#volatile black and red shoes

[y2kbeautyandother2000sstuff]

Volatile Slip on Platforms Sneakers

1990s

Found on Mercari, user YoMamasVintage

[finniestoncrane]

Regarding Black Mask having sadistic kinks…he would totally give his partner instructions that are impossible to follow (telling them not to make any noise and then doing something guaranteed to make them moan/scream) just so he can punish them when they can’t do it

Keep Quiet

Arkham!Black Mask x GN!Reader, word count: 1.4k ok be nice to me be kind to me this is my first black mask thing, and i gotta be honest, it's nice to write someone being a complete bastard who just is a complete bastard. reader has been paid by roman in an undisclosed agreement to be his little puppy, but he might be a bit rougher than they imagined... 💀 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: mentions of a monetary arrangement, sub/dom dynamics, rough oral sex, spanking, slapping, humiliation, degradation, sadomasichism, crying, pet play

"Keep. Quiet."

Those were the key words, the rules you were given. They'd been printed on the bottom of the invite card. They were uttered to you by the henchman who was posted at the door to the office. And Roman Sionis himself had uttered them slowly, cruelly, as he watched you undress and guided you to the slick, black platform in the middle of the room.

"Keep quiet. Don't make a sound. I'd hate to have to punish ya."

He turned on his heel, bright red flashing on the bottom of the polished, black leather dress shoes. With a dry chuckle, he turned again, leaning down once more so his face was level with yours where you lay face down on the platform in the middle of the room, though his was hidden behind the matte black skull mask he wore.

"I lied. Punishin' ya would be... well it'd be pretty fuckin' good. But I'm feelin' generous tonight, y'know?"

You nodded, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, as you realised that perhaps the reward here didn't quite make up for the risk. You got money, you got pleasure. But you potentially lost everything at the hands of Black Mask. Violent, notorious, and unpredictable.

Or maybe, you considered, it was worth the risk, given how quickly you felt the pit of your stomach warm, how your heartbeat skipped slightly, how your arousal tingled through you at the thought of those last three attributes. Handsome, yes. Rich, of course. Powerful, naturally. But those were nowhere near as arousing as the volatile behaviour you'd heard tell of being exhibited by Roman in the past. You wanted to experience that for yourself, truth be told. Apathetic, yes. But curious more than anything.

You wondered why you had to be quiet. Some of the others, the ones who had been hired by Roman before, had told you that he had the room bugged. That suggested that perhaps a loud scream might not be picked up well on the mics and would ruin his recording. But then why would he bug the room if he didn’t want any sound? Unless he just wanted to hear himself… But this was Roman Sionis. If he wanted to record any kind of sound, he wouldn’t do it covertly, and certainly not with anything less than the best equipment.

So was it perhaps something to do with the fact that you were in his office, within his building? His employees were right there, just beyond the walls. Maybe he would be embarrassed if they heard what was going on? But of course, he wouldn’t be. Either the walls were soundproofed to allow him to be as heinous as he wanted, or, more likely, they were paper thin so everyone could hear exactly what was going on. After all, who of his employees was going to risk saying anything to him.

And then, you settled on the realisation that it was control. He had control over you completely. From how much you wore, to where you lay, to how much sound you could make in his presence, regardless of what kind of damage he intending to inflict on you. No one spoke back to him, least of all the playthings he was paying. You were there to lay still and be keep quiet. So you close your eyes, letting your body, laying face down, sink into the surface of the podium you had been so sarcastically placed upon, and considered what might be about to happen to you.

Just as your mind began to wander further, causing your heart rate to increase, you felt the sharp, smooth crack of his palm against your rear. The flesh on one of your cheeks heated immediately in response to the smack. You didn’t have time to process the sudden invasion of your personal space before Roman was smacking the other side. His hand switched between your two cheeks, covering your ass in deep, rounded welts as his leather glove came into contact with your red, trembling skin. Over and over, the pain getting stronger either through the repetitive nature or the increase in force, in violence, behind his smacks. Until he suddenly stopped, his heavy breaths getting louder as he walked around you, his finger stroking along your curves as he made his way around to your head.

“Roll over.”

You did as he instructed, and were met with cruelty even then.

“Good dog. Do you know any more tricks then?”

You couldn’t tell whether you should answer or not, so you stayed silent, staring into what you could make out of his eyes beneath the dark mask. With a surprisingly gentle hand, he let his fingers spread through your hair, stroking it, soothing you almost, before he gripped it close to your scalp and tugged sharply. As he pulled your body towards him, you scrambled on your palms, trying to pull your body up the platform, closer to him, where he wanted you to be, until you were laying with your head completely off the edge. Upside down. Waiting for his next move. You opened your mouth to speak, to protest the uncomfortable position, but you were stunned back into silence as his palm cracked your face.

“Don’t even think about talkin’, sweetheart. Keep. Quiet. Keep fuckin’ quiet.”

You nodded, the sting of tears forming in the corners of your eyes. You worried that he might offer further punishment for this display of emotion, but instead he crouched down once again to your level and tutted.

“You dumb animal. Not quite as clever as I thought you were, huh pooch?”

He watched as you swallowed your nerves, throat tensing with the motion.

“Nervous, eh? Good. You should be.”

He placed a finger between your sternum, following it to between your collarbones, then trailing it up your throat to your chin as you watched him, his eyes keeping focus on where he was touching you.

“You know, if there’s one thing I truly hate…”

Roman paused, licking the lips of his mask, eyes narrowing as he took in your pitiful form before him.

“… it’s a puppy who isn’t housebroken.”

His fingers were suddenly tensing, putting pressure on your throat. Constricting your breathing ever so slightly. Enough to cause you to panic before you tried to calm yourself down, preserving the remaining breath in your lungs.

“You gonna whine, little puppy? You gonna howl an’ cry?”

Working against the strength of his grip, you managed to shake your head, a gesture which was met with a deep, dark chuckle from Roman.

“Good. I don’t have time to go take you to be put down.”

Your tears welled up as his grip got tighter, but you fought against the instinct to raise your hands and pull him away from you. If you could just see it through, keep calm, stay still, it’d be over soon. And it was. He let go, leaning forward to admire the dark imprints his fingers had left on your skin.

“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

A rhetorical question. He knew by the streaks of tears that were stinging your eyes as gravity carried them back towards them that it had been an ordeal.

“I told ya. I paid for ya, I ain’t gonna break ya. Not this soon, anyway. Not before I’ve had my fun.”

Your pupils widened as he brought his hands to the zipper at the front of his white, pinstripe pants. He reached his fingers inside the fabric and pulled out his cock, fingers wrapped around the base as he approached you. Inhaling only through your nose, you tried to keep your mouth closed, silently signalling to him your thoughts on what he was proposing. But he wasn’t proposing it, and he had no intentions of asking for your opinion.

He forced his cock into your mouth, pushing it between your lightly pursed lips, his head hitting the back of your throat as he pushed his entire length into you. There was no hesitation, no hint of him letting up despite the fact that you were now quietly choking on him. When you gagged and let out a whine, an involuntary noise, he whipped his cock out of your throat, drool spilling onto your face.

“If I have to tell you again, you are gonna be one sorry pup.”

Pressing a finger to your lips, you watched in silence as his cock twitched, clearly aroused by the control he held over you.

“Keep. Quiet.”

[katsukikitten]

Warnings: Body horror, Violence, child abuse. This is a work of fiction intended to be consumed by those who are 18 or older. If you are not 18 or older dni.

Mafia Heir Bakugou Katsuki, Guard Izuku Midoriya x reader.

The sound of a metal bay door clangs to life, shoved open by two strong hands as the gears echo their groans to the warehouse.

His lip twitches, brows furrowed as he sneers at the contents of the space dimly lit from the flickering lamps on the dock outside.

Two large shipments sit side by side, covered in black tarp sitting atop wooden pallets so fresh that the smell of pine competes heavily with the stagnant bay.

"How did those idiots forget both?!" He hisses under his breath, white paper cigarette bouncing between his lips as he pats himself down for his phone to call the more volatile buyer but before he can hit the contact the harsh fluorescent lights buzz to life overhead.

"Who the fuck-" He draws his gun but his threat dies quickly on his tongue. Mouth agape as his lit cigarette falls into a puddle formed from the neglected roof.

"Those 'idiots' didn't forget either shipment." Your voice rings out and when the goon spies you he sees you sitting atop what was supposed to be your shipment. You're looking over your claws, paying him no mind as if you were bored and seemingly alone. Although the man would have to be a fool to think that you alone wasn't the worst option he had.

"I have some questions. About my shipment." You hop down from the pallet stacked with pristine products taller than yourself. Pulling down the tarp and the one next to it that was supposed to be delivered tonight, to him.

"Can you spot the difference, Tadashi?" You give the man your back, stepping backwards and your heels clack. Echoing around the silent warehouse, "See how mine is a little bit shorter?"

Your dark eyes flash to him, close enough he can smell your expensive perfume and tonight you're dressed to the nines.

Tonight was supposed to be the meeting of clan heads by the surrounding syndicates. Your shipment was to be delivered by morning and the other was rushed to tonight.

"I don't see that. No ma'am." He can't even see any difference from where you sat on top of the heavily Saran wrapped white bricks. You were by no means a small woman either, strong in stature and you were not called Madame Morte for nothing. Your laugh catches him off guard, it's pretty, the sound contagious and the only reason he doesn't laugh along with you is because he knows exactly who you are.

But that didn't stop him from his little fuck up did it?

He swallows thickly and you smile up at him.

"Hmm that's funny then isn't it? A half inch difference is clear as day. So something must be wrong right? Especially since you take good care to make every brick the exact same weight, size and dimension." You walk over to the two shipments and take one brick off of each, holding them up where he can see the miniscule difference that he tried to pad up with extra wrapping. What's concerning is that the obvious ones shouldn't have been on the outside, he was careful with everyone else, more careful with you. Sure to wait until comfort had sat in and that the head wouldn't bother with the shipments and goons never look past the outside layers, normally that was after five shipments and this was your sixth.

"Ya know I found this one in the middle, about three layers were like this," You cut the brick open with your sharp claws the white substance flutters down onto Tadashi's shoes, "But there weren't bricks like this in the Red Dragon's shipment. Not. One. Single. Brick."

You walk back to return the brick from the opposing stack, ass swaying in that body con black dress and Tadashi tries to look everywhere but. He's seen you gouge out the eyes of anyone who lingered over your body for too long, he was sure it's why you kept those nails so sharp.

"You're a chemist right? Specializing in Bliss, especially correct?" Swiping your middle finger over the substance rubbing it between your digit and thumb, "So you know the chemical structure of bliss right?"

"Yes ma'am."

"I have a chemist as well, she isn't as smart as you, at least not according to everyone else, but do you know what she found in over half of this brick? A different structure. Baking powder." You're still smiling, still cherry sweet with the hint of deadly poison in your eyes before it turns into pure acidic venom, "So which is it? Are you an idiot or are you fuckin lyin to me?"

"N-neither ma'am." You roll your eyes and your done up lashes flutter wildly from the action.

"Liar then." You snap your fingers and a large man with emerald green curls shoves a woman and her two children into the light. Tadashi's eyes widen with horror as he looks over the crying half family.

His family.

"I'm sure since you have no issue lying in front of me, you'll have no issue lying in front of your family." You hum, cradling the woman's jaw in your hand, tapping the tip of a sharp claw to her cheek. The kids cling to their mother with tears in their eyes, their quirks flaring in their time of stress.

"Guess you weren't the smartest chemist underground after all. Pay attention kids, this is what happens to liars." Patience thin, you pull out your gun from under the thigh high slit in your dress aiming the cool metal at the goon who thought he could undercut and insult you in the same breath. The guy was getting off lucky in your guard's opinion given the fact you were electing not to use your quirk.

"W-wait! Wait wait! I can prove my loyalty." He grovels, hands shaking as he holds his palms up to you. It makes you scoff and cock your gun.

"You already did with how you handled my treatment."

"Bu-but I have this- this new product." He fumbles in his pockets, a red dot appears on his chest causing him to freeze.

"'Ts fine Zuzu." You wave him off but all your guard does is move his finger from the trigger, when you glare his way he lowers his gun.

Tadashi produces a small red capsule bullet, needle at the end when he takes off the top and it makes you furrow your brow.

"And what's this?" Curiosity melting your angry features.

"Something In development for mass production. For Overhaul. His shipment is in the back." It's obvious confidence is starting to come back to his sinful face as he nods his head to a crate behind you.

"Oh Kai? Hmm. What does it do then?" By now your gun is returned to its holster and hidden away.

"Quirk deletion." Tadashi gives a nasty smile, like he's truly proud of his work, "Ya know like Allmight's guard Eraser head 'fore he died."

"Ah well let's see it then." You smooth down the fabric of your dress a final time before looking up at him when he makes no action to move.

"Wh-what?" He stammers and it grates your nerves.

"You wanna live? You want your family to live? Silence your quirk." He shrinks under the disgust evident in your sharp gaze and shapter tongue.

"I-I can't do that." His eyes dart around looking for any sign of an out but when you play these silly little games, you always go for the kill.

"That too hard? Well pick your least favorite, silence one of their quirks instead." You gesture between the two boys that whimper at the wave of your nails.

"B-but…"

"B-b-but." You mock rolling your eyes, "But it's insurance isn't it? Proof of your loyalty to me? Especially since you've already been lying. You know how I feel about liars, or at least bad ones."

He swallows, stepping closer to his family and it's obvious now he isn't going to choose himself. Looking between the two boys as their quirks flare, like he's deciding which one is worth more to him.

All while silently telling you he doesn't have an antidote.

"Make up your mind I'm already running late for an event." Quickly he grabs at the hair of his eldest son, pulling the seven year old up by his roots and pushing the needle into his throat. His yelp echos around the warehouse but the most malicious thing of it all is that even with his back to you, you can see Tadashi's smile pushing up his cheeks.

"There." He turns around, sniffling, fat tears brimming his eyes, who he's trying to fool you stents sure, you just know it sure as hell isn't you, "I'll have an antidote for you by next week."

He wipes at his face, coming closer to you, well within arm's reach. Red dot on his forehead but you've spared Tadashi once, he figures you'd spare him again.

Because what woman would let a seven year old go without their quirk not that it mattered to him either way. Good riddance if you asked him, his eldest couldn't control his quirk for shit and it was annoying anyway.

"So I've-" But his sentence is lodged in his throat, unable to get past your steely grip, your lip snarled up in disgust. Your eyes bored, dull and he's coming to realize why they call you Madame Morte from his own first hand experience.

There are legends around your quirk, rumors, that yours is similar to the Ashen King's, although yours was more painful.

Rot, slow and hungry. Greedy in the languid licks as it spread through his body starting from under your pretty hand wrapped around his thick throat. Claws digging into flesh that darkens with blight before pieces of it begin to fall away from his muscles and bones in thick chunks, scream scratching up his throat.

"M-mercyyyyyy." His voice comes out garbled before ending in incoherence as his tongue melts in his mouth, sliding down his throat and taking with it his scream. You lean forward, watching the life flicker in his eyes as he rots slowly, too slowly and only once it's been a moment or so that the flesh is separated from the body does it turn to dust at your designer clad feet.

"God has mercy. I don't." Holding his head as his neck separates from his torso before dropping him all together.

Your eyes flicker to the broken family, the children hiding in their mother's thread bare turtleneck. Tears tracking through her cheap foundation and further exposing the poorly hidden bruises on her throat. It was obvious they were malnourished and it makes you gather saliva into your mouth.

Producing a hissing spit before it lands onto a stray eyeball that turns to dust seconds later.

Izuku is already across the room, rifle slung over his broad shoulders, face stoic as he grabs onto your wrist gently. Taking out a towel to wipe off your manicured hand.

"Kaminari." You look into the shadows before he appears, golden eyes glowing like a cat.

"Yes ma'am?"

"Take care of this."

"Yes ma'am." Kaminari nods, helping the woman up to her feet as Izuku carefully slides elbow length lace gloves onto your arms, that thicken around your palms and fingers, concealing the skin. "Usual collateral payment?"

"250k this time." You spit in the direction of Tadashi or at least what's left of him, again. Just ash fluttering in the bay breeze. Denki nods, skull half mask hiding his smile as he ushers the family out.

"And get them a new apartment, would you? Their old one was a dump." You hiss before going on a small tangent as Izuku fixes your hair, "Can't believe I set foot in there, piece of shit stealing from me and couldn't even fucking provide. Another thing Denks, I need the name of the landlord of that apartment complex. I want it in my name by tomorrow. Tenants relocated."

"Whatever you wish ma'am, it is done." Denki calls back before he takes the family to the van he brought them in, now given orders to relocate.

"You should really stop using your gift when you're in designer dresses, ma'am." Izuku fusses, his emerald eyes flickering to your body as he scrutinized the fabric for any lingering he may has missed.

