#...at least we got the comic strip

[cobbssecondbelt]

Yo guys remember that time when we waited an entire year to finally have new Cobb Vanth content in 2023 and then the only crumb we got was a 4 panels children comic strip hahaha yeah because I sadly do

[painted-bees]

A quick, sloppy little comic about Magritte

[OC's]

(image description under the cut)

[Image Description: It's a vertical comic strip of 14 panels arranged one under the other. The style is realistic, done with sketchy lines in a dark burgundy. It is not colored or shaded and there is no background. The comic features the interactions of a couple, Magritte (also called Margie) and Rafael (also called Raf). Magritte is a young woman, she is wearing a baggy armhole tank top with a tight fitting black top underneath, shorts and boots. She has a messy bun and a small messenger bag slung over her left shoulder. Rafael is her partner, wearing baggy pants, sneakers, fingerless gloves, V-neck t-shirt and an open button-up jacket with a hoodie and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair has short side with long top bangs and a short goatee.

 (First panel): There's only Magritte visible from the waist up. Off screen, Raf says to someone else: “Magritte has our tickets.” Magritte is excited, looking straight forward. Her left hand in on her bag's strap, her right hand rummaging inside her bag. Magritte says: "Yeah! Even made sure to put them in my wallet so that I wouldn't- uh..."

 (Second panel): She is beginning to look concerned, now with her face turned to her back, both left hand holding the lip to open the bag wider and her right hand still rummaging inside. Magritte says: "wouldn't forget.... Hang on, it's not on it's usual pocket. Haha." The last is a nervous laughter.

 (Third panel): Magritte is kneeling on the ground. Rafael is standing to the side and behind her, only his feet visible. Magritte looks frantic, searching inside her bag. Her right arm is forearm deep digging in her bag. Magritte says: "It's definitely here-! It's the one thing I never forget 'cus I never take it out of my bag!" Rafael says, firmly: "Margie, when you took it out to put the tickets in, did you put the wallet back in the bag?" The letters are bolded, with the word "back" underlined for emphasis. Magritte says: "Give me some credit, there's no way I'm that stupid." The last three words are underlined for emphasis.

 (Fourth panel):  The scene has changed and now Magritte and Rafael are in a car. We see them from the passenger's side. Rafael is driving, looking straight ahead at the road. Magritte is hunched forward, hugging herself with the left hand. Her right hand is holding her head. She is looking out the passenger window, avoiding Raf.

 (Fifth panel):  Rafael turns slightly to look at Magritte.

 (Sixth panel):  The point of view is now a side profile view from the drivers side. Rafael has his left arm leaning on the open window, his right hand on the wheel. Magritte is hunched over facing the passenger window. Rafael says: "I'm not mad at you, if that's what you're worried about." Magritte says: "I can literally feel your disappointment."

 (Seventh panel): Back to the passengers side, Rafael is looking at the road. Magritte is frustrated, no longer leaning her head against her right hand and instead her hand is palm upwards. Rafael says: "Well, yes. It is a disappointing situation, but-" Magritte interrupts: "You'd think I'd be able to do the one thing I was asked to do-! That I'd at least learn from the last billion times I forgot shit. Rafael says, quieter: “that's not where I was going with this...”

(Eighth panel):  Magritte has her right hand holding her face with the palm on her cheek, left hand placing the tips of her fingers on her left temple and eye brows. She is frustrated and angry. Magritte says: "It's not like I've got anything more important rattling around in my brain.  But, for some reason, if it's not my music, or like.... food or something, then it's just not a priority. I can't make myself care enough to make it a priority!"

(Ninth panel): She now has both hands in front of her, elbows bent, finger extended in a vague hand gesture as if there was something in front of her. Magritte says: "I'm an adult in my 20s and I still manage my responsibilities like a child. I'd be more dependable if I could just stop and think for a second, but I'd probably forget to even breathe if it weren't for the..."

 (Tenth panel): Her frustrated expression turned to confusion. Her hands are still in the air in the same position as before. Magritte says:"... why are we parked?" Her noticing this stopped her rant.

(Eleventh panel): Magritte straightens up and faces the window entirely, left hand crossed over her body to lean on the car door. Rafael, off screen: "Margie." Magritte says: "Oh." Magritte's inner thoughts are written around her. "He stopped the car to scold me. No, not ‘scold’. Don't be a child about this. He's disappointed and just needs to make sure you understand so you can do better next ti-"

 (Twelfth panel): Magritte is still looking out the window, but now with a shocked expression. Rafael reached with his right hand, and its now resting gently on her upper back. Rafael interrupts her inner monologue with "I need you to stop repeating the shit your parents and teachers and such yelled at you growing up. They were wrong, and nothing you just said makes sense."

