#ink consequential

[lesbianmarrow]

ppl recommending the flash comics with no carmine infantino......ppl recommending superman comics with no louise simonson......its rough out here

[slytherinslut0]

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Three- Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Thèos fucktoy. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: 18+, PURE SMUT, Sub!Reader, Dom!Mattheo, Oral Sex (M Rec), Throat Fucking, Toxic Behaviour, Blackmail, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, Humiliation, Manipulation, Gagging, Spitting, DubCon, CNC.

**here’s: one, two, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen & twenty.

As you approached the door of the familiar private classroom, a subtle sense of unease gnawed at the edges of your confidence.

Admittedly you got lost in the depths of your homework after dinner, becoming absorbed in the swirls of ink on your parchment, diligently crafting your Astronomy essay due in a mere three weeks from now. The minutes seemingly slipped away, and you realized you were running late for today's tutoring session, the devastating consequence of your intense focus on your academic obligations.

However, considering Mattheo's habitual tardiness--one of which he has mastered as well as any given art form--you assumed your delay wouldn't be at all consequential, and would most likely even go unnoticed. So without really thinking twice about it, you gently pushed open the door, expecting the room to be empty, the usual silence welcoming you as you stepped inside.

But then, to your astonishment, the room was not vacant. There he was, Mattheo Riddle, perched on the chair with an air of casual authority. His long legs were stretched out before him, feet confidently resting on the desk's edge, displaying a newfound confidence that sent a shiver down your spine. His arms were folded, his posture exuding an almost predatory assurance. His eyes, dark as the night and twice as intense, followed your every move as you stepped inside. The atmosphere crackled with tension, the weight of his gaze pressing upon you.

You closed the door with a deliberate slowness, the soft click echoing through the room like a gunshot in the silence, and his eyes locked onto yours, silently challenging you.

"Well, well, look who finally decided to show up." He taunted, his voice laced with a poisonous charm. The room seemed to shrink in the wake of his suffocating arrogance. "Guess Ravenclaws little good girl isn't so perfect after all...who would have guessed."

You rolled your eyes, a flush of embarrassment staining your cheeks as you awkwardly dropped your gaze to the floor. The weight of being late for the first time in your life was almost palpable, but you made an effort to play it off, attempting to regain your composure despite the lingering discomfort.

"Save the mind games for someone who's willing to play, Riddle," you said, slowly making your way toward him. "You have no right to talk, you're late every single week."

"Yeah but I'm not the one who turns into a sobbing mess over a less-than-perfect grade," Mattheo sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. "I don't have mental breakdowns just because I'm not the class's golden child in everything, and I'm definitely not the one who's about to graduate in merely a few months while still a fucking virgin-"

Your jaw dropped in astonishment at his audacity, a surge of indignation propelling you to slam your bag down on the desk in front of him. The force of your action knocked his feet off the desk, abruptly interrupting whatever sentence he had intended to finish, leaving him silenced in disbelief.

"At least I'm going to fucking graduate without needing someone to hold my hand like a child." You hissed, the words slipping past your teeth before you even had a chance to process them. "For someone who needs me so much, you sure don't act like you appreciate my help."

Mattheo's eyes darkened, a storm of arrogance and anger swirling in their depths, transforming his usual stoic demeanor into a deep scowl etched across his face. He rose from his seat, his tall frame looming over you, casting a shadow that seemed to stretch across the room.

"You think I need you, Raven?" He purred, wetting his lips. "You really think that?"

You steeled your jaw, strengthening your stance, ignoring the fact that your fingers were trembling like leaves in the autumn wind.

"Where would you be without me, Riddle?" You whispered, kinking your neck back to catch his dark, hungry eyes. "How many tutors did you have before me? How many other students tried to help you but couldn't stand your arrogant, no-fucks-given attitude, hm?"

Your words draped the air with a palpable gravity, silencing Mattheo completely--an unprecedented reaction, given his usual quick retorts. The revelation ignited a fierce ember within you, fueling your resolve and lending a sharp edge to your words, as if each syllable carried the weight of your determination.

"That's what I thought..." your voice was low, reverberating as a mere whisper in the air, something flickering behind Mattheo's eyes that made your lips curl into a devilish smirk. "You know that without me, you'd be here forever...maybe you've managed to manipulate me into being your little toy, but that doesn't change the truth about this whole thing...you need me, Riddle, you fucking need me..."

Mattheo blinked, the ensuing silence lingering for what felt like a painful fucking eternity--time seemed to come to a standstill, everything around you fading into insignificance, leaving just you and the cunning, arrogant boy with tousled hair in your presence.

When he finally spoke, You couldn't shake the sinking feeling in your stomach, understanding all too well that his words were laced with an arrogant twist, a prelude to something manipulative and cunning yet to unfold.

"You're right," he finally said, stepping closer. "I do need you,"

His voice dipped into a low, sinister register, and the corners of his lips curled into a sadistic smile, sending a chill down your spine.

"I need you to watch your fucking mouth," the touch of his fingers on your arm nearly made you jump, his hand grazing up and over your shoulder. "I need you on your knees begging for my forgiveness," the pads of his fingers grazed your collarbone, and before you could even comprehend it, his large hand clasped around your throat, the other finding the small of your back as he pushed you up against the desk. "And then, I need you swallowing my fucking cum like the good little whore I know you are."

Without wasting a single second of time his plush lips attacked yours, his tongue delving past your teeth with a passionate urgency. You were painfully aware of Mattheo's manipulative tactics, understanding that he was using your vulnerability to his advantage, and the rational part of your mind screamed warnings at you, reminding you of the toxicity in his actions.

Yet, beneath the surface; as his hands roamed your curves, his tongue explored your mouth; an unsettling, exhilarating feeling lingered, a strange sort of affection for the very dominance that should have repelled you.

The awareness of his exploitation only intensified the rush, a twisted form of affection blossoming amidst the wrongness of it all. It was as if the knowledge of being used had become entangled with your desires, forming a paradoxical bond that you couldn't sever. In the midst of the moral turmoil, a dark, irresistible thrill coursed through your veins, leaving you helplessly drawn to the very thing you should have despised.

"You've been a very naughty girl, Raven..." his lips fell to your jawline, hands groping your curves, bunching the fabric of your uniform within his battered fists. "You've been swearing far too much...you were late...and now you want to act like you have power over me?" When he sunk his teeth into your earlobe, you yelped, flinching as he tightened his grip on your hips. "Don't get it twisted, princess...I hold the fucking power here...look at what I do to you..."

Your entire body was tingling, your fingers latching onto the fabric of his white button up dress shirt for dear fucking life.

"Mattheo-"

His lips fell lower, rough hands gripping your hips and shoving your ass back onto the desk behind you, parting your legs on either side of his strong body as he pulled you against him.

"This is what I do to good girls like you...I turn them into naughty little whores..." he purred, licking a flat line up the side of your throat, your lids involuntary fluttering shut at the breathtaking sensation. "...naughty little whores who take my cock and swallow my fucking cum."

His hands slid up your sides, taking the fabric of your skirt along with them, and you gasped as you felt it hike dangerously high up your thighs, trembling fingers tugging it back down to keep yourself covered.

Mattheo huffed, releasing the fabric. "You're not used to being bad though, are you, princess?"

His teeth sank into your collarbone, creating a tantalizing blend of pleasure and pain that sent shivers down your spine. Strands of his tousled hair caressed your cheek, the faintest whisper of a touch sending tingles across your skin. Your lips parted involuntarily, releasing a soft whimper, while Mattheo's response echoed in a deep, guttural groan that reverberated through the air, intensifying the charged atmosphere between you.

One hand gripped your jaw as he pulled back, meeting your eyes. "Answer me when I ask you a question."

Your breath hitched, flames roaring in your veins. "No, Mattheo...I'm not..."

"Mm," he purred, wetting his lips as he stared. "Do you know what happens to bad girls, Raven?"

Your stomach twisted as he tugged you closer by the hold on your jaw, his eyes darkening with desire as they darted across your face, seemingly examining your features as though they were precarious and new.

Your voice trembled. "No..."

"They get fucking punished."

Before you could respond, Mattheo shifted his hand, shoving two rough fingers between your teeth, reaching for the back of your throat and forcing a gag. Your eyes watered, beads of salty fluid threatening to spill down your cheeks, but he was unyielding, gripping the back of your neck with his other hand to force himself further down your throat--holding you in place while he did.

Your entire body was in flames, your thighs begging, fucking screaming in a need so disgustingly dirty you'd never experienced anything remotely close to it before.

Mattheo groaned, low in his chest, his dark eyes watching every single ministration of your face as you gagged on his fingers. The hand behind your head relented as he brought it to his crotch, palming the insistent bulge in his trousers as he watched you; seemingly not having blinked once.

"Unbutton your shirt," his voice was a hoarse whisper, laced with primal desire. He pushed his fingers deeper, clearing his throat. "Seal those filthy lips around my fingers, and unbutton your fucking shirt, princess..."

You cursed the fact that his body was separating your legs because all you wanted, more than anything on the face of the planet, was to squeeze your fucking thighs together--to give your cunt any sort of friction possible. Every word from his lips was doing inexplicable things to your body, and the need between your thighs was growing so insistent it was almost painful.

Following his commands, you sealed your lips around his fingers, swirling your tongue and bobbing your head painfully slowly as you teased him, trembling fingers moving to the buttons on your blouse and undoing them one by one until your chest was entirely exposed to him--your lungs stalled, pussy clenching as you watched his eyes darken with desire while they scanned your chest covered only by your navy laced bra, the hand on his crotch moving more insistently now.

"My fucking God, Raven," he breathed, jaw tensing so tight it looked painful. "I can't believe you've been keeping all of that hidden this whole time..."

You mewled involuntarily as he grazed your chest with his free hand, pushing his fingers deeper down your throat with enough intensity to make you cough as his demeanour switched and he palmed your breast with enough force to illicit an exasperated groan. He was possessed now, something swarming his pupils that made your entire body convulse with unfamiliar and unabashed need; you were almost certain there'd be a pool of your desire on the desk between your thighs at this point.

Without warning, he abruptly removed his hands from you. Your lips, parted in anticipation of a breath, yearned for air before his mouth enveloped yours once more. In a frenzy, his hands hurriedly reached for his belt, driven by an almost desperate urgency as you both inhaled sharply through your nostrils. Your lips meshed together in a way that seemed to consume each other, as if you could breathe in one another during the kiss.

Once he'd successfully freed himself, he pulled back, shoving his fingers back into your mouth and yanking you off the desk, his throbbing length pressing against your belly as he shoved himself against you; fingers forcing another gag from your chest, watching you with a primal fervour in his eyes so intense it was intoxicating.

Pulling his fingers from your mouth again, he cupped his hand out in front of you. "Spit."

Your brows furrowed in confusion, your brain buffering in attempt to process his words until his free hand shot into your hair, tilting your head until your lips were parallel to his palm.

"Spit, Raven," he repeated. "Spit into my fucking hand."

Your stomach contorted with a mix of disbelief and unfamiliar desire, your entire being thrown off balance. Each word that fell from his lips felt like a jolt, causing your heart to stutter in your chest. His eyes bored into you, searing your skin into flames, and without another moment's hesitation, you gathered the saliva he had coerced from you and spat it into his hand.

"Mm, that's it...good little whore..." He purred, bringing it down to his cock, rubbing it into his shaft as he stroked himself, eyes never once leaving yours. "Now, get on your knees for me, pretty girl."

Your breath caught in your throat. He, of all people, had just called you "pretty," and you were certain your ears were playing some sort of trick on you. It was a compliment you never expected from him, someone you had never imagined would see you in such a way. Pulling your lip between your teeth, you did as he said, squeezing your thighs together as you situated yourself in front of his feet.

Mattheo's hand remained in your hair, firmly gripping a fistful as he stroked himself. "Hands behind your back, Raven..." he muttered. "Let me see those delicious fucking tits of yours."

Your entire body shuddered, immediately clasping your hands together behind you without a second thought.

"That's it...fuck-" he was stroking himself faster, the veins in his hands tensing with every movement. You weren't sure who was enjoying this more, him or you. "You want this, princess? You want this cock in your dirty little mouth?"