"Why do you think I always wear black Zuzu?" You give him that damn look, the one that makes his heart clench, the one he can't say no to. He's sure there isn't a person alive who could say no to you.

"Because you like to make every day a funeral." Izuku smooths over your dress, double checking the zipper. He's pulled his half mask down to settle around his throat the second he needed to attend to you. His eyes lingering over your jewelry to make sure it was still in tact until your claw settles under his chin. Tilting his gaze to even with yours even with him leaning closely to you.

"I'm fine. Really." You lean up on red bottomed heels to gently press your lips to his before you're settled back on your feet.

He gives you that pained look he always wears with the two of you get "unprofessional." Still it doesn't stop him from leaning over to kiss your cheek, lips grazing the corner of your mouth before he pulls away and draws the line in the sand by adjusting his half animal skull mask back over his face.

You always think the line is for you but really, it's for him. You live in blissful ignorance on what you do to him and what you allow him to do to you.

It's like you forget the lengths he's gone and still willing to go to protect you at all costs. Even if that means killing his idol. If you asked him he'd tell you he'd do it all over again.

"Aw Zuzu bear don't pout." You tease and his eyes crease in that fake smile he uses to make pretty girls swoon as he presses his broad hand to your back.

"I'll call the car Madame."

"No, no. I'll walk." He gives you a glare but doesn't fight it, talking over the coms to the two waiting outside.

Meanwhile Ochako stands outside in her suit, half mask tiger skull still secure around her pretty face, making her doe like brown eyes that much more deceiving. She flips her knife over and over in her hand. Playing with her quirk that she activates to send it higher before letting it fall back to her hand.

"She should be here by now." Ochako doesn't like waiting, makes her anxious and Sero sighs, more than used to his partner's mannerisms. Mask around his throat as he's hunched over to protect his cigarette he's trying to light from the wind.

"You know madam gets caught up sometimes. It's never anything to worry about." Sero says as he straightens himself out, watching pier bay 42 with the door open just half a block down. He watched the man go in, watched the lights come on but no red confetti yet.

He blows out smoke before his com crackles to life in his ear, Ochako's fingers twitch as the both wait for the command.

"She insists she comes to you." Izuku's voice rings in their ears.

"It's clear and we are on standby." Ochako answers as Sero tries to finish his cigarette while he can, otherwise he'd get fussed at by his pretty boss who chided him on how it would rot his lungs.

And how she would know best.

Once he sees you he flicks the butt, smothering the ember into the gravel under his designer shoe as you walk closer, your lap dog at your heels.

Izuku isn't the same kid that Sero and Ochako grew up on the streets with, no longer the shy, cautious boy he once was. Especially not after the three of them were forced to hop around for mercenary work before the clans popped up to take over the cities. Like a shadow government that the real one feared more than the masses.

The three of them were good at their jobs, Izuku the planner, Ochako the executioner and Sero the getaway driver. But being good, too good even, made them cocky. It wasn't until they went up against a syndicate they had no business trying to steal from did they learn their lesson.

Your father was ready to kill all three of them. They were just lucky enough you had forced your way into sitting in on this very important meeting moments earlier.

Bags torn from their faces and your eyes widened in delight when you saw they were all the same age as you at the time. The ripe age of fifteen.

"Oh Father, killing them would only be a waste of their potential." Sero remembers how you looked, how you still make that face to this day and often. Like a cat that's caught a mouse by its tail with nothing but delightful day dreams of batting it around.

"I want them to train to be my new guard. They're mine now."

"Absolutely not." Your father's voice boomed around the room, making the teens shake, helpless with their wrists bound behind their backs, "You took in that blonde stray two months ago I'm not going to allow-"

"And yet who's men did they slip past? How many layers of security did they slip through? The blonde more so than them but our shit is secure now isn't it? Besides." You hop down from your father's old mahogany desk, "Princess always gets what she wants. Isn't that right?"

Your father pinches the bridge of his nose, he made a monster of you, he truly did.

He'd be lying if he wasn't proud of it, especially after what happened to your mother.

"Fine. But no more strays. That's final."

"That's fine. I won't need anyone else."

That was ten years ago and in the past decade Sero had been treated better than he could ever imagine. He has a lot of freedom for a head of a department and you've made it clear that only the four of them had the option of getting out if they wanted. No strings attached as long as they stayed silent you wouldn't look for them.

But you haven't once given them a reason to leave.

Sero fingers the swirling ink on the inside of his thick forearm, the family crest sitting proudly on display when he's driving you around, hidden in the city so he can float throat the crowd like all the other faceless nobodies.

You're graceful, even in the uneven gravel of the parking lot, smiling genuinely as you approach two people you have and would kill again for.

"Sero, Ochako, thank you for waiting. Ochako love, I have a task for you dear. Inside is a crate that Zuzu has marked would you be a doll and make sure that it gets transferred to Momo's office immediately. I'd like for you to hand deliver it and call me once you're there." You talk as Izuku helps you into the car waiting for you to finish before he shuts the door, "And you'll have no problem keeping your girlfriend company will you?"

"No ma'am." Ochako blushes as you wear your knowing cat smile. Izuku shuts the door and rounds the car to sit on the other side. Sero turns over the engine. Ready to pull away on your command.

Ochako watches her reflection in the pitch black tint retreat as the window rolls down revealing just your eyes that sparkle with that dangerous glint.

"One more thing. If you could ask her to expedite this antidote please. I've got a seven year old waiting on it."

"As you wish ma'am." Ochako nods and watches her reflection grow this time while your eyes disappear before Sero throws the car in drive and tries to salvage some of the lost time hoping to make you no later than an hour late to the most important meeting of the year.

But you wouldn't be the Princess if you weren't always fashionably late now would you?

[akairawrites]

Born for conflict | Jason Todd mini series

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A few days later, following the Joker's kidnapping of Black Mask and a near-fatal encounter, he found himself in police custody. However, despite the severity of the charges, he managed to secure his release on bail.

Word of Y/n’s encounter with the Red Hood circulated, adding another layer of complexity to the city’s volatile atmosphere. The information reached Black Mask’s ears, sparking a storm of frustration and resentment within him. The notion that Y/n, seemingly under his employ, had faltered against the Red Hood didn’t sit well with the crime lord.

Amidst the chaos, Black Mask’s legal battles intensified. The courtroom became a battleground, but the scales of justice tipped against him. Convicted, the once-powerful figure found himself on a journey through the grim corridors of Arkham Asylum.

Months after Black Mask's incarceration, Gotham appeared to settle into an uneasy calm, with only petty crimes and the sporadic Joker antics, challenges that Batman effortlessly handled.

Freed from the shadow of Black Mask, Y/n embraced a newfound sense of free will. It was a realization that dawned on her after a long period of submission. Uncertain of where to begin, she took a page from childhood books and secured a job at a popular coffee shop. Money wasn't a pressing need, but this marked the beginning of her journey toward a life unfettered by the constraints of the past.

"Good morning, Claire," Y/n chirped, gracefully removing her sweater and hanging it on the rustic coat rack before clocking in with her time ticket. The soft hum of the coffee machines and the rich aroma of freshly ground beans enveloped the cozy space.

"Good morning, Y/n." Claire greeted her with a smile from behind the polished counter. The coffee shop, adorned with exposed brick walls and vintage-inspired decor, exuded a warm and inviting ambiance.

Claire, a petite, middle-aged woman and Y/n's co-worker, shared a warm exchange. Most days, it was just the two of them working, a dynamic Y/n found comforting. The subtle jazz playing in the background added a touch of serenity to their morning routine, making the shared workspace at this charming coffee haven all the more enjoyable.

Claire meticulously counted the money in the register when Y/n approached from behind, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I got this," Y/n said, gently taking the money from Claire's hands. Claire looked up, a smile gracing her face, but it slowly faded.

"Hey, Y/n?"

"Hm?"

"Could you check on the kids again for me tonight? I’m working a late shift," Claire asked, fiddling nervously with her hands.

Y/n glanced up from the money, concern in her eyes. "Sure, but why not let me cover your shift?"

Claire looked down at her shoes and shook her head. "Money is a little tight right now; I need all the hours I can get."

"Oh, Claire, I can lend you some money if you need it."

"No, Y/n, please. It's okay." Claire met her gaze with a mix of gratitude and reluctance. Y/n understood Claire's financial struggles, especially given her situation with her late husband, and despite the refusal, she intended to help.

Y/n sighed. "Okay, but if you need anything, don't be afraid to ask."

Claire nodded appreciatively and excused herself to attend to the tables. The coffee shop buzzed with the rhythmic sounds of the espresso machine and low conversations, a quiet understanding lingered between the two women.

The bell above the coffee shop door jingled softly as it swung open. Y/n, engrossed in her tasks, looked up to see a tall, brooding figure entering. It was Jason Todd, a familiar face among the regular customers.

Claire, noticing the entrance, greeted him with a warm smile. "Good morning. The usual, Jason?"

He nodded in acknowledgment, his eyes briefly meeting Y/n's before shifting away. Jason, aware of Y/n's presence, observed her from a distance, the familiarity in her face tugging at the strings of a history she was oblivious to. As Claire prepared his order, the air in the coffee shop held a quiet curiosity, with Y/n unaware of the complex connection that lingered between them.

"Can I help you?" Y/n inquired, her focus on her tasks, not bothering to look up. She sensed his lingering gaze. Jason straightened up, suddenly aware that he had been staring.

"No, sorry," he replied, turning away and pretending to search for Claire with his coffee. Y/n finally looked up and frowned. "Hey, don't I know you?"

Turning back to her, he shook his head. "No, I don't think so. I come here a lot, so that might be it," he shrugged.

She shook her head, her suspicion evident. "No, I don't think that's it. Your voice sounds so familiar." Y/n squinted at him, trying to unravel the mystery that lingered in the air.

Jason maintained a composed exterior, masking the turmoil beneath. Y/n's probing gaze hinted at a recognition he wished to keep veiled.

"Well, I'm not from around here, so it's probably just your imagination," he said with a nonchalant smile, attempting to divert her attention.

Y/n, however, wasn't easily dissuaded. "I don't know. It's strange. Maybe I heard your voice somewhere else," she mused, her curiosity unabated.

Claire returned with Jason's order, breaking the tense moment. "Here you go, Jason," she said, oblivious to the undercurrents between the two.

As he took the coffee, Jason nodded appreciatively. "Thanks, Claire. Have a good day," he said, sparing Y/n one last enigmatic glance before exiting the coffee shop, leaving her with an unresolved sense of familiarity and a lingering question in the air.

Y/n watched him leave, a perplexed expression lingering on her face. Claire, noticing the exchange, couldn't help but inquire, "Everything okay, Y/n?"

Y/n shook her head, still lost in thought. "I don't know, Claire. There's something about him. It's like I've heard his voice before, somewhere."

Claire chuckled, dismissing it lightly. "Probably just a regular customer. Don't let it bother you. We get all sorts here."

As the bell above the door chimed with Jason's departure, Y/n couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the encounter than met the eye. Little did she know, the echoes of a shared history lingered just beyond her reach, a mystery she was unwittingly drawn into.

I am so sorry for feeding your delusions also this chapter was very boring I just wanted to get something out before the end of the week

↳ Reblogging also helps!

Add yourself to my taglist here

[astarab1aze]

➥ Sunset Flash

⸻Technical Information. // Face, Voice, etc.

001 Faceclaim. Ichigo Kurosaki [ Bleach ] 002. Voice Claim. Johnny Yong Bosch

⸻Profile Information. // Name, Age, etc.

003 Name. Yuuya Kei [ a play on the word 'yūyake', meaning 'sunset' ] 004 Alias. Yuu, Legendary Swordsman of the Black Isle, Blade of the South 005 Sex. Male 006 Gender. Male 007 Age. 542 008 Birth Date. July 7th [ Cancer / Hexbreaker ] 009 Blood Type. Sub-type HDO- 010 Race. Half Magma Dragon, half Wildling ; Shattered Isle by nationality. 011 Marital Status. Single [ Multiship ] 012 Orientation. Biromantic Demisexual 013 Residence. He has a semi-permanent home on the Black Isle, a mysterious hidden island in the Shattered Isles said to be the home of the Southern Drakes ; A cottage made of dragon glass, black sand, and volcanic rock.

⸻Physical Information. // Body, Equipment, Family, etc.

014 Physical Description. Yuuya stands at a plain 5'10", but is otherwise lean, muscular, and built for a fight. His hair is a shaggy but vibrant sunset orange and can be altered at-will, usually thick with some amount of volcanic ash that he naturally produces. It feels a bit strange under the fingertips, like faux suede. His eyes are hazel-orange, like a cloudless sunset in the desert, angular and keen. There are some patches of non-iridescent red, orange, and black scales all over his body, particularly on his arms and legs, and on occasion, he may have a single bone-white horn. His body is littered with scars, though perhaps not as severely as others, and he's a story for each and every one of them, even the smallest and least noteworthy ones. He tends to wear Yuureian garb - that is, black hakama and a tattered black haori, given the time he spent there training under Satra. He may or may not wear shoes, usually Yuureian sandals. His fingers are clawed, fingertips and palms more like this in texture but more fine. He does also have a tail, ridged, spiked, and layered with scale plating of the same color as the rest, though it isn't terribly thick and he tends to hide it when it suits him, like his horn(s).

015 Equipment. He will always have his sword, Safyra, with him no matter the circumstances and he's very uncompromising about this; As well as various metals in the form of shavings or dust, crushed dragon bone, singing stones, an infinite pocket pouch full of rubies, topazes, and magical treasures fit for his hoard, 016 Occupation. He's a wandering fighter first and foremost, interested only in the thrill of battle and becoming stronger through it. 017 Job Performance. Lazy as sin and hard to convince at first, but there is no more terrifying a swordsman...

018 Parents. His mother, Safyra of the Xanthean Wildlings, who died of natural causes in her 40s, and father, Dragon Demiurge Vulkaris, current leading sire to southern drakes ; He is 74th in line for the Demiurge position. 019 Siblings. Many, none he knows by name.

⸻Personality Information. // Likes, Strengths, etc.

020 Likes. Dragon glass, volcanic rock, obsidian, blackstone, metals of all kinds, ash baths, ruby, topaz, magical trinkets, weapons, and armors, avulisk eggs, beholder flesh, fire lilies, dragon's breath, fighting, training, war drums, stuffing his face, money, tinkering, challenges and competitions, traveling, exploring, etc. 021 Dislikes. Cowardice, dishonorability, trickery, lack of action, having to sleep, big words, larger pure-blooded dragons, vegetables, rot smell, frankenleeches, pointless theatrics, blue, undeserved arrogance, lack of understanding, widows, canaemery, gryphons, chimeras, summertime heat, etc. 022 Positive Traits. Resilient. Determined. Somewhat principled. Honorable. Loyal. Sincere. Serious. Brave. Earnest. Hopeful. 023 Negative Traits. Prideful. Arrogant. Greedy. Volatile. Somewhat lazy. Dense. Singleminded. Hot-tempered. Desperate. Reckless. Hardheaded. 024 Goals. To amass as much power as possible, particularly in the area of swordplay and his magic. 025 Desires. To at last earn his father's approval and pride, to do his mother's memory justice. 026 Alignment. Chaotic Neutral...good?

027 Personality. Yuuya is something of a complete idiot - rather, he's incredibly singleminded, simple, and dense. He's not going to pick up on any complicated emotions and he's not exactly going to be tactful in stressful social situations, especially if there isn't any single combat involved. He is so devoted to his cause - amassing power, earning his father's affection - he will occasionally derail conversations, prattle on about old battle stories, challenge folks to a match in passing, or always engaged in some form of fight without many exceptions. He loves the heat of battle, throwing down with the best of the best and growing stronger for it or inspiring others to become stronger as well. He is, however, in part, truly doing it for the purposes of earning the Demiurge's love, his favor, not because he hopes to take Vulkaris' place, but because he is lost and alone without his mother. He's honestly sort of a big kid in many respects, just in need something or someone constant, someone strong enough to keep up with him - be it in mind, body, or spirit.

⸻Sorcery Information. // Affinity, Talent, etc.

029 Affinity. Earth & Fire - masterful manipulation and sourcing with certain elements depending on the circumstances. 030 Shapeshifting. Innate Dragon Shape, natural anthromorphic presentation, and human form - he is capable of changing into multiple forms to best suit his environment, as most dragons are ; Despite his mixed blood, he was luckey enough to have been born with full-blooded capabilities. 031 Utility. Telekinesis, barriers, curses, Silence, Dispel, alteration, charms, enchantments, seals, alchemy, beast communication, summoning. 032 Specialization. Magma & Metal-based magic - not unheard of for an individual to possess, though his particularly brands are both uniquely fine-tuned to his body, and such elements will react to his will as he enacts it. 033 Graduate School. Not applicable, however he did study swordplay under Satra Shen for some 20 or so years, following the killing of Dessudora. He took his lessons to heart and adopted some aspects of Satra's unique version of the Shikabane Style into his own. 034 Classification. Anthromorphic Dragonkin, 74th Heir to the Demiurge throne.

