, he never got hit, and he never saw anyone else get hit, so he doesn’t realize what it was intended to do.  

There’s something very tragic about how he calls out for a hero’s welcome.  We’ve seen before how much Mr. Satan’s self-esteem depends on his fame and celebrity.   He was terrified of being the runner-up in the 25th Budokai, for goodness’ sake.   Jewel was the runner-up in the 24th Budokai, and everyone seemed to love that dude, but it’s not enough for Mr. Satan.  Now, he’s stuck in a world where he can’t call upon his fame because all his fans are dead.  

But at least there’s food and water.   Satan loots a grocery store and gives Bee a dish of milk.  Not sure that’s good for dogs, but this is Dragon Ball Z, so who cares?   All those pterosaurs in this show have big fat bodies and tiny li’l wings and they can still fly.    Dogs drink milk here.

Satan still can’t figure any of this out.  He knows Buu was a decent person at heart, and yet he’s destoryed the entire world.    Why? It just doesn’t make sense.

Then they move on, and Satan sees Fat Buu in the clouds.   I don’t really buy into Satan/Buu slash, but I get why people do.  You could write a gay romance story about Batman wondering why Superman turned evil, and it would look a lot like this. 

Yeah, yeah, the Lookout’s destroyed.   I already covered that.    Why do some of the pieces float in mid-air, while others lie on the surface of the big piece that’s left?    How does anything in this world work?   Let’s move on.

Buu does this thing where he bends over backwards and grabs his ankles to make a ball, and then he starts crashing into the Lookout multiple times.  He’s supposed to be trying to hit Gotenks, but I think he’s more interested in breaking he Lookout down to pebbles. 

But that sets him up for Gotenks’ next move, which is...

OH COME ON, PICCOLO.   Do you really have to touch your forehead to do Special Beam Cannon?   You know how this works, so shut up and let him do his thing.

So Gotenks does “Continuous Super Donuts”, which is basically the same as the “Cosmic Halo” from a few episodes back, which made a ring around Buu that closed in on him.  Only this time, Gotenks makes multiple rings, which seal Buu up in a ball of ki energy.   But Gotenks knows he could bust out of this, so he plans to follow up with another move....

ULTRA BUU-BUU VOLLEYBALL.   Now, I know what you’re thinking, this is a lot like Tien’s Volleyball fist from the 22nd Tenkaichi Budokai.  We’ll you’re wrong, because...

DAMMIT PICCOLO STOP WHIMPERING ABOUT THE LOOKOUT AND HELP.

GOTENKS IS GOING TO PASS IT TO YOU, BECAUSE IT’S A TEAM ATTACK.   THERE’S NO “I” IN TEAM PICCOLO.   YES, THERE’S A “ME”, WE ALL HEARD THE TAYLOR SWIFT SONG, BUT THIS IS NO TIME TO BE TALKING ABOUT THAT.

LOOK, GOTENKS CAN ONLY STAY IN THIS FORM FOR A FEW MINUTES, AND IF BUU GETS OUT HE’LL KILL US ALL, PICCOLO.   WOULD YOU STOP THINKING ABOUT TAYLOR SWIFT FOR LIKE TWO SECONDS AND SAY YOUR LINE?

YES FINALLY THAT TOOK FOREVER WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT HERE?

All right, so Piccolo sets the ball, and Gotenks spikes it down in to the earth, where it explodes and makes a huge hole.   That might have killed Buu, except Piccolo screwed up the timing so it was only 99.2% effective.

Piccolo yells at Gotenks to quit screwing around.  Yeah, you’re one to talk.

So Gotenks knows Buu survived that, and he taunts for him to come out and continue fighting.  He even says that he can’t stay in this form much longer, and it’ll take him an hour to re-fuse and do this again.  Why would you tell him that?

But Buu doesn’t show himself, and Gotenks wonders if that last attack really did finish him off.

I blame Piccolo for this.

[artificialqueens]

ancolie (trixya) - PinkGrapefruit

A/N - she’s writing trixya? and lesbian au? at the same time? has she gone mad?

yes. yes i have. enjoy!

[for meggie, for being the best pseudo-mum a gal could ask for. chin up love, you’ve got this <3]

*

I can see us in a small town

You count the stars up in the sky

She pulls pink carnations together with yellow roses, hopes the message will meet in the middle as one of friendship and a woman’s love. It’s a candy-coloured wonderland of a bouquet with the colour mixing and melding like a fruit salad chew. They were always her favourites. She finds she has very little hope anyway but the pink of the carnations almost matches the pink of her dress and, god , she is smitten.

She retouches the red of her lipstick till it matches the roses they keep in the back of the store, lets its brightness give her a little bit of confidence as she heads out to finish opening up the shop. It’s small and quiet, opposite a patisserie owned by one of the softest people Katya has ever known. She’s just lovely. She creates tiny delicacies that have her mouth watering like nobody’s business, all sweet and saccharine sugar (a little bit like her). Katya cannot get enough.

She rolls a black glove onto her tattooed arm as she slowly and carefully fertilises the opening display. Across the street, she can see Trixie opening up shop a little earlier than usual (although they’ve both been there since five,  so she’s not hugely surprised.) Once she’s done, she ties a pastel pink ribbon around the base of the bouquet and walks it across the street, letting herself in with the spare key. They do their morning dance, an awkward shuffle around each other as (even three hours after getting there) neither are quite awake enough to face their relationship head on. Katya takes out yesterday’s flowers and places the bouquet in the vase on the counter, grins eagerly as Trixie boxes up the spoils of the morning - it’s a fair trade if it means Katya gets to see her face every day. With a shy smile, Trixie waves her out.

They’ve been doing this three years.

Never thought that they could fall down

Onto your suit or on the tie

She reckons she could buy a mortgage with the amount she’s wasted on these flowers, she thinks as she creates the morning bouquet. It’s all yellow today, chrysanthemums, tulips and poppies; precious, hope and success.

She waters the succulents with care only given to her plants and then sketches new tattoo ideas until she sees Trixie pull up the blinds of Yellow Cloud Patissiere - it’s an unspoken rule, helps keep them in check. She serves a couple of business people that she always gets on a Friday morning (she’s started opening earlier to catch them). They always need a bouquet for their wives, an apology for some sort of wrongdoing, and Katya can’t say she minds helping them as they bustle in, flustered and impatient. She has a blackboard behind the counter with ‘EMERGENCY FLOWERS’ scrawled onto it in cursive, it details the apology bouquets she does and their exact meanings - it’s gotten her a lot of coverage in the flower shop community, and she’s grateful for Trixie’s handwriting.

Once she’s decided she won’t look desperate, she heads over the road with a spring in her step, lets herself in and replaces the flowers. Trixie has decorated one of her fuckups with a red flower today and Katya is touched but also just really wants to eat it. She doesn’t say that.

She almost falls as she leaves and as the door swings shut behind her, she can hear Trixie’s cackle catch in the wind.

Across the table at a French place

I lose my way into the wine

She’s brainstorming dates on a Monday as she ties together the bouquet. It’s a French colour theme with blue roses, white lilacs, and red daisies completing the fantasy, and she loves it. She wants to take Trixie to Paris and stroll on the Champs-Élysées , taking their time, sipping wine meant for two as they stare out across the water. She wants to pick roadside flowers, weave a bunch with some grass and present it to her, make flower crowns, and tuck buttercups in the blonde’s hair when she is distracted. She wants to take her to an art gallery, the Louvre maybe, or the Centre Pompidou so they can stand a foot away from the paintings and examine them until they start laughing. She wishes more than anything that she could hold her tight against her in the cold evening air, watch the Eiffel light up at midnight and ring in a new day with her. She would do anything.

But instead, she dutifully arrives with the flowers, takes Trixie’s baking and leaves.

She tries a new truffle on her lunch break, hands smelling like fresh flowers and pesticide - the air thick with moisture that’s dripping down her back as the shop heats up like a greenhouse. It’s perfect for a florist, not so good for the sweatiest woman alive.

She opened ‘Fine and Dandy’ three months after finished college. She got a degree in design with a minor in business and to be honest they work pretty damn well for a woman who once said she wanted to become a shark gymnast - whatever that might be. Her parents hadn’t agreed at first but now she’s a thirty-three-year-old woman with an award-winning flower shop and she does it all herself - they’re proud of her. She’s proud of her.

The truffle tastes of gin and regret and it’s a little too close to home. The others are half melted - she bins them.

With your glasses on your pretty face

We can go up, baby we can float up

It’s a bouquet of forget-me-nots on a Saturday morning.

It’s a sprig of lime blossom surrounded by arum on a day where she just wants to make jokes. (fornication and purity - it’s days like these she hopes Trixie cannot read flowers)

It’s Asphodel, Basalm and Balsamine. (regret, ardent love and impatience)

Trixie’s pastries taste more and more like things she knows - like sorrow and sadness and hope. They taste like old cigarettes and new heartbreak, longing and desire and unrelenting pain. She wants to hold her tight, qualm the fears she bakes into her food because god knows it only takes a taste to see every little thing she’s poured into it. Katya’s been around long enough to know Trixie’s baking - she knows that she only uses blueberries on rainy days, that passionfruit is saved for deserved occasions and that grapefruit is a bad day.

Why does everything taste like grapefruit?

Say we’ll never come back down

To the place in the yellow cloud

Things go back to chocolate, vanilla and peach when the weather picks up and Katya’s bouquets get bigger and brighter as each month nears summer. A regular casually describes one as ‘carnival in a vase’ or so Trixie retells one morning as Katya snorts on her danish. The cinnamon is strong and so’s the girls’ humour, so she barely chokes it down before she has to gesture for water to clear her throat. Trixie’s cackling so hard though, that water begins to run out of Katya’s nose. It was a mistake she deems as she’s wiping the counter down from her nose-water. It was a mistake to ever start this - this… She falters in her thoughts. She doesn’t even know what this is; it’s never been discussed and yet she feels closer to the patisserie owner across the street than she does her roommate.

She would hesitate to call it love - then again she only knows love as pansies and cloves and gardenias.

She builds more apology bouquets for businessmen and asks them why they love their wives. None of them can give a straight answer and she begins to wonder if maybe that’s the point - love isn’t really a straight line - it sort of loops round and round and over itself. It slaloms around the major arteries and gets caught in the capillary net.

(She also asks a man who, it turns out, is buying for his mistress. It’s an apology for getting her pregnant but he gives the most straightforward answer out of the lot so she keeps it as a data point.)