Your throat was drier than the desert, each swallow a struggle against the arid emptiness within. Fingernails dug into your own flesh with a fierce intensity, the pressure threatening to break through the skin, mirroring the internal turmoil that gripped you. Holy fucking shit.

"Yes..." your voice was a pathetic whisper.

"Don't be so modest, Raven," he sneered, slowing his pace, twisting his wrist as he stroked his shaft, eyes never once leaving yours. "Beg for it."

Your stomach was in your throat. You'd never done anything like that before, you weren’t even really sure how. "I...um-please, Mattheo..."

His eyes fluttered shut for the briefest moment, a flicker of amusement dancing across his features before he locked eyes with you once more, his arrogance wrapping around the room like a suffocating cloak.

"Bloody hell, I said beg for it...does the prissy little princess not know how to fucking beg?" his voice was a hoarse growl, his vocal cords strained with lust. "Tell me how bad you want my cock, Raven, tell me how much you need it."

You couldn't believe your ears; the turn of events in your life felt utterly surreal. Never in your entire existence could you have imagined that this is where you'd find yourself right now--merely a few months away from graduation, on your knees for the most suffocatingly arrogant delinquent in the school who was making you beg to suck his fucking dick. A man who only last year wouldn't have paid you an ounce of mind, who probably didn’t even know you existed.

Your cheeks burned, but you fought through it, the arousal in your lungs fuelling your words. "Please, Mattheo...I want your cock so bad, I want you in my mouth, I want to choke on it, I want you to fuck my throat until you cum-"

His grip on your hair tightened, simultaneous with the grip on his cock as he cranked your head back, leaning down to meet your eyes; his lips hovering mere inches above yours.

"My God, you're a dirty fucking slut, aren't you?" He purred, smirking so wide it reached his eyes, his fingers bruising your scalp. "A dirty fucking slut whose sole purpose is to let me use her mouth whenever I want, yeah?"

You swallowed, wincing as he jerked your head back further, fucking into his fist faster, harder. "Yes, Mattheo..."

He sneered, clearly loving every fucking minute of this. "Imagine if anyone saw you like this...fuck-you're fucking filthy..." his voice was breathless, if you didn't know any better you'd think he was about to make himself cum before you had the chance to suck him off. "Apologize for being such a nasty little slut and I'll let you swallow my cum."

Your thighs clenched in need, your wetness seeping through your panties at this point. Gods, you wanted him so fucking bad you thought you were going to die.

"I'm sorry," you pleaded, eyes wide as you peered up at him, nearly-speechless. "I'm sorry for being a nasty little slut."

"That's right..." he purred, directing the head of his cock toward your mouth, groaning as your pressed your lips to it. "Good girl...fuck-so good for me..."

Your entire body was in flame, hands still clasped together behind your back as both of his thrust tightly through your hair, absentmindedly sealing your lips around his shaft, revelling in his skin's heat, dragging your tongue along the throbbing, pulsing underside. Riddle growled, bucking his hips, and you took him further into your mouth, gagging as his tip slammed the back of your throat.

"You take me so well, Raven..." he breathed, head falling back on his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut as his hands urged your head along his length. "Can't believe a mouth that annoying can feel this fucking good."

You groaned in assent, sucking hard at his cock as he slowly started to fuck your throat. You were both struggling to breathe, both losing control, both lost in an ocean of primal, urgent carnality. Pleasure was straining your seams, ready to explode inside of you, drool dribbling in globs from your chin, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you tried to hold the boundaries of your sanity together.

"Mm, fuck..." Riddle's grip was crushing your skull. "I changed my mind…I'm gonna' cum on those perfect tits, princess..."

Your bones almost liquefied at this--but you steadied your knees, gagging as he started fucking into your throat faster, thrusting deep, your eyes disappearing into the back of your head as you allowed him to use your mouth as a helpless hole for him to fuck--singlehandedly loving every fucking second of it.

"Shit-" he groaned, eyes squeezed shut. "Fuck."

Your thighs clenched, brain fogged by a hurricane of lust, but when he pulled out, abruptly, your cognition returned--your vision clearing to an image of Riddle, red-faced, fucking his fist. Snarling, he jerked your hair, and choked on his moan, the sound stuttering while he shot the hot loads of his cum onto your chest and neck. He sucked down air in long, heavy breaths, waiting until the end of his release had dissipated, and then dropped you, stepping back to marvel at his masterpiece. You swore steam was wafting off your skin.

"Beautiful," he murmured. He pieced himself back together, buckling his belt. "Tell me how I taste."

Every inch of you tingled, chest heaving, jaw slack in an open pant. Keeping his stare, you brought a trembling hand to your chest, swiping his sticky cum off your tits and trailing it past your lips, slowly sucking it off your first two fingers. The taste melding with the mere prospect of what was happening elicited a low moan from your chest, and you shuddered, trapped in his gaze until you were finished.

"Salty." You teased, smirking up at him.

"Salty, huh?” He huffed, a devious grin on his face as he helped you up to your feet, rough palm grasping your forearm. "Important mineral for a balanced meal, yeah?"

You chuckled, heat swarming your skin as you stammered up to your feet, meeting his darkened eyes as you began buttoning up your shirt, taking in his newly flushed features--curly brown hair slightly sticking to his forehead before he ran a battered hand through it, brushing it back.

“Smartass,” you grumbled, turning toward the desk. “Next week we have an exam, so there won’t be a tutor session, you know that right?”

He released a breath, throwing himself into the usual creaky wooden chair beside yours. “Guess that just means you’ll have to do that again before the nights’ over,” he said. “You know, to compensate for next week.”

You rolled your eyes, failing to hide your smirk. “In your dreams, Riddle.”

“Oh, definitely not, princess.” He breathed, glimpsing you briefly. “In my dreams you do a hell of a lot more than that.”

——————

Chapter four->

[flanaganfilm]

hi Mike, please solve for me a very heated argument between me and my partner.

in The Fall of the House of Usher, Verna tells Prospero that he is consequential, and that he has a "chance to stop it, to stop everything". Now, my partner very strongly believes she's offering him a less painful death, like she alludes to with Camille. But I think, if Prospero had shut down the party, the house of Usher wouldn't have fallen.

In The Masque of the Red Death, the inhabitants of an impenetrable abbey all die, and the only reason they do is because of a party. No party, no stranger. No stranger, no death. The party is what lets death in the door.

Also, I'm not sure what exactly Verna is supposed to represent, but I was a deeply autistic child obsessed with fairies once, and I like to think she's one of the Fae. Regardless of what she is, deals with devils or genies or fairies or anything else usually have an 'out', even if it's small, even if it's near impossible to see.

Maybe Verna would have offered Prospero a bar tab of his own, offered to take all of his descendants instead. Less likely, she would have let them all off. I don't think she thought he would shut the party down, obviously. But I think the option was there. And if Rodrick's children had been raised better, Prospero wouldn't have been hubris on legs.

Anyways, yes yes I know literature can and should be interpreted a million different ways, that open-ended is better so that the audience can relate to the work in their own way, make it their own, live through it, but please. I need the opinion of authority.

Well, shoot. I'm very sorry to make you lose an argument. :( She just means that he can stop the acid from falling, spare the rest of the party-goers, and have a more peaceful, private death. As for Perry himself, and the rest of the Ushers... the deal is done, the ink is dry, and the tab is due, no matter what.

[b1rds3ye]

I love your writing style!

(also love how you always go for gn!reader!)

Silly request for another masked reader?

Masked reader who has those more solid material masks that can easily be cleaned has in the past painted their mask during one holiday just for the fun of it and they boys wanna do it too. Variation of it; masked reader got injured and has to stay bed bound for a while so their mask is being written and painted on like people do with casts :D

(there would be so many pictures)

PLEASE THIS IS SO CUTE (also tysm anon!! It means a lot that you like my writing and writing decisions AHHHHH). I'm thinking a white-hockey mask sorta vibe that can look intimidating for missions, but also far too tempting for the 141 to wreak havoc on. Of course, they'll ensure you always have at least one spare blank mask so you can keep being the ominous badass on missions, but when a mission goes south and you escape with barely your life, they do what they can to make your bed-bound recovery as entertaining as possible.

Soap in particular truly treats your mask as a canvas. I already touched that Johnny has a journal of alternative designs for your mask and with a plain mask his mind is racing with so many ideas! He also has a general knack for drawing, in the quiet nights when he's done with training and can visit the med-bay he can spend hours just drawing on your mask with a thin sharpie (think like those highly intricate black-ink tattoos). His art is a little rough and scratchy but the artistry is there. He also provides his signature which lacks the tact of his art - if another member of the 141 hasn't he'll be the one stamping his name across your forehead with an obnoxious "SOAP WAS HERE!!".

Ghost is not an artist. There isn't a single artistic bone in this poor man, when he draws a circle it somehow looks like a square. Instead, Simon writes. A card is too sappy but your mask makes the perfect patch of parchment. His handwriting is legible but far from aesthetic, it's practical and hastily done with your head shaking slightly as he writes on it. Eventually he has to stabilise your head with his other hand, and his hold is surprisingly gentle. It's a general message wishing you get better soon, and a special military pun for everyone to read when they see your mask. He says that now your mask is a little more customised it almost looks half as good as his. While being unable to draw, he does accompany Johnny or Kyle if they pay a visit to vandalise your mask.

Price is straight forward. You want people to sign your mask? He'll sign your mask. John is surprisingly sentimental, he genuinely treats your mask as a get-well-soon card. He encourages you to rest - which is admittedly redundant since you can't get out of bed - but also to hurry up and get back on the field because he's losing his mind putting up with the rest of the 141. His handwriting is small because he has a lot to say, his message taking up the expanse of your cheek. He puts effort into his message and handwriting, it's going to be on your mask for everyone else to read and when he tries the captain has some exceptionally nice cursive. When he's done, he pulls away and lets out a satisfied huff at his message and how it looks on you... and then a consequential sigh when he looks at what of the rest of the task force has done to your poor mask.

Gaz does everything with your mask. He first covers the basics, signing his name and a quick, encouraging message for your health. Then Kyle goes ham on redesigning your mask and making it look as terrible as possible. Because it's a plain white mask, in particular he loves to use coloured sharpies on it. He'll shade panda-like eye bags where your eye sockets will be, or colour the area of your nose with a bright red circle like a clown. If you ever complain he'll just say this is the price you pay for getting injured and being sent to medbay. It's a joke but the underlying concern isn't missed from you. He's not the best artist but he'll leave a cute little doodle like a flower or that "S" sign that's used to graffiti everything known to man. He also enjoys giving you something to do (laying in med-bay all day must be terrible!), taking your hand in his to guide your hand across your face so you can draw a simple little star or love-heart on your own mask.

Surprisingly, it's Simon who initially asks for your permission to take photos of your mask. He says it's for the rest of the task force so they can have a reminder of what they're fighting for as they continue doing operations in your absence. John did add on that it was also simply for the memory as it's expected that you'll keep the mask once you've gotten better - unless you're willing to auction it off in which Kyle already called dibs.

It's only when you can freely move around do you take off your mask to realise that under your chin would be, generally obscured from view, one of them drew a shoddy little penis. You have half the mind of chasing up on who it was but it was simply too funny and you let it go. (Also because you already know deep down it was Soap)

Masked Reader Masterlist Call of Duty Masterlist

[fatesundress]

⭑ sunlight parallel pseudostars. tom riddle x reader

summary. your reunion is long overdue for the small thing it should be, sacred for the dingy place it finds you, and most consequentially, entirely on purpose.

tags. gn afab reader, part one of an inevitable part two but this one is just pining because nonny asked so nicely, yes there is fluff but it's a tom pov, so... i do what i can, post-hogwarts, mutual pining (but emphatically, arduously, overwhelmingly tom), tom and reader were hopeless fools in school who never confessed their feelings for each other, legilimency/occlumency training as flirting, reader definitely filter searches the slow burn tag, self-cockblocking, i can't tell if this is ooc even by my own delusional standards, hopeful 'ending' as an apology for my last tom fic, please accept this humble offering

note. finished my first request!! who knew i could do it! i apologize first and foremost for my inactivity and i want to say WOAHHH thank you so much for 400! i'm hoping to make up for my absence by turning this into either a two-parter or a longer mini-series. i did actually forcibly refrain from ending this in smut because i want to try my hand at a slightly slower-burn since my usual preference is like... at least 100k words of longing stares before they even hold hands. i'm trying my best.

word count. 4.9k

There’s something, at least, in the far table at the right side of the bar, that makes the process a tad less dull. It’s somehow quieter here than his flat over Knockturn, sparse with a few old wizards with beards caught in the froth of their cups, Tom’s bend of the pub warm from the fire, crackling with kindling and the scratch of his quill, drizzled in moonlight tealish enough to remind him of the Slytherin common room when little else does nowadays. Something — yes. A tolerable reprieve. The sort of monotony he likes.