⸻Background Information. // Past to Present.

Yuuya was born in an... we'll say, unholy union between Demiurge Vulkaris and the Wildling Safyra of Xanthe. Through no fault of his own, he was loathed by his father, just another heir to vie for the position as Demiurge of the Black Isle produced by yet another Wildling woman - but even as a hatchling, that was never what Yuuya wanted. For the most part, he was raised by Safyra, taught how to somewhat navigate the tricky language barriers between dragons and Wildlings and how to act like a Xanthean Wildling. He grew quickly, from a hatchling to young salamander, and though his mother wasn't particularly nice to him, she was kind to him - encouraging him along in her ways toward achieving all the little and big goals he had, even if that meant ravenously eating all day.

But a few years pass in a blink of an eye for a dragon. Some 15-20 years after Yuuya was born, Safyra came down with a fever she ultimately did not survive. Black Isle dragons usually aren't susceptible to sentiment - what is natural is natural, so there is no point in wallowing in the sorrow and grief of it - but Yuuya was different. He depended on her in many ways, needed her guidance, her help, because in the end, he didn't want to be a dragon. He wanted to be a Wildling like his mother. Strong and hardy, built like a stone wall and a champion of many fights, fair and just and kind and- loving. But of course, he was still only a juvenile, a boy, thus these feelings, these wants, were twisted into something else. A vie for power of his own, and the recognition of his father - his love.

Shortly after his mother's death, he pleaded with Vulkaris for- something. Attention, a path to approval, standing, just to be seen as his son. But he was turned away by the drakes at the foot of the mountain, and he took that as his answer. If he didn't have his father's approval, then he wouldn't have the approval of his kin either. So, for some time, he wandered the Black Isle, attempting to survive on his own. Some larger, meaner drakes came upon him and attacked him, and such was a relatively common enough occurrance - until he got sick of it and started fighting back. Alone and alienated, he decided to put all that quiet time to good use and got to work, beginning his journey to becoming a dragonkin mage that would surely win Vulkaris' favor. Training day in and day out, transforming his body, bathing in the lava flows the drakes left unguarded, and he took on every one that tried to break him.

That first fight, however, was when he discovered his love of it. Didn't so much like the killing part, though.

Reinvigorated, feeling invincible, he approached the mountain again, this time wrangling the drakes at the foot without issue. Forcing his way down volcanic tunnels until at last he made his way to Vulkaris' magma chamber, where he...foolishly, challenged him to a fight. The Demiurge obliged, and in a few short moments, the battle was over with Yuuya defeated. This loss was predictably crushing, and to add insult to injury, Vulkari uttered only cruelty in the fledgling's ears, giving him false hopes contingent on success in gaining power and skill - a 'reward' for his attempt.

Ever since, Yuuya's been traveling between the Shattered Isles and the main continent in search of honing his magical skill and combat prowess. It wasn't until he managed to reach Yuurei that he first picked up a sword, and upon hearing rumors of his cousin Dessudora's defeat, he made his way to the man who felled her - Satra Shen, the Panther of the East, whom he studied under in Southern Yuurei for a small handful of decades, steadily incorporating aspects of Satra's wild style into his own. While he didn't quite study or train under too many others, he did go on to learn a little something from each person he fought in the interim, or from the fights themselves, growing and growing as the centuries went by.

He's still...he's still doing that. Like, he hasn't stopped. It's been 500ish years and he's still--

[nitewrighter]

Scoops! (Part 3)

There's a bit of death in this chapter. So heads up.

Previous chapters: 1, 2

Read it on AO3 here!

----

In darkness, Clark groaned and rubbed his jaw, running his tongue along his teeth to make sure he still had them all. He heard clattering next to him and rolled over on one shoulder to see the Spider Lady, dimly lit, digging through the crate she had shoved into his arms earlier. She opened a panel on the side of her toastmaster, pulled out three dull, scorched-looking black cartridges and tossed them aside into the darkness, then pulled three glowing red cartridges from the case—just three. Clark grunted in pain as he propped himself up on one elbow to see the interior of the crate was mostly dense foam padding, each cartridge designated its own little slot. The red glow made Clark’s head ache and he rolled back onto his back, squeezing his eyes shut. Just how volatile was that ammo?

“If I had known how much ammo it took to knock you out, I would have packed more,” the Spider Lady clicked the new cartridges into their place and closed the panel of the gun with a guiltily satisfying ka-chunk.

“Would I have to carry that, too?” mumbled Clark.

“Funny. Are you done moaning?” The Spider Lady was standing over him, that gun slung across her back once more.

“Mnh,” he just grunted again.

“What’s wrong with you? Knowing you, that should have barely—” the Spider Lady caught herself, “Oh right, no invulnerability.” She huffed.

“You forgot I didn’t have invulnerability?!” Clark bolted up to an upright sitting position and grunted again as the blood rushed from his head.

“Look, things got a little dicey back there, I didn’t have time to think everything through—Honestly I was a little scared you’d break my toastmaster.”

“With my face!?”

She just scoffed. “Come on, Boy Scout,” she grabbed his arm and hauled him, wobbling, to his feet, “We don’t have a lot of time, and it’s not good to stay in one place here for long.” Clark stumbled after her, glancing back over his shoulder at the empty crate.

“Are-are we just going to leave that there? What is this place?” Clark looked around the blackness. He wanted to turn on (Flex? Activate?) his X-Ray vision, but knew he couldn’t with the inhibitor collar, and even then, he was a little scared to.

“Jimmy—My Jimmy—Called it ‘Backstage,’” said the Spider Lady.

“…it doesn’t look like the portals the League or Mxy uses..” murmured Clark. On closer inspection, it wasn’t black, but rather, it had a sickly, swimming, shifting, dark off-color quality to it, like the afterimages when you close your eyes after a bright light. Something sloshed around his feet and he glanced down to see light rippling oddly around his shoes, “Is it… supposed to be wet?” It wasn’t wet though—his boots and socks didn’t feel wet.

“Different dimensions have different ways of moving between them. The League of Lois Lanes punches holes between dimensions like barbarians, we just find a channel between. It’s not nearly as fast, obviously, but it’s undetectable, which suits me.”

Something moved in the periphery of Clark’s vision and his head swung in that direction.

“Plus, sometimes you can see the show.”

Clark glanced down at the rippling at his feet. The lights in the seeming liquid was shifting and warping, taking on rippling images. Clark squinted for a second, slowly making out a blob of red and blue clashing against a blob of green and…orange? Goldenrod? He shifted his foot and the images scattered, taking on a squarish shape as they broke apart, like film frames.

“Boy Scout! Come on!” The Spider Lady called at him from up ahead.

Clark furrowed his brow and stopped abruptly, his cuffed hands curling into fists in front of him.

“I’m not going any further,” Clark said stiffly.

“What did you say?” “I said, ‘I’m not going any further.’ I don’t know what you’re doing or why you’re doing it, but obviously if you’re going after Ivo’s suit, and you have no problem with hurting people to do it, it can’t be anything good.”

She raised the remote so he spoke more quickly.

“So you can shock me as much as you want, but I imagine eventually I’ll pass out, or maybe I’ll get an aneurism or something and that’ll just make your job harder.”

“That’s your plan?! Passing out or dying!?”

“Yeah I wish I had a better plan, too!”

“There’s no way,” she scoff-laughed at him, but it was clearly forced, and there wasn’t a smile in her eyes.

“Try me,” said Clark.

She glared at him, her jaw setting, then tightening, and tightening, her lips drawing back from her teeth in a snarl. Clark just stared back. He had no powers here except being 211 pounds of milk-chugging, corn-fed, free-range, Kansas inconvenience.

“Of all the stupid—!” She finally pressed her knuckles to her forehead before snapping, “I’m saving my world, Boy Scout!”

“Well you could have opened with that instead of shooting me!” Clark snapped back at her.

“Trust a Kryptonian?! With everything the League has on you!?” she said on reflex.

“So what, I’m evil in your world, too!?” This would have been a moment where Clark would feel heat building behind his eyes again, and, if he was among regular people, he would have excused himself to get a lid on his own anger. But with the inhibitor collar on, all he felt was just a sick fury boiling in his chest, “I can’t help what other me’s are doing in other universes! I was scared of what I could do before I even knew they existed! But because of them, the League of women who have the exact same face as my girlfriend think it’s perfectly reasonable to shoot me on sight! And even when I’m not getting shot at because of those me’s, I have nightmares about them, about me, on a regular basis!” Clark had to take half a breath from that rant and he blinked, catching himself. He was more than well-acquainted with the horror he had felt seeing the contents of that sphere file on Thanksgiving, but how long had he been tamping this anger down? Maybe it was there now that the collar made his powers a non-factor in this whole situation? And where was this anger even supposed to go? It was ubiquitous and helpless all at once. And now here he was, spilling it all out to the so-called Spider Lady of all people—but then… she had Lois’s face too, and Lois was always hitting him with, ‘You can tell me anything,’ ‘You can tell me anything,’ but he couldn’t.. He didn’t want to scare her, like he knew he had before. He couldn’t tell her about the anger, but it here it was now.

Almost on cue, the Spider Lady snarled, “This isn’t about you!”

“Then why am I here!?” Clark’s voice pitched up in desperation, “If—if you’re trying to save your world, and I’m evil in that world, why isn’t the Clark from your universe here trying to stop you?” Clark paused, “Or… or did he help you? Did he hurt you?”

“There isn’t a Clark in my universe,” the Spider Lady angrily paced forward, “There’s only a little rocket ship in some rich man’s cabinet of curiosities, with a tiny skeleton inside.”

Clark stood there, eyes crinkled and mouth slightly open at this. Of course he figured there had to be universes where he was dead or never born, it was a big multiverse, after all. Still, for all his fears of his home planet, there was a part of him that mourned this version of himself who never really was.

“The Jimmy in my universe, though, I didn’t deserve him,” her back was to him. She seemed to shrink a little in front of him before drawing in a long breath. There was that exhaustion in her again. “If you really have to know…” The light in the Spider Lady’s eyes shifted as she pulled a spherical object similar to the Kryptonite container file out of the satchel she was holding Scoops in, and set it on the ground. Clark instinctively drew back, but she hit a button on it and it started projecting a blue hologram of Jimmy. Well, not the Jimmy he knew. This Jimmy had more closely-cropped hair and a neatly tailored eyebrow-thick mustache. He was at a workbench, pushing goggles up to his forehead and talking with a wide toothy grin, his voice muted. “This is the reason I’m here,” said the Spider Lady.

——

Lois and Jimmy were both slumped against a shipping container. Sirens were wailing in the distance, which meant someone had to see the smoke from the firefight at this point. They knew they couldn’t stay for long, and yet the exhaustion had finally caught up with them, and the panic of their situation had washed into despair. Lois’s head was bowed against her knees, and Jimmy watched as Lewis worked at his gauntlet a few yards away from them. He had shed his purple blazer, and was clearly frowning. Jimmy had slung an arm over Lois’s shoulders, but in his free hand, he still had Scoops’s app open, ‘SIGNAL LOST’ displayed in red letters across the GPS map screen.

“Lois,” Jimmy said very quietly and she raised her head.

“We have to seriously talk about ditching them,” said Jimmy.

“We can’t ditch them,” said Lois.

“You heard Jalana, we’re still Persons of Interest after that whole mess with Mxy,” Jimmy’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Do you want to end up in another one of those weird glass tube cells?

“They’re our only way of finding out where Clark is, or getting to him,” Lois hiss-whispered back.

“We can’t help Clark if we’re in interdimensional jail!” Jimmy’s whisper had almost raised to a stage whisper when they heard Jalana clear her throat in front of them.

They both perked up to the sound of someone clearing their throat, and looked up to see Jalana standing in front of them, her arms full of candy bars, protein bars, bags of chips, and 4 water bottles.

“Lois? My, um, gauntlet said you were at a critical calorie deficit, so I found a vending machine over at the shipping office and I… used some of your dimension’s currency to get us all some food.” She lowered herself to her knees and awkwardly dumped all the food and water on the ground in front of them with a rustle of wrappers and clatter of plastic.

“…you hacked it with the gauntlet,” said Jimmy.

“Yeah,” Jalana rubbed the back of her neck, “It’s fine, the League’ll,” she waved a hand vaguely, “Balance it out.”

Lois wasn’t sure how she could eat at a time like this, but Jimmy was grabbing a water bottle and some chips and quietly eating them, if only for something to give his hands something to do, something to distract from the dread of Clark’s fate and the anxiety of their own. She grabbed a protein bar, bit into it, and before she knew it, it was gone and she was gulping down water and grabbing some pretzels. She caught herself after finishing the pretzels in two handfuls and looked at Jalana, who was dubiously reading the ingredients on a candy bar.

“Thank you,” said Lois, with a hard swallow, looking up at Jalana.

“Hey, just trying to help,” said Jalana quietly.

“We never got the chance to thank you for last time, either,” said Jimmy, lowering his voice to make sure Lewis couldn’t hear. “That… was you, wasn’t it? That portal that got us home?”

“Well… only other Flamebro in the multiverse has to count for something, right?” said Jalana, smiling at him.

“Thank you,” said Jimmy, setting his phone down.

“Yeah, um… thanks,” Lois readjusted her coat around herself. Jalana just finally seemed to decide ‘to hell with it’ and opened her candy bar. Lois ran a hand through her short hair, “I realize I—Okay I’ve kind of been biting you guys’s heads off.”

“Of course you do. You’re a Lois,”  said Jalana, her mouth full of candy bar.

“And we—the League and us—don’t exactly have a good track record,” said Lois, “But… I do get that we want the same thing. We just… want our universes to be safe. And you spoke up for us with Lewis before so… thank you.”

“I just figured… it’s what Lois Prime would have done,” said Jalana.

They ate in silence for a few more minutes, still trying to gauge the distance of the sirens, before Jalana gave a wary glance over to Lewis.

“He’s reporting in, isn’t he?” said Lois.

“He has to,” said Jalana, “We failed to apprehend the Spider Lady, now there’s a Clark involved, your Clark involved, again, which escalates the situation. By all accounts, this is critical mission failure.”

“It’s not over yet,” Jimmy sat up, “You said the rest of the League will be looking for them.”

‘Well, yeah, but they’re definitely moving it out of our hands,” said Jalana.

“But they get that Clark’s not actually with her because he wants to be, right?” Lois was starting to feel the blood sugar get back to her brain, giving a glance over to Lewis, still sullenly entering information on his gauntlet, “Like, he saw him get shocked and pistol-whipped, right?”

“He did, we all did, but—”

“But what?!”

“Loises are natural skeptics. For all the threat we recognize the Spider Lady as, a Clark is still a major threat, too.”

“You keep saying, ‘A Clark’ or ‘A Kryptonian,’” Lois was sullenly munching through another protein bar, “He’s Clark. He’s not an animal.”

“He’s not human, either,” said Jalana, steadily, before giving her a slight eyebrow raise, “And apparently, he’s your Clark.”

Lois’s ears burned and she just took another grumpy bite.

The sirens were getting louder, now.

“Report sent,” Lewis called, standing up from his crate and stretching, putting his hands on the small of his back before throwing that purple blazer back on. He strode over, “We should get moving before the local authorities move in.”

Jalana held up a candy bar to him in offering.

“You do know League protocol states that food has to undergo interdimensional tachyon-chem analysis before it can be consumed by League members, right?” Lewis arched an eyebrow.

“It’s nougat,” said Jalana.

Lewis gave her a shrewd frown, then took the candy bar. “Let’s move.”

———

“So… there’s no me in your universe, but there is a Jimmy,” said Clark, looking up at the hologram.

The Spider Lady nodded. “My Jimmy was brilliant. He figured out what was happening to us before anyone else. He tried to warn us, but everyone called him crazy, it cost him his job at the Planet… but I believed him. And I left with him, because I knew working at the Planet wasn’t going to stop what was happening.” The image changed to the mustachioed Jimmy apparently showing Lois a diagram of something that looked very close to that oversized ‘toastmaster’ gun she was carrying. No, the Spider Lady—she hadn’t bleached her hair then.

“The ongoing chaos of having all of these monsters and technology dropped into our world left our home a cesspool of crime and exploitation. If we were going to have any hope of saving our world, we would need to build an empire. Find the means to control what was coming in and going out,” The image changed to both the Other Jimmy and Lois both holding toastmasters, firing into what looked like a rival gang of criminals. Several henchmen exploded into bright bursts of light and then blackened, smoking skeletons, before the rest of their opponents put their hands up and tossed their own guns and weapons on the ground, some of them even going so far as to drop to a knee in submission. Clark looked sharply over at the Spider Lady.

“What?” said the Spider Lady, “Of course we killed people! Do you think we got to where we are without killing people?!”