Yours forever, thumbtack down

Ooh, ooh

Trixie comes into the shop at 6 p.m. on a Thursday in June. It seems like a negligible detail but Katya wants to remember it for the rest of her life. She hears the bell go about an hour after she flipped the closing sign, as she tidies the small shop away to make room for her Friday morning craziness. She comes to the counter with a purpose, requesting a bouquet that has Katya at a happy medium between screaming and sobbing (mentally of course).

She knows all the plants’ names, wants exactly what she wants and Katya blindly agrees until she takes a look at the bouquet and realises what she’s made. It’s good news, admiration, beauty, and love in all seasons. Devotion and an invitation to dance. (iris, gorse, heliotrope, hibiscus and viscaria)

It’s beautiful.

Trixie pays quickly with a shy smile and goes to leave the shop but she turns around before she reaches the door. Instead, she slowly walks back towards her with a steady step and a quiet grin. Katya has started to shake now, she knows what’s happening (or at least hopes she does) and she can’t tell if she wants to sob or scream - she does neither, it’s not the right time.

They meet between the ambrosia and the roses, Katya’s favourite aisle, the sun backlighting Trixie til she glows a soft gold. It casts a halo on her hair and Katya swears she’s never seen an angel look so beautiful.

Trixie hands her the bouquet wordlessly but her eyes, wet and happy, reflect all she doesn’t need to say. When they kiss, Trixie tastes like passionfruit and gin and hope - undying hope that glistens in the summer sun. She hopes it’s a flavour that will stay on her lips forever.

Say you’ll never come back down

To the place in the yellow cloud

[batdaddies]

Madreperola

warnings: explicit content, violence

pairing: orm x reader

about: im rusty, been AGES since my last time writing, tried to post this into orm tag for three times now, hope now works, after you are done and still want more, leave a prompt at my askbox, i need some more orm around, patrick wilson killed and now i should write kinky smuts about the ex-king of atlantis, this is not that kinky yet, kinda wanted, kinda dont, whatever, the whole Y/N looks funny because I made it into a scenario in an extra page on my tumblr that you can actually insert your name into it, but it wasnt working so yeah, i just wanted to post it so i can write another one. You are not a surface dweller, you are a badass atlantis warrior, a lot of canon made by myself, sorry. Enjoy!

MADREPÉROLA - MOTHER OF PEARLS

Orm is made out of duties, ideas, strength, pain and pieces of a man who once thought he could die alone.

EYES

They were cheering, loud within the dense water, they had music, excited with drums and bubbles around the instruments. Atlantis was painted of those sparkling jellyfishes all around, all the citizens with hands up, waving. Happiness was a strange feeling, how deeply it was, he had been going around for some minutes now, and everytime his eyes flashed around the faces of his people, the smiles were pure, how could they not notice the way his father’s hand on his mother was a little too hard? Were they not seeing through, was it too dark?  How could they not see their smiles didn’t match their eyes?

He could sense on his skin, the hair on his arms, right under his royal armour, his hands holding the ropes with a tiny shake. The image of his mother yelling, back and forth with his father had been disturbing; he could hear from the corridor, a strong impulse and he was by the door, opening just to see her beautiful form on the floor, the silver trident on her hands, pointing into his father’s neck, who had his own trident against her belly. They all shared a quiet stare between, his mother soon being the first to give up, she had called his name, throwing the trident behind her, a sign of peace for the time, she didn’t try to explain anything, instead her long arms circulated his torso with care, love. But he was stuck with the situation, with his parents obviously fighting, hard, to the point of fists. His father spoke first.

“Tell him, Atlanta,” the voice husky, dark, capable of investing fear in any being under the seas. The wrinkles on his eyes showed the age, showed the tiredness, the madness, and the hard pupils, they were black unlike his own, his traces only from his mother. A trembling hand came for his mother's back, holding her to protect her, to protect both, specially himself from that tone. “Tell him about your time in the surface…”

His mother pulled him out of the room in that same minute, feet pushing the water, mouth rushing his concerns, not that she actually could, however she tried, whispered what she normally did. Don’t listen to your father. You know he is out of his mind. I love you so much. A help with his hair, a kiss on his head, and they were separated for the parade. He watched his father soon joining him with the soldiers behind, the tridents on hands, watched how he whispered something into her ear before impulsing her trident to her hand so she could have, they all sat down on the animals. He had a shark for once he was young, small, only a prince. His father and mother in front of him, on a pedestal on top of a tylosaurus.

The parade was for pride, the kingdoms together for the solemn purpose of existing after the Great Fall. The royal families, the respected generals and war heros, all lined up to celebrate another year. Atlantis was first of course, the Xebellians behind, followed by the Fishermen, and the Brine. The occasion was peaceful, for what Orm wasn’t in peace at all, he wasn’t a man yet, couldn’t understand the factors of marriage, couldn’t let go of the incident, he was smiling at least, because at some point his father turned behind to take a look, and his lips moved. Smile. As his king wished, he did, an order he wasn’t exactly fulfilling, the white teeth where showing, his mouth opened, but it was crooked, and fake. So lost inside his own head, inside his own thoughts.

Focus! Focus! The voice inside yelled at himself, what kind of Prince he would be if he couldn’t complete his duty? When he finally took his eyes off his father’s grip on his mother’s hands, they averted to the side, searching on the crowd a will to go through all that. All the faces, all the shouts. Nothing. He felt nothing. Until his head moved up, and there, far away, on the higher platform for important, high-borns families, on the privilege views. Someone who had the same serious face as him, unbothered gaze, hair swimming, adorning the shape of her cheeks like a crown with a gold ornament on the side, the lips closed on the rigid line of her jawline. She wore purple and suited her well.

Orm tried to recall when he had seen her before, failing. A strange face. But she was sitting somewhere he would known everybody. By the sides, a man and a woman, he also tried to recall their faces, nothing yet. She entertained his stare until the platform was left behind, until his neck couldn’t turn anymore to watch her.

Seemed there were actually two sad atlanteans that day.

EARS

Once, the worst part of his birthdays was his mother, not herself. Not her caring, soft hands, or her hugs, or kisses. Not her smile. Not her blue eyes. Not the blond hair swinging in the entire room in pretty waves. Her absence. The first year without her presence was disturbing, the second was awful, and the third was fading. It was a shame to say, Orm didn’t remember her that well, now. Some years had passed, along memories, and longing. Sometimes he was ashamed to say he didn’t think of her that much, the grieving had a funny way with him, he was locked away in his own room for days, yet no tears. His father had kept the secret until the very last moment, he didn’t know what was happening until the trench was close enough, besides the entire kingdom knowing, he was oblivious, seemed his father had even funnier ways to mess with him.

Forced to look, forced to watch, and fight against his own mother being sacrificed, she had shouted for him, and Orm had yelled back, but his father was stronger, he was right there, holding him still, hands on his biceps, face on his ears, like a spirit from the past, he felt the lips on his earlobe. A bastard. He stopped immediately, shocked, body failing to keep fighting. The bastard. His senses numbed as she was slowly disappearing from his sight. She had a half-breed, treason.

For months, he didn’t know if he was grieving his mother, or her secret. A powerful queen like herself, to subjugate, accept, cohabit with a human… She had lost her mind, yet the more he thought about it, the more he lost his. The thin line of love, and obeying was starting to fade. The King’s speeches were beginning to make sense, the new ideas of a different future were settling right inside his brain, almost able to recite them one by one, the strongest was the King’s wish to make Orm Marius the best yet. The whole attention, devotion and energy should be spent on his training, on his lessons, on Atlantis that had been suffering with the surface for decades. It was showing then, Orm was becoming the man his father wanted him to be, who took pride on the pure-blood son one day not being only a great king, but a dangerous threat to his enemies.

That year was even decided there was no party, Orm needed to train, needed to study; the only thing it happening was people bringing gifts. He didn’t want that neither, but the King said this costum couldn’t stop, it was necessary. They needed to be spoiled, they needed to be known, to be superior. Vulko was on his right, while the King was on the throne, he was just floating in the warm water in the room, his hands together in front of his torso that was getting bigger, a shape of broad shoulders. He wasn’t small anymore, maybe still young, but not that young, not that innocent. If anything, Orm’s blue bright eyes had a colder shine, the traces on his skin starting to look more like his father than his mother.

“And this is the family of Y/L/N,” Vulko’s voice was distance, low, only for him to hear. “Their ancestors served the crown once, before the second war, they were habitating in Xebel, but decided to come back to Atlantis now the patriarch is dead.”

A woman and a girl were swimming close, stopping to greet. Who he judge as the mother was carrying a box with an aquamarine as lock, the attire of same shade, silver bracelets and a kind smile.

She was placing in front of him with the pile of many others, but he never saw her doing so, instead, he was intrigued by the weapon the daughter was holding, dark grey, utterly curvy on the edges which were five, the handle adorned by arabesques circulating until the extremes along the battle marks, seemed old, however powerful. The girl held it with a straight posture, a warrior. Different from what he reminded, but it was her, he was sure. Purple dressed her too well. The hair had four or six braids floating around her face, much like a halo, adorning the cheekbones, the still rigid jawline, and still hard lips. Her eyebrows were up high, pearls on top of them, matching the color of her eyes. And this time, the purple was tight, admitting both of them had grown up, the cleavage was revealing her popping clavicules, the extra skin of her breasts, the curves continuing to her waist, and hips. Almost a completely woman. An attractive woman.

“You bear a trident,” he stated to her, blankly, forgetting to thank for the gift. His face with no emotions, but it didn’t mean the shiver he felt in his spine wasn’t there, a trickling feeling on his skin that Orm couldn’t name it. It was somehow disrespectful, like a question, taking off her right to carry it.

Her left eyebrow lifted even higher, pearls sparkling along in shades of green, purple and yellow, the trident suffered a whirl, and a thug on the ground, sound echoing, “it belonged to my great grandfather, he fought in the war, died for Atlantis.”

The voice match her looks, daring, a reckon, the water danced on her tone, which meant she was not intimidated by him, ready to prove she was worthy of carrying it. A strong presence with a strong sound, even she was smaller than him, not passing his chest for a fact. All the lessons of reading the opponent was handy in a moment like this, her body language was of someone always alert, someone confident, her breathing was calm, indeed not caring who she was facing. The Prince Of Atlantis. She’d be a good adversary.

“Were you trained with it?” the question now didn’t have any second intentions, rather just curiosity. His face finally moved, just a curl of lips, a blink of lashes, and the feeling stopped by his neck, where his hair was standing on the ends.