As opposed to Caractacus Burke’s constant, doltish solicitations; Tom ponders when the day will come that the man strikes a deal so dumb it lights the tip of someone’s wand green and kills him. It doesn’t drive Tom to any immense grief to consider. On particularly tedious days, he staves off boredom by imagining doing it himself.

But this reprieve can only serve him so well. Tom doesn’t drink — certainly not the dreck they serve here, though he doubts even the finest of wines could tempt him to obfuscate his better senses — doesn’t dance, doesn’t take anyone home even on the rare occasion there’s someone in this pub of bearable taste (except the one time, and that was more a case study than a surrender to gratification). Essentially, he sits at his table and steals the heat and the barkeeps are wise enough to let him.

He’s mused over the exact verbiage of this tome for days. Alchemical equations are the one thing that still occasionally stump him, and Tom is eager to rectify that.

He puts quill to parchment. It bleeds when he comes up short of words. He holds infinitesimally tighter, and the ink spreads like tendrils imagined in the dark; the sort of amorphous shapes that appear on the ceiling when all the lights have gone out. He stares. He lets the shapes form, but finds nothing informative in them, and so sets his quill down and watches leaves fall from the chestnut tree splitting open the sidewalk outside.

Cold air wafts in when the door groans open. There’s the click of dress shoes and a murmur at the bar, followed by a tumbler shaking and a glass being poured.

“Oh, no — er — that one always sits alone,” he hears the barkeep say to the dress shoes.

Tom refrains from turning his head.

 “Doesn’t like to be bothered,” he adds, dress shoes skidded to a halt.

A pause. A sense of eyes on him Tom elects to ignore.

“I know.”

There’s a smile in that voice. He remembers it. The teeth of it, the lips, the tongue that sometimes darts between them.

It must be very late.

He’ll look up and realise there are things other than wine that can addle a person. Too many books, not enough books, not enough sleep, a day gone by without a single spell cast, an itch for control, wanting and not having, and,

you, after all this time.

The lattermost two have for a long time been the same.

Your hair is different than it was before, your figure presented in the rarity of your own clothes when he’s so accustomed to your school robes, but it would be rather bizarre if you ever wore those again. You’re too modern for muggle and magical alike — trousers and a formal shirt, hair somewhere between kempt and wind-blown, the aforementioned nice shoes Scourgified to a squeaky black as you come closer. (You’re coming closer. What a revelation.) A drink floats beside you, your fingers undulating softly to maintain the charm.

“You,” he says, like he doesn’t remember.

You grin. “Me. Sharp as ever, Tom. You look it too.”

The nebulous shape of acumen returns to him and it’s disarming enough to be disarmed — on principle it should not be occurring — but you also should not be here.

He stands. You present your hand as if practised for the proper convention of having it taken, October-cold gloves soft when his lips press to one and he wonders if the skin beneath is softer, or if callouses mar the mounts of your palm. He lingers as the thought does. (What are you up to now? Are you tried by new labours like he is; your knuckles hard from the work? Would they feel voltaic to touch as they once did?)

“Sit, please.” 

Increments of re-introduction tie him to the tangible instead of unfurling from the knots of why you’re here or how you’re here, which cannot possibly be tethered to reality because for all the hours he’s been with you, none in the last three years have happened awake.

There are the dark shapes on his ceiling again. The scraps won’t last. He’ll need to know the details. 

You’ll want to tell.

You take a seat in the chair he pushes out for you, glass sinking onto the table where the condensation immediately shades a ring into the wood. “This wasn’t where I’d expected to find you, you know.”

“No?” Tom asks, returning to his seat, “I wasn’t expecting you to find me anywhere, so the surprise is mutual.”

“I’d have written to warn you, but it was easier to find the places you frequent than the one you live in — wouldn’t know how to get my owl to you directly, you know — and I’m sure that’s not an accident.”

“I feel strangely as though I’m being accused of something.”

“Mm. Your guilty conscience.”

He smiles reflexively. Old habits. “I’m sure.”

You smile too, at least. “You know, when we left school, I gave it — what — two years before you were the youngest Minister of Magic in British history?”

“Then I’ve disappointed you.”

“No, I think I knew you well enough once to know even now that the fact that you aren’t only means you have something better in mind. I’ll have to trust your judgement, because I can’t imagine what that could possibly be.” You take a sip of your drink, twirling your straw as you do. “Come to think of it, though, brooding over a book in an establishment you patronise enough to have all the workers trained to leave you alone despite not even knowing your name is… very Tom.” 

“That one appears to have done a poor job,” he says with a glance at the barkeep. “You’re over here disrupting me. I think I’ll rescind my tip.”

“Still funny, too.”

“Still indecorous.”

“Still saying things like indecorous. You’d better tip, Riddle.”

“Be good company and I might.”

“Oh, I see. I need to prove that I’m a worthy disruption.”

“I was reading a very good book.”

The book was rubbish. His moleskin has roughly four lines of notes jotted on its open page, which he closes promptly, and hopes it doesn’t seem done with too much gravity. Your eyes like to wander, he recalls. Your hands, absentmindedly, too.

Torturous creature you are.

“I missed you,” you say, like you’ve never had the good sense of holding your tongue, or armouring your heart, or not feeding an animal without first seeing the size of its teeth. 

You are so withholding with your work, and so generous with yourself. He wishes you wouldn’t offer him so much. He’s never had the kindness not to take everything you let him.

“You missed me,” he prompts, already asking for more. 

“I missed disrupting you. No one else lets me — or calls me indecorous, and still lets me.”

“You were quite studious, in case you’ve forgotten. More literate than disruptive.”

You raise a brow. “My, I’ve never had a man call me literate before, and I’ve been courted plenty. I’m swooning.”

(Note: you’ve been courted plenty?)

“Inventive, then? Erudite?”

“Do go on.”

“I shouldn’t. I believe you were describing the manner in which you missed me.”

“It was just the one, unfortunately.”

“Why did you find me?”

This generates pause, at least, and that intrigues him.

Addendum: “Why now?”

“I was around,” you decide on, “and I haven’t been in a long time.”

You wanted to continue your studies after Hogwarts. He thinks he remembers that conversation; academics were the topic of most of your discussions, after all. Anything deeper was incidental, crumbs scraped off a plate at the end of a meal.

“Where did you go?”

You drink again. “Portugal, after school. But that was — it’s a bit of a story. I ended up at an academy in Iceland doing a few very boring, ultimately useless courses on spell creation and wandlore. Will you be horrible if I tell you I’m here because I left in the middle of term? Because then I didn’t tell you.”

“I suppose I knew you well enough once to know even now you wouldn’t have left unless you had something better in mind.”

You beam at him, and he acknowledges briefly that it feels like a reward the same way solving a problem does.

“I found you —” (You are far too generous; the question was already answered and here you are offering more) — “because I considered everyone I wanted to see again and you were the first person I thought of. I don’t like to deny myself the little things.”

“No,” he says, “you don’t.”

Rain trickles down the window, and the cool dark of autumn obscures half of your face. He wishes it didn’t, and that’s bizarre.

“I’ll be doing a course in Occlumency in Norway in the new year.”

Oh?

“I know you were always quite good at Legilimency, so don’t start,” you add hastily.

He itches not to smile. It is truth and not arrogance to say that quite good is an understatement.

“I didn’t know you had an interest.”

You scoff. “Please, everyone has an interest. It’s just hopeless for most of us, and painful to be hopeful to learn something so hopeless.”

“Well-put. A terrible ego punch for you, I’m sure.”

“It was. Until I tried Occlumency and realised I’m quite good at that, and then the wound closed a bit.”

“Glad to hear it. You’re honing the skill?”

“Slowly but surely.”

“And — you’re here seeking a teacher?”

“Oh, stop. I told you why I’m here. But if you’re — oh!” You frown suddenly. “Didn’t you say that you were going to apply for DADA after graduation?”

Ah, that. “Denied, unfortunately.”

“Seriously? On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that I’m too young.”

That and the matter of Albus Dumbledore and the air that is ceaselessly wasted on his breath.

“Oh, please; half the staff are over eighty, I imagine it might be nice to have a professor who doesn’t forget to grade their assignments every other week. You were Head Boy! That’s completely mad.”

“You’ll have to write an owl.”

“I could.” And you sigh, and stir your half-empty drink of what must be less than ten percent alcohol and ninety percent spice and apple. “Would you… would you mind, though? If your schedule isn’t terribly busy?”

“Teaching you?”

“Helping me with something I’m already good at,” you correct, “as an excuse for me not to go back to a very frilly muggle hotel by myself after coming all this way to find you.”

He echoes the part of that sentence that matters least — your invitation is all that counts, but he has no wish to make that obvious when you’ve always done this, always tugged on a string you seem unaware even exists. “Frilly muggle hotel?”

“What? I used to go to them when I was on holiday. Didn’t I tell you that?”

No. He would have clung onto it if you had. He didn’t even know you had the money for things like that after two wars, but then maybe that was something new. How would you have attained it while in school, though? An untimely familial demise? A wealthy suitor? You wore no ring. You came back to him.

Illegible signs for him to attempt to read.

“Well?” you ask, pulling two sickles from your pocket and leaving them on the table.

His answer is yes, naturally. 

It’s absurd you even feel the need to ask; your reunion is long overdue for the small thing it should be, because of the small thing you were, sacred for the dingy place it finds you, and most consequentially, entirely on purpose. You didn’t stumble upon each other in the aisles of a shop after years gone by, pressured into empty conversation for the courtesy of it. You missed him, so you found him — and Tom thinks he’s been missed before, in some vague sense by some people blurred long ago by unimportance, but — found? He reconciles not finding you himself by assuring he will make something of this.

“For a worthy distraction,” he says, putting down two sickles to match.

You grin, and he takes your arm again as you thank the barkeep and depart into the slow drizzle of the street.

You tell him of Ponte de Lima and the rootless craters of Myvatn, of old cathedral spires and covens masked as monasteries. You detail the scenery like you detailed your essays in school, and it makes the ennui of London marginally better — that you are walking it with him, talking about beautiful things, in a night dark enough he might not notice the usual absence of them here.

And then, as you step onto busier streets, you say you missed this too, and he is jealous beyond sense of the architectural blemish of Piccadilly Circus.

He glances away from you and the invisible path to your hotel for the first time since issuing Wizarding London for Muggle.

It’s a crowded tableau. The post-war square is spangled with flashbulb advertisements and buskers and skinny double buses orbiting Eros atop his fountain. People skip from hotel bars and teahouses in trench coats and long skirts. Someone outside the Trocadero looks dressed for burlesque. Storefront letters hiccup light through power abscesses and imminent bursts, and the lights… The lights herald cigarettes and chewing gum and Coca Cola and performances at the theatres on Coventry Street. 

You light up with them, sunlight parallel pseudostars. Tom feels half-blinded. He isn’t sure by which.

“You missed London?” he asks. It’s hard to hide in his tone how much he cannot imagine a reason why. All of the things you described in your travels sound better than this.

“I missed home.”

He possesses only a theoretical understanding of what that must feel like. The word itself is a thing long gone. There was Hogwarts, but it was never his.

“Well — I miss this,” you amend, “which I never remembered being like this, and maybe it wasn’t. All I saw in anything growing up was shelter. I’d look at buildings and imagine which ones could survive bombs, and which ones would shatter under gunfire. Since coming back, I’ve liked seeing it a different way. The lights, the people — The Criterion; they’ve a section called the Witches Cauldron, which is very risqué. You would hate it.”

His mouth twitches at the corners. “Risqué?"

“Mhm. Women with skirts over the thighs, men with skirts over the thighs, music with questionable lyrics, and really, borderline indecent comedy. But I think that's the heart of muggle theatre — the good kind, anyway."

“So I was right in calling you indecorous.”