 (Thirteenth panel):  The perspective switches back to the driver's side profile. Rafael says: "A poor memory isn't synonymous with poor priorities. Nor does it speak to a lack of maturity. The priority was there, we just have to build a better habit of checking things before we leave the apartment. Both of us. It's gonna take time. You afford everyone else a ton of patience, all the time. Can you please afford some for yourself? The situation sucks, we were both looking forward to this. But it's not the end of the world. We didn't forget things on purpose. So let's take it easy and try to end the day on a good note. Alright?" Magritte says: "Okay... c-can we um...."

 (Fourteenth panel): Magritte has turned to face Rafael and her eyes are filled with tears and they're running down her cheeks.  Rafael looks startled, lifting his arm off Magritte's back. Magritte says: "Can we get some ice cream on the way back?" Rafael says: "O-of course!" End of description.]

This description was written and provided by Hiwi.

[daydreamerdrew]

Spicy Tales (1988) #16, reprinting a story from the September 1938 issue of Spicy Adventure

[cupcakeslushie]

For your brainwash au, do we get so see exactly how Donnie got captured by Kendra? And would this au be a full comic or just bits and pieces here and there? (Not pressuring just curious) Love the au and I hope you’re having a good day! :)

Don’t know why, but I felt like writing this part out instead of drawing it! (Sorry for bad grammar. I wrote this lying in bed, sleep deprived and did no editing)

——

The sad, pained look on his little brother’s face is enough to set off that dark protective fire in Donatello’s belly. And Michael has been a tiny storm of negative emotions since Leo slapped the small cast on his ankle. Donnie may not be able to pick apart and decipher all of the subtitles his brother is feeling right now, but he knows he’s in pain, and that’s enough.

“How many strips of bacon do you think we can get from Meat Sweat’s corpse?” Donnie ponders as he wraps an arm around his little brother’s shoulders, and carefully pulls him closer. Mikey lets out a quiet huff, but the joke doesn’t land the way Donnie had been hoping.

“Michael?”

“I’m okay,” Mikey assures. Then a hesitant second later adds, “it’s stupid.”

“Oh well if it’s stupid, allow me to grab ‘Nardo. He might be able to help you better.”

That gets the laugh he was looking for.

“I’m not in pain or anything. It’s just, tonight was the midnight signing of Joshua Bear’s new cook book. He’s a YouTuber chef that I’ve been following for years, and I went to his first release…I really wanted the second for my collection.”

Donatello does vaguely remember Angelo telling Raph something about this event last night, during dinner. He’d been so excited, and now he looks crushed at the idea of missing it.

“What if I went?” At the suggestion, Mikey’s face becomes brighter than a super nova, almost too bright for Donnie to stare at directly. It takes a moment for Michael to really calm down enough to speak.

“You’d really go wait in line for three hours? Just to get a book?” Donatello laughs at the question. Any opportunity in which his brothers were interested in the world of literature, no matter the subject (except maybe geology) was a time to be supportive.

Mikey pulls him in for a tight hug, and holds up his phone to snap a picture of them. Donnie snorts and slides out of his little brother’s hammock, careful not to disturb it too much. Mikey is already bouncing enough that he’s in danger of falling out.

“Yes, yes. Sing my praises on all your media socials. Let the world know how I’m your favorite older sibling!” Mikey drops the phone to his chest and holds his arms up, practically vibrating for one more hug. Donnie complies. He’s long given up maintaining his bad boy image when it’s just the two of them.

“You’re the best, Donnie! Really!” The words do a hell of a job replacing that previous fury he’d been harboring, the smile and warmth coming from Mikey, now fully restored. The proper order of the universe righted with a simple solution. This was what he loved most about being a brother. Fixing his siblings problems, in any way he could. And if healing the broken bone outright was (for now) out of his control—at least he could do this.

Donnie glances at his watch and notes he should get going if the turn out is going to be as big as Angelo predicts. He sneaks past the living room where he can hear his other two brethren yelling over a game of Mario Kart. He has zero interest in either of his brothers tagging along. He loves them, but neither are suited to standing in a long line for hours. For the last Jupiter Jim reboot, Donatello was seconds away from a double fratricide before they were even allowed into the theater.

Besides. He’s practically 18 (in four weeks). He can run up to the surface for a few hours, without having to call upon the archaic buddy system.