“By my own father who had it before me,” she said, noticing his icy eyes were staring down at her, a little movement of her feet, floating higher to fix it. They were on the same level, in an uncomfortable silence, if any noticed, the others accompanying them were alert.

“Good,” Orm said, with a nod of his head. “One day may Atlantis need you as a soldier.”

“My honor, Your Highness,” her tongue hit the back of her upper teeth when talking, which he saw slowly, the feeling going down his shoulders, under the armour, to his hands, the tip of his fingers. It didn’t fade until she turned and left the room, legs swinging in the water with her mother by her side.

The day remained boring, nothing pleasing Orm, neither the training later, or the studies, for what his mind couldn’t stop remembering itself of a purple attire, a trident, and a ringing voice.

My honor.

My honor...

Your highness...

NOSE

The passages of his life were made of deaths, every critical decision, every choice given, every chance made only after losing a life. Queen Atlanna had been sacrificed, only then he was able to decide who he wanted to be, a traitor like his mother or a powerful king like his father, he decided to be none, to be better, to be the best in every way he could. Accomplished. The King Orvax had died, only then he was able to rise to his purpose, finally giving him the freedom of being just a Prince; the chance of serving his people, of succeeding his plans for the future. For what, Orm wanted to great, a legend perhaps, there was no insecurities for the throne, no doubts of himself, he knew he could, he knew he would, Atlantis wouldn’t know a better King.

Sometimes, Orm would even forget he was a man of needs. Yet the truth always found a way to slap his face, shouting to be recognize, yelling louder than he ever could.

It wasn’t a subject his father spoke with him about, he was just given a wife and nothing else. Mera, the xebelian. It was a deal, an arrange, and Orm had grown up with her for far too long to know he wasn’t able to love her, he could respect, offer his loyalty, be a good husband, but never love. She was beautiful, he knew, he always did, since they were kids in the adventures through the oceans, when the lights hit her just right, her long red hair waving, she was pleasing to look at, but something was lacking, something was off. Love wasn’t made of attractive faces or colorful hairs. Indeed, Orm believed he wasn’t capable of love. His biggest duty was to Atlantis, to its preservation, to its protection.

Mera felt the same, he knew. She would never love him. They had consideration for each other, it was even good on a side to have her as a future wife, he wouldn’t pretend to be somebody to gain her admiration, she wouldn’t force herself into a unhappy marriage with somebody else. At least, they were friends when young, and time only could help them to have an heir, as he hoped. Because it was issue he decided to mind after the marriage, after the ceremony, when it in fact happened, not now when they are only betrothed: touching her. She didn’t excite him. He didn’t fantasized about her. Rarely were the times he actually fantasize about a woman, even when it happened, his body curling in his bed, the water dense on his torso, thick on his lungs, and the spasms asking for it, there was not a face, or a body, it was just the feeling. Sometimes he would close his eyes and think of purple. Sometimes he would force himself to fight the feeling away.

Vulko tried to talk to him about that subject, voice taken back, an apprehension on how to approach such matters. Orm stopped him, noticing what that was about. “I am not an animal, this alone should be enough for your concerns.”

It did had a toll on him lately, when his young years were gone, and Orm was what others would call proper age. His body at its peak, his physical appearance established, and the looks it brought to him. The servants passing by, their pupils heavy under the lashes, not reaching his own gaze because that would be reaching, but piercing through the armours, on his neck, and lips. They would be intense when it was time to train, when his body was left to feel the water without barriers, they usually had his armour on hands, or food, or bars when it was time for a new lesson. His feet felt the ground under, his torso circulated in cold water, fighting. The muscles lines were changing according to his moviments, too many of them, back, abdomen, arms, chest, all the stares on him. Orm felt he was giving a show, not training. When it was time to try the bars, the servant came with a bowed body, delicate hands offering the new instruments of battle, and his hand lingered against hers to get it. She moved her head to him, the hair moving in the way, able to cover her entire face but an eye. Desire.

That night had been hard to get through, he wanted it. He needed it. Skin twisting in his bed, the water gaining a new temperature his body failed to adjust to, his neck couldn’t even shallow it properly. It was the first time desire won against him, he thought about searching for her, but what humiliation would be for a Prince around hallways, impulsing himself to seek a servant for satisfaction. He couldn’t sleep, the pain on his lower abdomen asking for release, for the torture he putted himself through, his mind didn’t focus on any other matters besides an atlantean’s body.

His journey through this path had been somewhat disturbing after that, women knowledge his presence, his beauty, his appeal of a sleek blond hair with big, blue eyes, a straight nose and a rigid jawline. He discovered what he liked as well, what made him ask for more, not many times, maybe just three or four, enough for him to be satisfied for months, or years, they were usually high-borns, discreeted, not interested in stealing him for his duty, rather having a night with Prince Orm while they could. He always felt bad after, dressing himself and his mind going for Mera, felt like a betraying act. Guilt overcame pleasure easily after.

But the ironies of life were much deeper than his oceans, even with his future wife by his side, so close to him, sensing the water running through her mouth, nose, and lungs, he couldn’t control the desire when it drowned him, it started as an impulse in the back of neck, growing into a itching on his palms, to a tightness on his stomach. The surprise made him lean forward, eyes wide, a predator watching.

She came dashing in whirls, the bubbles forming a tail behind her feet, the tip of her trident ripping the water, and she stopped, arms opening, trident rising on top of her head, the armour was composed of hard golden scales on the shoulders falling through her breasts and hips, her feet had the protection boots coming to her knees, under of course, as usual, the purple hugging her curves. The braids on her hair this time were the ones for war, from the roots of her forehead to the back where they were loose, no helmet, but a huge choker on her neck, with pointed ends curling out of her face. She shouted with the crowd, they cheered for her, they loved their champion. To savour her congratulations, the body swag around the platforms, trident in circles, everybody had their hands up, and she was rising. Until she stopped again, higher, close to the Royals.

Orm regretted missing the battles, he had better matters to attend to, but his presence in the deliver of the medal to the champion was important, only he could deliver it, when his vizier said the champion that year was a she, he never thought that she was the one, he should have known, all his years and she was the only he could recall who had a trident, and was willing to take it to battle. Also, he regretted not participating that year, he would be very pleased to fight against her, test to see what she was capable of. Of course much, for what she had won.

Closer, it was easier to see the scratches on her armour, only a glove on her right hand, the left with blood floating in tiny bubbles, the bruise on her cheek, a line of red between purple and green, but she was fenomenal, the posture straight, not losing the high class, her beauty had grow older just as his. The traces of her nose and lips were softer, those are a shade of red almost purple, and her eyes batted against the top of her cheeks in long, thick curtains of lashes, the height hasn’t improved though, still smaller, and Orm couldn’t describe exactly what he felt when she entered the platform, pushing herself to the ground, kneeling with her entire being, trident resting on both hands, and hair in waves. It was desire, so much desire the water around him became heavy, a pressure on his shoulder he hadn’t ever felt before.

“Your Highness,” she greeted still bowing for him, fulfilling his memories of her voice, Orm had dreamt of it once, or twice, perhaps more times he wanted to admit, and the electricity inside his veins almost choked his voice out to answer.

Mera or Vulko none existed by his side, or the crowd, or the cheering. Only the atlantean kneeling for her King, offering him her trident, paying her respects. Orm held the medal high, swinging his legs to stop by her front.

“My champion,” his voice was raw, and she looked up to his cold eyes, an abyss of darkness, her lips twisted, but in what he identificate as his effect on the opposite sex, and Orm knew right away he could touch her face and she would let him, but he didn’t, not because he didn’t want to, but because she had the right to obtain what she came for. His hands switched quickly and the pearls around the medal fell from her head into her neck, until it rested between the choker and the armour. “Congratulations.”

She finally stood up, and Orm had been so close, the threads of her hair waved close to his face on the movement, almost a caress on his nose, she smelled of the deep currents when they pass the lava and the texture of both were meet in the fire and water, of fresh seaweed in the old city, sweet like battle, like duty. He was private, he was against any public touch, yet the King himself drowned in that smelled and wished to take her right there, uncover her curves, learn about her flesh, and listen to the graceful music her sounds would be on the water. He didn’t fantasize, yet he was, flashing question of what she liked, of how she was once nude, if she had another men in her bed, lost in the color of her eyes, in the halo of her hair, in the fierce beauty. Behind her glory class, he also saw the imagination flowing, of him, his lips, his hands, his body.

“I must know your name,” his upper lip, slightly meatier than the lower, moved and caught her gazing. For the Gods, Orm wanted her.

“Y/N, I—” she whispered slowly, fixed on the mouth, but was interrupted by Vulko, carried the King’s trident to him, Orm woke up from the tantalizing moment when the cane was presented.

“It was one of the best battles I've ever seen,” he said, cheerful, letting the heaviness of the trident fall on Orm’s hands.

“Thank you,” she bowed again, and Orm wished she didn’t, not for anybody else, only himself.

“Go present Atlantis your medal, champion,” he sent her away with good intentions. Go feel your glory. To what she nodded, with a last look at her handsome King, heavy lids, heavy heart, then Orm smiled, a malicious manner, corner of his lips rising, no teeth, superior to all.

Y/N circulated in the ocean, the trident shining, the crowd cheering even more with the medal adorning her neck, and Orm was left with his vizier, with his betrothed, and the unspoken understatement, both knew what it meant, and it was enough. She would come back for him, he just had to wait.

That night, desired had won, and Orm didn’t fight against it, closing his lids and thinking of the smell of her hair.

MOUTH

Orm would never forget the first time he laid his lips on hers, Y/N had a tight grip on his golden armour, nails crawling up between the scales to find any piece of skin she could, it was more a press than a kiss, strong for what both wanted to feel for too long, desperated. They were soft, so soft, and so eager for him, there was no space for anything else as he held her head with his both hands, prisioning the hair between his gloves, pulling her closer if possible. But Orm wanted more, always.

His life was made of conquering, of ruling, they were his first extinct. The times in the past when the shivers in his spine passed through when seeing her were nothing compared to the hammering urge to own her. To be owned by her.

Y/N had parted the lips, her tongue advertising between in hunger, licking his mouth, and inviting his own to taste it. Her flavour was of warm waters, of longing, of desire, and pleasure. Of betrayal, of treason, of unloyalty, and guilt. A perfect mixture of everything Orm had been craving for his life. They kissed as two creatures, humming into each other as battling for more, for survival, knowing they didn’t have time to go slow, to take it somewhere. They only had that moment, and it had to be enough. His teeth came for her lips, crashing down on the lower one as his hands pulled her head back, wanting to both have her and destroy her.