“Hardly. I’m an observer.”

“Upstanding, then.”

You tug playfully at his sleeve. “Saintly.”

“You might revisit those churches in Portugal.”

“And you might learn to let something go. We’re here.”

He looks up at the little dais of steps before the big arch of your hotel door, stones cracked here and there, cigarette stubs smushed at his feet, and back at you, an inviting smile on your face.

“Come on.” You take his arm again and guide him in.

The lobby is all dark wood carved like lace. Fretwork in the moulding, fretwork at the counters, fretwork in the thick columns bolstering the mezzanine; and there, tables with seats turned to face the sound of music, the dulcet flicker of candlelight over plates of food that smell sweet for the hour. As you lead him up the stairs, he gives you a look that warns this was not what he was promised, but you shush him and he abides.

You are lucky for his intrigue. You are lucky for the dullness of his teeth at the maw of his hunger. He doesn’t pretend to understand — he thinks he likes not understanding.

The music gets louder. He can see the entire mezzanine from the top of the stairs; a woman is singing, a man is playing saxophone, the tables are set for dessert, and the plates are almost all licked clean.

You’re watching with the flicker of candles caught in your eyes now, grip imperceptibly tighter on his arm as you lean in to whisper. “There’s something new every night. Yesterday there was the most beautiful pianist. And they served this lemon pudding  — tonight I think it’s… torte? It’s chocolate, at least. It smells amazing.”

“Did you want to stay?”

He did not. It was a courtesy question.

“Just for a song?” you ask, rather more sheepish than suits you.

Just for a song, then.

You press against his shoulder. You’re warm, despite the cold walk.

“Do you ever practise on them?" he asks.

“Legilimency?” You shake your head. “I usually refrain from digging into the thoughts of innocent muggles.”

He raises a brow. “And the bad muggles?"

“I should like to do worse to the bad muggles."

He smiles. You smile too, though you resist it for a moment. “You're as wretched as you were in school."

“Wretched, was I? And what would I have found, if I'd sought out your thoughts back then?"

You laugh, face canted toward the performance. “Thoughts of Os on every O.W.L, what Slughorn meant by a semi-formal dress code, how to get into the kitchens at night..." You turn to him again. “And you? Do I dare ask what I would have found in yours?"

“Hm. Secrets.”

“Damn you.”

The saxophone swells before the last note fizzles out, the contralto timbre of the woman’s voice washed out by a small round of applause. You clap with the other guests, glance over at Tom, frown, take his hands and force them together. He doesn’t resist, but he certainly doesn’t aid the motion. His hands are instead idly patted together, palms hitting the sleeves of his coat and making for a very poor ovation. 

You give up without much effort, fingers looping beneath one of his cuffs to lead him back to the staircase. 

“Wretched,” you repeat.

You search your coat pocket for your key as you walk up the stairs, remarking the artwork on the walls and evidence of a drunk muggle man who spilled champagne on his way to bed last night — you tell him to watch his step, and he averts the side of the stairs where dark spots pepper the carpet. The place is fine elsewise. You mentioned the risqué of The Criterion and he can see notes of it here, in the late night music and the drinking and a few ogling men among the guests, but it’s nicer on the inside than he’d assumed by the exterior, and you can certainly handle yourself amongst debauchees without wands.

Tom stops when you do. Your room is the furthest at the end of the third floor corridor.

“Welcome,” you say, as the key clicks and the door swings open.

A frilly muggle hotel indeed. You flick a switch and the chandelier ignites, dim but extravagant. You go to light a few additional candles at the dresser and windowsill, clipping floral drapes aside as you do. The bed, a queen, matches the fabric of the drapes, with a thick lace skirt and golden brass rails. There’s a small table and two chairs, plush with cushions that loop through the spine and knot like hair ribbons. You tuck your wand away after the room has been brightened and fix him with a look that says, I told you.

“It’s clean,” is all the opinion he offers.

“Hard to make a mess in two days.”

A rather uncharacteristic thought crosses him. He can imagine ways which would not be so difficult.

“Of course.”

“Did you want anything? I could call for room service. Wine? Chocolate torte?”

“I’m more curious to observe your Occlumency firsthand.”

“Right. I’ve been depriving you.” You sit on the edge of the bed and slip off your coat. “I meant what I said, though; I’m good at it.”

“A battle of wills, then.” And he pulls a chair from the little table by the window, sitting it across from you.

You make a face. “This is why I studied with you and never challenged you to anything.”

“Perhaps you should have.”

“Perhaps… I might have saved myself from the predicament I’m in now.”

“You brought me here.”

“I did.”

“You enjoy the predicament,” he guesses.

You smile. “I do.”

He leans in with his arms at the wooden rests of his chair, fixed on the space between your eyes and then the apples of your cheeks, looking for new scars or freckles or stray eyelashes to cast wishes on. Mostly he wonders what’s underneath. That you have presented him the opportunity, even to wonder, feels almost like a wish granted. And Tom is not the sort of man to make them.

But here you are, and the room is quiet, and your gloves sound soft rolling off your fingers, and he should take a chance on one now. He should be greedy. He should want for more.

“Shall I count to three?”

He does. He does want more.

“Whenever you’re ready,” you say, and he can see you steel yourself before his soft surge into your mind.

Your resistance is like a cliffside. His effort is a wave, lapping at the rocks, seeking erosion. It’ll come. It never hasn’t.

You stay there in the cracks between the rocks, not pushing against him as much as shielding yourself from him. He leans an inch further from his chair and inclines his head. Your mouth falls open, breath caught on the sharp edge of his next intrusion. He eases forward but you only hold stronger. An impasse is reached — immovable object and unstoppable force.

Tom’s mouth curves at the corners, patient, persistent and proud. The chase is half of it. Your capability is the other.

“How did you discover your gift?" he asks.

“Don't distract me," you answer, and the softness tells him it’s an exertion for you to speak through this.

Tom nods, though distraction suddenly seems a tempting venture. If he pushes otherwise it will be painful.

For a while he just searches — between the old moss atop the cliff, the space where water strikes and memories propagate in verdant clusters, little runnels in the stone to keep little thoughts. He can see the outlines of those moments you’d described to him on your walk, but nothing deeper, nothing untouched. The abacus on either side of a Portuguese church but no hint of the nave or the apse. The flat horizon of Myvatn lake but none of the pseudocraters.

And still the walls stand, and the wave trickles through the runnels only to feed the moss.

You’re good. He wants to break you. He wants to be gentle. He wants to know if there is a way to do both.

Yes, he thinks there is.

Tom inches his chair closer. There’s perhaps an arm's length between your knees and his, and your expression flickers as you glance at the way it shrinks. A forearm, now. A ruler. Nothing at all, if you look long enough, think about how easy it would be for the space to vanish altogether. And he is thinking about it.

Your eyes dart back to his and he glides through the first crevice of your confusion he can find. A second’s glimpse is all he gets — words on an image of the skin unclad at his wrists, like words on the storefronts of Piccadilly Circus, they spell his name. There’s the cadence of a question. He resists the urge to sink back in his seat in honest pride; that the first thought he’s carved out of you is of his hands and sudden curiosity.

Perfectly innocuous, he rolls his sleeves to his elbows. There’s a quick twitch at your mouth.

“Do you know,” he says, searching again, “there’s something in particular I want to find.”

You indulge him carefully. You must anticipate a trick. “What’s that?”

“The moment you first missed me.”

It is a hard thing to be reminded of a moment and not draw it immediately to the surface. He can see on your face that you have to push the misbehaved thing down with force. But that’s only evidence that it exists, that it’s true, and he must see it like it’s his own. 

Is your missing him not his, in some way? Is his missing you not yours?

“I wonder if you missed me over quill and parchment,” he says, “in old libraries, at a café in Paris… Did you remember me by certain colours? By times of day? Or was it —”

There.

It’s the Athenaeum of Madrid, under the ceiling of the assembly hall. You’re craning your neck to admire the art, and you’re thinking how much he would have liked a place like that.

And then he’s back in the frilly hotel, and your face is in something like a gasp. You’ve swallowed it down, batted him away, but he can see it even from the outside; the curiosity is still there despite. The question unposed but sitting neatly on your tongue ready to be asked.

Tom smiles. “I didn’t know you went to Spain.”

“Well, I thought I might leave something for you to learn instead of be told.”

“Ah, so you let me in?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Will you?”

You glance involuntarily at the gap between you. Has it shrunk again? He can note the details of the face he’s missed without trying.

“Will you let me in?” he murmurs.

“I don’t think they teach this method of distraction at school,” you say softly, and now the words have been put in the air.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shifts his chair ever closer. His eyes go to your lips. And he does mean to look away but your mouth quirks the slightest degree upward and he stays there a moment because he was expecting something else.

“Didn’t I tell you I’ve been courted before?”

“Plenty,” he recounts.

You lean in. Your knees brush his. You incline your head so your eyes find the path of his, the smile on your face finally full. It’s an error of time that he doesn’t expect it because it must not be an error on his part. “Then you should know to make a greater effort.”

You hold a hand to his cheek, watching the motion as your warm fingers trail from jaw to white collar. And then you pull back; a breeze in the place you sat when you get up. 

“That’s enough for today, don’t you think?”

He recovers quickly, but there’s a lingering heat at his jaw and a curiosity he was faulted to have planted himself — he’s suffering the barest satiation for the million more questions he has. But you missed him, and you invited him here, and you wanted to see him in your mind, so he must wonder if you meant to plant some curiosity too.

“And tomorrow?” he finally asks.

There’s rummaging in one of the cupboards, the twist of cap from its tube, and the quick rush of the faucet before your face peers out from the bathroom’s thick archway, still with that smile.

You flick the light on and brush your teeth like he isn’t there. For whatever reason it’s the most disarming thing you may have ever done, and it reminds him that he had considered you torturous like it was something incidental, which means he’d begun the night with only one equation still able to stump him, and ended it with two.

He could sooner solve alchemy (the entire subject) than this.

“I’ll be out,” you say when you’re done, “but you’re welcome to join me.”

“And what might I be joining you in?”

“Tourism.”

“Tourism?” He inches out of his chair, rolling his sleeves back down.

You lean against the bathroom archway and the candlelight makes a sculpture of you. Your silhouette is a blaze tenderly burning the dark.

“It only feels right after years of doing it in other places, don’t you think? Every street I discover something I didn’t notice before.”

Tom looks at the toothbrush fitted in your hand like an unlit cigarette and imagines putting it back like he’d stomp one out, kissing you and tasting apple and cinnamon and mint stuck on the corner of your pretty mouth.

“Well? Is it below you?”

“Yes. What time?”

“Eleven,” you say, and your breath hitches beautifully at your bare collar when he glides into the archway beside you. “Is that all right?”

He brushes the dab of toothpaste away from your lip. “It’s perfect.” 

Your eyes flit down his face, and now it’s him smiling.

He places a kiss on the back of your hand, looking up at you through dark lashes and a smirk as he mutters your name, a soft remembrance, a rekindled wanting. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Tom.”

The noise outside his flat that night is trivial. He has not for a long time sat awake at night watching the sky instead of the shapes on his ceiling. He has not for a long time thought of you with the tranquil knowledge that he will see you again.

[gamesception]

Sception Reads Cass Cain #42

Batgirl (2000) #21 - December 2001 Writer: Kelley Puckett……….Pencils: Damion Scott Inks: Robert Campanella…..Colors: Gregory Wright

My short break turned into a 6 month hiatus, but the first issue of the new Cass Batgirl run releasing tomorrow (at time of writing this) has finally given me the push to start this project up again. While this isn't the most consequential issue to come back to, it is a good one, and it has Stephanie in it, and references og Cass's initial dynamic with Shiva, which is topical since the new book will at least start with a focus on modern Cass's relationship with her mother.

Most of the usual team here this time, only we have a different Wright on the colors than usual. Which did give me a brief moment of panic that I'd been attributing colors to the wrong person, but no, most of the previous issues specifically credit Jason Wright, but this one specifically credits Gregory.

The issue opens with Cass preparing for a training routine, and I have to point out that the evolution of Damion Scott's art style that I brought up in a reply to a post that was going around recently (link) regarding inconsistency in Cass's appearance was already well underway by issue 21 of her ongoing.