Clark said nothing, but felt a little sick. Granted, this destruction wasn’t on the scale he had seen in the archival footage of evil versions of himself, but even if they weren’t his Lois and Jimmy, the idea of them killing without hesitation was disturbing.

“It was my initial idea to start using the new creatures and technology pouring into our universe to protect it, but Jimmy was always the one figuring out how to make that happen.” The image changed to Jimmy in a lab coat talking to Lois, her hair growing out, while some kind of gargoyle-beetle-like being was strapped to a table in the background, soundlessly roaring and thrashing against its bonds. Jimmy was extracting something from a bottle with a syringe as he talked. “The parts were there, he was just putting them together,” Clark murmured.

“That’s… what he was always saying,” the Spider Lady said, her voice distant, before she seemed to catch and compose herself again.

The projection changed again, this time of a much more competent-looking Intergang crowding around the Other Jimmy jovially. Rough House slapping the Other Jimmy on the back and Mist was admiringly running his hands over his own toastmaster as he chatted with a smiling Spider Lady. “It wasn’t all killing, obviously. We made alliances, shared and consolidated resources.” A petite girl with familiarly wild silver hair swept into the frame of the projection, whipped her arms around the Other Jimmy and kissed him full on the mouth, which he responded to first with mild surprise, then enthusiasm, dipping her as he returned the kiss.

“Was that—?” Clark started.

“I don’t have time to explain all the nuances between our universes,” the Spider Lady said with a hand wave and an eye roll.

Then there was another image of Lois extending a hand and electrocuting a bald man with that spider bracelet on her wrist. “Obviously we still had our share of big fish to fry, though.”

I guess that’s why the guard mentioned the bracelet… Clark thought.

The projection shifted to an image of the Spider Lady sitting in what had previously the bald man’s chair, her hair bleached and styled in the way it was now, the Other Jimmy perched on the edge of the desk in front of her, fiddling with a device that Clark realized was the same device the Spider Lady had been using to repeatedly scan Scoops. “I was the face and he was the hands,” said the Spider Lady, “He was a brilliant tinkerer, a charming negotiator, my most loyal enforcer… and my best friend.”

“…was,” All of the past-tense was finally hitting Clark.

“Yes,” the Spider Lady said softly. She drew a long breath in and the projection shifted again, this time displaying the other Jimmy standing between a visibly displeased Spider Lady and the Leader Lois of the League of Lois Lanes, he was talking, attempting to mediate. “It was Jimmy who made first contact with the League,” she scoffed, as the projection of herself begrudgingly shook hands with the Leader Lois, “Initially, they wanted to shut our whole organization down. But it turned out we were uniquely positioned for a mutually beneficial relationship. For a while, at least.” “But then something happened,” said Clark.

“We had the power we needed. We had the materials we needed. Finally, after so much fighting and sacrifice, and horror, we could turn our efforts towards saving our world. At this point, we had a well-established a team of scientists that we were initially using both for tracking interdimensional rifts, and for analyzing the objects and organisms that came through. With new intel from the League… which… may have taken some initiative on our end to acquire… we figured out a way to seal up the rifts. The League had the means the whole time, and they didn’t think to offer them to us. Why do you think that is?” The projection changed to Jimmy and a group of scientists standing in front of what looked like massive Tesla coils. “It took a massive amount of time and research, but we built the infrastructure for it.” In the projection, a portal opened and several League of Lois members entered the scene. “The League tried to stop us—they needed our world to be a dumping site, a cesspool for the stability of the multiverse. There was a fight… Something went wrong, Jimmy had to shut the whole thing down to stop it from tearing our world apart but—” her voice suddenly went tense and brittle, “There was a blast and—He died. In my arms. Scared, and in pain. But not before figuring out that what would save us all was in another universe. The blast of energy from that machine, what ended up killing him, also gave him a vision. He saw himself, in another universe, building a machine that could save us.”

“So you don’t… need me to save your universe,” said Clark, slowly.

“What? No, you don’t get it, Boy Scout!” snapped the Spider Lady, “My reality is coming apart! I don’t need you to—to punch it back together! You can’t stitch up a universe! I need a god!” She held up Scoops to him as if it should be obvious.

Clark stared at her for a few seconds. “And… this god.. is… Scoops.”

She stuffed Scoops back into the satchel and kept walking. “It will be.”

Clark stared after her for a few beats. She seemed to be moving forward whether he was with her or not. He glanced back down at the wet sheen around his shoes. She had the remote, that burn-hole projector. If he stayed here, he’d be stuck here, handcuffed and wearing an inhibitor collar. He didn’t want to think too hard about the concept of Jimmy dead in another universe. The way her voice shifted talking about him… it was hard not to be affected by it. No, scratch that, he was definitely being affected by it, because he knew how his Lois sounded when she was stuffing down an unbearable weight or pain. It was hard not to let that natural flare of, ‘I have to fix this, let me help you’ overwhelm his judgment and his actions. This wasn’t his Lois—but also did that really matter? Yes, it does, Clark, because she electrocuted you and shot you with a laser, he thought very sternly to himself. But maybe there was another way to figure this out. She was a Lois, right? It would have to just be about getting another angle.

“For the record, I’m not following you because I’m helping you,” said Clark, following behind the Spider Lady.

“Is that so?” said the Spider Lady.

“Listen, I’m… really sorry about what happened to your universe, and your Jimmy, I really am. I—I couldn’t imagine.”

“No. You couldn’t,” she said, walking forward.

I mean I kind of can, Clark thought grimly. “But there had to be other ways of saving it rather than just accumulating power for yourself,” he paused, “There has to be other ways of saving it other than whatever you plan on doing with the parasite suit.”

The Spider Lady abruptly stopped walking. “Parasite suit?”

“You said a major problem was weapons flowing into your world—that suit is a weapon, I don’t really see how another weapon is going to help. How do you know it’s not going to make things worse—? Oop—” Clark went on, caught up in his own thoughts, until he bumped into her from the back and stopped. “Do you see what I’m saying?”

“Did you just call it a parasite suit?” The Spider Lady squinted at him over her shoulder.

“Yeah! It sucks the life out of stuff! Or electrical power! Any energy, really,”

“But you said it was Ivo’s suit,” said the Spider Lady.

“Yeah. Ivo’s Parasite suit,” Clark said blankly.

“Your Ivo is the Parasite?!” The Spider Lady swung around to look at him, furiously.

“Is he… not supposed to be?” said Clark.

“The Parasite is supposed to be a janitor!” exclaimed the Spider Lady.

“That sounds a little classist,” said Clark, doubtfully.

“No, your Ivo can’t be the Parasite, he’s supposed to—you said he made AmazoTech!”

“The AmazoTech Parasite suit?” Clark tilted his head, “It’s just… branding.”

“No, in multiple universes, there have been emergences of a being known as ‘Amazo,’ created by Doctor Anthony Ivo,” the Spider Lady was explaining this to him like it was something very obvious that a child could easily grasp, “This being can decimate armies, absorb the powers of its opponents, duplicate weapons, and comprehend and adapt to its surroundings with utterly limitless potential. It won’t be a god here, but with everything I’ve amassed in my universe, it will be powerful enough to save us.”

“Absorb the—“ Clark blinked.

"But if your Ivo is the Parasite…” she pressed a knuckle to to those too-red lips, “But if it still absorbs power—No—it can still work. I can still figure this out.” She suddenly pulled Scoops out of her bag. “You—you’re the key…” She pressed Scoops to her forehead. “I know Jimmy was right. He was right about everything else. He’ll be right about this.”

Clark said nothing. He wasn’t sure whether the fact that the Spider Lady seemed completely insane was in his favor or against him.

Stepping out of what the Spider Lady had called ‘Backstage’ was like being jolted out of a semi-lucid dream. He and the Spider Lady had been walking, then there was another burn hole, then all at once the world was too defined, too solid around them both. You stumbled out like there was one last step at the bottom of the stairs that you forgot was there, the floor beneath you jouncing up from your foot to your whole body and all the world slammed back into existence.

Clark had expected to have to adjust his eyes to the rush of daylight but he found they were in a somewhat dim, easy-to-adjust-to area, with most of the daylight blocked out by dark green tent canvas. As Clark pivoted to look around, he was caught off-guard by his own surprise at where they were.

The Parasite husk loomed overhead. Dust and smoke from the city, and even the light of a winter sun had dulled the purple of the empty shell, and it was seemingly in bondage itself, with ladders and scaffolding wrapping around it, where several figures in hazmat suits were fussing over the joints of the legs, or trying to take plasma cutters to it. The city of Metropolis was still trying to figure out how to safely deconstruct it without possibly reactivating it or having it jack in to the city’s power grid again, or worse, having it suck the life out of one of the officers or scientists around here. As it stood, people had been complaining for weeks that it was ‘creepy’ and multiple local businesses voiced concerns about the damage it might cause if it toppled over—and with Metropolis’s winter weather, that could be awfully soon if it got hit by a blizzard. Clark was a little embarrassed that Superman hadn’t flown it out of the city to somewhere safer and more isolated, but also he wasn’t sure how suspicious that would look, or even if it was really safe to pick up, and he didn’t really want to pull an ‘out of sight out of mind’ kind of attitude with something that had so much dangerous potential. So it was stuck here, with a major street in Metropolis’s commercial district pretty much completely shut down, being poked at by people who didn’t know what to do with it any more than Clark did. The dark green tents had been set up around the base to protect some of the officers and researchers from the weather, and a cherry picker towered alongside the husk to look at it from angles one couldn’t get from the scaffolding.

“Stop right there!” A voice called and both of them stopped and looked over at the source of the voice.

“This area is under investigation by the SCU,” said a police officer in a black-visored helmet that completely obscured his face, “I don’t know how you two got in here, but you’re going to have to leave the premises immediately.”

Clark was aware of the SCU, at least as a concept at this point. The task force had been assembled in the wake of the Parasite Kaiju incident and was still getting its footing, though it looked to Clark that the city had pretty much written them a blank check. Ronnie Troupe had actually written an excellent article questioning the lack of limits outlined in the group’s charter, and how that lack of clear jurisdictional limits could a slippery slope for Metropolis as a whole, which had earned several angry letters to the editor asserting that ‘Metropolis PD can’t get caught up in red tape when there’s an alien shooting lasers from his eyes flying around.’ Now Clark was just staring into that gleaming black visor, not really sure of what to say.

“I—um… I have a press pass?” said Clark. It was his day off. He did not have a press pass. He was wondering how long it would take for this officer to glance down and notice the handcuffs, but also he was blessed-slash-cursed with being head-bonking-on-doorways tall, so people tended to be distracted by his height before anything.

The SCU officer studied him for a second. “…is that a collar?” he asked before electrical sparks suddenly started flying. Clark instinctively flinched before realizing with some surprise that he was not the one being shocked. The Spider Lady had clawed a pale hand to the SCU officer’s back and his chest jerked forward as his arms flinched and flailed, bolts of electricity coursing over his body, before she pulled her hand back and he dropped like a bag of rocks. Clark looked from the unconscious SCU officer to the Spider Lady, horrified.

“It’s on a non-lethal setting,” said the Spider Lady.

“Are you sure!?” said Clark.

But she ignored him as she swung the Toastmaster around and fired several shots into the air to get everyone’s attention.

“If you value your lives, I suggest you all leave immediately,” she announced calmly and clearly.

“I’m not with her—Gah!” Clark started before getting shocked by the collar again. The shock reignited the pain in his jaw from getting hit by the gun earlier, and it occurred to Clark just how much his powers weren’t just invulnerability allowing him to survive hits no human should survive, but the ability to bounce back from those hits. Sure, Lois was right about the whole ‘discombobulated and overwhelmed’ thing, but there was also a resilience and an ability to re-orient himself that Superman had and Clark, in this inhibitor collar, very much did not. The pain stacked now, shocks on pistol-whips on laser blasts, and Clark dropped to the ground, shoulders shaking.

“Boy Scout, just shut up and let me work,” said the Spider Lady, firing another toastmaster blast at the cherry picker’s boom. With a screech of metal the narrow neck of the machine instantly folded in on itself, the thankfully-empty platform basket toppling and crashing against the machine’s base. “Get away from the Parasite!” she shouted, "NOW!”

The hazmat-suited workers were looking down from their respective levels of scaffolding, the ‘freeze’ instinct kicking in rather than ‘flee.’ Two more SCU officers were rushing the Spider Lady, one of them drawing his sidearm. Clark remembered the hologram, the rival criminals rushing the Spider Lady and her universe’s version of Jimmy. They’re not laying down enough cover fire and they're at too close a range, Clark realized.

“Wait, don’t—!” Clark tried to warn them, his head still swimming from the shock, trying to push back up to his feet. The Spider Lady pivoted to see them and didn’t hesitate—the second that gun came into view, she fired, and all that fancy limitless-budget SCU armor only gave the officer enough protection for several milliseconds of agonized screaming before he was reduced to a wretched-smelling burnt pile of blackened bones and melted carbon-polymer alloy on the ground. The other officer stopped dead in his tracks, looking at the remains of his partner. “N-no…” Clark was pale and shaking. Superman could have stopped that. Superman could have saved him, but he wasn’t Superman right now.

“I already told you, Boy Scout,” she said, rushing forward, clamping her bracelet hand on the shoulder of the remaining, shell-shocked SCU officer, turning to nothing but a thin silhouette of black as blinding electrical sparks flew. When the light died down, she let the SCU officer drop to the ground, smoking, groaning, and unconscious—but alive. “Do you really think I got to this point without killing anyone?”

Clark struggled to his feet again as he watched the hazmat-suited scientists scramble down the Parasite’s scaffolding in a panic, some of them jumping from a story up and grunting and rolling into a sprint as the Spider Lady calmly walked through the rush of bodies, slowly ascending the scaffolding herself.

At least they’re getting away, thought Clark, before his eyes fell on that bone-and-polymer pile and he had to suppress a gag. Then his head jerked back to the Spider Lady—she had reached the level of scaffolding just at the suit’s heart, where not too long ago, Clark had pierced through to yank Anthony Ivo out of the whole structure. The hole was still there. She stood in front of it, then pulled scoops from her satchel.

“You don’t have to do this!” Clark yelled up to her, not really sure what he was trying to prevent. A weapon? A god? The parasite suit all over again? His best friend’s drone being jammed into the heart of a monster’s body? The Spider Lady didn’t even look at him. She placed Scoops into the gap where Ivo had once been with all the gentleness of a mother putting a baby into its crib. There was nothing, at first. Dead silence. The Spider Lady still stood there, staring into the hole, staring at Scoops, perfectly still. Clark blinked. Even with all the power of Superman at his disposal, he was used to situations escalating and escalating, and collapsing into chaos. The relief he felt in his chest at nothing happening here was an odd, sickly feeling. Sure, the Spider Lady was still a threat between her toastmaster and the collar she had put on him, but at least that whole ‘Amazo’ thing she had been talking about wasn’t happening.

So I guess she really was crazy—I mean, of course she was crazy. Scoops, some kind of robot god? There’s no way that could have—

The entire, hulking shape of the parasite husk suddenly threw its head up and made a horrific screeching noise. An animalistic, synthetic roar that was unlike anything it had made when it had Ivo piloting it. Clark winced at the sound, but looked back up to see the Spider Lady silhouetted against a great orange light. Scoops was burning at the husk’s heart and all of a sudden, the massive body started buckling inward, plate by plate warping and impacting, crushing in and in and in. The entire structure was converging on Scoops, that heart, that hole blazing white, metal superheating to red, to orange, to yellow, smoke and fumes filling the air. And suddenly there was the sensation of a vacuum, the air itself being sucked in from around Clark, rushing toward the parasite shell, now a vaguely bipedal shape but had heavily shrunk and warped from what it previously, and was blinding in its brightness. Clark squinted in the blazing light, doing his best to cover his mouth and nose with his forearm with cuffed hands. A rush of hot air blasted back his hair and jacket, and he heard a rattle and groan of metal and alarm prickled through him. The scaffolding—

“LOIS!” he yelled. He knew she wasn’t his Lois, he knew that. He knew she shot him with a laser, and hit him with the gun, and electrocuted him more times than he cared to count. He knew she just killed someone right in front of him. But the scaffolding was coming down, and she was on the scaffolding, and he couldn’t fly. He lowered his arms from his face slightly, squinting in the rushing wind and dust and heat and brightness, maybe if he got a visual bead on her, he could position herself under her, cushion her fall and maybe not get crushed by the collapsing scaffolding himself, but then there was a massive shockwave of heat and sound and dust and light, and Clark stumbled back, shielding his face as the scaffolding collapsed.

Clark coughed in the settling dust and forced himself to look, eyes desperately flicking around for a body with bleached white hair, before his sight finally shifted upward.