I am not an animal, he had said to his vizier. But the lines of desires were blurred, Orm couldn’t recognize himself when his teeth bit into her neck, the flesh gently bending over, the veins pumping blood under his mercy, and she moaned, body pressing on his armour, pushing her into his torso. Orm lost it then. The first sound of her was the same as winning, the thrill of it. He was addicted to that, to devour her. He knew he whispered something into her ear as his hands helped her to strip himself from the armour, from the crown, groaning when her fingers ran on the muscles on his back, unplugging the attire, that fell on water and then the ground. Her purple attire was torn before she could have the chance to undress herself to him, Orm had grabbed the sides and pulled hard, for he couldn’t wait to touch her skin.

The curves were a sight to touch, the rough hands squeezing her being with want, too fast to remember, enough to feel, they filled with her breasts, then her hips, and his mouth joined, kissing and biting the way down. He had her laid on his own bed, the King’s bed. Almost a Queen. He drowned under her, on the edge of the bed, his tongue discovering her real taste as she wished. Orm could stay there forever, watching her swishing her hips harder on his face, the warrior strength forcing him deeper. Her moans were delicious, outraged, feeling his tongue entering, her eyes had searched for him, watching his tongue licking all the way from the crack, to the entrance to the point of pleasure. Orm sucked her intimacy with his opened, and was also able to watch the effect it had on her face, the eyebrows high, the flashing of color on the cheeks, and the pearls adorning their bones, sparkling. His thumbs seeked into her, opening the lower lips for more. He wanted more. He wanted everything.

The orgasm took a time, showing Orm both she had been done this before and she was not shy. Her feet stopped on his back, the jewelry on her ankles scratching his muscles, serving the support to thrust her hips toward him, and she rolled them many times, moaning his name, sucking water, loud and needy. Orm ate her up, helped her to the limit, took her there and admired the beauty in an atlantean’s cry. Her back curling, hands messing the bed and chest expanding His arms held her entirely, thighs, waist, ass, the skin hot, delicious. Y/N grabbed him immediately by the shoulders, eyes blinded by carnal thoughts, and kissed his lips, impulsing herself into his lap. They were sitting the floor then, and she cried again, the suffocating stretch for her King. He was big, thick, pulsing. Clutching into her back as the groan left his throat, she was tight, and wet; different from the sea, dense, heavenly.

No rhythm, no nice and easy pace. Orm groaned on her lips as rode, hands squeezing her back, pulling her hair, eating her moans, and cries like he had been starving. The breasts rubbed on his chests, the nipples hard, the thighs hitting against his own, and tides of water circulating them. At some point, he took control on the moviments, stiffening her body still, thrusting up into her. Y/N had let go then, nails digging behind on his knees, and back curled in the way her breasts followed his control. A hand came for her neck. Orm gave it a light thug to make it noticed, and didn’t know who enjoyed it more. Him, feeling her veins and the shape of it, or her, rolling her eyes and crying for her King.

Beg for me. He managed to let out, between all the mixture of emotions, all the creatures actions. Beg. And before she could, his feet pushed the floor, they ended on the wall, Y/N was turned and her head rested there. Give me the pleasure again, Your Majesty. She said, overwhelmed by him, their legs circulated together and they held on the glass. The sea outside with the purple and pink lights, gardens of seaweeds, corals, and Y/N inside offered herself to him, a tilt of waist. Make me worthy. Orm invaded her again with power, hitting her hips on the glass with a sound overflowing the room. He held her neck, disappearing his face into her hair, smelling the freshness, the sweetness, taking her from behind with the same strength he used to fight with. She accepted, she wanted it, she could take it. Muffed pushes into the wall with their many others noises, the fleshes of both collapsing into each other, easily mistaken as they could become one, and Orm never felt like that before. Fulfilled. Her lips caught him in ways he had never been kissed before, her body engulfed him in ways he had never been touched before; she was a beast of domination, and the track of who was the one in control faded, of course he gave orders and she listened, however how could he be sure she wasn’t exactly doing what she needed to do to make him follow the path she wanted?

They had each other for hours, and hours, Y/N had been bending for him in every position, and Orm had worn himself out in her arms. Their bodies floated around the room, back to his bed, Y/N on her knees and elbows, on the table with holographic lights that reflect on her skin in colorful maps and letters as she once again managed to get on top, terrifyingly holding his neck, laying on water, on the ceiling, soaring on the sides, clapping on the white material. He had come undone four times with her that night, stamina dripping from the pores, dancing between them in the drift, and Y/N wasn’t done, not yet. Laid on his chest, kissed his muscles and let his fingers entry her core, there was nothing left to do, but watch the perfection of how luxury stripped on her face. It was the moment he saw the future of wanting it again, searching for her again. And for the first time in a night of betrayal, Orm didn’t feel guilty. Instead, he felt peace, closed his lids and explored dreamlands.

Many were the nights Orm passed through the guards on the palace and dived into the dark, using the ruins of the Old City to arrive at her home, more times than he would like to admit. His emotions were always the same, every time seemed the first time. Y/N would greet him into her chambers, they would kiss and succumb into each other greatly, like warriors waiting for battles. She would wear purple, blue and even white; some nights the pearls on her face were on top of her cheekbones, highlighting the sea, some nights on the back of her hand, embellished into the dress, some nights her hair was braided from the roots, not letting him touch it, some nights she would wear diademas of precious stones, and gold. And some nights Orm wasn’t a creature, neither was she. Some nights he would trace her features with his finger tips before a kiss, some nights he would talk, of the throne, of Atlantis, of destiny, of her.

She was far more interesting than he could imagine. Her family came from a line of high borns since before the Great Fall, her great grandfather became one of the King’s vizier at his lifetime, but died in the second war, the trident was a gift passing through generations, her descendants were always proud of it, making the tradition of every heir being trained, guided to, when the Crown needed, they would fight by again. Her mother was from Xebel Royalty, what could and would explain when her fingers moved in circles creating bubbles and weak currents, however not always, she was quite unsure of it. Y/N was trained and educated there, coming to Atlantis when her father died, and her mother insisted she finished her training where he finished his own. His last words were be brave, and never ashamed. Before that, the only time she had been to Atlantis was on the celebration, the parade, many years ago when Orm remembered as the first time he saw her, sadness locked on her lips. He enjoyed the opportunity to ask why then, and her words trailed off, confessing she had an older brother, who by right, would be the one trained with the trident, and he was until he decided to swim too close to the surface, and never came back, Orm remembered his mother for a second, and it faded. Y/N was filling his space when the trident were passed to her, at the beginning, never seemed good, her father pushed to much, compared too much, she preferred the spells, preferred learning about the water, plants; after his death was the moment she stopped practicing the gifts from her mother, to honor him, it was her passion now. That night, they didn’t have any intimacy, Orm slept on her chest with her fingers curling his blond hair, most of his armour still on. A feeling easily to get addicted to.

“13,” her voice was quiet, as if telling a secret, the ringing a massage on his ears, he turned his face and felt her soft lips touching his cheek, they formed a smile. The fingers on his rib cage were gently tracing a scar there, the skin was rough unlike the rest of his torso, the muscles flexed in a shiver when only the long nail finished the drawing, obviously she referred to it. “I counted, you have 13.”

Silence.

It had been one of those night, where just lay together was enough, the warmth of somebody else’s body to press against was what he craved. He was nude for what Y/N had took his armour off piece by piece, unplugged his attire from behind and left a trace of kisses his spine. Orm floated on her silky sheets and she sat by the edge, admiring his bare beauty.

“Kiss me,” Orm said, his tone the same husky, grave, intimidating kind he used to give orders to General Murk, on his eyes, there was an abyss of coldness, the blue not transmitting any emotion, however his upper lip curled, asking for hers, and Y/N trailed off to accomplish, wondering if it was the closer her King ever got to ask for something.

She sealed his mouth with a first peck, then a second, and a third when the ends of her hair decided to play along his cheeks, until Orm had with her games, the tip of his tongue coming to line the shape of her bottom lip, calmly entering between the teeth, licking the inside inviting her to follow, and Melissa did, kissed him like promising to break him into pieces.

MIND

The yells came from outside, not perceived exactly what, seemed more of roars of sea beasts, and soon, knocks on the walls, loud thugs happening closer and closer to the entrance, then guns, the shots took always echoed of metal on the end causing everybody in the room alarmed into a group of protection, the guards pointing and waiting for the riot reach them while Murk and Vulko impulsed into a barrier for their King, who, for the sake of his own good, wielded his trident, and floated in a higher level, the black cape hem waving in water, covering the vision of Atlantis behind the huge glass. A final thug when the last guard outside bumped into the ground unconscious and, with the body light, stopped into the water, arms opened.

When she came, which he expected her to, she wasn't the type to be tamed down, her trident came first, the five edges crushing the fiber the door was, her body seen finally, the curves wrapped up in a gray suit, the boots had the famous scales of an armour, in the same of shade of white she cared on the scales of her shoulders, her hair whipped with the strength her arms up her head, the fingers were interlaced holding the weapon on the middle; the usual pearls where forgotten in the bubbles, disconnecting from the skin, her jawline was a rigid line along the lips, showing the ranger of her teeth, and the eyes… Oh, her eyes were revenge, demanding blood, they were never this insane before. Her biceps recoiled with the trident, and from her throat, they all heard her roaring, when in a first succeed try, the prongs breached the fiber isolation.

“Do not let her pass!” Murk shouted, sword ready to be used, but before the guards could follow, the trident entered the hole, twisted into a straight line and pulled back, having both of their heads bumped against the walls by the necks on the cane. The general was about to attack when, the last three remained noticed the same eyes asking for war were red, and bubbles of tears formed in the threads of her calm path to the middle where they were found.

Y/N stared at him, trident ceasing by the side, loose on her palm. She stared at his blond hair free in the water with the crown of a King, at his rosy lips that had no smiles for that specific moment, at the broad shoulders carrying the whole kingdom upon, and at the blue eyes, where she found nothing, no care, no compassion, no pity, no empathy, just a freezing immensity the Seven Seas could envy its depth. His posture was unbreakable, risen up above her, taller, stronger, with no mercy.