———

He’s in line for about an hour, when he sees suspicious movement out the corner of his eye. A young woman, parting the line a little ways ahead from where he stands, walks quickly into the closest alley. That alone might be no cause for alarm—maybe it’s a short cut. But the tall, hooded creep trailing after her, has his metaphorical hackles rising. It’s a clear case of sinister intentions. He quickly glances around to see if anyone else has witnessed this, but he’s the only one who seems to be showing any type of concern. Typical New York.

“What a town” Donnie sighs. He doesn’t bother asking the old man behind him to save his spot, seeing as he’s practically at the end of the line, and quickly races to the alley to play hero.

It’s a deep one, the lights of the street not quite hitting all the eerie nooks and crannies. Plenty of blind spots.

“Hello there? Stalker and or damsel in distress? Is anyone in need of assistance? Anyone hopefully bear maced and in need of a being escorted to the nearest precinct?”

No answer.

The non-existent hairs on Donnie’s arms stand straight up. Just as he’s reaching for his ninpo to materialize a bo-staff, something thick wraps around his neck from behind. The arm is almost as big as Raphael’s, if lacking in the muscle department.

But before his can break the hold, the solid feeling of a needle slides into the meat of his neck and something rushes into his veins. Within seconds he’s released and stumbling from the lack of support.

Someone is talking to him. It takes a second of his gaze bouncing around to pick them out. Mildly embarrassing, considering they’re standing right in front of him now. Out of all the colors popping in and out of his vision, Donnie only just catches the same turquoise hoodie that seemed to belong to the unassuming young woman.

A honey pot trap, he realizes, stumbling and falling pathetically backwards on his own ass.

He sees pink hair and is almost relieved, if humiliated. With all their enemies, the Purple Dragons are D tier. But the chances he can free himself before his brothers even notice his absence is high. Just the thought of the savage teasing he would be forced to endure if his brothers found out—Donatello is not eager to hear any of it.

As the nauseating colors finally bleed away, and start to leave black growing in their wake, Donatello swears to cause a big explosion on his way out.

[tma-thoughts]

Ive been thinking a lot about the bechdel test. If you've ever been anywhere on the internet, you'll know it as a test of a piece of media's female representation; a movie passes the bechdel test if 2 female characters have a conversation about something other than a man

What i think is so interesting is that, similar to the evolution of the "5 stages of grief", the bechdel test was never meant to be a measure for female representation, at least not the way it is now. The "bechdel test" was created by alison bechdel in the 80s in her comic dykes to watch out for, in which a character says she'll only watch a movie if it fits the aforementioned requirements

Bechdel got the idea from a friend, liz wallace, who in turn might have gotten it from an essay by virginia woolf. In the wider context of the strip, the "test" was a method applied by queer women to see if they could interpret female characters as also being queer

Bechdel described it as a "little lesbian joke" that was never meant to be taken seriously, but as we know the test caught on in the 2000s and is now used as a standard of female representation, with rules added on like the characters must both be named, and they must talk for at least a minute

I guess you could call it a sort of butterfly effect? A lesbian artist in the 80s writing a joke from a friend in her queer comic strip led to standards of gender bias in media 40 years later. That's the part that i really find interesting. There's something to say about queerness affecting popular culture but i can't think of a way to word it

[hiveworks]

Interview with Mad Rupert, author of Sakana

September 2023

Sakana, the story of life and love in a fish market, is coming back from its hiatus soon! The strip comic style webcomic began in 2010 and follows Jiro, Taisei, Yuudai, and Chie as they navigate their relationships and learn to face their feelings. We asked creator Mad Rupert, author of Robber Robert and artist of Bunt!, for an interview to celebrate the series return.

Read Sakana | Shop books & merch | Read more Hiveworks comics

Sakana has been your baby for 13 years. What has the webcomic journey been like for you over the past decade?

It really has been over a decade, hasn’t it! There have certainly been ups and downs, periods where I was updating as much as I could, and also long hiatuses. I feel like webcomics have always been an amazing space to practice my craft and stretch my writing and drawing skills alike. You can kind of do anything you like with webcomics, and oftentimes people come up with wackier, and imho more interesting concepts than if they were beholden to a large publisher. Not that I haven’t made my fair share of traditionally-published comics and graphic novels… but there’s just something so gratifying about coming up with your own wild story and working towards its end on your own time. Webcomics are incredibly tough and time consuming, but also the ultimate form of self expression. 

What is the origin of Sakana? What made you want to tell this story?

