girl pilot

The series of my headcanon Clark x Battinson. I just want them to be happy. イマジナリークラブルまとめ。

--------Long Series----------------------------------------

Lost and Found

Lego-Brainwashing 1 Lego-Brainwashing 2

Hope: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Wish

The Corn Field: Part 1 Part2 Part3 Part4 Part5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part9 Part 9.5 Part 10

Reaching Out: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 3.5 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Epilogue 1 Epilogue 2

☀️↔︎🦇(Switch) : Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Extra

Here: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 (coming soon)

--------Short comics----------------------------------------

Training A Secret Date Safe Sex only Then and Now One day the Unlocked Door Portrait 1 Portrait 2 Carrots Hungry boy A lot of Cookies The Hands of the Sun Let Me Go Home Dancing tree 1 Dancing tree 2 Blow a kiss Valentine's night Superhearing texting No treat, no party Cozy bath Aurora Solar Eclipse First Fight Don't Go Take Care Hopeless City with a Hope The Hangman Happy Clark, Happy Bruce Small but Mighty Domestic supes Happy Thanksgiving Got You Sharing is loving Clark's bday 2025 Clark's bday 2025 (part 2) Missed you A good friend, Martinez Fly Together Then and Now (Clark version) This is your home Bruce, is that you? Japan trip

“Birth to My Creation” from FRANKENSTEIN: The Musical

spring

“mother” is the first word the prince learns on the day of his birth. before he learns to paint flowers on the canvas of the earth with a touch of his hand, before he meets his immortal siblings, before he even learns his own name, he learns “mother.”

mind mother now, peeta. mother knows best, peeta. you make me sad when you don’t listen, peeta. listen, peeta. always stay beside mother, peeta. four steps away is fine. but eight is too many.

but it’s hard. it’s almost impossible. his mother with her flaxen hair in tight, wheat sheaf braids may be persistent as the gradual growth of crops, but his father is the lord of the sky, from the bright peak of the globe that is olympus to the edge of the tempting horizon his mother will never let him chase. the verdancy of springtime isn’t meant to be contained to neat seed rows.

he wants to sprawl ungainly over the meadow and never mind the bees that come to sting him. he wants to catch a thunderstorm on his tongue and get lightning stuck in his hair. he wants to be the god of spring. not horticulture.

“I’m grown, mother,” he says, touching up a patch of dandelions. “I’ve been grown for going on two centuries.”

“don’t make those, peeta,” she says, dismissively ignoring the plea, wilting his handiwork with a flick of her wrist. “they’re weeds.”

but once her back is turned, he gets down in the dirt and makes the dandelions sprout up anew, more yellow and rampant than before.

summer

mother wants him to wed a wood nymph.

she makes no secret of this fact to his father, and they fight, they always fight. mother leaves the palace in a fury and he plods behind her wearily.

the sky is pale and bright. the air is sticky and heavy. and young mortals play in the rivers and pools of the forest. they throw their jewelry and garments into the grass and throw their bodies into the water. they come up coughing. the float, naked to the sunlight, and their skin gets burnt and they pay no mind. they are hedonism and limbs and laughter. he envies them.

the pit in his stomach yawns wide in the same instant as a pit in the ground yawns beneath his feet.

icy bright eyes gleam up at him. he stares at the angular face and the bony hand extending invitingly to him and feels a shiver lick his spine. involuntarily he reaches out. hesitates for a second. and in that second the hand takes and pulls.

he shouts once as he plummets down. he sees his mother at the mouth of the abyss. she screams for him and in that moment he almost loves her. but the slender arm around his waist is strong as steel and there is no escaping. black feathers fly in his face. the scent of ash and jasmine is in his nose as the sky becomes a pool. then a puddle. a coin. a star. night.

he tumbles from the chariot with its coal black horses into a garden of pomegranate trees. birds sing haunting songs. a stream flows sparkling and cold around the lawns, and up by the black marble palace. the queen of the dead steps down from her mount and approaches him cautiously. she is small, dark, wears a cloak like a raven’s wings.