Orm saw on her face the confusion going through her ideas of to say, he knew when she was thinking, her lids blinked fast, he saw her sucking of water through the mouth, she was also out of herself. It wouldn’t be easy to invade a royal ship, all the degrees to finally reach him would cause even exhaustion on the most praised soldier, what was impossible in fact for her was just another task. He had to admit though, he expected her to come to him alone, somehow in private, not that way, not in an one atlantean crusade.

Her hand unlocked a plug from her silver belt, throwing it at his feet, the object a red flashing message. It had been sent last night, at her home, right at her by a soldier who didn’t identify as anybody, simply leaving it and going away.

“A year,” she started, voice trembling in both anger, and sadness, minding not at all Vulko or Murk glaring at her. “A full year and can’t my King at least deliver the news himself with me?”

There were seconds of anticipation, and waiting, when Orm spoke, it was in a misery. “I do not wish to see your face no more. Wasn’t I clear?”

“Orm…” she pleaded, intimacy wearing off in her, the old, caring way she’d greet him at her chambers, waiting for talks, waiting for kisses.

“Your Majesty!” she was corrected by Murk, who snarled with the scar on his face twisting in disgust.

Y/N left a single sick laugh, from the redness of her eyes, bubbles kept falling. “Of course, Your Majesty. I demand an explanation.”

“Leave,” Orm commanded, tone higher, mouth opened in anger, the teeth rangering, and his trident touched the ground under his feet in a warning. The shock on her eyes was not mistaken, she was about to pronounce herself again, but he stopped her, “Leave!”

It was her turn to impulse herself up, eyes on the same level as his, separated only by the vizier and the sword pointed at her waist, and her trident gave the same thug on the floor, for now her face were only anger. “I will not!”

Orm swimmed through the barrier of the two in a motion of arms and floated by her front, close enough he could see there were only three pearls left on top of one eyebrow, and only one on the other, the shine of her cheeks, the beauty of her traces which were harsh at glaring back at him, and could almost feel the softness of her lips. He was glad she came this way, it was easier to send her away in front of others.

The edge of his weapon trinkled in the movement of elapsing it to her neck, a real threat.

“It was an order,” his tongue clicked in every word, unforgiving, the voice raw and collected again.

Y/N blinked slowly, looking down at the edges on her trough, not being able to hold the strong posture any longer, when her pupils stared back, defeated, she whispered. “What was I to you?”

Orm didn’t expect it, there was not something he had prepared for before, his lungs had a tighter grip on their own, the water was too thick for the second, and he gulped, not answering.

Everything.

It was the real reason he had to leave, not for the lack of interest, or for what she could possible think of, no. Not at all. By the Gods, Orm didn’t wish for it. But, six nights ago, when he found himself between her arms and legs, gaining her comfort, he longed for what he didn’t know what.

A lie, he did. Orm longed of her eyes every morning, staring back at him on his bed, longed of her voice calling his name in the afternoon, longed of her smell when he was sitting on his throne, longed of her lips, kissing him at nights. He longed for her profoundly, feeling home only into her arms, feeling freedom only when she was close. It was new, the seconds counted to meet her, to lost himself into her, the way his body begged for her in the nights he was away. In that same moment, Orm thought for a minimum amount of time of a life with her, of how could be to have her as his Queen, present her as his, and valued as hers. Fantasized about not only for that, but much more. Showing her the other kingdoms she didn’t know, allowing her study knowledgement  available only for a Queen, swimming the rest of the seas together, helping Atlantis to grow.

The day next to when it happened, Mera and her father had been with him for a mere hour, to discuss matters of Xebel. Her red hair coloring a guilt, a mirror Orm saw his own reflection as his mother. Treason, he repeated at himself. Traitor, he accused himself. Because he was ready to break the deal with the King Nereus, for his own sake, forget the huge plans he had for his people, for their future, he did not wish a betrothed, and he was ready to put his own kingdom at risk for it. Then he knew he had to leave Y/N before doing so, even if in the back of his mind, the vision of his father and mother fighting each other flashed non stop.

What was worst? A loveless marriage or two kingdoms splitting to fail the Rise of Atlantis?

Loveless.

Orm thought he was not able to, he thought it would never come to him, however there were her, the prove. He didn’t know sadness like that until she gave up, trident floating by itself in front of him and left, swimming away. In his chest, a heart he had dedicated only for Atlantis, arching.

His life had never been the same since then, but a Great King would never let life distract him from the duty.

HEART

“Orm,” his mother called, the long hair a whole wave of blond in the very clean room, her voice sweet and delicate. It felt strange in the beginning, it seemed more of a mirage, a memory lost in years, the point between dreams and sleeping where it was blurry to tell the difference, until her hands came in a gentle touch, to hold and hug, it was when the point of real reached higher than dreams and she was there. There. Alive and well.

He was quiet, not for ignorance, but for the animal on the other side of the glass, the small turtle was the first to appear that week, it was the season of year the higher water changed the temperature and fishes were claiming for the warmth, traveling from another part of the sea. It was utterly tiny, and it swang in a circle, legs clapping bubbles, definitely showing off to him for what he was close, the fingertips touched where the turtle was, in an attempt to reach it somehow. A small sound to communicate with him, and it spinned again. There was envy spreading inside his chest when seeing it, floating free beyond those clear walls where he was trapped with only a bed to rest, and a view to mourgue.

“Orm,” she called again, still calmly, noticing what had happened. Months had gone by since the last time he was able to swim in open sea and of course, he would miss it. Her son turned his head, ears in her direction, but not the eyes, still locked with the friendly turtle, one of the only companion he had in days.

Of course,  Atlanna would come almost everyday to see him, informing when she would be gone for more than two days, she didn’t say the reason, yet it was obvious it had to do with the human on the surface. Mera came twice only, said very little, for what her eyes had a sense of shyness when seeing his state, then she had come to say sorry, and was asked to never come again, pity was not something he wanted to hear. Vulko came after a long time, both not having any words for each other, it was out of consideration for before, when he was young and knew better. Arthur never came.

“Yes, mother?” Orm profered, quietly. Hand falling at his side, and feet switched in, slow, almost not moving, small inches above the floor. The boots he wore were black, a special shade reflecting the coral lights, and on the ends by his calves, a detail in blue contrasting with the white suit adorning his body, no hardness of armour, no jewelry on the shoulders, the ordinary kind, the ones that, when the light hit right, sprinkled baby blue on the scales texture.

“I took liberty to go into your bedroom,” she started, cautiously, making him turn complete at her over his shoulders, the once rough features of his face were nothing more than plain now, emotionless like the last months had dragged the life out of them, they were still ever so breathtaking, just lacking even the slight feeling to prove he was not dead inside.

As a mother, she wanted to find something, could be anger, could be pain, could be failure, anything she could use to help him heal, would be easier to know what Orm was thinking and feeling when she wanted to talk, but he was a barrier, one of the strongest, like the bridge outside Atlantis, surviving decades with no moving, in the ruins of once a empire. She had heard stories of Orm as a King, not about the war against the surface, the other ones, how he helped the technological advance in their soldiers, the study of the new plants presented in the capital, and news philosophies for their culture, the people had an enormous respect for him, an intimate relationship for what he was always watching his kingdom close. His ideas of change, of growth was supported by them all, Atlantis joined him in the attack on the Brine without second thoughts, and there were the whispers around.

King Orm. King Orm. The real King Orm. He still had support, for what Arthur had the Atlan’s trident, however was oblivious in a degree to Atlantis, to the people, and the costumes, for what Orm had grown up in those waters, under the kingdom’s eyes, won championships with them as a crowd, built new places, expanded the homes and knowledges, and gave a hope of saving their children, once for all. She wondered if Orm knew he was forgiven, not by the Fishermen, but by Atlantis and Xebel, and by his brother. Wondered if he knew the agitations presented in the few last weeks outside his cell was not just guards yelling at each other by another prisoner’s fault, it was in fact a failed attempt of freeing him.

Little they knew, Orm didn’t wish to be rescued, at least that Atlanna knew, because when she brought him some spare suits and some holograms to read through, he dismissed, saying he was just like any other in those prisoners cells, then shouldn’t be treated specially. The only favor he accepted was the window to the depth of the sea, to remember, to still have the contact with the land he was trying to protect. And to remember, that part of him who failed, lost his throne, hundreds of soldiers, his betrothed, and his glory.

“Mother, I told you I do not want special treatment,” he said, the last bit of hoping of making her understand, he wasn’t rude, however definitely bold.  

“I found the trident, Orm,” Atlanna stood from the bed, body hovering up in the middle of the room, the crown on her head rather small than he remanded from his young years, when she would play with him, and put it on his head, promising he would be great. From the way she spoke, she knew somehow, though Vulko, the only one present in that room who didn’t die or vanished, Murk was gone, never came back from the surface, and he didn’t tell.

Actually, it was a part of the beginning of his reign, Orm kept locked deep inside the back of his mind to never remember again, a hard task he had fulfilled like any other until months ago. It began with a struggle, when his hand closed around the trident left behind, the silence of the room sucked him into an abyss of despair, there was no need to excuse himself, Orm left right away, feeling the bubbles of her impulses breaking on his cheeks for she had been in the same path not long ago, but he went straight to the palace, two tridents and only one heir; he knocked her weapon down under his attires, under the studies on the tables, where no one could see, cracked the wall and hid there, the only vestige of its existence was a scratch on the material being taken off and placed back again. It hunted him like a spirit in nights, when his body arched for her, painfully, and he still felt the taste of her mouth on his, nightmares invaded his sleep, the weapon shaking the cabinet, shining through, it would break it at some point, align on his neck and take his life, Orm always woke almost drowning. He had missed her in the morning, for when he had opened his eyes for her smile, the curve of her lips an enchantment of their own, he had missed her in the afternoons, her voice of talks, of stories about her life, of Xebel, of her mother and father, and gone brother, how many details she could give when describing what she thought Atlantis could improve. He had missed her, completely, even losing in rare occasion the control of himself, opening the crack on the wall and staring at her trident. He doubted it was capable of calling her into the Seven Seas, calling her back home. He never tried, pulling the wall back into place and scolded himself to never even think of doing it.

And love didn’t fade like that, he grieved her for her death to him, and suffered quiet when he saw pearls, when he saw purple. Tried twice harder, and harder to forget her, focusing on his kingdom that was worth the sacrifice, for only years later, he was able to push her back into the darkness his brain made just for her to dwell, a coffin of black arabesques and red scales, her name adorned on the visior. Yet, Orm, with an extend acquaintance in atlantean behavior, should had know that kind of happiness simply wouldn’t be replaced like that, didn’t matter how much he succeed in his duties, that kind of happiness not even Atlantis could bring back.