The training sequence itself is pretty extreme as Cassandra demolishes dozens of dummies and a few (potentially load bearing?) stone columns in her cave...

Before nearly taking Spoiler's head off and making herself sick with the effort of stopping her own punch and/or the realization of what almost just happened. It's a cool-then-funny sequence which also reinforces how Cassandra is capable of absolutely destroying people, but that she very much doesn't want to actually hurt anyone, traits that will of course be key to events later in the issue because Kelley Puckett is just good like that.

Anyway, Steph is here because Babs sent her to get Cass and bring her to the Clock Tower, since Cass wasn't responding to calls while engrossed in her hours-long training regimen.

*I wish I didn't have to, Mirthful Mike.

But yeah, this issue is a sort of tie in to Joker: Last Laugh, a miniseries / crossover event from 2001 that frankly I didn't much care for. Unfortunately we'll have to look at an issue from the main miniseries run next time, but for the moment Bab's summary is all that needs to be relevant for the current issue.

The more interesting thing going on in the same panel is the little exchange between Babs and Cass about whether Cass has been studying her super villain files. With Cass answering 'no' in a kind of embarrassed way, which Barbara reads as Cass being embarrassed about not doing her homework, something Babs obviously things Cass ~should~ be doing but that she's kind of given up on Cass ever caring enough ~to~ do, with Cass just not caring about the part of the job that she's not good at / the part of the job that Barbara does. It's a whole thing., and a point of tension that at this point in the comic is slowly building and then later will be forgotten about and unmentioned for a huge run of issues and then even later than that will explode out of nowhere. Again with my recurring comment about this book being fantastic on the build up of character arcs and not as great on the follow through.

BUT ANYWAY, Babs is completely misreading this situation, because Cass isn't embarrassed because she think she's been caught not doing something she should, she's visibly embarrassed (love the art from Scott here, again with managing a very expressive Cass despite being in the full face covering mask) because she thinks she's been caught doing something she shouldn't.

One of the first rules Bruce gave her was 'no costumed criminals'. She's not supposed to be fighting supervillains or metahumans or any other weirdos with special abilities or gimmicks that might invalidate her body-reading ability, which we've already established is her primary and near only defensive skill. At least, that's the in universe justification for why this book mostly avoids big scenery chewing bad guys who would otherwise distract from the intended tone and core themes.

Now, Bruce would have intended that as "don't fight them, but absolutely study them so you know what you're dealing with if you have do", but Cass is very much the sort of kid who would have heard that as 'supervillains are entirely off limits, I don't want you to fight them, or look at them, or even think about them', like the whole subject is a taboo - one she'll absolutely break, but that she'll feel guilty about breaking and try to hide from authority figures, because that's how she deals with guilt in general, lying (poorly) about it, trying to hide it. Because she doesn't think she deserves to be Batgirl, so she's completely insecure about it and sure she's going to be fired the moment anyone sees through her.

And that's especially the case given the reason she's been so carefully studying the particular supervillains she has - super powered martial artists. The same reason she's been training so hard that she's destroying her cave, missing calls from Barbara, and nearly killing unexpected guests who wander into her sessions, but that's a subject the comic comes back to later.

This habit / character flaw / broken coping mechanism of lying to hide guilt (misplaced or otherwise) is just so compelling to me. The way the lies taint every relationship, distancing the character from anyone they should be able to rely on, the way the they inevitably build up as the character feels guilty about the lies themselves and makes up more lies to hide that, like a matryoshka doll, or a tower of cards waiting to fall, the way that by the time other characters start pulling on the strings thinking they know what's going on there's a usually a cascade of revelations each more shocking than the last. Alphys in Undertale is a prime example of this.

The disaster when everything falls apart is usually the best part of this dynamic, and sadly Batgirl (2000) will choose to subvert that part (again, fantastic set up, but never quite following through), but we aren't there yet.

Anyway, it's just a couple short lines of dialog across as many panels sharing space with a blunt info-dump, but it's a really good character beat speaking to both Cass's flaws - the whole lying and hiding anything she feels guilty about - and Barbara's - assuming she already knows what's going on and not digging any further or following up (which only enables Cass's lying and hiding) because the reason she assumes makes her annoyed and angry (which Cass of course picks up on, reinforcing her feelings of guilt and insecurity).

It's a complicated and unhealthy dynamic between two people that otherwise genuinely love each other, and the tension and angst that comes from that is also fantastic.

The original Cass Cain Batgirl run was full of this drama that comes from making these variously maladjusted characters care about each other and exploring the fraught relationship dynamics that result. That more than anything else is what made Batgirl (2000) great and that post-flashpoint Cass has been lacking (the parts I've read anyway, still need to get around to that Outsiders run). Even my constant complaints about the flanderization of latter day David Cain basically boil down to this, because original Cass's relationship with Cain was overflowing with this sort of tension.

Anyway, that's a ton of talk about two panels, lets see if I can rush through the rest of the issue a bit more quickly...

...

So Babs gives a reason why Cass and Steph aren't wanted in this otherwise all-hands-on-deck emergency situation, a reason that's a little bit dumb, but way less dumb than the reason we'll get next time, and Cass says she's fine with it, which takes Babs by surprise. You can see the fight she was ready to have about it, you can see how confused she is when Cass just says OK, because again Scott is just so good at these facial expressions. Babs, or at least this version of her, is susceptible to making inaccurate assumptions about people, about Cass in particular, but she's a smart enough cookie to notice when Cass acts outside of those assumptions and start questioning whether something else is going on.

So Cass goes to train in Bab's star trek holodeck (I admit that thing was a bit too sci fi for a gotham book for my tastes), and refuses to let Steph sit in, which calls back the scene earlier to reinforce it in the readers memory before what happens later.

The power goes out, and Cass comes out sheepishly, this miserable look on her face (again! So good!), because she thinks she broke the holo room, and there's no way to hide & lie her way around that, but the problem isn't Cass...

It's this guy, Shadow Thief (jokerized), a villain I know nothing about and have never seen or read outside of this comic. He's got some weird tech that, I think, drains electricity from nearby devices to make himself (but not his weapons) intangible?

Scott draws him in an extra exaggerated, cartoony, and rubbery style, which works here to emphasize his weird powers and/or jokerization, but does kind of foreshadow how all of his comic art starts to look more like that over time - which again isn't bad (as you can see in the panel here it actually looks pretty cool), but I still prefer the earlier style.

Anyway, Shadow Thief also a notable supervillain martial artist, so Cass actually has been studying his files, and knows exactly how to deal with him -

Catching the throwing stars he throws at them with her fingers (look at her smile! She's loving this!)

Throwing out some cocky banter to play on his ego

Grabbing his very tangible sword to draw him to the roof so Babs and Steph aren't caught in their fight.

All great stuff.

And yeah, Barbara has absolutely picked up that somethings going on with Cass. Eventually it will be revealed that she just already knows about the fight with Shiva, and I don't think we ever see how she found out, but this is pretty clearly where she started to suspect something and it's not too much of a stretch to jump from that initial suspicion to just knowing everything, at least not with this character.

Even without his sword, Shadow Thief has special martial arts techniques that somehow let him sort of hit things despite his Shadow Field making him intangible....

And now Cass does, too.

One of the usual principles of early Batgirl (2000) - no supervillains - serves to keep the focus tight on the more emotional themes of the book. Cass is so far out of the league of any of the typical criminals she runs up against that fights are always over in a flash, keeping action scenes short and punchy and leaving more space in the book for other things. But it is nice, every once in a while, to make an exception for a more drawn out and elaborate fight scene like this, where Cass can really show her skills.

But the real drama of this issue happens when Babs finds a way to remotely deactivate Shadow Thief's intangibility field mid battle. That 'oh, shit' face is so good.

All Cass's joy gone in an instant. She was having so much fun. She was so happy to have a real opponent she could cut loose on instead of inanimate dummies or holograms. Someone good enough to keep up with her, and with a defensive ability effective enough that she could put her full skills to use without having to worry about actually hurting them. Yeah, Shadow Thief's a villain, but they were playing with each other, trading banter. Having fun. Despite Shadow Thief's murderous intent, this was almost more of a friendly sparring match than a real fight.

But once again she gets a stark reminder of what her skills were originally meant for, what she was originally meant for. Earlier in the issue Cass was throwing up at the thought that she even could have hurt Stephanie, and now she probably killed this guy. And there won't be any hiding this - forget what might happen if Bruce finds out about the guy she murdered as a child, he 100% is going to find out about this man that she murdered, on the roof of Barbara's safe house, while wearing his symbol. Her entire life is falling apart, here.

But Stephanie is here. And helps Cass save him. Helps her save herself.

And of course Cass wants to hide what happened from Barbara. And of course Stephanie, being a good friend, keeps her secret, even if it probably would have been better to talk to Barbara about what happened and what Cass is feeling about it. Then again, if Babs knew it might have gotten back around to Bruce, and that ~wouldn't~ have been a healing conversation.

And the issue ends with a Flashback to Cass agreeing to fight Shiva, a real fight, to the death, using all of their killing skills. An bargain struck many issues back, so this is the reminder to readers that the fight is coming up soon, only a few issues away now. The final page is this panel of Cass back in her cave, with Shiva's file open, a video recording of her fighting on loop, as Cass sits with her face in shadow. She isn't going to fight to kill Shiva. She can't. So Shiva is absolutely going to kill her.

So yeah, a strong issue to come back to, catching us up on the overal serial plot of the book at the time, but also strongly grounded in original Cass's core emotional themes and the intricate dynamics of some of her core relationships, including now to Stephanie, with this being a huge early moment of vulnerability from Cass and support from Steph pushing them from like work friends who pal around some times to real friends who rely on each other.

And despite making exceptions to include a super villain and extended fight scene and callback to an ongoing serial narrative arc, this issue still mostly adheres to the core early Batgirl (2000) playbook.

It tells a complete story in a single issue; tightly focused on Cass's core character themes, motivations, and frought, layered relationships; expressed mostly through the artwork with relatively minimal reliance on dialog and even less on narration, with an overall sombre or even tragic tone punctuated with moments of levity or heartfelt human connection.

I'm writing this before having a chance to read the first issue of Cass's new ongoing, but more than anything else, more than reverting her canon to the pre-flashpoint history (which I don't even want, post-flashpoint Cass is a new character and I'm sure she has fans who care about her as much as I cared about original Cass), even more than restoring the original version of David Cain, what I hope for most from the new book is a return to this kind of storytelling.

[dominolostart]

I got bored

So I had nothing better to do with my day and decided to decode the messages in the latest Inky Mystery chapter (352), consequentially dragging my partner who has never even read this into decoding with me.

Pardon my rambling but it did take a while to figure out what cipher to even use so I think this is justified.

-----

Mild spoilers I think???? Not sure to be honest ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ )

At first I had thought "oh numbers! It could be the chapter titles for letters, then first letters of chapters. Not sure why I went this route first but I did. Then the concept of codes hit me in the face, so onto number to letter (so A=1 and so on).

^ Live reaction of me realizing my error ^

Needless to say that didn't work and after a while of insanity and testing ciphers later I found the absolute beast that is Vigenère cipher. I hate this thing. Look at this chart.

So clearly I thought: "No way in hell am I doing this alone." and dragged my wordle loving partner over to help. We took this:

|17, | ,5|14,17,1|5, , ,2|22,4|5,5, ,20,1|

|2, , |21, ,13|16, | ,12, | ,15,11|

|10,18, , , ,7|1,16, | ,9,17|23, , |

|5,18|11, , | , , , ,20,13,17|

|10,25,15, , | ,26|2,2,11,13,7, , , | , , , | ,22,18|

And together (and with a decoder) we came up with this! Leaving dashes for empty spaces after decoding. KEY: INKMACHINE

I- -S NOT W--T IT SE-MS

T-- --K I- -H- -EY

BE---E TH- -AD M-- 

WE A-- ----PED 

BLE-- -S TOGET--- ---- -NE

------

We had a couple ideas on what the fill ins were, some were strait forward and easy and others I'm not going to lie we looked up words and were "I mean maybe?"