A humanoid shape was slowly hovering to earth in front of him, carrying the Spider Lady bridal-style. She looked down at Clark with an imperious smile of ‘I told you so,’ one arm slung languidly over the humanoid’s shoulders, the other still holding the strap of her toastmaster, the gun dangling at the level of the humanoid’s legs. Clark recognized the plating of the android’s shoulders and head. It was the parasite suit… or it had been, a few moments earlier. It was noticeably sleeker, the hole in its chest had closed up, and its horn-like forehead crest had apparently split down the middle and warped to the sides of the head, almost taking on the appearance of horns, or pointed ears. The purple of the parasite husk had burned away and oxidized to a nacreous, oily dark gold, with ripples of green and orange when it caught the light at the right angle. The Spider Lady gently let herself down from the android’s arms, re-shouldered her toastmaster, and smoothed her skirt.

“���Amazo?” said Clark, looking from her to the android.

“Mm-hm,” she beamed at the android and it sent a chill down Clark’s spine. His Lois looked at him like that.

Clark gave a glance first to the two remaining unconscious SCU officers, then back to that pile of bones and melted polymer armor, now smudged around from the force of the vacuum and shockwaves of Amazo’s transformation. “And… you’re going to go save your universe with… this Amazo?” You’re going to leave? he thought hopefully, You’re not going to hurt anyone else here?

“Yes,” she said, visibly the most relaxed she had been the whole time he had seen her. And then she added, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, and we’re going to destroy the League of Lois Lanes. Obviously.”

“Ah,” Clark was suddenly very, very tired.

The android’s arm suddenly jerked forward and seized Clark by the throat, hauling him up off his feet, legs kicking and dangling.

“But we can’t do it without you, Boy Scout,” said the Spider Lady.

[adarkrainbow]

Green in fairytales (a Pastoureau translation)

In France, Michel Pastoureau has earned himself a strong reputation as a "historian of colors" thanks to very thorough and well-researched books he published about the history, evolution, uses and cultural connotations of each color (blue, green, red, black...). I borrowed from my library a copy of his book about green (Vert, Histoire d'une couleur ; Green, History of a color) and what a surprise! There is a segment about fairytales in there!

The book is organized by chronology, with a first segment covering the origins of humanity up to the year 1000 (Green: An uncertain color) ; then a second part deals with the span between the leventh and the fourteenth centuries (A courtly color) ; a third the span between the 14th and 16th (A dangerous color)... But what interests us is the fourth part, "A secondary color: 16th-19th centuries".

This part is divided itself into several sub-sections. "Protestant morality" "The green of painters" "New knowledge, new classifications", "Alceste's ribbons and green in theater" ; "Green during the Enlightenment", etc... And one of those subsections is called "Superstitions and fairy tales".

I won't copy all of this sub-section, because the first part about superstitions covers theatrical superstitions and other beliefs - but here is a rough translation of the part about fairytales.

A same ambiguity is observed in fairy tales, a literary genre that the 17th century did not invent, but renewed and made very famous. Notations of color are rare but very significant and the green might be less recurring than black, white or red, but it is the color of supernatural beings, notably of fairies. In several European regions of the modern era, fairies are called "dames vertes" (French for "green ladies"), Die grünen Damen, or The green fairies. This is due to several reasons: either they appear with clothes or shoes of this color, either they have green eyes or hair (just like witches) - and sometimes they simply live in a green landscape that reminds how their origins are tied to the vegetation cycles, and the cult of waters, trees and forests. In Northern Europe, if fairies dress in green, they do not like when mere mortals do the same. If one wants to gain their favors, they better not wear this color, nor any of the plants from which they get a part of their magical powers: the hawthorn, rowan, hazel, and others. Green is the color of fairies. But the fairy is a capricious and volatile being, sometimes godmother, sometimes lover, sometimes guardian angel, sometimes wicked genie - and just like the color green, the fairy can quickly change her mood, her appearance or her role. She is to be feared, and to be respected. Occidental culture does not have the monopoly of green fairies or greenish genies. They are encountered under various forms in Oriental cultures. The Islamic tradition, for example, presents a weird character that belongs to the supernatural world and whose name evokes the color green: Al Khidr (or Khisr), the "green man". His identity is a difficult thing to clarify. Some claim he is a son of Adam, others that he is an angel or a saint, while a third group calls him a clairvoyant prophet or a guide sent by fate itself. But all see in him a benevolent, though mischievious, genie who protects sailors and travelers, sends away the storms, puts out fires, saves people when they drown, banish demons and snakes. The Coran only mentions him once (eighteenth Surat, verses 65-82), but numerous tales and legends were told about him. Let us return to European traditions and fairy tales of the modern era. Just like the chivalry novels of the Middle Ages, they like to play on the sonority or the ortograph of some words to create strange or marvelous atmospheres. In French the name "vert" (green) is a better material for wordplay than any other name of colors, thanks to its phonic relationships with words such as "vair" (a type of fur), "verre" (glass), "ver" (worm) and "vers" (verse). (T.n.: they're all pronounced the same in French]. This results in numerous semantic confusions and interpretation uncertainties that make the happiness of commentators.

[Note: for an unknown reason Tumblr doesn't let me write more, so I'll put the rest in a reblog]

[vaultdamned]

back, sender gives receiver a back hug.

lost the meme, but there's many to choose from!

     VINCENT’S UNSURE WHEN EXACTLY the sky turned black; commonplace amongst the weather he & eliana endured as they trekked. dozens of miles behind them. the soles of their shoes caked in dirt, dust, grime, & mud, much like their skin. showering was a dire need — a thought that came to vincent so casually in a matter of seconds from the aftermath of feeling filthy; he’d almost forgotten such luxuries required different set-ups, how it wasn’t as simple anymore. blue eyes peer to the black, endless ceiling above. rainfall would have to suffice — but while standing in the rain brought zero consequences to his health, eliana’s begged to differ. an old wives tale — prolonged exposure to the rain making one sick, but it wasn’t the rain itself; shuffling around in drenched clothes as the cold air whips against your skin weakens the immune system. 

     he’s managed a few footsteps lead ahead of her, finally turns, stops, & whistles calling for her attention. ❝ hey — gonna rain. need to find shelter. ❞ swivels back around, marching forward with an adjusted grip on the straps of his backpack. something peaks above the trees, bobbing its head up slowly with each mark forward, until a tall building reveals itself – some kind of factory. vincent points ahead, setting their camp for the night; not the inside, but somewhere near the groundskeepers shack. every factory had one.

❝ head towards there. we’ll settle in. stick to the trees for cover. ❞ they hadn’t come across a volatile group, & they were due, still he’d will the night for silence.

    hard to pinpoint why the structure strikes a jolt of nostalgia through his nerves. they all looked the same after the bombs dropped, but as they drew near, bodies low to the ground & weapons expertly hidden, yet ready, a partial sign welcomes them; the name has long been blown off, but the dirtied red circle with a falling atom bomb is all he needs to know. he stops, planting his feet into the ground as his breathing slows at the memory, eyes fixed to the sign, to the decrepit building; factory machines whirring over labored voices, shouts of mechanical issues & quick solutions. a too tight suit, briefcase full of nothing but scribbled notes on paper, firm handshakes, fiery hair seeming to strike a match in whichever room she surveyed. her smile, smug as it was genuine if they day suited her. white blouses & black skirts. black hair. rosemary … lifeless at the table. cigarette in hand. she closed her eyes & never woke up, mr. riffy. a son shouldn’t blame himself — 

   the sudden grip around his waist brings a sharp intake of breath. warmth flushes against his torso; chemical clouds of plasma coat his nostrils faintly, sight glazing down to hands, rough & small, flecks of tiny scraps making their temporary home ontop eliana’s fingers as she clasps him to his chest. blue eyes widen & muscles clench. the memory fades, much like the ending of a song as it relinquishes sepia noise to the quiet of the wasteland — dead branches creaking against the impending wind, the pestering buzz of bloatflies floating around, & eliana’s muffled breathing hot against the back of his jacket. limbs remain fixed to his sides, stare blank into the ground as he imagines how she looks from behind. are her eyes open? closed? what was she thinking right now? had he done something to prompt this? or did she need a moment of comfort in an otherwise stagnant ray of time? 

   vincent turns his head, a slight strain on his eyes as they stretch out of their limited view, catching a ball of muddied brown hair. his heartbeat slows in the wake of silence, his faint breathing joining her’s, mouth running dry as the back of his head begins to fall towards her, submitting against the restraint within his neck, allowing scents of earth & soap to follow, the top of her hair brushing against the stubble of his cheek, but as he searches for solace in this sudden embrace, a wet droplet smacks his forehead. he flinches, pulls his head away, & grabs eliana’s hands, breaking her gasp. 

❝ c’mon, gotta beat it before we got drenched. ❞

[magnumversumplus]

Crescendo Part I: Dawn Of Dr. F.

Written By Joseph M.

A team of doctors wearing thick, stuffy surgical masks, puffy surgical hats, light, billowing surgical gowns and sweaty surgical gowns marched down the red-lit halls. A patient had just gone loose from one of their padded rooms and they were called to restrain the patient. Each doctor carried a syringe filled with fluorescent lime liquid in their hands, including Dr. Benjavinn Arvamströnn, a man with a stubby, prickly black beard and short black hair.

Dr. Arvamstronn walked through the halls, illuminated by the flashy red lights that blinked intermittently. The patient in question was a homeless man that the police checked in who referred to himself as “Doctor F.” Dr Arvamströnn didn’t like the fact that this patient–known for being extremely volatile and disrespectful–claimed to have the title of doctor, but Dr. Arvamströnn had a feeling the patient was indeed who he claimed he was.

Dr. Arvamströnn approached another doctor, Dr. Fritz Levann. This man–his puffy orange hair fluffing up and down as he walked, his moist, sharp smile reciprocated by every doctor and nurse he walked by–was one of the most respected doctors in the hospital, and probably in the field.

The staff on call that night thought he, if anybody, would know where Doctor F went, but he shouted over the blaring sirens, “When I walked by his cell earlier in the afternoon he was there! I even had one of the wards bring him his dinner!”

“We need to call the police!” Dr. Arvamstronn cried, adjusting his surgical gown. “They were the ones who initially brought him in and they claimed he was dangerous!”

A group of nurses rushed by him, bringing a patient in on a stretcher, their shoes squeaking as they shot down the hall. The patient was hooked to an IV bag and a heart monitor, and one of the nurses also wheeled down a tray of operating tools. There was also a blanket over his stomach, probably where an operation was about to begin.

As Dr. Levann followed the nurses down the hall, Dr. Arvamstronn cried, “Who’s that?”

“That’s Doctor F. That’s our guy!”

Dr. Levann cried for a nurse and asked him what was going on, to which he said, “Doctor F. was found at the front desk. Claims that he was confronted by some dudes after he left the hospital! He’s badly injured and we have to perform surgery on him right now if he want chances!”

“What in the world is going on?” muttered Dr. Levann, as he rushed into the operating room and began surgery.

Two men wearing shirts–tattered to the point of almost resembling hand towels rather than actual attire–walked through the hallways, cast in a purple glow. Extra figures prowled the walls, spirits manifesting as shadows. This was Doctor F.’s old residence, now owned by a small crime gang. The men in ragged clothes didn’t know this, but they were being haunted.

At the same time, a red shadow prowled the halls, a very real, physical man. This was Petra Von Red, also known as “Peter Red”, stalking the two criminals as they roamed through a cramped corridor.

One of the two crooks, a man named Silas, was dragged around a corner, suddenly pulled away from his partner at the corner. All that was heard as he disappeared was a scream–nothing more, not even a footstep.

His partner, Sivas, ran the other way, his short brown hair plopping up and down in the wind as he muttered, “I’ve gotta get outta here!”

This fear of whatever was around the corner prompted Petra’s instincts–he slithered down purple chambers, his eyes darting around the room. There were paintings across the walls–Van Gogh, Da Vinci, Michaelangelo. As he crept around the corner, he saw a woman wearing jet black business attire from her suit to her shoes: Tiana Lerouz.

“Are you investigating them too?” asked Petra.

Tiana gave a firm reply: “Why do you think I’m here?” She lowered her cutlass, one initially raised to her face. “The doctor corrupted my company and several of my employees.”

“What doctor?”

Tiana shook her head, realizing that Petra was here investigating the criminals instead of the true malevolence, the real evil mastermind. “You don’t know about Doctor F. He’s the most vicious man ever. He uses dark magic to get what he wants, crafts voodoo dolls and grants people’s wishes for his own evil intentions.”

Petra said sarcastically, “I don’t know about you, but I don’t believe in magic. I’m just here to stop some criminals and cause some explosions.”

Tiana suddenly grabbed his red pauldron and pushed him. He grunted as she pushed him against a Starry Nights replica and grumbled, “If you won’t take me seriously, don’t come here. I’ll handle the arrests of the criminals and Doctor F.”

Petra Red drew his longsword–it was a crimson saber of hope, dashing and nimble, sparking and emanating a red glow. “This is a feud between me and the pirates.” He struck first, slashing at Tiana’s neck.

Tiana stepped back, then swung back forward. Petra and Tiana’s sabers met in an explosion of lights and colors. Petra was quick and furious, a hoard of red needles bursting at the seams.

Tiana intentionally drew herself into a corner, then suddenly pouncing back and striking back like a cheese grater, nearly turning Petra into Swiss cheese with big holes until a third sword interfered. It was a pirate, another one of the criminals.

There was a small light cast upon him, a glimmer of white sunlight shining through the chambers and onto Jan-Pitr Rasvisr’s face. He was the only one on this mission, investigating a lead on a rogue senator they were chasing down.

He could hear a quiet discussion at the end of the black-and-white corridor, a group of finely dressed men with gilded monocles, neatly ironed silver ties and navy blue suits murmuring to each other. He recognized one of those voices as the corrupt Senator Winston, a gruff mumble that filled him with dread. He only grew more weary as he peered into the room and saw other senators–these were men he trusted.

He prepared to ambush them, his hands firmly clenched into fists and his feet steady. His legs left the ground–he pounced, but two others who had just entered the scene got to the senators first. There was a business personality he knew as Tiana Lerouz and a man he didn’t know, glistening in vermillion fabrics.

The senators were cuffed and on the floor in a matter of minutes. Jan-Pitr stared in shock, ducking back before they could spot him.

Tiana said to Petra Red–the man in rust red clothes, “These men funded my company. They signed a contract with Doctor F. that stipulated that in exchange for the money, he would get their homes, their wives, their children–everything. Unfortunately, it seems like they didn’t read the fine print.”

“If corruption really runs this deep, we’ll need much more than a ragtag team of rogues and Detective Annavyandi investigating Doctor F.,” said Petra Red. “But we can’t trust the rest of the police, so who do we trust?”

Jan-Pitr looked around him before walking into the room. The wallpapers of the cramped chambers he was in–a maze within a small industrial plant, used as a hideout for the senators that had lost everything–were ripped apart and peeling off, revealing the gray concrete walls underneath. His figure was tall and slender, and his demeanor towards Petra and Tiana was more upright and kept than the fun, sloppy, but still serious character he usually portrayed. He gave a very proper salute–the nails on his hand almost scratching his forehead–then he softened up and said, “My name is Agent Jairan.

“For the past few months I’ve been chasing Doctor F. since he went AWOL from his responsibilities as a field doctor. I know you both shouldn’t be here, but right now I need your help to bring him to justice.”

[king-maven-calore]

Mareven “I was waiting for the bus in the rain and you drove past and soaked me in water. Now I’m at a coffee shop and hey look who’s here”

I had so much fun with this one! thanks for sending it love 💞

Mare had done everything right.  

She'd showered with hours in advance, done her make up and picked out her outfit, left her apartment on time. She would not be blamed for when this date went to shit, just like all the others. Her friends didn't believe her when she told them she was cursed for dates. No matter how much chemistry she seemed to have with someone, the moment they arranged for a date, things went to shit in an instant.

Poisoned food, getting catfished, getting stood up, someone's crazy ex showing up. All things that had happened to her. Of course, there were the usually shitty dates in the traditional sense, where the person just wasn't her type after all. Her type being: anyone that did not have a foot fetish, spent more than ten minutes posting where they were and what were they going to eat on social media, or "kindly" suggested she should change some aspect of her personality or how she looked. Her eyebrows were a crowd favorite, since super thin brows were back in vogue. Those requirements wiped out 70% of Archeon's dating pool. 

And speaking of pools, her boots were already flooded by the time she made it under the shelter of the bus stop. She had clung to her umbrella for dear life and her outfit of ripped jeans, crotchet crop top and a vintage jean jacket (cute as hell, in her opinion) was miraculously intact. 

Because today's curse was: the freaking weather. It was fine, she supposed, if it meant that the universe was toying with her in the arrival, rather than the date itself. Which could only mean this was going to be a big one. Today, she might meet the love of her life. She snorted at her ironic excess of positivity.  

With a pleased smirk, she closed her umbrella and fixed her gaze on the approaching bus. 

She was too focused on reading the bus route to notice the sleek black Lexus that maneuvered itself in front of it maniacally fast. It fled past her, drenching her from head to toe with a tsunami wave of murky water. 