The irony was the sacrifice he offered to the Gods passed by as nothing, for there he was with nothing left on his palms. Nothing.

Atlanna saw what that did to her son, saw the eyebrows falling, the lower lip curling, the pupils longing into the ground, and an awful sigh leaving his mouth. What did on his body, sinking into the floor with heaviness, the broad shoulders falling in an inferior posture. The first feeling coming from him. It was sorrow.

“Please, mother,” he begged, trembling. “Leave.”

She didn’t, instead went for him, staring at the ghost of a warrior who had no strength, she smiled in grace, empathy, denying with her head. “The writtens on it allowed me to find its owner. She is back in Atlantis, my son.”

Orm widened his eyes, heart skipping a beat with the revelation. “No, please, mother…”

“Yes,” Atlanna nodded then, careful with the words, whispering into his cheeks, the same ones her hands came to hold, to not let him shatter across that depressing cell. “Do you wish to see her?”

The mere thought of her in front of him, seeing his state, what he came was a shame of its own. Gods, the things she must heard of him already, the fallen, miserable thing he had become, locked away in a prison, no crown, the humiliation it brought to Orm was a reason to never leave there again.

He finally broke, shattered around, his blue eyes red of insanity, pushing his own mother’s arms away, impulsing himself into the ceiling, where his back hit with a loud thug, the roar leaving his throat was enough for the whole building to hear, if not, outside too. No! He impulsed to the glass then, hitting with his left shoulder in a chance to escape that room, go to the Trench himself and be gone, there was no way to bear the emptiness the news created inside. Orm wanted to disappear.

Atlanna yelled in his behalf, trying to get him, calm him down when he tried to divide the glass again, shouting with all his being. The guards outside were moving already, to contain him. Orm didn’t care, he kept trying, again, and again. Until he stopped all of the sudden, his senses captured the attack seconds before, and his body shifted to dodge it. It was no plasma, no shot, just five curved edges piercing the glass. He was definitely drowning when his neck betrayed his commands and followed from where it came from.

As the sun that long ago shined through Atlantis, Y/N was found by the entrance of his cell, hovering like a goddess ascending, if years had any affect on her beautiful traces, the only difference able to be shown would be her hair, longer than before, a big halo around the face, her own crown of braids dancing between the threads. The attire was purple, scales trickling green and blue, defining the curves of a body he knew like the lines on the palm of his hand in the past. Her wrists contained silver bracelets, a match to the silver boots up high on her thighs, where the ends branched gills. And, as the memories, on top of her high eyebrows there were the pearls, the biggest one between them, and the smallests following the shapes, her pupils under the thick lashes were harsh, the same superior posture she had when she was gifting in his birthday, the lips in burgundy color. She didn’t seem happier, neither sad. Neutral.

Orm was speechless, stuck. Emotions he had buried deep down forcing their way up against the barrier he built to protect himself, the water in his lungs missed the automatic suck and felt like he wasn’t breathing at all, he was drowning in everything she was and represented. How lower he had to reach to be enough?

“Orm,” she called his name as a firm song from the Fishermen, tenting to a side, speeding to enter the cell and hovering by this presence. It was a clue for every guard and Atlanna withdraw for privacy. He still couldn’t believe she was in his front, judging his defeat as the rest of his people was, the  disgrace he had fallen into, the strongest burden any could carry.

He retracted without noticing, to the corner, head low, his voice tried to get out, ask her if she had any pity left for him, she would leave. Melancholy, his legs curled, and he knelt on the floor, cheek resting on the surface, not capable of looking into her direction. Her shadow engulfed his being demonstrating she was not leaving, her soft hands came soon later, to his face, the palms pulling gently his cheek back. When Orm felt the scales of her attire on his face, realised it was true, relived the nights and nights her chambers were an escape, and before he knew, his eyes closed in a sob, his hands implored around her, grasped her hips, clutching closer, supporting his weight on her stomach, where he ultimately cried, tears mixing in the ocean.

Y/N hugged his head, caring, letting him lament all his lost, to assume him that, in the end, there was still hope.

[solange-lol]

not so typical love song - ch. 3/13

Chapter Title: Strawberries & Cigarettes 

Words: 1,741

Art by @lizzybizzyo! <3

[ one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight (coming soon)]

read on ao3

—

Over the course of the next few weeks, Nico and Blue exchanged numerous emails. Whether he was at school, at home, or anywhere in between, Nico did his best to reply as soon as possible. It even ended in his phone being confiscated a few times in a couple different classes. Nico couldn’t help it, though; every time a new email popped into his inbox there was an unfamiliar fluttering in his heart and itching in his hands to reply just to hear what Blue had to say. 

One morning Nico had forgotten to set his alarm, and in his rush to school had no time to read the most recent email from Blue, much less respond to it. He snuck out of lunch and headed for the library and their computers that afternoon. It was a risky task, considering their computers were right there in the open and anybody, including Blue himself, could walk behind him, but it was a risk Nico was willing to take. The service at their school was beyond shitty; Nico really wasn’t in the mood for waiting half an hour just for the email to load. And something about their most recent conversation had Nico’s heart racing. 

He had suggested a John Snow costume for himself before casually asking Blue what he planned on dressing up as. He knew for a fact that the Stoll brothers were once again hosting their famous Halloween party that nearly the entire school showed up to. As long as it wasn’t something stereotypical like a pirate or a ghost, there was a chance Nico might be able to at least scope out who Blue may be. It was no secret that Nico’s curiosity was growing on who was behind all the emails, but Blue was a private person and refused to give out too many details. 

Nico logged in quickly to his gmail and opened the unread notification in his inbox.

From: blue0919@gmail.com

To: bettertoburn@gmail.com

Date: Oct 28 at 6:07 AM

Subject: Re: Halloween Costumes

I’m sure you would look great in a John Snow costume. Not just anyone can pull off that hair, but something tells me that you can. Anyone would be lucky to have you as a trick or treater. 

I’m not dressing up for Halloween though. My mom has this tradition of going to the Halloween open mic night at some bar, which leaves me stuck at home handing out candy. (Don’t worry, I still have pumpkin sweater to wear for the occasion. It’s the ugliest thing you’ll probably ever see.) 

For me, Halloween is all about the Oreos with the orange frosting in the middle. I’m not usually one to indulge in a lot of sweets, but chocolate is my downfall. And those Halloween edition Oreos are a personal favorite of mine.

-Blue

While Nico was disappointed to not get any more of a lead on who Blue was, he still felt himself smiling at the Oreo obsession. 

He typed out a response as quickly as he could, hoping to still be able to make it back to lunch so he could eat before the period was over.

From: bettertoburn@gmail.com

To: blue0919@gmail.com

Date: Oct 28 at 12:37 PM

Subject: Re: Halloween Costumes

It’s unfortunate that you’re not dressing up, I feel like you would be someone to come up with a witty costume but it’s actually GOOD. (i.e. not the ‘holy cow’ costume I did with my friend a few years back with involved cow onesies and angel wings and halos. Never again.) At least you aren't crushing that childhood trick or treater spirit with that pumpkin sweater, which I hope one day I get to see.

And you’re not wrong about the Oreos. I hope whichever party I’m being dragged along to this weekend has them because they are freaking delicious. 

-Angel

He attached a gif of cartoon pumpkins floating down onto an Oreo cookie that was already covered in orange frosting. Just as Nico hit send, Mr. Brunner wheeled up to him.

“Hey, Nico!” Mr. Brunner said. “How are you? You’re smiling pretty big, so there must be something good going on!”

“Oh, um,” Nico cleared his throat as he quickly put the computer to sleep. “Nothing crazy. Just checking grades. I got an A on my English paper.” He actually got a B+, but he needed a coverup quick before Mr. Brunner asked any more questions. 

Thankfully, it worked. “Oh, great job!” Mr. Brunner said, placing his hand on Nico’s shoulder. “I’m glad to see you’ve been pretty happy these past few weeks.”

Nico forced a laugh. “Uh, yep. Just having a good month.”

“Good, good.” 

There was a few seconds of silence before Nico spoke again. “Anyway, uh, I need to get back to lunch. Have a good day, sir.” He turned quickly, barely catching Mr. Brunner raising an eyebrow at the formal tone. He nearly ran straight into Octavian as he rushed out the library, who just gave him a dirty look, which Nico ignored.

“Where have you been?” Reyna asked once he reaches the courtyard. The weather was nice today, not too cold, unlike the past days that month, so the school allowed students to eat outside if they chose. 

Nico dropped down in the seat next to her. “Library. Just checking grades.”

Reyna nodded, clearly not completely believing him. “Here are your burnt tots because you have horrible taste,” she said, thankfully dropping the subject and also said tater tots onto Nico’s tray.

Nico nodded in thanks, before picking the not-quite-ripe banana off his tray. “And here is your green banana because you like disgusting things,” he shot back as he handed it to her. Reyna only hummed in agreement.

Piper looked between the two of them, brow furrowed.. “You guys are weird.”

“You get used to it after a while,” Jason sighed next to them.

They continued to chatter as Will, Cecil, Lou Ellen, and the Stoll brothers slid onto the other two empty benches around their table. Nico ripped open a pack of Oreos that he had brought, which earned him a small lecture from Piper about eating dessert before he had lunch.

“Am I right, Will?” she asked the boy across the table once she’s finished.

Will just shrugged and nodded. “Sure.”

“Thank you.”

As Piper went back to her conversation with Jason and Reyna about halloween costumes, Will nudged his hand. Surprised, Nico looked up at him.

“Oreos,” Will smiled. “I love those. Halloween ones are the best.”

Nico laughed shakily, but it felt like his heart had just leapt to his throat. “Yeah, though good luck trying to get any of mine this time. I don’t give up that easy,” he managed.

“You’re in luck then,” Will said with a grin as he reached into his back pocket “—because I brought my own.” He displayed a package nearly identical to the one Nico was holding, but with orange filling rather than the classic white cream ones in Nico’s hand.

He laughed with Will, but his mind was racing. 

Did he just find Blue? 

Was is possible that he would find Blue so early on? They had only been talking for about a month, there was no way Blue would drop it easily.

And yet, part of him could hear Will’s voice echoed in some of the emails he’s received. He can imagine Will laughing at his awkward childhood stories, or blushing as he types out one of his own. They’re goofy, fun messages while still being reserved. It would fit for Will.

“Nico? Nico—” Piper waves her hand in his face, zapping him from his trance and tearing his gaze away from Will who, thankfully, was too wrapped up in a conversation with Cecil to notice him staring. “Hello? Anybody home? What’s gotten into you?” 