IT'S NOT WHAT IT SEEMS 

THE INK IS THE KEY

BEWARE THE -AD M-- (mad mob or bad man was what we assumed would fit best)

WE A-- ----PED (this one we kinda gave up on and put in either WE ARE STOPPED or WE ARE AWHAPED)

BLEND US TOGETHER INTO ONE (we also thought BLEED but decided on BLEND being a better fit)

-----

Awhape was on the word hippo, but when I looked it up it's not been in use since the late 1500's, plus this is what Urban dictionary told me

Supposedly it's supposed to mean To confound; to terrify; to amaze

So take what you will of that. It's actually becoming one of my new favorite words. Should be brought back. I have no idea how to use it but think we can find out.

Side note: I was extremely bored and went through and found how many colors were in the chapter. Don't ask me why I did this. I don't know either. I had nothing to do at work and was desperate okay.

Last side note: If you attempt to decode these too make sure to have a substitute letter, I'd recommend in lowercase and having everything else in caps so it works right. (I didn't do this and was getting confused until my partner told me.)

-Mino signing off

[interstellarlyinlove]

Time Travel (May 15th)

word count: 733

@wolfstarmicrofic

Remus is in Hogwarts, but not his Hogwarts. He doesn’t think so, at least.

Remus really shouldn’t have stolen Regulus’ time-turner. He really should stop fucking around to find out because that is what gets him in bizarre situations like this. 

Remus is standing in a DADA classroom staring at himself. An older version of himself. Older Remus looks like this is just something that happens. 16-year-old Remus is freaking out. 

“You really should dye your hair,” Remus says bluntly. The salt-and-pepper look really isn’t working out for him. Though, to be fair, older him looks a lot more comfortable than Remus generally is at any given moment. 

Older Remus laughs loud and deep. “Sure thing.”

“I really don’t know how I got here,” Remus says. “I’m a little–”

“Freaked?” Older Remus asks. Remus notices that older him isn’t fidgeting and he stops fidgeting as well. “I know.”

“How can you know?”

“I was freaked, too,” Older Remus says, smiling. He leans against the teacher’s desk. Remus scowls because he doesn’t lean. Remus notices a wedding band on his finger and he pretends he doesn’t notice it because that’s more than he wants to deal with at the moment.

“You remember traveling to the future to meet– oh, this is all kind of brain-numbing, I’m sorry. I don’t think I can follow.”

“Neither could I. Sirius helped me figure it out. It was quite a while ago, we needed a lot of drawn diagrams and colored ink. It hasn’t crossed my mind in so long, not until, well–” he smiles. “Until now.”

Remus’ heart aches when he hears Sirius’ name. That somehow seems like it should be the least consequential thing older him says but it’s the most important. Especially since he hasn’t really spoken to Sirius in five months, give or take, and has decided to take up hobbies like screwing with time-turners to not deal with the fact that Sirius had it in him to be so cruel. “Me and Sirius– I mean, er, you and Sirius, talk? After what happened with Snape?”

Older Remus’ eyes soften. “Of course. Sirius is the most important person in my life.”

Sirius is the most important person in Remus’ life. Or was. Or is. Or is going to be again, apparently. This is all terribly confusing. “Sirius and I–”

“Aren’t talking at the moment?” Older Remus guesses. Or he remembers, Remus corrects. He’s already gone through what Remus is currently going through. What a reassuring thought. “That was horrible. I’m sorry you’re experiencing it in real-time.”

“It fucking sucks,” Remus says, then he cringes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

Older him shakes his head. “It’s okay. Don’t apologize to me.”

“I’m glad it doesn’t last forever,” Remus says, and he means it. What Sirius did was cruel and unkind but– “I miss him. I would’ve hated to have lost my friend forever.”

“Did you think Sirius and I– Sirius and you, sorry, would never figure it out?”

Remus shakes his head. “Of course not. It’s Sirius. I wouldn’t let it not work out, even if what he did is horrible.”

Older Remus nods. “It was horrible. Everything feels like the end of the world when you're sixteen, doesn’t it?”

Remus couldn’t really argue with that. “How does it work out? Between Sirius and me–you, I mean."

Older Remus grins. “I know you’re smart enough to know I can’t tell you that.”

Remus himself grins. “I guess. This is all rather cool, actually. I’m glad to know my acne clears out. How come you don’t have any more scars?”

“I’m afraid I can't really– what I can say, Remus, is that–” and Remus doesn’t know what he wanted to tell himself because as suddenly as he appeared in that classroom, he reappears near the Black Lake, the time-turner clutched in his hand. 

He wasn’t anywhere near the Black Lake before, he was in the Astronomy Tower. Why would he be–

“Oh, fuck me. Where did you materialize from?”

Remus jumps.

“I’m sorry. I’ll just–”

“Sirius,” Remus calls out, and it’s the first time they’ve spoken in so long and Remus knows it works out. “Sirius. I have so much to tell you.”

Sirius looks awestruck. Remus, despite everything in the universe, grins. He knows that it works out! He smiles, his heart lighter than it has been in so long, and starts talking. 

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook: Unsettled 🔞

In which Jungkook just can't go on like this.

Tags/Warnings: still angsty af wtf, idol!Jungkook, flashback, smut with feelings, why do I torture myself with this, sensual smut oop, mentioned size difference, it's not smut-focused though

!This belongs to 'Restless' but can be read on his own. Some things might not make sense though lol.

Length: Idk man, mid?

A/N: I like suffering.

-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶--⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-

He knows it's wrong.

He knows that even if you tell him it won't, it will definitely change something between you both. If not for you, then definitely for him. Because the way you touch him makes him delusional, makes him think that this might be some romantic movie where at the end of all this, you'll confess your love and live happily ever after.

But that's not what's going to happen.

And he's painfully aware of this.

You're friends, and that alone could already cause chaos if found out by the public. You? A random person he'd met years ago, who's neither a celebrity nor involved in the scene at all? You're no fit for him, from a professional standpoint. Nothing visually outstanding, no groundbreaking achievements in life, just a normal person.

No fit for him. He knows this.

And yet he's given in, and there's no backing out now. His hands are already underneath your shirt, exploring your warm skin he hopefully soon will get to see as well. It's like he's taking the first hit of a drug he knows he's already doomed to instantly become addicted to.

He can't stop.

Not when every time he let's himself go with you, he feels as if he's thrown into a different dimension, like a lucid dream where time doesn't matter, and feelings swallow him whole. You're the cause of his heartache, and yet he chooses you over anything else that would hurt less.

"I can't-" it's something he says often, especially to you. You're sure there's thoughts jn his head that he's not comfortable enough to share with you, and it enables your delusions of him possibly devoting himself to you like someone buying an addict their drugs. It's wrong, on every level, but understandable, because no one likes tk watch pain unfold like that.

He's slow this time, seems to drag it out. You're both naked, very much so, but he's more focused on you than anything else it seems. His inked hand between your legs cramps up after a while, so he instead falls onto his stomach before dragging you closer by your thighs. You laugh for a second at the anger on his face as he has to push the sheets away from your entrance.

He's loosing this, whatever it is. Himself, you, everything- he's loosing control over this entire situation.

The company doesn't know how involved he is with you. If they did, he'd surely get more than just a scolding, he knows the consequences from the things that had happened to other members in the past. Namjoon's girlfriend being slapped with an NDA and consequential breakup resulting from it, Jin's constant fights because he never breaks and never backs down. He protects, he's bold, he's chosen to fight for his partner as much as he has to.

But Jungkook isn't Jin. He's scared, of the consequences, of what would happen to you. Or maybe it's simply possessiveness? Selfishness? Maybe he just can't stand the thought of you being with someone else.

Your first wave of pleasure hits you surprisingly softly, making him part from you before he wipes his mouth with his inked arm. There's a tiny artwork in between all of them. Small, random, even to you- but that's because he will probably never confess that it's for you.

When he had it done he'd laughed to himself, because it had hurt. Badly so. But it could never compare to what he feels with every kiss you grant him. What he feels whenever he wonders when you'll find someone better.

He sucks and bites his marks into your skin angrily at that, desperate as his mind unravels scenario after scenario of you squirming like this for another man, another woman. It doesn't matter to him.

He wants you. And he wants you to want him too.

Your hands run over his arms like he's made of glass, and he doesn't know why that makes him feel funny. You always treat him so delicately even though he's anything but. He's a man, muscles toned, body towering over you, and yet you're always so gentle.

When you help him tie his hair to get it out his face, you never pull the hairtie too close to his scalp, because you now it gives him a headache. You don't use perfume but a softer scent that smells like flowers and vanilla because it makes him nauseous if something smells too strong. You know him, so so well, and it hurts, because he knows if you were his, he'd get to feel these things all the time.

The moment he pushes himself inside you, he knows he won't last long this time. Not because of the agonizingly long foreplay, or the whimpers of pleasure falling from your lips, but because he simply can't go on like this.

He's made his choice. And tonight, he will be selfish one last time.

For real.

He's slow, sensual, tastes your skin to imprint it into his mind. He'd taken a picture of you with his dog last time, sneakily so, because you don't like having images taken. His phone could be hacked any second of the day, exposing him and you in the process.

You're not worried for yourself. But for him.

At a certain point, you hold onto him a little tighter than usual, and your warm arms barely reaching over his back break him like a rotten tree.

"I love you."

It's muffled into your skin, barely distinguishable from the creaking of the bed and his kisses close to your ear, but you hear it, and it freezes your blood. "Jungk-"

"I can't do this." he breaks, keeping his momentum, desperate as his angry tears dampen your shoulder. "I don't want this anymore.!" he presses out in frustration.

He says all of this, and yet he still continues.

It's like how he won't wash his clothes until you've hugged a different shirt of his so he can keep a trace of you whenever you're gone. Or how he rather hugs his blankets after you've slept over just to at least pretend for a second that you're there.

His orgasm is bittersweet. Unsatisfying because of himself punishing his own body. He's not allowing himself to enjoy any of it.

You leave after catching your breath, light of his bathroom bleeding into the bedroom, showing the mess that's on his sheets, equal to what's going on inside of him. He can hear you get ready again, washing yourself before you walk out-

Still naked?

"Come on, you'll catch a cold like that." you quietly say, pulling at his hand to drag him into the bathroom as well. He's like a child, stubborn, doesn't want it to end yet. He doesn't care if his thoughts are disgusting, but he doesn't want to wash anything off. He wants to stay like this, with you, forever. Have you ever held his hand before? He can't remember.

Why are you holding it now when he want to let you go?

While he's busy showering in shame, you pull the sheets off and search in his closet for new ones. It's a little odd for you to do this, but it feels right at the same time. You don't like seeing him hurt like this. Maybe tonight is just a bad night for him.

You've always been like that. Expecting the worst, hoping for the bad. That way, you rarely ever get disappointed in the outcome.

When he's back out you're at least wearing panties, back turned towards him as you zip the blanket covers shut. "I'm sorry." he apologizes quietly, watching you simply hum at that.

You're not sure what he's sorry for. Meeting you? Letting you in? Befriending you? Fucking you? Or maybe just breaking your heart?

It doesn't matter, because he himself doesn't know it either.

"I'm sorry too." you say suddenly, and he watches your bare back move around as you put the sheets in the hamper close by. "I shouldn't have agreed in the first place." you mumble, and he sighs, picking up his discarded shirt before he pulls it over your head.

"you'll catch a cold like this." he copies your words, and you push your lips together in a straight line while he helps your arms through the designated holes of the shirt.

"Do you regret it?" you wonder, looking down from his apartment window.

"no." he answers far too quickly. "I just feel... Guilty. Every time." he confesses.

"how so?" you wonder. This is oddly the most you've talked in weeks. Months even.

"I feel like I'm wasting your time." Jungkook somberly explains. "Time you could spend meeting someone who's going to be good to you. Treat you well." he offers.

"Honestly, you're right. It was wasted time." you nod. "But I was happy, you know? At least for a moment."

His eyes sting again. He doesn't want this.

"I'm glad." he simply says, unable to get anything else out as his throat closes.

"I heard it, by the way." you tell him. "your 'I love you'." you say. He sighs.

"I didn't mean to.." he shapely admits. "but I couldn't hold it in. I.. Wanted to say it at least once to you."

"hmm." you hum. "I love you too." you tilt your head to the side, hugging yourself while he stands next to you with a bit of distance. "felt nice saying that. You know, at least once."

He nods. It's true- at least you've said it once. And he feels a bit lighter knowing that he shares the pain, as harsh as it sounds.