 🚘💦

Coffee. Maven needed Italian coffee this very second or he would commit arson. He hated days like this, where it felt like the universe was conspiring to make him hate life more than usual. He'd spent the entire night awake, going over a case, only to lose today at court. And it was raining, and his mother had invited him for dinner at their house. His father would give him shit about losing, despite the fact that he never lost, and Cal would surely announce he'd discovered the cure for cancer or some other great feat like that.  

His hands were shaking by the time he made it to the counter of his favorite coffee shop. The smell of roasted beans already started soothing his volatile mood. He shoved a generous tip in the jar simply because the girl at the cashier didn't use an obnoxiously chipper voice or try to make small talk. Thank fuck for people who kept human interaction at a necessary minimum. 

While he waited for his order, a dog started peeing on his leg. His head slowly turned in that direction, ready to skin the creature alive... but it wasn't a dog and it wasn't pee.  

There was a tiny woman squeezing water from her long ponytail onto his shoe. What the fuck? 

"Excuse me?" he sneered twisting away from her. 

"Oh? you don't like having filthy water thrown your way? Well, guess what, piece of shit ghoul, nobody does! Don't drive around town splashing pedestrians! Were you raised by wolves?" 

She was standing on her tiptoes to bark in his face (or as close as she could get with her stature). Wet tendrils of brown hair clung to her blotchy red face, her pupils dilated as she raged at him. She was so unapologetically angry, it was a delight to watch. Something warm started seeping in his chest, and he wasn't even drinking his coffee yet. 

He quirked a brow and asked in a bored tone. "Didn't you have an umbrella? It is raining, in case you didn't notice." 

Her pretty face went from blotchy angry to completely twisted wrath. 

"I did- I do, and I’m going to shove it up your ass!" she pressed her umbrella menacingly against his throat.  

"As entertaining as these dramatics are," Maven remarked, pushing the tip of the umbrella away from his neck with a finger. "It would be in your best interest to keep your voice down." 

"Or what? You're calling your lawyer?" She mocked him eyeing his suit and (rightfully) guessing his general economic status.  

He surprised himself with a genuine chuckle. What was this woman's name again? 

"I am one, but no. Because you're scaring away that guy who was waiting for you." He jerked his chin in the direction of the guy that had been scurrying away to the door without taking his eyes of her. 

Confused, she turned around just in time to meet the guy's terrified gaze before he shot for the door.  

"Ah fuck," she fervently whispered facing Maven again, but not really looking at him. "Not again." 

If that had been her date, he could not be happier about having splashed her with his car.  

"Let me buy you a coffee," he found himself offering. "Anything you want." 

Her wrath subsided, leaving a skeptical annoyance instead as she considered him carefully. 

"Anything? I eat a lot, lawyer boy." 

"Maven. And yes, I'll pay." 

"I am very hungry," she pressed his offer, daring him to back down. "Being wet and cold and abandoned does that to a girl's appetite." 

Now he was grinning. Oh he was developing an appetite too. Food first though. 

He'd never done this but it couldn't be that hard if lesser human beings did it all the time. Bracing himself, he asked her on a date.   

"Great. Dinner then?" He sounded a bit aloof, but at least he didn't stutter. Good enough. 

The woman's demeanor cooled down completely as she was taken aback by the invitation. She blinked slowly two times, as if she was changing the lens through which she observed him. Finally, she shrugged in a dismissive way. 

"What the hell. Sure. Let's do that." 

Maven made sure not to splash any more people as he drove them to the restaurant. 

[sometipsygnostalgic]

going off about Entrapta

Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Okay, wonderful, so here’s some a lot of bullet point thoughts on animation’s second-best pink haired, autistic, queer, science princess war criminal (if i had a penny etc):

CHARACTER DESIGN GUSHING

I love her design. Love love love.  So much thought went into it - she’s one of the best case studies I’ve seen on how to design an animated character, which is hilarious because I roasted the show for its designs earlier on. Hint: It works to make her as animated as possible!  

Seriously, the dark purple, pink accents on gloves and shoes, how she clearly cuts her own hair because the fringe shape is a bit fucked, how the dungaree straps are always hanging down in early seasons then pulled up from Beast Island because they’re constantly on the run and she is barely more focused, how her hair is a dull purple but her eyes are this bright laser-pink colour which works perfectly for how expressive she is (making it more chilling the time they turn grey), the proportions of her boots gloves loose jeans and hair to her tiny body, how her hair is constantly used to animate her expressions in a way the other characters can only dream, and that’s not even touching on the MASK!

The first mask has this anime villain robot design, it’s mechanical and scary, the second one is this also-scary-but-cuter more organic bug mask. First one is black with red eyes, second is purple with blue eyes. First mask is very square, perfectly round eyes, second one is oval shaped with two cracks, one on the eye and one on the mouth. This change is a symbolic representation of what Entrapta looks/maybe wants to be on the outside (emotionless robot scientist) versus what we now know she’s really like (human, cracked, adorable, like everyone else). Also represents the Beast Island ordeal in itself. Imperfections are beautiful! 

Final note on the design change, the mask is less helmet-like. It goes over her face but Entrapta’s ears are always visible now which is half of why she looks so different. Finally listening to people, insofar as it’s possible for her. 

oh also the space suit is adorable and she doesnt wear a mask with it at all because she doesnt need to “mask” anymore hint hint, it’s actually based specifically on her first design, not her second, so the space suit has decals for the black “head band” and hanging dungaree straps. i love how the arms and legs are chunky just like her gloves and rolled up jeans. 

looks adorable in the cloak in the back-to-earth episode

it’s really funny how entrapta is the number 1 clothes designer on etheria and yet wears the exact same shirt for like 2 years, THROUGH beast island, only changing during the winter episode

okay so that was most of what i wanted to say that i havent already posted somewhere else in the past 24 hours, i really wanted to go off about her design

CHARACTER RAMBLINGS

I love how Entrapta covers her face with her mask when she’s upset, she doesn’t know how to talk about negative feelings and tries to hide them, which in turn makes her issues with others worse because they think they’re talking to a wall. Unfortunately that makes her a target for others projecting onto her what they THINK she feels. They decide that she doesn’t care, or feel hurt, because she’s not good at demonstrating she does. Have I talked about how much you can learn of a person’s volatility when they treat you like you have no feelings? 

She also has the wildest fucking mood swings. Usually at the SAME TIME. Entrapta is quick to distract herself with her tech obsession whenever she is feeling down.  

See below for two examples demonstrating both these points, the first being when Adora tells her Catra’s not really her friend (mask) and she can’t open the portal (unmask), the second being when they say they would’ve come sooner but thought she was with Hordak (mask) and Adora mentions the heart of Etheria (unmask): 

She’s totally a workaholic, occasionally an unhealthy one who focuses on work to escape her problems, but she genuinely loves all of her work unlike a certain other mad scientist princess. It helps when you’re the Princess of a kingdom with no citizens because everyone seems to have mysteriously vanished-- wait, what???   

When I was watching She-Ra and Entrapta had several spotlight eps in a row, but I’d never heard of her before, I was totally expecting her to get bussed into a corner at some point like every other character of her archetype. I was deeply surprised when this never happened, even when she eventually got bussed in season 4, catra’s betrayal of her was the catalyst for 60% of the conflict, then Entrapta came back as basically the MVP of season 5, with dialogue/growth in every episode except for the Netossa batman ep where she still appeared to chase after some tech.  

What surprised me most was when she started interacting with Hordak, because you have this character who is pure, wide-eyed comic relief just walk up to the most generically evil villain imaginable, and they hit it off??? how??? how does this work?? why is it so fun to watch?? somehow entrapta being so naive and head-in-the-stars makes hordak trust her, and then she forces him to admit he’s actually an edgy teenager with daddy issues who wants to prove he can be a war criminal, and suddenly i like the show’s central conflict waaaay more. 

This opened the door for Catra and Hordak’s conflict to become way more compelling than it would have been had Entrapta never been utilised in that way. I could gush more about those two, but that’s another post.  

I love the Beast Island stuff because up to that point I basically thought Entrapta was invincible. She had been “killed” with the princesses, saw Catra’s interrogation and threat of torture as a fun game, confidently disrespected the evil big bad who had half-suffocated Catra to death 30 minutes hour prior, became his besty, and only shown any vulnerability in a few moments of Season 3. Then you reunite with her on Beast Island and it turns out she THRIVED, because of COURSE she did, and she’s the only one who seems “immune” to the incredibly deadly self esteem zapper, and as soon as she says “bye visit again” I panicked because I thought “they’re going to leave her here like Steven Universe left Peridot at the barn”. But when Entrapta starts talking about how she’s not fit for friendship and turns around it’s like HOLY SHIT.  

HER EYES. As above, LASER BEAM pink the entire show, non stop enthusiasm, and now she suddenly gives up on living because her friendships went to shit, so she looks dead inside! Basic arc? Yes. Powerful, especially watching as another autistic person who can’t keep friends? Absolutely.  Anyway my point is I love that she’d been gradually affected by the plot of the show, and it’s great to rewatch all those earlier scenes because I can now SEE how she’s affected by them rather than continuing with my earlier assumption that Entrapta didn’t give a shit about anything that happened to her.  

It’s really funny that Adora’s comment about the ship IMMEDIATELY broke her out but I don’t think that would have worked if Bow’s comments hadn’t already started getting through to her. Very sweet moment. 

Can I just say, Bow and Entrapta are an underrated friendship? Even though he’s easily triggered by her recklessness, Bow spends the entire show trying to get her to join their side again, and chasing her shadow as a tech expert. Bow completes this journey by executing her program in the finale, together they hack something more complex than Etheria has ever seen and save the universe from Prime’s mind control.  She is genuinely happy to speak to him, even when they’re enemies. They’re also a comedy duo together because Bow is the straight man to Entrapta’s bold madness. They also have a son. Wrong Hordak is their son legally now.   

Super Pal Trio is a big comfort of mine because unlike the Best Friend Squad’s occasionally nauseating BFF rainbow vibes, they’re all a bunch of misfits who found each other, and are squadmates trying to figure out how friendship works. It’s tragic because it doesn’t work out, even though they care about each other, Entrapta grows distant from the other two while Catra projects so many of her issues with Adora onto her, and eventually betrays her even more violently, leaving Scorpia no choice but to walk away to help Entrapta and herself.  

Unlike their Avatar counterpart in Azula’s fucked up friendgroup, however, these three are all friends again at the end. Obviously Scorpia betrayed the Horde to help Entrapta, and they interacted in season 5′s “Launch”, but what was even more compelling was Catra apologising to her on the space ship. I read Noelle’s fic which expanded on this and showed Entrapta helping Catra to deal with the guilt of being a possibly-irredeemable war criminal who nearly ended the universe and hurt all of their friends. In the other fanfics I’ve read since, their dynamic is probably the most interesting to me - people have lovely ideas for them being reliable friends after their conflict, being able to open up to each other. Very satisfying after how much torment they went through in season 4 over this betrayal. I just wish they got more scenes with Scorpia in season 5.  

CHARACTER RAMBLINGS PART 2: MORE AUTISM-SPECIFIC CHARACTER RAMBLINGS  

Read this article first. 

I love how her autistic characteristics are not sugarcoated - Entrapta’s genuinely awkward, her way of speaking is unstable, her reactions are barely contained. She’s jarring to the other characters but in a way that’s extremely relatable to people across the spectrum, not just those who would only get diagnosed with mild aspergers a few years ago. Which is a step ahead of other “””autistic””” characters who are only retroactively labelled as such because they were white male smartasses who were nasty to everyone and had weirdly high charisma whenever they wanted. Entrapta has an incredibly low charisma stat.  

I’ve already talked about Entrapta’s “masking” above. It’s relevant here. 

So the episode “Launch”, season 5 episode 2,  is such a nostalgia trip to me. It’s the ep in the show that most directly addresses the conflict between Entrapta’s autistic characteristics, and neurotypical characters like the other princesses, a conflict which had been delayed for 4 seasons due to her defection to the weirdly more tolerant Horde.  

It also sets the tone for the rest of the season for what Entrapta’s arc looks like, what her insecurities are, and where her true goals sit. 

The entire episode from Entrapta’s side is like a flashback to my own past, when I was a 12-15 year old army cadet, still kind of feral because I had debatably less parental guidance than even Entrapta, so I was scared of trying anything new, was very unfit, didn’t know how to look after myself (my dad - an instructor - once forced me to wash my face and arms in a public canteen), and I CERTAINLY did not know how to engage with others or communicate when I was upset. The other Princesses, a very tight ship at that point who were getting used to leadership, were like the other junior cadets and the NCO cadets. And even though the cadets were really good people who looked out for me, they didn’t like that I was a bit disruptive, easily upset, childish for my age, unintentionally rude, and needed more support to do things they found easy.

That happens to Entrapta here - she’s trying her best but pisses everyone off, and we both had the habit of apologising for messing up and literally running away whenever this happens. Seriously - I got in a lot of trouble for this. When Mermista chases Entrapta over enemy lines is very moving to me, because some of the Cadets looked out for me the same way. Mermista’s a really good person who takes care of her teammates even if she doesn’t get them. The ACF was full of good leaders, who I really hope are doing well now. 

Shout out to how they ran so far, everyone else was out of breath. 

Other than this weirdly personal experience I like how Entrapta just smiles blankly at some points in the episode, either not processing the information others  are giving her, or not reacting how they expect her to.  I have historically been exactly the fucking same.  

I’m now self aware of this, however, and able to weaponise it. Especially when I don’t trust someone. Do you know how much you can learn about someone by just... being silent, and letting them fill the void? If someone can’t stand your lack of reaction they’ll release any abusive tendencies. That’s ANOTHER thing that happens in this ep - all the princesses get super aggro because they think she doesn’t care about them. (Meanwhile we can relate this back to how Catra treats Adora - Catra thinks Adora doesn’t care about their relationship and is constantly trying to provoke her as a result.)  

I like how it’s not just her being responsible for the breakdown in communication, the others have to accept responsibility too.  

I like how on the space ship Bow keeps initially rejecting Entrapta’s crazy ideas until gradually accepting and being a part of them. 

I like how over the show it’s revealed that while Entrapta’s special interest in technology is fundamentally important in shaping the plot, it’s not actually her biggest strength - That would be her ability to see into people. Or as Noelle put it:  

This becomes, as the article says, basically the key conflict of the final season - Horde Prime’s endgame goal is to dehumanize and violate everyone, his characteristics are perfect manipulation, a lack of recognition for sapience and worth in anyone except for himself. Entrapta meanwhile is complete tolerance of individuality, she has NO ability to manipulate anyone, no sense of malice or superiority, she empathises with people who have been dehumanised and who feel lost, because she’s been there herself and is aware of her own shortcomings. She’s also the reason Hordak turns against Prime - I think if there was a character who is the anti-Prime, it would be Entrapta, and it’s got NOTHING TO DO with how good she is at tech. Of course, I could comment how Entrapta’s passionate indie tech makes quick work of the Galactic Horde’s industrialised cult bullshit, but that’s insignifcant compared to how the theme of the season is how everyone’s flaws, cracks, and experiences individuate them and give them free will.  

The above is why the cut scene is so chilling. Horde Prime screams at Hordak, and Entrapta using Hordak’s body, that they’re unloved, worth nothing. Adora and Catra’s battle against Prime in “Save the Cat” was compelling and personal, in particular how Prime had erased all of Catra’s... everything, and replaced it with himself, but after that episode, their story is more focused on each other. Prime’s main rival becomes Hordak and his friendship with Entrapta as a pair of barely functional adults, both feeling like they could  never “pass” and fit in.

Characterised by how the conflict hasn’t truly ended until they reunite. 

I love when she befriends her new son Wrong Hordak and teaches him social cues, and poor Wrongdak is so bad at winking that even Entrapta cringes a little. It’s so cute when she introduces him to Emily. I love how she’s just able to do this with anyone who’s never had friends before. Even Scorpia left the Horde because her brief, kindling friendship with Entrapta made her realise Catra was treating them both like garbage trash.  

Of course, I don’t think Entrapta’s perfect as autism representation. Nothing is, but when you directly confirm a character as being on the spectrum you have to worry about being respectful in ways vaguer characters don’t.  While she very effectively captures that fear of never fitting in, especially because she’s unable to mask herself like other characters (eg. Catra and Adora) can, people may be put off by her stereotypical or demeaning characteristics.  

Rather, she is a tech savant. She’s written to be really annoying to the other characters, and neurotypical audience members. Her lack of social skills is always played for laughs. She constantly runs into danger. The most offending thing of all is when they make a joke of putting her on a leash. Sure I get that she’s ALSO kind of feral, and it’s a Peridot reference, but jesus fucking christ. Were they not thinking when they did that???    

Most examination is through other characters rather than, say, us looking at the show through Entrapta’s eyes (which is why I love the scenes with Hordak in s3 because those are from her point of view).   