Sakana actually started as a class project when I was a junior at the Savannah College of Art and Design. I had been accepted into the Sequential Art department’s yearly Japan trip to study comics and cartooning in Tokyo for a few weeks, and our final project was to create 11 comic strips based off of something that made a strong impact on us during the trip. We had visited the old inner market (now demolished) of the Tsukiji Fish Market at 4am one morning, and it was the most incredible place I’d ever been, so I decided to craft a short story that took place in the market. Beyond the first 11 strips, I decided to continue the story for as long as I could as a way to practice the comic techniques I was learning in class. That was over a decade and 600 strips ago! It really has become the most ambitious project I’ve ever undertaken.

Do you have the ending already written? Do you see a conclusion in sight?

Yes! I’ve always had something at least resembling an end in mind throughout most of the comic’s lifespan. For a long-format comic like SAKANA, I think it’s very important to have a rough ending planned out as early as possible, otherwise it becomes difficult to keep the narrative moving in a satisfying direction, drop little tidbits of plot that will pay off later, or even maintain your enthusiasm for the project. To be clear, the details of Sakana's “end” have changed many times, which is only natural with a very long project like this. But I’ve always kept crucial details the same: basically certain characters in a certain place at a certain time doing certain things (to keep from getting too spoilery haha.) HOW they get there, WHY they’re there, and WHAT exactly they’re doing will ebb and flow as the years go by and I myself get older and older. But having a general sense of the end in mind has kept things moving all this time. The story’s got one more volume to go, and then I’ll be done!

Your hiatus is a result of working on a traditionally published graphic novel, coming in 2024. Is there anything you can tell us about your book?

My new graphic novel is called Bunt! and it’s a collaborative effort between myself and my dear pal, Ngozi Ukazu (author of popular webcomic Check, Please!) Ngozi wrote the book and I drew it, and we’re both really proud of what we’ve made! It’s already available for preorder all over the place and it will officially be out in stores in February 2024. We’re really looking forward to getting out there this fall and winter and spreading the word about it!

You recently successfully completed a Kickstarter for an 18+ comic, Robber Robert, as well. What is it like balancing these different narratives, genres, and mediums of publishing comics?

It’s definitely been a struggle at times to balance everything, and I definitely don’t recommend working on 3 giant projects at the same time! I finally had to admit that I couldn’t do it all at once, which led to me putting Sakana and RR on hiatus to finish Bunt!, and then keeping Sakana on hiatus while I finished up RR. I really burned myself out on comics for a while, and it’s been a huge struggle to get myself back to a good place with my work. Finishing Bunt! and RR Chapter 1 has really helped reenergize me, but I can always feel myself trying to overload my work schedule again and again. It’s my greatest weakness as a professional artist.

What keeps you inspired?

Making something for myself, practicing my craft, and putting my own stories out there are all huge driving forces in my life. Learning to stop overwhelming myself with work has also helped a lot. Looking back on all the art I’ve made and all the different things I’ve tried makes me feel like I can do anything I put my mind to, so long as I give myself the time and space to enjoy the process.

Do you have any webcomic or graphic novel recommendations?

I’m a big fan of anything fantasy or sci-fi, especially if the narrative approaches the fantastical elements in a weird, unique, and kind of gay way haha. My favorite manga is currently Delicious in Dungeon, but I’m also a fan of historical series like Golden Kamuy and Bride’s Story. For webcomics, I love anything by Evan Dahm, like his long-format series Rice Boy and Vattu. As for Hiveworks comics, there’s too many to list individually but my current favorites are Fairmeadow by KP, and Tiger, Tiger by Petra Nordlund. 

Any advice for new readers of Sakana?

I would say…despite its high page count, it’s not that long of a read! The strip format keeps it moving at a pretty quick clip when read all at once (but it certainly didn’t feel like that over the last 13 years updating one page at a time!) I know that the format and the black and white rendering might feel a little dated in the current era of Webtoons and full-color stories, but I’m too stubborn to change now, and I really appreciate anybody giving it a shot! Also, no matter who you are, or how much you dislike him in the beginning, Yuudai will probably be your favorite character.

You can read Sakana for free at sakana-comic.com and print books are available at hivemill.com

[finniestoncrane]

Here is me requesting my birthday maxi smut honestly im thinking maxi threw some stuff together for a little surprise for her ! And ( he actually does give her a real gift) but the best part comes in the bedroom....

Pun not intended 🤣

I Got You Something

Maximus x Fem!Reader, word count: 1k ay happy birthday!! i love maximus, he's just the softest, sweetest little lamb and the strangest little bug ever and i am obsessed with him and how he'd learn how to be a good boyfriend to someone ;-; 🧡 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: fluff, lil bit of smut, oral sex mostly!!

"You're paying attention, right? Because I really can't see anything..."

"Yeah, yeah, I got you! Just a little... further...Oh, shit, watch that pile of... what is that?"