“I apologize” she says pleasantly. “I startled you.”

“you kidnapped me!” he shouts.

“kidnapped you? I did no such thing! your father promised you to me.”

“as what? your gardener?” he gets to his feet and rubs his bare arms. it’s so cold here. how does anything grow?

the queen of the dead smiles at him. eager. innocent. “you are to be my husband.” at his mouth hanging agape, her smile falters. “did - did no one tell you?”

autumn

he stands with his arms out as the cold, cold winds of the underworld bite through him. he smiles and tilts his head back to savor the savage feeling.

it’s harvest time. the queen has her dark hair threaded with pearly flowers. spider-silk delicate. spun by his hands.

she perches on her toes to gather pomegranates. red geodes that bear tiny rubies within. she brings a handful to her mouth and her lips drip like love. he catches her by the hand and devours the taste amid her sighs and half laughs at his enthusiasm.

she tried to let him go when she learned he wasn’t here by his consent. she led him by the hand to the river and the ferryman and paid for his way back.

“your father lied to me, and I have no right to keep you here” she said. but where he would have expected self pity there was none. there was only apology. and longing.

and at the idea of going back to mother —

mind mother, stay by mother, listen to mother, peeta, my peeta, my perfect baby boy

— he stays of his own volition. the queen is startled. and overjoyed.

“I have been too long without the sun” she tells him.

“but there is freedom under the moon” he tells her.

she burdened him with no expectations of loving her, but it came to him as easy as breathing. and if he didn’t know that mortal myths about invisible strings of fate were pretty fantasies, he would believe himself bound to her since the beginning of everything.

she is the meadow with soft petals opening to his touch, and she is the taste of a thunderstorm on his tongue, and she is things he never knew he wanted. her eyes are frost, but her heart is all fire, and he wants to burn.

funny. the land of the dead is the first place he feels alive.

winter

mother is unhappy. an understatement really.

mother rages and razes and refuses to let things grow. and mother cries and wails and pleads. and mother threatens. mother marches down to the obsidian gates and demands that he come home.

she presses her sallow face to the bars and says she’ll turn the wheat to dust if he doesn’t. she’ll shrivel up fruit trees and riverbeds and hungry bellies. she’ll pack the boat of the dead so full that even his precious queen won’t be able to find room for all of them.

he snarls at that, like the lion cubs she’d never let him romp with. his wife is a kinder provider than his mother will ever be — and she’d welcome the souls, every one, into her forests of silver willows and winter stars.

“but she won’t have to” he says. vines snake around the gates. around his mother’s wrists. she blanches white as the snows she’s promised to torment the people of earth with.

“you forget, mother” he says. “that I am more powerful than you. and I always have been.”

he’ll make next year’s crop more bountiful than she ever dared. grain for bread growing on arid ground. trees sprouting in streets. his cousin did it with an olive tree. he’ll do it with apples and pears. and dandelions. fields of them. those hopeful weeds mother hated. his bride loves them best. of course.

he is bored of this argument. katniss will be waiting up for him. the prince of new life and the queen of the next. it shouldn’t work. but nothing has ever felt so right. and real.

there’s no competition.

“mind mother, peeta” comes the perpetual whine.

he allows her one quiet, weary smile. allows the restraints to wither and release her. steps back from the gate. back down the diamond dusted paths of the underworld.

“no” he tells her.

and sets himself free.

🌿 "a badly burned girl with no wings. with no fire. and no sister." 🌿

that damn meadow (inspired by “wedded” by frederic leighton under the cut)

“I hope you’re taking artistic liberties with that,” I tease without opening my eyes.

I expect a sarcastic, flirtatious comment back—something about how my matted hair look is, in fact, “deeply seductive”—and I’m startled when he answers in a hollow undertone.

“I’m not drawing you.”