“Nothing, sorry. Just tired. Uh, what’s going on?” He blinked a few times, focusing back on Piper. Her brow was furrowed, but she didn’t say anything.

“Just planning the Halloween party,” Travis said from across the table, high-fiving his brother. “Our mom’s out of town for the week again, so we’re going full swing. Everybody’s invited!”

Nico just smiled at the enthusiasm. The Halloween party had been tradition since their freshman year, and it was only getting bigger as they got older. Being surrounded by a bunch of drunk kids wasn’t usually Nico’s choice of event, but this was the only party he ever really attended, so he could stand it. Once a year, at least.

“You are going, right?” Will asked. “Because I couldn’t do karaoke alone.” Nico was surprised that Will was asking him. Maybe deep down he knew something too. 

“Yeah,” Nico smiled. “Yeah, I’m going.”

---

Nico found himself watching Will in their environmental science class. It’s last period, the only class they had together. Will sat two rows over from him, and further in the back while Will sits up close to the teachers desk. 

Blue’s most recent email, which he received shortly at his lunch, plays in his head. But this time, he hears it all in Will’s voice. 

From: blue0919@gmail.com

To: bettertoburn@gmail.com

Date: Oct 28 at 1:21 PM

Subject: Re: Halloween Costumes

I’m glad to see we are in agreement about the Oreos, that would have been a dealbreaker for me.

On a totally different, non-cookie related note: is it weird that I have no idea what you look like but I can’t stop thinking about kissing you?

-Blue

Nico sucked in a breath, hearing those words over and over again, the test in front of him forgotten. Instead, he watched as Will’s curls bounce when he leaned forward, and Nico could just barely see a glimpse of his pink tongue dart from between his lips for just a second as he concentrated. He watched freckled, tan skin that lead from his neck and under his shirt, down his arms all the way to his palms. They danced like stars as Will scribbled in another answer.

“Nico,” the teacher called, and Nico quickly looked over to him. “Eyes on your own paper.” 

He’s about to look away when Will turned around and time seemed to stop for a moment. Will flashed a soft smile and shook his head at him. Nico smiled and rolled his eyes back, but inside, it felt like he might explode.

[geminicblue]

20 Galaxies: Legend in the Sky Chapter 4

(fire brushes by Amaranth Dreams - their website doesn’t seem to be working anymore)

Ru knew her brother could hear the shrill sound when he dropped the empty ravioli can and ran to the living room with her. The two of them scrambled over the top of the small sofa and crouched behind the backrest, raising their heads just enough to see what was in the kitchen. There was nothing yet, but the scratchy squealing was louder than ever.

Gravity changed course. Every tile in the room clattered, the air in the house pulled, drained towards the kitchen light. Then, a flash -- but not a flash of light. Ru's eyes struggled to focus. It was glowing, but everything it touched changed color instead of lit up. It was as if she was looking at a film negative of the room. Her own skin flushed sickly blue, the shadows of the furniture turned white.

There was something solid in the kitchen when it faded. Two shapes, hovering just below the ceiling. One was gray and long, shaped like a thin tornado, the other looked like a burnt marshmallow. Cat eyes surveyed the kitchen, narrow slit pupils with glowing violet and green irises. The creatures had catlike mouths as well, crinkled skin like the surfaces of a dried lake, and something tilted above the tops of their bodies. A ring, a cold halo.

"A windsock and a marshmallow," Jayson murmured. "Too bad we're dreaming. I could have sold this as one of the legends."

Was there a legend already like it? No, it had to be a dream, Ru agreed silently, but the thought didn't make her feel any better. Most of her concentration went into keeping her breathing quiet and slow. She was trembling, and she wasn't sure if it was fear or because the room felt so cold. She wanted to wake up and get a thicker blanket.

The gray creature opened its mouth.

The sound tore into Ru's ears like the scream of a jetliner. She and Jayson both hunched and clapped their hands over their ears, but it did nothing to ease the pain. Each syllable the creature pronounced sent a rush of searing needles stabbing through her veins. Her heart struggled to find its own rhythm again, struggled to work at all, as if it were pumping wet cement. Jayson writhed beside her, his face contorted and wet with tears. She barely noticed the creature had spoken at a normal volume.

The negative light flashed again, and the voice stopped. She sat in a limp ball, stifling sobs. If this was a dream, it was the worst nightmare she'd ever had. She only dared to move again when she heard a human voice. A woman.

"That should take care of it."

Ru and Jayson exchanged glances. Jayson's dark eyes were full of surprise and hurt, but otherwise his face was calm. He peered over the top of the couch again. With all effort to contain her terror, her mind screaming that it was just a dream, Ru eased herself back into a kneel.

Humans stood in place of the floating creatures. One was a pale, shapely woman with silver hair, so shiny it was almost metallic. Split white bangs framed her young face. The other was a tall, square man with hair that looked like oil pouring from the back of his head. He had beady eyes, a vivid enough shade of green Ru to see a good thirty or forty feet away, and a hard face she couldn't imagine with a smile. Both were dressed in tight black clothing and armor that reminded Ru of SWAT uniforms. The woman wore a belt of square silver plates on her hips.

The woman took in the kitchen with narrow eyes, eyes too similar to the form she'd taken a few moments earlier. The way the man followed her every tiny footstep made Ru think she was in charge. He winced slightly when he spoke to her. "Are you sure they're here? It looks empty."

"Maybe they're aliens," Jayson said.

Ru jumped at the sound of his plain-spoken voice. The intruders had to have heard him. Clearly he'd forgotten what pain a simple dream could put him through. "Get down!" she hissed. "They'll see you!"

Before the last word fell from her lips, a shadow fell over them. Ru shrieked and nearly slipped off the couch. The woman, in less than half a second, had crossed that thirty feet of space without a footstep. Jayson's eyes widened, but he stayed upright, even showing a hint of defiance. The woman's expression, however, softened into an excited smile. "Crowe, look! Children. How cute!"

Jayson became more than defiant now, indignant. Ru almost relaxed, but when Crowe joined his partner, she understood letting her guard down was a very bad idea. His face took on all the fierce twisting it had when he was the marshmallow creature. He was also much bigger than she first thought, almost twice her height. His scorn was directed at the woman, though. "Sylph. Sylph!" He reached for her shoulder, then thought better of touching her and waved his hand in front of her face. "This could be a trap."

"Why are they afraid of us?" Sylph wondered absently.

"It is the unawakened planet."

Jayson barked a laugh. "Please. I'm not afraid of you."

Ru watched her brother out of the corner of her eye and tried to resist curling into a ball again. It didn't seem like he was being very smart, but it was a dream. Wasn't it? Ru wasn't so sure anymore. She tried everything to wake herself up. She purposely scrambled her thoughts. She pinched her own arm. She tried falling asleep, as impossible as that seemed.

"No?" Sylph said.

Jayson tipped the bill of his cap up. "I've had scarier dreams than this."

The strange woman looked on the verge of a laughing fit. "Dreams?"

"Yeah." Jayson crossed his arms. "You can't be real. Giant living windsocks and marshmallows -- I won't even tell you what's wrong with that -- can't turn into people."

"Jayson, let the windsock people turn into whatever they want!" Ru squeaked.

A threatening look flashed across Crowe's face. Jayson made a mistake, Ru realized, mentioning he'd seen the alien forms of the intruders. She felt queasy with terror. Crowe forced Sylph aside and held his hand in an upturned claw, straining as if he was trying to lift a heavy door. "I don't care what they are," he growled. "They've seen too much."

Green fire burst from his palm. The sickly flames forced into a ball. There was no smoke, but a distinct stench filled the room and froze Ru in place. She felt cold and hollow, like the entire universe had been emptied except for her. Sylph stood calmly aside. She would not step in.

It's a dream, Ru thought again. The words were as empty as Crowe's flames. The fire did nothing to his gloves, but as the fireball grew it stung Ru's skin like a bad sunburn. She couldn't back away, she'd forgotten how. The green light of the fire filled the room, turning the quaint garden wallpaper into a toxic wasteland. Then the light went cyan, then blue. The flames lashed out, eager to be released, to consume.

The blue light. It wasn't coming from the flames. It was shining behind Sylph.

"Look out!" Sylph shrieked. Crowe had just enough time to turn his head.

A brilliant torrent of blue-white light blasted out of the kitchen. Wind roared through the house. The floor rumbled as if a train was passing through. Papers fluttered into the air. That horrible rasping voice tore from Crowe's throat in an agonized scream, but its effects were nullified by the sound of the light. The alien man became a silhouette as the torrent ripped into him. He was shredded, faded as he lost form. For a moment, Ru thought she saw a bird, a crow flapping its wings before it winked out of sight.

The light passed over everything else without harming it. It packed into a solid point, a ball that shined like the sun, only blue. Four delicate beams formed a cross from its center. Soft tendrils of cerulean flame flowed around its edges.

When Ru finally realized what she was looking at, her fears tripled. If the aliens didn't fry her, she and Jayson would be lost to the Blue Star.

Sylph's arms were raised defensively, her teeth bared. "What are you doing here?"

"Leave immediately, or you will share the same fate as your guard."

Ru felt fear momentarily give way to surprise. The Star's voice was sweet and clear. It had crystalline ends to its words, the sound of wind chimes in a tender breeze. Most legends did not have the Star speak, but those that did told of its ferocious, howling voice, all the thunder of a storm contained in a few words. Maybe this wasn't the Blue Star, but Ru couldn't think of anything else it would be.

Sylph gaped at the Star, then at Ru and Jayson, and her expression changed several times in a few seconds. Confusion, realization, and a deadly glare aimed squarely at the two children. Ru wanted to wither up at that. Then the negative light flashed again, and Sylph was gone.

They sat absolutely still. Ru heard Jayson's breathing, soft and even, but he was shaking.

Here they were, facing a legend. The very symbol of their town and the unknown, the Blue Star. It was looking at them. Ru didn't know how she could tell, it didn't have a face, but she knew.

"Please do not fear me," it chimed. "Though many have vanished before me, I will bring you no harm."

There was something in its voice that made the crystalline tones sound like a mobile, the way the fire flickered gently around its edges brought heaviness to Ru's mind. She set her head on the backrest of the couch, and found the dreamless sleep she was looking for.