Also she’s the only known autistic character in the show, the only one coded and confirmed to be neurodivergent, which in itself is a bit alienating - though I do approve of fan speculation that Adora is autistic or has ADHD. 

Adora and Entrapta even have many similarities. You just have to look at their interactions with Bow, lol. Especially in Corridors. But another one is they both blame themselves when their relationships to other people fall apart, they think it’s their own fault. Which is very common for people on the spectrum. Adora thinks she isn’t trying hard enough to get Catra to join her, or to help Glimmer be queen.   

Also, largely unrelated, but like I said they have huge fucking parallels vis a vis Catra. I’d say their RELATIONSHIP to Catra is not at all similar (yeah Catra and Adora have this whole years of being raised together thing), but their bullheadedness and role in her downward spiral is weirdly mirrored. To the extent she betrays them identically, and has guilt-fuelled nightmares of them both in season 4.  And they’re the people that it was most important Catra apologise to. (Scorpia being there too obviously - Scorpia is closer to Adora on the relationship side of things to Catra, always believing in her and taking her abuse until Catra goes too far, whereas Entrapta reflects Adora’s rivalry as Shadow Weaver’s favourite by becoming Hordak’s favourite and “protecting” Catra, setting off her inferiority complex.)

OTHER SPECULATIONS/HEADCANONS

Okay so I’m working on my headcanons for Dryl. I LOVE how weirdly mysterious her backstory is. I think it’s pretty evident Entrapta had no family growing up, her castle is boobytrapped so only she can use it, it’s repeatedly made clear she hasn’t spoken to any humans other than her Tiny Food kitchen staff for years, and it’s hard to explain why. If you look at the version of Dryl in the reality where Hordak doesn’t exist, it’s still the same - it’s not some fantasy version where everybody’s there - so it’s hard to say if the Horde have any responsibility for Entrapta’s lack of family. I have been trying to work this in a fanfic, but yeah the portal AU throws me for a loop.   

Maybe they died in a science experiment. If you REALLY want to make things angsty, you can headcanon that she actually has no idea where they went. Maybe they vanished after an experiment, or everyone evacuated to escape the Horde and got captured, while she was left behind because she wandered off and was messing around in the vents. Entrapta does think from the outset that she’s a handful and people will abandon her, maybe she thinks that’s what happened to her as a kid.  

These two robot dads(?) never appeared in the show.  Did they break? She didn’t seem to worried about the robots getting wrecked. 

I think the hair is magic. If it got cut off I wonder if it would grow back or if it would just take another 15 years to grow? She would risk a science experiment to have it grow faster lol. 

I don’t see Entrapdak as a romantic relationship immediately. Maybe potentially? But it’s REALLY not important - what I love about those two is that they are just learning how to be friends, their first real friendship. I do think their fandom misses the point here. 

She’s canonically bisexual/pansexual, or at least panromantic. Or at least has flirted with lots of girls and one gender non assigned robot. Noelle thinks Entrapta is poly. Would date, like, a lot of people. Largely robots. I live for this. I love how flirtatious she can be, very funny. 

Mara 🤝 Entrapta - fucked the space ship. 

Don’t ask me why she is the only princess in the show with no magical superpowers besides “hair good”. She doesn’t get any glowy powerups, her hair might not even be actual magic since it looks like Kid Entrapta didn’t have any hair magic, so it can still be argued as tech. This point is debated among the crew themselves.  Also why is she the princess of nothing. I have so many questions. 

I headcanon the super pal trio hang out regularly and cause chaos post story. I have been reading a fanfiction to this effect and it is the best thing ever. 

And yeah that’s it. That’s, like, everything. Here. Take it. 

[phoebe-delia]

I would like to request a fic for song #99, please and thank you!

Hello Nonnie! You have actually requested a song that is...practically written for this ship. It is the classic, "Love Is A Battlefield" by Pat Benatar. This is also sort of inspired by the INCREDIBLE fic "Lay Your Weapons Down, Baby," by @calypsotempete. I hope you enjoy. (And then after you read this, if you liked it, please go read Callie's fic I'm obsessed with it okay bye.) CW: light violence

Harry walked briskly down the empty corridor, checking over his shoulder at the smallest noise. His cloak shielded him from sight, but he couldn't be too careful. He figured the professors wouldn't begrudge any of the Eighth Years a late-night stroll—least of all him—but he wasn't ready to answer questions about where he was going, what he was doing. Not when he wasn't ready to answer them to himself.

Finally, he found the Room and checked down both ends of the hallway once more before opening the door.

Malfoy's head jerked up and his hand flew to his wand as Harry entered, removing the cloak when the door shut behind him.

"Malfoy."

"Potter."

"How are you?"

"I think we can skip the pleasantries, don't you?"

Something twisted in Harry's chest. "Fine. Ready?"

"Always," Draco snarled, his lip curled, quickly drawing his wand and hurling a hex at Harry.

Harry barely dodged it, and then he responded in kind. Soon, they were almost moving in tandem. The room was silent other than the sounds of their casting, but Harry felt himself and Malfoy fall into a rhythm that could only be classified as musical. Their grunts, the thrum of spells in the air, their shoes squeaking against the wood floor—it was a symphony he could only hear, only share, with Malfoy.

Malfoy, with sweat glistening on his forehead and a few buttons of his posh shirt undone. Malfoy, whose raw magical power didn't match Harry's but his aim was more precise than Harry'd ever seen; it was so unlike his own magic style, which was robust but erratic, unpredictable. Harry's magic was a bomb—all-consuming and volatile, but likely to lead to unintended casualties in its wake. Malfoy's was a bullet from a gun—quick, precise, and deadly, but requiring perfect aim.

They'd been doing this—meeting here—since the third week of the term when McGonagall had barely stopped Harry from giving Malfoy a black eye in the middle of the corridor.

"Gentlemen, you must set an example for the rest of the students. Enough of this childish fighting." She'd said, her lips pursed in disappointment. And with that, she had locked them in the Room of Requirement with instructions to "Work it out."

Silence had turned to bickering, which became hexes, which ended with them nearly destroying the Room in the process. They'd quickly repaired all that they'd broken and finished, miraculously, before McGonagall had returned.

Then, by silent agreement, they'd started meeting there, once a week, and doing...whatever this was.

Harry was shaken from his thoughts as his wand flew from his fingers and into Malfoy's outstretched palm. Malfoy's face shifted from awe to a smug smirk.

"Ha! Take that, Potter, I win!"

Harry's magic thrummed underneath his skin, building to a crescendo in his ears. He closed his eyes and held up a hand, twirling his fingers. Malfoy gasped as ropes suddenly appeared and pinned him to the wall, causing him to drop both wands. Harry flicked his fingers again, and Malfoy yelped, jerking his head to the side as a red handprint bloomed on his pale cheek.

"You were saying?"

Malfoy's eyes were wide, his pupils blown. The ropes were pulled taut across his body, causing his shirt to ride up slightly and reveal a sliver of pale skin just above his belly button. Malfoy's muscles flexed under the binds. Malfoy's tongue peeked out and ran over his parted lips. Harry's breath caught at the sight of Malfoy: tied down and completely at his mercy.

"Potter, if you're not going to let me down from here, would you at least hand me my wand so I can do it myself?"

Harry shook himself, feeling his cheeks heat. He waved his fingers twice: once to undo the ropes and again to Summon back his wand from the floor. Malfoy landed gracefully on his feet. He picked up his wand and brushed off his clothes, rubbing his cheek with a frown.

Harry swallowed. "So, er, do you want to go again?"

"No," Malfoy said, his voice gruff.

"Oh, o-okay. Goodnight, then," Harry stammered.

Malfoy walked to the door of the Room, stopping when he opened the door and was about to cross the threshold. He looked over his shoulder at Harry. "Until next week, Potter." And then he was gone.

Harry felt himself slump, the tension in his shoulders releasing as he let out a deep sigh. He waited to feel the rush of victory, the giddiness of having bested Malfoy, but instead, images of pale limbs bound by tight ropes, barely parted lips, and bright, trusting eyes flashed in his mind.

Harry closed his eyes. He was so, so screwed.

Send me an ask about Harry Potter, broadway/musicals, The West Wing, and/or Taylor Swift! Or just about life in general :).

Also, I have a playlist of my 99 most listened-to songs of the year so far. Pick a number 1—99 and send me an ask and I'll write you a fic based on it!

[chrysanthemumgames]

Hey Jess! Here's something I was wondering, what do the ROs wardrobes look like?

Hey Andrew!

I swear I've done some version of this somewhere but I cannot find it for the life of me, so I'm gonna do it again!

I did a post way back when about ancient Greek clothing styles, with images and all, so I won't reiterate that. Just keep in mind that of course everything I say is within that general framework and we're golden.

So Hades goes for dark neutrals, specifically black and grey for the most part, with touches of silver or gold occasionally. The fabrics are excellent quality, and sometimes the meanders (border patterns) are tastefully embroidered rather than dyed, but for the most part he sticks to the simple, understated kind of quality. He wears almost no jewelry or other sorts of adornment, save the 'laurel crown' of his office, which is sort of a parody of those, made from obsidian and shaped like dead branches in the traditional U-shape.

Hermes is all about colors! He tends towards shorter chitons, for free and swift movement, and occasionally a chlamys-type cloak. He's also the one most likely to wear boldly-patterned stuff. His trademark colors are red, gold, and silver, but he'll wear pretty much any color depending on the day. His favorite wardrobe touch are silly metal wings he wears on his sandals. Pyri made them for him and he thinks they're super cool. Keeps the ornaments pretty simple unless the occasion calls for fancy. Hermes can do fancy.

Charon prefers blues, and tends towards simpler patterns and water-themed meanders. They also wear a long, light grey himation that they have shaped so it also provides them with a cowl. Like Hades he tends towards longer versions of garments. They're also always carrying a while staff/pole thing. Not a lot of jewelry, but the occasional bracelet or armband, and they do have a silver ear cuff they are particularly fond of.

Pyri loves bright colors, especially ones that go with their whole 'fire' thing. Most of the time they're the simplest dresser, happy to call it good with a short chiton in a solid color or with a basic meander, and only maybe shoes of any kind, but they're always wearing some kind of artistic piece of jewelry, be it an armband, a torc, or something else.

Alekto is usually wearing armor. When she's not, she's the most elaborate dresser in the group by far, and though she alternates between short and long configurations, there's always more than one layer, and embroidery is almost certain to feature, as is at least one piece of statement jewelry (she's particularly fond of dramatic earrings.) She wears a lot of rich, jewel-toned colors, especially greens, which bring out the hint of that color in her eyes.

Hekate's wardrobe ranges from very very simple to very very elaborate, mostly depending on whether she plans to be working on anything volatile that day or not. Her hair color frequently changes, as does her selection of accessories. She favors purple, and regardless of anything else she tends towards the long versions of garments—she likes how it feels when they swish. :)

[mando-lore]

The Terror of London: the story of Spring-Heeled Jack

Certainly Strange: A Podcast About The Unexplainable, episode 6

Listen on: YouTube  Spotify  Castbox

The Victorian era was a time of shadows and superstitions. In every corner of London’s dark streets lived a mystery or a monster. One of the most popular and certainly strange urban legends of this time is the story of the leaping devil, Spring-Heeled Jack.

In October, 1837, a young servant girl named Mary Stevens, is walking through Clapham Common to the house that she works at. Suddenly, a figure jumps from one of the shadows, gripping her tightly. The figure starts to kiss her face and tries to rip off her clothes. Mary cries out in alarm, and the figure vanishes. Of course, this just seems like a case where a man tried to molest the young woman. And it could have been exactly that, had the strange figure not ripped at Mary’s clothes with claws instead of hands. Claws, she said, that were “cold and clammy as those of a corpse.”

Mary Stevens was not the first one to see this strange clawed creature jump from the shadows. In September 1837, one month before the attack on Mary Stevens, a man saw a man with horns and red glowing eyes leap over the cemetery fence.

This strange devil-like man did not wait much longer to strike again after attacking Mary Stevens. The very next day, it was reported that a strange figure had jumped out in front of a traveling coach, causing the coachman to lose control and crash. Witnesses reported that the figure escaped by jumping over wall that was nearly 9 feet tall, whilst laughing uncontrollably.

This was also the very first time the police got involved. At the scene of the crime they found a pair of very deep tracks in the mud that could only have been made by jumping from a great height. The tracks also showed that there was some gadgetry on the shoes, and speculated that it might be “some sort of compressed springs”.

And this is how the strange devil-like figure got the name of Spring Heeled Jack.

It was January, 1838. Polly Adams, who worked as a barmaid, was walking across Blackheath in south London when she was suddenly attacked. She was discovered half-naked lying in the gutter. When she came to, she is reported saying that she had been attacked by a man who had ripped open her blouse and had grabbed her breasts with claws that were sharp and cold as a corpse, eventually cutting open her belly.

On January 9th, the Lord Mayor of London, Sir John Cowan, received an anonymous complaint of another servant girl who was attacked by Spring Heeled Jack. Because of this incident, several other people came forward about similar incidents in the Kensington and Hammersmith area, all involving servant girls.

This was the perfect story for the press, and Spring Heeled Jack began to get a lot of publicity. With the increase of publicity, there was also an increase of reports from people who had seen or were attacked by the now famous ‘terror of London’. The police took these reports very seriously, and even the Duke of Wellington, the one who had defeated Napoleon, went out armed on horseback to hunt for the monster that haunted London.

This did not stop Spring Heeled Jack, however, from striking again.

There came a knocking on her door. The police, he claimed. He had found spring heeled jack in an alley outside her home. Jane Alsop opened the door. When she accompanied the policeman to the alleyway, she noticed that he was not wearing a police uniform, but instead a long black cape. She got suspicious, but it was already to late. The cloaked man attacked her, trying to undress her whilst, according to her, spitting blue flames out of his mouth.

Jane Alsop described her attacker later to London magistrates: ”He was wearing a kind of helmet and a tight fitting white costume like an oilskin and he vomited blue and white flames!”

Nine days later, the same fate befell Lucy Scales. Walking home from having visited her brother, she was attacked by a man in the same outfit as Alsop had described. And again, he spitted blue flames out of his mouth, blinding her and even causing a seizure.

Then, after terrorizing London for many months, Spring Heeled Jack disappeared.

There were no more reports of people being attacked by Spring Heeled Jack. In 1855 he was seen in Old Hill, far from London, leaping from the roof of an inn to another roof across the street. Somewhere in the 1880’s, a man and a young girl reported that they had seen Jack with glowing eyes, who had bid them a good evening.

Spring Heeled Jack was also seen in 1872, when he landed amidst a group of soldiers. One of the soldiers claimed to have shot at him, but the bullet reflected off of him with a hollow, metallic sound.

Spring-Heeled Jack was last spotted in 1904, 67 years after he had first appeared out of the shadows, jumping over a building in William Henry Street in Liverpool. And, seemingly, disappearing into the shadows once again.

Although frightening and violent, Spring Heeled Jack never mortally wounded any of the women he attacked. This did not stop locals from suspecting him of murder. In 1845, a 13-year old prostitute called Maria Davis was pushed off a bridge into an open sewer, where she drowned. Although the coroner recorded Maria’s death as ‘Death by Misadventure’, and though an eyewitness had seen that it had not been Jack who pushed her but instead one of her clients, locals still claimed that Spring Heeled Jack was the true murderer of this child.

Many attacks on women were blamed on Spring Heeled Jack. When there came a report that a woman had been murdered in Whitechapel in 1888, with her clothes ripped off her, people automatically assumed it had been good old Spring Heeled Jack, especially since the culprit had seemingly disappeared into the night without being spotted by police.

Spring Heeled Jack immediately became suspect number one in the other murders that followed. So much so, that the killer himself wrote a letter t the Metropolitan police signed Spring Heel Jack: The Whitechapel Murderer. Later, the killer shortened it simply to Jack. Perhaps better known as the real terror of London. Jack the Ripper.

The real Spring Heeled Jack, if he ever existed, was never caught. There was only ever one suspect. Henry Beresford, the eccentric young third Marquis of Waterford, who was known for his misogynist behaviour towards women and for having a bad, often alcohol-fuelled temper.

The Lord Mayor of London also had a theory that Spring Heeled Jack was simply created by a group of elite gentlemen who dressed up and terrorized women as part of a bet.

There is another, somewhat strange theory of how Spring Heeled Jack is actually an alien from a planet with high gravity. This would, according to them, explain his extraordinary jumping abilities. Our thin atmosphere could have made him giddy, which would explain his laughter. He would be a nocturnal alien, with reflective eyes like that of a cat. That would explain his glowing red gaze.

But, before considering the theories about aliens, it is important to understand the historical context in which Spring Heeled Jack was born. Because, how can a creature such as Spring Heeled Jack be born in the minds of people?