"imagine what would happen if the people down there knew what we'd been up to this past year." you chuckle, watching the people small like ants down on the ground. "I wonder this every time I leave, you know? Whenever I walk past someone. What would they do if they knew?" you softly say, and suddenly, his tears dry before they can fall.

They don't know.

They don't know.

"But they don't know." he says out loud.

"they don't." you repeat.

Slowly, with the company of his dog's tapping feet in the living room somewhere and the cars down beneath your feet, he walks behind you, pulls you into his front, his arms around you.

"you'll get hurt, Jungkook." you remind him.

"nothing can hurt me more than not having you." he simply says, resting his forehead in the crook of your neck.

"is that your post-nut-clarity speaking?" you joke, and he pinches your sides at that, earning a laugh from you as you squirm in his arms, his dog eagerly barking at the excitement suddenly bubbling.

"no, that's ny poor heart scolding you!" he responds, turning you around in his embrace, still not letting you go.

"oh no. Is there anything I can do to fix it?" you wonder.

"stay the night?" he asks with hopeful eyes.

"just tonight? Easy." you nod.

"no, forever." he adds, gaze a bit mor serious. "for as long as we can."

You know you can't say yes. You know there is no forever for you.

And yet you lean in, kiss his lips.

"okay."

-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶--⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-⊶-

[zesketches]

I want to have a lot of fun with this dynamic, cause this is a very non-consequential side story to the main series canon. plus this is the perfect setting to practice my inking lol

[marvelmusing]

The True Sea

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x Reader

Summary: Sturmhond’s mutiny against the Darkling is rescheduled when Mal attacks Aleksander, and you’re forced to make a decision. It’s only as evening arrives that the repercussions sink in for you. (Sun Summoner!Reader - Siege & Storm AU)

My Masterlist

“You are aware there are other people in these quarters that would like a bath before the next century occurs?”

You scoff at the sound of Aleksander’s sarcastic drawl, but it helps you to pull yourself out of the thoughts that had been consuming you. At least he’s giving you something else to focus on.

Somehow Aleksander always knows what you need. Even if you simply need to argue with him, instead of staring into the bath water wondering if you had done the right thing.

The blinding fear you had felt, seeing Mal’s knife at Aleksander’s throat, was like no emotion you’ve ever experienced before.

“Oh be quiet.” You call out from behind the folding screen that acts as a means to preserve your modesty while bathing. “We both know you’re nowhere near done with those maps, and that you won’t put them down until you’re finished.”

You both know that you’re right.

The two of you are quiet again.

You hadn’t spoken much this evening, after the attempted mutiny by Sturmhond’s crew. When Mal had nearly killed Aleksander, and you had been forced to pick a side, using your light to dazzle Mal into releasing Aleksander.

You don’t regret saving Aleksander, but you do mourn for what you’ve lost. A potential ally in Sturmhond, who is now locked behind bars, hidden away in the cells within the bowels of the ship. Your lifelong friendship with Mal, who now sports a split lip from where you’d punched him.

Thumb smoothing over your knuckles, you eye the spot that had made contact with Mal. Aleksander’s healer had dealt with the consequential bruises there, the only thing you feel is a prickle of guilt as you rub a slow circle over the joint.

You hadn’t wanted to hurt Mal, but when you saw the faint redness as his knife had begun to break the skin of Aleksander’s throat, instinct had kicked in. Save the person most important to you, whatever the cost.

Over the last few months you’ve been struggling to decide who it is that means more to you. Mal or Aleksander.

Its only today that you’ve finally realised that it’s Aleksander. It’s always been him. It always will be. Not matter what either one of you do to one another, you will always be each others priority, above all others.

Even from behind the screen, you can feel Aleksander’s eyes on you as the steam swirls above the water you’re submerged in. Over the last week you’ve spent on board the whaler, you’ve learnt that whilst you won’t always see it, Aleksander’s attention is always on you.

A devious idea springs to mind, and you stand up in the bath, droplets of water cascading down your body.

Aleksander’s robe is hanging on the back of a chair, more specifically, the chair next to where he’s sitting at his desk. Dabbing the majority of the moisture from your skin with a soft towel, you drop it onto the floor before you approach him.

He, rather pointedly, doesn’t look up at you. But he doesn’t need to, you know his attention is still on you and not the papers in his hand even as he pretends to focus on the inked words.

Your dewy skin still flushed and damp from the bath. The smell of soap clinging to your body, being drawn into his lungs with every breath.

It’s only once his robe is secured around your body that he turns to meet your eyes. Your voice is quiet, as your fingers curl around the edge of the pages, tugging them lightly from his hand.

“Hurry now, while the water’s still warm.”

He stands, watching the amusement sparkle in your eyes. For a moment you think you have finally achieved some sort of victory against him. You swallow hard as he towers over you, and that thought quickly vanishes.

The two of you aren’t quite the enemies you were this morning. After all, you had betrayed your only friend to save Aleksander’s life. But you’re not the same as you were on the night of the Winter Fete. There’s the same want in his eyes, no doubt a reflection of your own, but you’ve both been hurt by one another.

He saved your life. He deceived you. You ran away. You betrayed him. He betrayed you. You ran away again. Now you had saved his life. Where you back where you started? Or would this be a new beginning?

His fingers brush against the collar of the robe wrapped lightly around your body, pushing the fabric aside to reveal the shadowy scar on your shoulder created by the teeth of one of his creatures.

“Does it hurt?” He asks, as his thumb traces the length of it. The constant pain eases with his touch, and a shiver runs down the length of your spine.

“Sometimes.” You admit in a whisper. Then you reach forward, cupping the side of his face delicately in your hand.

Thumb tracing delicately over his cheekbone, your eyes roam over the scars torn into his skin as you echo his question in a near whisper,

“Does it hurt?”

His eyes flicker closed for a moment, and once they open their depths burn into you as he whispers hoarsely,

“Constantly.”

»»---------------------►

marvelmusing Tag List: @dreamlandcreations @blanchedelioncourt @idaofinfinity @slytherheign @ellooo0ooo @vixenofcourse @dumb-fawkin-bitch @jane-arthur

Aleksander M Tag List: @nyctophiliiiiaaa @jazmin2211

BB Characters Tag List: @rachlovesactors @noortsshift @aikeia

[geekcavepodcast]

Dark Horse and Mattel Announce "Masters of the Universe: Revolution" Prequel Comics

Dark Horse and Mattel are releasing a 4-issue prequel comic for Netflix's Masters of the Universe: Revolution. The comics, also called Masters of the Universe: Revolution, is written by Revolution producers Tim Sheridan, Rob David, and Ted Biaselli. Art is by Daniel HDR, Inks are by Keith Champagn. Coloring is by Brad Simpson. Lettering is by AndWorld Design.

"Journey to the earliest days of one of the universe’s most consequential and fraught team-ups. Hordak is an ambitious general, eager to make his mark; Skeletor is an aspiring mage hungry for power. Joining forces, melding ancient Eternian magic with advanced Horde technology, could bring them all their evil hearts’ desire...but they’ll have to survive each other first." (Dark Horse)

Masters of the Universe: Revolution #1 (of 4), featuring a main cover by Dave Wilkins and a variant cover by Tyler Boss, goes on sale on May 15, 2024.

(Image via Dark Horse - Dave Wilkin's Cover of Masters of the Universe: Revolution #1)

[leyswhumpdump]

I posted 784 times in 2022

That's 784 more posts than 2021!

170 posts created (22%)

614 posts reblogged (78%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@callaeidae3

@whumpsday

@whump-side

@whumpwillow

@oddsconvert

I tagged 618 of my posts in 2022

Only 21% of my posts had no tags

#whump art - 164 posts

#whump - 143 posts

#whump writing - 94 posts

#original post - 68 posts

#the case of kindall k - 44 posts

#other people's writing - 43 posts

#whump prompts - 26 posts

#the merry whump of may - 26 posts

#reference - 23 posts

#hidden ink - 20 posts

Longest Tag: 122 characters

#making them nakey except for their cape so they have to try and cover themselves but it doesn't really cover them properly

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

It kind of surprises me to realise this, but restraints are chronically underused in a lot of otherwise whumpy media. Not the restraints themselves, but the process of actually tying up the whumpee. I’ve noticed a lot of scene cuts between initial capture and being restrained (or it’s over in a sentence or a few seconds), and I feel like there’s so much whumpy potential there.

Like. The symbolism and fear in restraining the whumpee’s limbs, especially if this is the first time it’s happened to them. The shift in the power dynamic, especially if the whumper has been established as physically or socially weaker than the whumpee. The sense of freedom, previously taken for granted, that flees with every extra loop of rope around the whumpee’s wrists. The resulting desperation. And while a completely-restrained whumpee is so fun to watch struggle, I personally love it when the whumpee still has a shot at escaping and can’t quite overpower their whumper before it’s too late.

Similarly, when the whumpee is first gagged. The initial terror when they realise what the whumper is planning, the desperate struggles to keep their mouth shut. The humiliation and invasiveness of having something stuffed past their teeth, the frantic attempts to spit it out before whumper can tie a knot or lock the thing around their head. Maybe they actually succeed, and have to go through the whole thing again with a spinning head or black eye.

I feel like the more it’s built up, the more they struggle or panic, the more impact it has when they’re defeated.

474 notes - Posted June 14, 2022

#4

Whumpees being rescued by stranger caretakers is such a vibe. The fear of not knowing they’re safe. The caretaker being uncertain of what exactly Whumpee went through, or worrying they’ve made a mistake in helping the injured / feverish / terrified little mess that’s cowering or unconscious in their spare room.

And then the early recovery period. When Whumpee whispers their own name for the first time. When Caretaker tries to coax out information with food and kindness. When the seeds of doubt begin to soothe themselves until eventually they’re washed away, and Whumpee and Caretaker form an alliance if not a friendship.

Later on, Whumpee wonders how they could ever repay such kindness. The thought of someone like Caretaker helping someone like them is almost unfathomable, and once it’s actually sunk in, they break down sobbing and can’t be consoled.

Of course, once the tears have dried they are fiercely loyal to Caretaker, and will do anything in the world for this no-longer-stranger they now owe their life to.

614 notes - Posted May 19, 2022

#3

Nearly Unconscious Whumpees

I know we love unconscious whumpees. How about nearly unconscious whumpees?

Caretaker is trying to carry Whumpee to safety but Whumpee is kind of delirious and the little consciousness they do have is absolutely fixated on one thing, e.g. the wellbeing of a fellow whumpee. Bonus points if it’s something less consequential, like fretting about the blood they’re getting on Caretaker’s clothing. Extra bonus points if their mumblings show a complete lack of understanding of the situation, such as pleading for Whumper not to hurt them or asking when Caretaker’s getting here.

Whumpee’s eyes are open and Caretaker thinks they’re more alert than they are. It’s only when Caretaker tries to get them to sit up and has to support their limp head and neck that they see their glazed expression.

Whumpee drifting in and out of consciousness without realising it, so what may seem to be a coherent conversation to them is strung out over full minutes or even hours for Caretaker.

Whumpee drifting in and out of consciousness, realising it, and panicking as much as they are mentally capable of doing at that moment. Caretaker has to soothe them and let them know it’s all right, they’re in safe hands and Caretaker won’t let anything happen to them.

Caretaker carrying Whumpee over their shoulder and having to set them down on a bed or a table. Whumpee’s limbs ragdolling as Whumpee mumbles weak apologies.

Whumpee lying in a bed and seemingly unconscious, but Caretaker knows they still have some alertness because they squeeze Caretaker’s hand really tightly.

Whumpee wishing they could pass out completely because the pain is too much for them.

And two more (reference to noncon drugging and nonsexual noncon touching):

Whumper has drugged Whumpee into a hazy state. When Whumpee gets rescued, they’re terrified Caretaker thinks they’re drunk or deliberately intoxicated.

Creepy Whumper doing something intimate like stroking Whumpee’s hair. Whumpee is either frightened but unable to pull themselves away, or not conscious enough to really be scared or know who’s touching them.

718 notes - Posted May 13, 2022

#2

Sleeping Whumpees

Sleeping whumpees. Curled up on cold cell floors, seeking the only escape they can get. Eyes red behind their closed lids because they cried themselves to sleep. Tucked up under warm blankets. Cradled by a caretaker. Peaceful and smiling even in slumber, or screaming from night terrors. Restless from fever. Exhausted in the back of a car, their mind and body just given out. Falling asleep after fighting it for so long.