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[anousiemay]

The Angel & The Devil Ch. 2  Crushed Flowers

Reflecting on the past few weeks leaves Jason feeling hopeless. He had to do something to make up for what he did. Maybe some ice-cream and flowers could be the first stepping stone to setting things right. Imma just spam the whole fic but if anyone does enjoy please don’t be afraid to send requests for Jason x reader too!! Poor Jaybird :C ----- Just as Red Hood fired the second shot, Guardian whipped one of her wings up to cover her face and knock her attacker backwards. The man recovered quickly and grabbed his second pistol, clicking the safety off and firing at her wings now covering her shocked figure.

What the fuck was going on?

"Red, what the fuck are you doing?" She hollered from behind her wings. The bullet in her leg was different to the ones he usually used. Firstly, they weren't fakes and secondly, they were painted red instead of yellow. It was making her feel woozy. Guardian had to move, staying still would give Red time to move closer and whatever was in these bullets was also weakening her wings usual durability. Carefully standing and grunting in pain, Guardian leapt forward at the man. Pinning him down by the waist and using her wings to pin his wrists.

"Red, I don't know what the fuck is going on, but you need to stop this!"

"Sorry, Angel. No can do." He responded before lifting his legs up then around Anita's body and throwing her to the floor. Red Hood then grabbed one of his guns and shot Anita in the shoulder blade, she cried in pain and flung him back with a kick. She had to get out of there. Spreading her wings, Anita propelled herself up and out of the warehouse door. Red Hood shooting at her fleeing figure and nagged a bullet in her back. Guardian flew far from the warehouse, tears streaming down her face and black dots dancing in her eyes. She pressed the gold symbol on her chest and landed hard on the roof of her apartment building about 10 clicks from the warehouse. Later, even as Batman placed her on the gurney in the Bat Cave, all Anita could think of was Jason.

Guardian's partner, Anita's lover, had shot her. The Red Hood; Jason Peter Todd, had tried to kill her.

- - - Shaking his head, Jason tried to clear his head of the fear in Anita’s eyes as he shot her in the shoulder. He was right, hydrofluoric acid tore through her healing factor and wings like a shredder with paper. But had it been worth it? Scaring his girlfriend to death just to get in Black Masks good graces? He remembered the man clapping his hand on Jason’s leathered shoulder, smiling at The Red Hood “I see you’ve made your point, Mr. Hood. Welcome to the club.” Then he had been knocked over the head and woke up half naked in a fancy bedroom. Sure, Black Mask was now a mumbling, brain-dead pile in Gotham Hospital but Jason didn’t want to even think of Anita’s condition after their short fight. “Fuck me, what have I done?” Jason mumbled as he turned the shower faucet off, stepping out and drying his body. He should’ve contacted her the moment they got out of Black Mask’s HQ; he shouldn’t have gone to Qurac right away. ‘Shoulda, coulda, woulda’ Jason thought. He’d just have to fix things, buy her some flowers, that Banana Split from Freddie’s. He’d apologize and do anything. If she didn’t throw him halfway across the state. Slipping into a pair of black jeans and grey turtleneck sweater, Jason walked out the bathroom. Bizarro had surprisingly gotten past the tutorial and was now asking the merchant for his wares. “Why can’t me buy?” Bizarro asked as Jason slipped on a leather jacket then grabbed his motorbike keys and phone. “You need to do some quests, big guy. Head to the black robed guy on your left, he’ll get you started.” “Thank Red Him.” “You’re welcome. Artemis, I’m going out!” Artemis emerged from her room then, hair no longer in its ponytail and trailing after her tall figure. She too, had slipped into some comfy clothes. Wait, were they his? “That’s fine, I will most likely depart later and buy some clothing for myself. I’ll take Bizarro with me.” She stated as she joined Bizarro on the couch. “Cool, there’s a credit card taped under the microwave.” “Good luck with your Angel.” Jason was stunned into silence then, but quickly recovered with a weak laugh and a nod. “Thanks, I’ll need it.” Oh boy was that an understatement. - - - It was a 10-minute drive to Scoops & Hoops, the traffic had been less than usual, and Jason couldn’t help but thank the traffic Gods for this opening. The small bell above the gelateria’s door tinkled as the tall man walked in. He smiled at the owner, Freddie, who greeted him with a toothy, albeit cavity filled, grin. “Jason!” He sung and a few of the female workers there perked their heads up to greet him with soft giggles. “Hi, Freddie. You still got your famous Banana Split for me?” Jason asked, leaning against the pastel coloured counter. The older man nodded enthusiastically, “Getting one for that lovely girl of yours?” He said just loud enough for the giggling girls to hear, their heads dipping back to their tubs of ice cream in shame. Jason winced slightly, he wasn’t quite sure if Anita wanted to be his anymore, but he had to try. “Of course, I lost a bet and I owe her one. Do you think you could write a little message too?” Freddie lifted his head up, an eyebrow arched high on his glistening forehead. “Oh no. Did you two have a fight?” Jason’s eyes widened in shock, was it that obvious? “Uh, how didja tell?” The other man laughed at Jason’s bewildered expression, almost as though he had asked him a stupid question. “Jason, son. As a man whose dealt with a woman’s scorn let me tell you it leaves a mark you can’t miss. Especially one like your Anita. I’m amazed you’re in one piece.” Jason huffed out a laugh then, he was pretty amazed too. “How did you make them stop scorning at you?” “Well, there’s no one way, son. It depends what happened and on the person. You two have been together for what, almost a year? It hurts much more when your partner does something stupid 6 years into a relationship than 2 months. But a lot of the time. You must be patient but not passive.” “Like, let her know I’m there for her?” “Exactly! Think about a time you’ve been furious at someone. How long did it take you to come around?” Bruce. Jason instantly thought of Bruce and grimaced. “A while.” “Well, we’ll just have to hope Anita’s nothing like you in that regard. Now, what didja want me to write on this your banana?” Jason couldn’t help but feel sick at the thought of Anita never forgiving him. He was so screwed. “Maybe, ‘I love you’?” - - - 8 hours later, Red Hood stood on top of Gotham Courthouse with a medium tub of Freddie’s famous Banana Split in his right hand and a bunch of flowers in his left. If any criminal were to spot him now, his reputation as the bad one out of the Bat Bunch would be tarnished. But reputation was the last thing on Red’s mind. He had contacted Guardian a few hours prior, asking them to meet and hopefully hash things out. She was 13 minutes late and he was sure the ice cream was melting. He knew he should’ve bought dry ice. The sky was full of clouds; it’d be a quiet patrol tonight for the rest of the family. Red just hoped she’d come. Just as Red was about to give up, there was a shadow landing on his helmet, looking up he couldn’t help but smile under his helmet. There Guardian floated, the moonlight giving her a soft glow and halo. “Beautiful.” He mumbled as she gracefully landed on the roof. Her wings ruffled slightly, and she ran a hand through her auburn hair, green eyes surveying the area before facing him. “What is all this?” She asked, motioning to Red Hood’s full hands. The man snapped out of his daze and began rambling. “Well I got you that Banana Split I owe you and some flowers. The ones in our kitchen were dying and I know how much you love them. The chrysanthemums mean loyalty, the Jasmine is beauty, lilies stand for humility and the roses…well. They mean I love you.” Guardian walked up and took the bouquet from Red Hood’s grasp, taking off her mask she breathed in their scent and smiled softly. She seemed lost in them and Jason thought briefly that he had rectified his mistake. Taking a step closer he nudged her with the tub. “If you want, we can take this back and eat it together?” Anita jumped back, as though lightning had struck her. The smile was gone, and a frown sat on her features instead. “Together? Like partners?” “Like lovers.” Jason clarified, taking off his helmet with his free hand. Anita scoffed, plucking a petal from a rose, “I must’ve missed the part in the relationship handbook where you put your own fucking girlfriend into critical condition.” “You-It was that bad?” Jason knees felt weak, no she couldn’t be serious. He didn’t even lace them with a lot of acid. "You really didn't think shooting me with my weakness, which by the way I didn't even know existed, wouldn't hurt me? Look at this, Jason. Look." Lifting her white Kevlar top Jason could see where the acid had left long, deep scars on her upper shoulder and lower back, his mouthed dropped open. “Yeah, that was my expression too when I saw them. Alfred told me if I’d have arrived any later to the Bat Cave that I could’ve lost all feeling in my kneecap.” “I-I swear Angel, I didn’t think-“ “Exactly, you didn’t think about the consequences. Instead you went ahead and almost killed me!” Anita’s wings spread wide, the moonlight making them seem bigger than they really were. She was trying to intimidate him. “I would never do that. I wouldn’t of if I knew…” “Then why? Why did you lie!?” “To protect you.” “Protect me!? Jason, you shot me! Shot me! Just so you could get in bed with Black Mask and make a new fucking team without me.” The flowers in Anita’s hand were becoming crumpled from how tight she was holding them, her body had never felt so hot, mind so frazzled. “That’s not- “Jason could feel her slipping from him, but damnit she wouldn’t let him get a word in. “I saw you land in Gotham today, Jay. You looked pretty happy with the Superman clone and Amazon. Glad it was so easy to replace me. But you wanna know what hurt more than being shot, replaced and lied to? The fact that you confided your crazy plan to the man you had trust issues with for YEARS, but not to your own girlfriend.” “Angel-“ “How many times have I rushed to your aid in meetings? How many times have I patched you up way before I put on this suit? How much have we gone through together for you to doubt my ability to be a hero? I can’t help but wonder if you even love me if it was so easy to turn me into a scapegoat.”

"Of course, I love you! Please, Anita, please just listen." God Jason had never felt so terrible, his ears were ringing, and he wanted so desperately to hold her.

Tears were spilling down both their faces and Anita’s booming voice was now soft and weak with her final question; "Then why didn’t we fight him together, Jay?" Jason didn’t know what to say, nothing he said would be right. But it wasn’t about being right, it was about the truth. Anita was right: Jason had underestimated her; he had hurt her. Unsatisfied with his sudden quietness, Anita shoved the flowers back at Jason who caught them expertly. "I can’t forgive you, Jay. You broke my heart… Here, I won't be needing this." Reaching into her utility belt, Guardian handed Red Hood the binoculars he gifted her after her first mission. It was his way of saying they were partners, The Angel & The Devil.

Jason could feel his throat tightening, he had to fix this. But his voice came out as a whimper, "Anita, please. Let's just talk this out." "No, Jason. I think we're done talking. Give those to your Amazon friend, you seem to trust her more than me." Then Guardian slipped back on her mask and flew off into the night, leaving Jason heartbroken with melting ice cream and crushed flowers.