The 1830s in England were turbulent times, full of tension and anxiety. It was a time filled with social, economic, political, and cultural changes. King William IV died in 1837, and people were uncertain about the capabilities of the young queen Victoria, since she was only 18 and a woman. In this time period, society became more regulated and disciplined, which characterised the Victorian era.

In a period of increasing and intensified control, the monstrous Spring Heeled Jack represented the appealingly uncontrolled. Like the wicked Mr Hyde compared to the composed Dr Jekyll. That is why he is constantly shifting in eyewitness reports. One time Spring Heeled Jack is a beast, the next time he is a ghost, and yet another time he is a devil.

This tense and potentially volatile context became the perfect ground to build a legend that is build on mass panic and sensationalism from the press.

During the Victorian era, printing technology improved. This gave more people access to education and books, causing illiteracy rates to drop. The increased demand of books combined with the high rates of crime created the perfect environment for people to profit off of sensationalized stories about monsters and criminals, such as Spring Heeled Jack.

So whether Spring Heeled Jack was a man, a monster, a ghost, a devil, an alien, or simply a result of a restrained society looking for sensation, his legacy is very much real. Spring Heeled Jack remains a popular penny dreadful figure from the Victorian era, featuring in games such as Assassins Creed Syndicate or the series Jekyll and Hyde. And whatever Spring Heeled Jack was or is, he is Certainly Strange.

SOURCES

Bell, K. (2012). The legend of spring-heeled Jack: Victorian urban folklore and popular cultures. Boydell Press.

Bellows, J. (2006). Spring Heeled Jack. Retrieved from: https://www.damninteresting.com/spring-heeled-jack/

Castelow, E. (n.d.). Spring Heeled Jack. Retrieved from: https://www.historic-uk.com/CultureUK/Spring-Heeled-Jack/

Dunning, B. (2007). The Attack of Spring Heeled Jack. Retrieved from: https://skeptoid.com/episodes/4064

Grundhauser, E. (2016). Meet Spring-Heeled Jack, the Leaping Devil That Terrorized Victorian England. Retrieved from: https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/meet-springheeled-jack-the-leaping-devil-that-terrorized-victorian-england

Ogden, P. (2020). Spring heeled Jack: The Leaping Devil Who Spread Hysteria in Victorian Britain. Retrieved from: https://oddfeed.net/spring-heeled-jack-the-leaping-devil-who-spread-hysteria-in-victorian-britain/

Origjanska, M. (2017). Spring-Heeled Jack: The Leaping Boogeyman who terrorized Victorian England. Retrieved from: https://www.thevintagenews.com/2017/11/26/spring-heeled-jack/

Perry, L. (n.d.). Spring Heeled Jack, Fiction Based On Fact. Retrieved from https://casebook.org/dissertations/ripperoo-spring.html

Sheldon, N. (October 29, 2018). 16 Frightening Details in the Story of Spring Heeled Jack. Retrieved from https://historycollection.com/16-frightening-details-in-the-story-of-spring-heeled-jack/16/

[moonlitceleste]

straight up villain (Villain AU)

This is a songfic based on “Villain” by K/DA ft. Madison Beer and Kim Petras. There’s really no plot to it; I started with a vague idea and just went along with whatever my brain told me. It kinda jumps around and I didn’t proofread this at all, so sorry if it’s confusing!

I’d suggest listening to the song and watching the visualizer video because it’s honestly such a vibe. If I could animate I’d totally make a video full of epic fight scenes, but unfortunately I don’t have that talent learned yet.

This version of the song is a little more chill, so if you find the original too intense you can always listen to the slowed one instead.

On the low Only love myself, no more Take you to the grave, I'll ghost I know I can be so cold In the dark Where I like to keep my heart Know I'm all bite, no bark Like to catch you way off guard

A shiver ran down the crime boss’ spine.

His eyes darted around the room, searching through the darkness.

Shadows flickered. He swore he could see movement in them.

The night was crime’s time to rule; people feared the darkness it brought.

Now, he was the scared one.

I'll stay so deep inside your brain And take you somewhere far away

“Who’s there?”

A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, revealing his false bravado.

Shaking hands gripped the gun around his waist, knuckles turning white with pressure.

Creeeakk.

The man whipped around, heart hammering in his chest.

Who—or what—was lurking in the shadows?

A snap echoed through the air as he fired a round.

Silence.

The only sound came from distant echoes of Gotham’s nightlife and the frantic beating in his throat.

He swore he had seen something sweep out in the corner of his vision, if only for a moment.

Perhaps it was the paranoia.

He slowly lowered his gun, shoulders relaxing—

Only to whip around when he felt a phantom hand brush his shoulder.

A pair of eyes flashed in the darkness, gone the next second, but he knew what he had seen, what he had felt.

Icy fear seized his body, taking hold of his limbs.

Something was watching him.

Time to roll the dice, you know I'm the type Type to risk my life, not afraid to die Type to make you cry, type to put a price All up on your head, do just what I said I'm a straight up villain, straight up villain Yeah, no feeling, yeah, no feeling Straight up villain, straight up villain Yeah, no feeling, yeah, no feeling

“Stop toying around.”

The gravelly voice was met with a cackle, almost cat-like in nature.

That was his only warning before it stepped from the shadows: a creature out of his nightmares, shrouded in darkness like part of the night itself.

Sharpened black claws glinted under the streetlights, and dark black orbs pinned him in place as it slunk forward. He couldn’t move, frozen like a deer in headlights.

The thing was so human-like in shape, but it was too monstrous to be one.

A wicked smile spread across its face, and his face blanched as he caught sight of the fangs protruding from the top.

The creature stalked forward like a predator chasing its prey.

Then, it pounced.

I'm alive, but I'm dead Hear my voice up in your head Watch it fill you full of drеad 'Til you go pow

It was common knowledge within Gotham’s criminal underworld that the Arkham Knight worked alone. He played by his own rules, merciless in his distribution of justice.

But lately, it was rumored that the Knight had an ally.

There was no proof of this, no sightings to go by, but there was a subtle shift that could be felt—an underlying sensation of imminent danger.

Gunfights and confrontations lessened, and the Knight’s enemies started disappearing without a trace. No blood, body, or evidence of struggle could be found; it was as if they had simply ceased to exist.

Whoever this new player was, they were dangerous.

Is it really a surprise if I'm playing with your mind And I treat you likе a prize, then I throw you to the side? And am I really that bad if l love to make you mad? And get happy when you're sad, only care about a bag

Jason shook out his hair, metal helmet in his hands, and leveled a glance at his companion.

“Did you really have to take so long to kill him?”

The two were in one of their few safe houses, recuperating after their long night of fighting.

“It’s the thrill of the chase.”

Marinette, no longer transformed, stated this as if it were obvious—which it was. Jason had been with her long enough to understand her concept of fun. She leaned forward and stretched, looking much like the animal after which her magic ring was themed.

“We can’t waste time playing around. There are more important things to be done,” he growled.

Marinette simply giggled, bounding over to bat her eyes at him with mock innocence.

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “You know what you’re doing.”

Her smile grew wicked, arms darting out to wrap around his waist.

“You look so good when you’re mad,” she purred.

Jason leaned down, and their lips met in a kiss.

In control That's how I like it and I'm never letting go, nah Never had a soul (soul) So you ain't taking nothing from me when you go, nah

Crack.

Marinette smirked as her staff made contact with the target’s skull.

Normally she would use Cataclysm for a more swift kill, but the remains were needed in order to send a message to Arkham Knight’s enemies.

They were growing more volatile, more desperate to expose whatever they thought she was.

Phantom Killer, they called her. The name sounded like something out of a badly-written horror movie. Marinette much preferred the one she had already: Reine de L'ombre.

Of course, she didn’t need a title, but Jason had come up with it. She was pleasantly surprised by his naming skills—it meant Shadow Queen, for she was a queen, and Jason her knight, as he put it.

She didn’t feel any remorse as the pile of bodies below her grew. Perhaps this made her soulless, but she didn’t need one anyway.

Marinette had all she wanted right beside her.

I'll stay so deep inside your brain And take you somewhere far away

“...you do what you gotta do, am I right?”

Marinette nodded at the man standing across from her, a smile on her red-painted lips.

He had been leering at her from across the bar the whole night, and although that was the goal, she was still disgusted. He had to be at least twenty years older than her. Heck, he was old enough to be her dad.

The intel she and Jason had acquired said the businessman had a thing for younger women, which was apparent. According to the same source, the company he ran was also a front for trafficking and drug rings.

Marinette wanted to see him bleed.

“How about we take this to my room?”

The comment was abrupt, and Jason would probably kill her for her indiscretion later, but she was getting tired of the man’s blabbering.

Her hand moved up his arm, the expensive material of his suit cool against her fingers. She bit her lips seductively, which seemed to convince him.

Bingo.

Time to roll the dice, you know I'm the type Type to risk my life, not afraid to die Type to make you cry, type to put a price All up on your head, do just what I said I'm a straight up villain, straight up villain Yeah, no feeling, yeah, no feeling (yeah, yeah) Straight up villain, straight up villain Yeah, no feeling, yeah, no feeling

Marinette gritted her teeth as the man tried to reach for her butt again. 

She attempted to stop him by saying she wanted to wait until they entered her room, but he was persistent. She couldn’t wait to get rid of him.

As soon as she opened the door to her hotel room, she shoved him inside and up against the wall. He seemed to be expecting a kiss, but she punched him hard. For a crime lord he certainly wasn’t a good fighter. Maybe it was the drugs she slipped into his drink earlier that contributed to his quick defeat.

Marinette cuffed his arms behind his back with a pair she had stashed earlier. She could have waited for the man to undress so she could ensure he didn’t have any weapons, but she had gone through enough torture already. Her eyes didn’t need to see that.

She turned him around, giving him a smile that promised warmth and kindness, before pulling out a dagger and pressing it to his throat.

“Now talk.”

I'm alive, but I'm dead Hear my voice up in your head Watch it fill you full of dread 'Til you go pow

“Claws in.”

Marinette’s black suit faded away, revealing her now blood-spattered red dress.

She flopped onto the couch, not bothering to remove her shoes or dirty clothing.

After hours of trying to get information out of the businessman, she only managed to wring a few coded phrases from him. He seemed to only be a figurehead of his shady organization rather than its actual leader.

A Cataclysm later and here she was, back to the drawing board.

“Jay?” Marinette called.

It was unusually quiet in the safe house; usually after solo missions they’d greet one another with a kiss. Now, he was nowhere to be seen.

“Jason?”

Silence.

Marinette huffed. She knew exactly what this was about.

Bang, bang You can do anything No fear, no pain Listen to your brain go Go stupid, go dumb, go stupid and Then we go insane, woah Just do what I say Follow me, I'll lead the way

“Are you jealous?”

Jason whipped his head around, caught off-guard by the appearance of his girlfriend in his doorway. It seemed as if she wasn’t wasting any time.

“I’m not jealous. That guy couldn’t get you if he tried.”

“Then why are you mad?”

His jaw clenched.

He wished he hadn’t agreed to let Marinette extract the information alone; Jason almost wished he was there to see the man in pain.

“He was putting his hands all over you.”

“It was for a mission. Besides, I thought you said he couldn’t get me even if he tried?”

Her last words were said with a lilt, and Jason knew she was riling him up. He couldn’t stay mad, anyway—she had a point.

He deflated and leaned forward to brush his lips against her. Marinette smiled into the kiss, then pulled away. She looked him up and down, a glint in her eyes.

“I guess I’ll have to make it up to you, hmm?”

She paused, then wrinkled her nose.

“After I take a shower. I don’t want this guy’s blood on me any longer.”

Maybe they acted stupid sometimes, but the two always followed one another in the end.

Time to roll the dice, you know I'm the type Type to risk my life, not afraid to die Type to make you cry, type to put a price (Woo-ah) All up on your head, do just what I said I'm a straight up villain, straight up villain Yeah, no feeling, yeah, no feeling Straight up villain, straight up villain (Yeah) Yeah, no feeling, yeah, no feeling (Woo-ah!)

Marinette panted deeply, adrenaline coursing through her veins.

A mass of bodies surrounded her, but she wasn’t paying attention. This wasn’t just a battle. It was war.

It was a fight for her life, and she wasn’t going down now.

Reine de L'ombre tore through her enemies like a terrifying force of darkness, one after the other. The Arkham Knight fought by her side, fueled by pure destruction.

Maybe they wouldn’t make it out, but they wouldn’t go down without a fight.

I'm alive, but I'm dead Hear my voice up in your head Watch it fill you full of dread

'Til you go pow

A week later, a couple rose hand-in-hand from the ranks as new rulers of the Gotham Underworld.

Reine de L'ombre and the Arkham Knight—a queen and her king.

-

PERMANENT TAGLIST @avengerthewarrior @enternalempires @freesportspalacesalad @h1sss @nathleigh

[abrooklynboy]

cold

[Memory Meme: Send a word and I will write a memory, thought or short scene for my/our muses with something related to that word.

Cory: cold and water, IT'S JUST GONNA BE RG/CAPTAIN AND MAYBE SOME STEVE FEELS

Tabby: HIT ME WITH THAT ANGST, BABEY

also lol 'short']

Warnings: Canon-Typical brainwashing/mind control, maniupulation, implied gore.

A Cycle Without You | Captain & Soldier

Coming out of cryo was like being born. Muscles and lungs trembling, protesting the cold, the bright lights. Why do they always wind them up? Guards supporting his dead weight, he looks under an arm to his right. Blinking, lashes lined with ice crystals, vision blurred. Another tube softly glowing. Waiting.

She's safe. I'll be home soon, B-.

The chair takes that thought, all thoughts, away.

Part of him, muscles spasming, jaw locked, waits for "<Good morning, Captain.>" but it never comes anymore.

Presented with a file, his shield, a team.

Always hurry hurry, he's on a clock. Clear medical (all systems green), Eat (disgusting), uniform (for the war), head out. The Asset(s) are too volatile to keep out of wipes and cryo for long. An endless cycle. It's a relief to be out from the dark concrete and metal, recycled air, in the field where (they) he belong.

Someone should be here. On the tip of his tongue.

A shape, corner of his vision, watching his six. Next to him in the van. Not as tall as him (nobody's as tall as him). Long hair, compared to his short crop. Metal arm (that was his fault). Uniform is all black, rather than the red cutting up the black on his. Firearms of all shapes and sizes and knives. He wears a helmet, she (is a she) wears goggles. Both wear the same mask (muzzle). No logos, except the red star on his chest and her shoulder. It wouldn't be a covert operation if the logo was plastered everywhere.

Outside, it's August. Trees in full bloom, night sky. When's the last time they've (he's) seen the sun? Humid. He's sweating as he gives orders. Takes point, takes cover alone.

It goes off without a hitch, minus the Captain once again punching holes in people, like a scrapper from hell. Blood to his forearms, blood in his mouth, blood on his face.

It's the face, STRIKE agrees over a round, later, once the nightmare is stashed away with the other nightmare. There should be someone home during all that.

Acceptable collatoral damage.

Still, they ask him what the hell was that. No answer. A shrug. Are we heading back or not?

Scrubbed clean, fresh uniform. A few days. Still has his brain. Put it to use. A weapon in the arsenal, just like firearms and knives, metal arms, shields. He makes battle plans, suggests strategies. Trains alone. Always under armed guard.

Sketches, in his cell, on a scrap of paper and ballpoint pen (they don't let him draw anything but mission plans, blueprints, the best tactical mind of the modern era shouldn't be an artist, a cartoonist). Remembers what direction the security camera points. Dark hair, dark eyes, a tired smile. The coat must be blue.

A word, stuck in loop, in his head. Longing.

He burns it (always does) with a match. Any sketches get interrogated (when when has he done that?).

The cooldown. Back to the life support suit. Another wipe. Sensors attached to him. Led back to his cryo (he just wants to sleep). There's a tube, next to his own. Inside is a woman. He stops, off-balance, coltish, brow furrowed, lips parted in confusion.

"Aw, big guy misses his girlfriend," Rumlow jeers.

"Who's she?"

Behind him, a cacophany of voices. When the Captain asks questions, people die.

why, how did he, who set the voltage, has anything happened like this before, check the file.

"Another Asset." Pierce's voice is smooth like honey and twice as poisonous. Captain watches the Secretary in the reflection of the glass. A brighter version of himself. In another life, they could've been brothers. Everyone else is silent, just the Secretary's dress shoes on the concrete floor as he comes up behind the super soldier. Hand on his shoulder, sympathy, "She's unstable. The serum that runs through her veins is inferior compared to yours." Implication of 'women, am I right?' "She needs a firm hand to guide her. Impartial. An officer." The hand pats his shoulder a couple of times. "I know you have it in you."

The Captian carries this order into the next cycle. Next time the Soldier and him meet, he's reserved. Remembers her capabilites. Their bodies operate seamlessly next to each other. Whatever comradeship they had cycles, years, decades ago is razed.

It always comes back. Winter doesn't last forever.