Just an adorable trope all round.

778 notes - Posted May 18, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Early Recovery / Comfort Aesthetics

Oversized clothing, especially big baggy sweaters with sleeves that fall over the hands. Great for hiding old wounds or just as something soft to hide in. Bonus points if the clothing belongs to Caretaker.

Being touch starved but overwhelmed by the thought of Caretaker actually touching them. Enveloping themselves in different textures and using a weighted blanket to ease them back into physical touch that won’t hurt. Maybe cuddling with a plushie or a pet.

Rolling into a tiny ball at perceived threats, trying to make themselves invisible. Alternatively, being a feral hissy kitten and needing to be calmed down.

Having all the knots and tangles gently brushed out of their hair <3

Having their hair stroked by Caretaker.

Having their hair washed by Caretaker.

Caretaker preparing their comfort foods.

Constantly asking Caretaker if Whumper knows where they are, and Caretaker’s heart breaking for the hundredth time as they patiently explain that Whumper won’t ever hurt them again.

Sleepy whumpees who can’t keep their eyes open, melting against Caretaker’s shoulder or into their lap as they fall asleep.

Whumpees that cling to their comfort items even after rescue. A blanket or family photo or a teddy bear constantly in their hand.

Whumpees waking up from the first sleep they’ve had in months that isn’t full of nightmares or night terrors. Rolling over and burying themselves in the covers for a lie-in, no longer afraid of the thought of sinking back into dreams.

1,400 notes - Posted June 9, 2022

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[stormslayeradventures]

The Great Matter - Part One:

There was a knock at the door at Haurchefant’s House in the Lavender Beds, as Haurchefant went to open the door this Sunday morning, there stood Honoroit holding a blue wooden document box bearing the Ishgardian Sheild

“My Lord, for you from Ishgard.” He says as he hands over the box, he notices he is wearing gloves which means the box is Aetherially locked. Taking the box, Haurchefant nods.

“Thank you Honoroit, may I give you any refreshments? Tea before you return on the road?” He said kindly.

“No thank you my Lord, but I appreciate your gesture.” Honoroit bows before turning and walking down the stairs and on the path towards the ferry.

He takes the box inside, Aine was downstairs still resting from her adventures celebrating Princess Runa’s name day. So he went over to his desk and opened the box. There were at two folio envelopes, a smaller box with ink and parchment with a letter from what looked to be Viola’s handwriting, one bearing the seal of Ishgard, the other bearing the seal of Ophelia’s house and then on top was a singular envelope bearing the seal of House Fortemps. The envelope on the front says “Read this Letter First.” Written clearly in Arortiel’s fluid and large cursive. He grabs the letter opener and opens the letter.

Haurchefant,

I preface this Folio of Letters that has been sent to you by us the family. Primarily as I have a feeling that this correspondence is going to make you feel as if we have manhandled you wrongly, and that we are simply ‘getting rid of you.’ The simple truth is that this is exactly what is happening. But this time, I had to ensure you understood why.

My brother, when you left this world, you left Ophelia to fend for herself. In doing so, you left her to become a member of the power struggles and games of the High Houses. Ophelia had to fight her way to the top where she resides today. The entirety of your Ophelia’s power, resides in her constancy. Her not wavering, her being the woman in control and leading from the front at all costs. Failure to do so, can cost her everything. Because you aren’t here to stand at her side.

I was hoping, that once the truth was shown and revealed, you would stand by her. You didn’t have to be her husband again, or even love her. But I hoped your presence, would show everyone that things would be alright, and give Ophelia the strength and courage to continue to serve. But instead, even I now, must accept disappointment. Because you abandoned her. Time, and time again you abandonded her, abandoned us.. Why you felt this was the correct course of action, I will never understand. But it consequentially means, you are now a liability to those of us who don’t have the freedom you have to just leave and go be a wayfarer.

And so, we made the call. To send you to a place where you can still be of service. As well as send you to a place where your orthodox lifestyle can be tolerated. While that sounds awful in writing, you have to understand that Ishgard while always your home, is not your home anymore either..Add the fact that you were not going to take Ophelia back as your own, and the dishonor you placed upon her, your children, and even us your brothers, made it obvious, that there is to be no peace in your household. During the war, we could have hand waived it, but now, your actions brother holds the greatest of weights, and even greater of consequences in ways I would have no amount of parchment long enough to explain.

Faced with those facts and the desire that Aymeric wants to give Ophelia the seat of Lord Speaker, we must now make the greater sacrifice, to let you go and put our trust in Ophelia. In doing so we make Ophelia take up the banner and serve the realm for the rest of her days. Most likely, doing so alone. So myself and many family members wanted to send you to locations such as Garlemald, Dalmasca and even Mare Lamentorium, putting you as far away from us as possible for all of this. For burdening your beloved Ophelia once more, when she should be taking her well deserved rest.

Ophelia however, was the one who interceded and recommended Thavnair. This was long before the knowledge of your wife’ position was made manifest. While I hold no ill will towards Aine, it has been obvious from the beginning that she doesn’t care for this life, and was happy to leave Ophelia with all of the burden of your legacy and household, and that for me brother was the final factor to agreeing with sending you away for good this time.

I’m not asking for your forgiveness, nor will I apologize for doing what needs to be done. It’s okay if you hate me for the remainder of your days. But at least I owed it to you to tell you why. Even if I spend the rest of my days, wondering who you are now.

I truly wish you every happiness brother. In this life, and any other one as well. I do hope that one day, we all can just sit before the fire made at the cliffs over looking the city like we did in our youth. Until then, I’ll make sure there is plenty of fresh flowers for Francel.

~ Artoriel

[slowlyteenagestarlight]

Namaste 🙏. To these amazing “people” sending posed nude or outrageous images of just staring at or into whatever tech gizmos that .jpg the chit out you. Don’t think [?] pun intended, that beautiful humans are ignored. It’s just that Eye don’t care for Third density animal functions of sexuality. Blanket statement [?] Many haven’t even a single iota of the depths of what is going on on this living library Terra. Earth as many know her to be. Which is only one of trillions of planetary bodies where life is proliferating at exponentially loftier scales than posing epidemiological invitations to who knows what is drooling at whatever pronoun is required to satiate the egoism of quid pro quo’s acquiescence. Humanity must strive beyond being the victim or bowing down because of a want. Fiat. Paper inked green with a numeric value symbol/system [s], backed by nothing of any intrinsic significance/real-time value. The DNA/mRNA data structures of humans are more complex than the very basic ideological structured arguments that have been implanted in your brains. Saddened that so many Angelic’s here are completely convinced by the very Reptilian bipedal creatures that help abort your fetus’s existence, only to consume them. And the ignorance of egoism, is complicit in destroying each and every human being in this sector of space time. Over non-consequential items of such lesser significance than the very existence of your/Ewer souls that never die per se’. Only transition to other venues of life. Time. As the proverbial concept is believed to have correlated that which envelope beyond third dimensional space is a constant motion in frequency localization as in keys on a piano 🎹. The proverbial structure which the Movie “Matrix” expressed, is a documentary. Suggested that perhaps watching this again might help exonerate one’s wisdom barrier [s]. Namaste 🙏.

[starseedfxofficial]

Starmer & Lagarde: Forex Moves Behind the Headlines The Secret Squeeze: Starmer, Lagarde, and the Global Trade Balancing Act Revealing the Hidden Moves If you've ever felt like the international stage was playing a game of chess while we all watched from the sidelines, you're in luck—I'm here to help you move from spectator to strategist. Today, we peel back the curtain on some juicy moves involving the UK's Prime Minister Keir Starmer, ECB's Christine Lagarde, and the subtle, yet consequential, dance of global trade. Starmer's Invitation to Brussels: What's Cooking? The EU wants a little heart-to-heart with the UK—this February, PM Starmer is packing his bags for Brussels. Why? Well, it seems Brussels wants to cozy up with the UK again, which might sound like your ex wanting to "just be friends," but there’s a lot more at play here. With economic waters still choppy post-Brexit, the EU is seeking smoother ties, aiming to make trade easier, or perhaps just a little less awkward. Imagine trying to borrow sugar from your neighbor after a bitter neighborhood fallout—Starmer's upcoming trip is sort of like that, but on a much larger scale. For traders, there’s something to be learned here: the relationship between markets is like a rubber band. The UK and EU are stretching and releasing, and if you play it right, you could capitalize on those tight bounces. A sudden improvement in EU-UK relations could very well provide an attractive entry point in currency pairs like GBP/EUR. Lagarde's Forecast: The Subtle Punch of a Trade War Meanwhile, Christine Lagarde, the President of the European Central Bank, isn’t one to stay out of the action. She’s raising her eyebrows at the possibility of a trade war—one she says could give inflation a boost. Lagarde made a point that such a trade war might nudge inflation upward (yep, your coffee is going to cost more again… fantastic). More intriguingly, she brought up the potential for Europe to buy more LNG from the United States—a tiny snippet of news with huge trading implications. If the EU starts buying more LNG, that could spell strength for USD, and perhaps some volatility in the energy sector that forex traders should be prepared to ride. The Plot Thickens: China and "Reciprocity" And then there’s China—Lagarde threw down the gauntlet by saying that free trade with China would only be attractive if it's "reciprocal and beneficial." That’s a diplomatic way of saying, "Hey, China, we’re not playing unless you play fair too." For traders, this could be the canary in the coal mine for upcoming turbulence in EUR/CNH. China and the EU both want to stay competitive—if things heat up, expect some jostling that’ll send ripples through the forex pond. Hidden Opportunities: Turning Tension into Tactics Alright, let’s zoom out a little. All these chess moves—Starmer's upcoming visit, Lagarde’s remarks about a trade war, the EU's talk of buying more American LNG—aren’t just political fluff. If you know where to look, there are hidden gems for those with a trader's mindset: - Reciprocity Moves: If the EU can hash out fairer trade terms with China, it could strengthen the Euro. Look for subtle signals—like early news of new trade agreements—that might give EUR a boost. - LNG Opportunities: The moment the EU inks deals to buy LNG from the US, pay attention to EUR/USD and USD-based energy trades. Volatility will be your friend here, just as long as you know when to let go. Think of it as a rodeo—you ride the bull for eight seconds, not eight minutes. - Starmer's Trip: While this might sound like just another political dinner, it's all about trade flow improvements. A thaw between the UK and EU could put GBP in an interesting spot. If the news from Brussels looks like progress, we could see GBP making a steady climb against the Euro. Making Sense of the Madness It’s easy to shrug this off as just another series of political headlines. But as a Forex trader, you aren’t just reading the news—you’re reading the future. You’re connecting the dots and seeing where the money will flow next. The key here is understanding how these "macro" moves translate into "micro" opportunities. Do you take a long or short position? Do you need to adjust your exposure to currencies tied to the EU or UK? These geopolitical moves could mean the difference between getting stuck with stale trades and riding the wave before others even notice it forming. How We Help You Stay Ahead Navigating this kind of news isn’t always straightforward. That’s why we at StarseedFX are committed to providing you with the tools, community, and education to trade effectively. - Stay Updated: Get the latest in market movements and advanced Forex news here. - Master the Markets: Don’t just watch from the sidelines—educate yourself with our advanced Forex methodologies at StarseedFX Forex Courses. - Join the Community: If you're serious about stepping up your trading game, our StarseedFX community offers daily alerts and insights. You can check that out here. It’s All About the Patterns The game of geopolitics might feel overwhelming, but it’s really just about patterns. Who’s buying LNG from whom, who’s got their arms folded at the negotiation table, and how the headlines translate into the strength or weakness of a currency. When PM Starmer shows up in Brussels, or when Lagarde comments on "fair" trade, there’s money moving somewhere—and those who can read between the lines can take advantage. Remember, the next time a political figure makes the news, don’t think of it as another soundbite—think of it as a signal. Because while the rest of the world sees headlines, you, my friend, see opportunity. So, let’s make the news work for us. Stay sharp, stay funny, and keep finding those hidden gems that others overlook. Ready to join the action? Drop your thoughts in the comments below, and let's discuss how we can make these trends work for our next trading strategy. —————– Image Credits: Cover image at the top is AI-generated   Read the full article