Your feet kicked something soft in front of you and you recoiled, caught in Maximus' arms.

"Max! Can you just uncover my eyes, please?"

"No, almost there. Just a little further..."

As sweet as the gesture was, you almost regretted telling Maximus that it was your birthday. He was so keen to impress, so determined to make sure you still retained a semblance of your old life, of some goodness. He wanted you to keep that optimism, the kind that made you excited for something like a birthday, something he'd never really been all that fussed by.

More importantly, he wanted to be a good boyfriend.

So he kept his front pressed to your back and guided you over the miscellaneous debris that he had neglected to clean out of the way when he found a safe enough space to set up for your surprise. And then, when you were past the door frame, he removed his hands from your eyes and practically squealed.

"... ok, tah-dah!"

When your vision returned, you found yourself in an empty room, the view from the window suggesting it was on the outskirts of the settlement you and Max had been staying in for the past couple of weeks. On the walls there were tiny triangles of stained fabric, tied together to form bunting. In the corner, a bed with the cleanest sheets you'd seen in months and a dresser with an assortment of your favourite snacks. And in the centre of the room, two dining chairs and a wobbling table, upon which there was a strange looking package.

"Max! This is..."

"It's not great, I know, but... Happy Birthday!"

You could tell that your silence was worrying him, so you choked out whatever words could come to you first.

"Maxi... this is amazing."

The effort he'd put into making the space look at least a little welcoming, and a tiny bit liveable, had rendered you almost entirely speechless, unable to express to him how much it really meant to you.

"You sure?"

"Of course! It's... I love it. It's amazing. Thank you."

Reaching up to him, you cupped his cheek as you pressed a kiss to the other, beaming a bright smile at him before you gestured to the package on the table.

"And this?"

"Oh, right! Your present."

"My present?"

Your eyes widened, excited at what you had suspected had been a gift.

"It's not really like... We don't- didn't... do birthdays in the Brotherhood. But I know it's a big deal for you so..."

He reached for the gift, pulling out a chair for you and placing the parcel in your lap once you were seated. As you looked closely at it, you could make out some of the design on the paper. Singed edges of old comic books, scraps from books, all held together with some strips of duct tape. It upset you to even unwrap it, as you thought about the effort he had gone to, so you tore the paper away gently, admiring your gift once you had revealed it.

"Oh, Maxi, this is so sweet."

You held an almost pristine souvenir mug with the Nuka-Cola logo on the front. There was no way of knowing how he'd managed to find it up here, or how much he might have had to spend to get it from a trader. It was perfect.

"It's not great... it's... I'm sorry, it's crap."

"It is not! I love it!"

"Wow, really? Because I had a back-up if you didn't-"

Your ears pricked up, eyes focusing on his sweet, flushed cheeks as your pupils dilated.

"A back-up? You mean there's another gift?"

Maximus stammered over his words, nervously scratching at the back of his neck, flustered by the intense focus you were now giving him.

"It's more of a... like a surprise."

"Well, show me!"

With a renewed excitement, Max took your hand and guided you from the table to the bed, slightly giddy in the way he practically skipped over to it.

"Ok, lie down."

You raised an eyebrow with an excited smile, but did as he asked, letting your body sink into the busted bedframe and watching as he sank to his knees at the bottom of the bed. His hands, shaking with nerves, skimmed up your thigh and grabbed your hips, pulling you down the mattress closer to him. You let out a squeal of shock, giggling as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants, pulling them down your legs and taking your underwear with them.

"Max!"

"What?"

You sat up on your elbows, looking down at him with a grin so wide it almost hurt your cheeks.

"Are you really doing this?"

"Yeah... I've been practising."

He raised his eyebrows, his lips forming a sweet, proud smile.

"Yep, I've been practising."

"I don't even want to ask how..."

"Then don't, just let me show you."

With your lower half completely exposed, your pants and underwear placed in a small heap next to where Maximus knelt, you felt your body warming with arousal, anticipation spreading through your veins as you felt him leaning in, his warm breath on your thighs, then against your cunt.

And then, his tongue, hot, wet, pressed flat against your lips, forcing the tip between then, spreading them apart as he dragged the muscle up and down over your entrance, teasing it as he reached the top. He had been practising, and he’d obviously learned a little bit about anatomy somehow.

“Max… Max, this is… it’s so good…”

He paused for a moment, smiling happily, a sense of pride in his work.

“It is… you taste good… better than anything I’ve eaten out here…”

You gripped at the sheets as he returned to your body, lips enclosing over your pussy as he sucked and lapped, moaning with satisfaction at how you tasted, how you felt against his face, thighs pressed against his cheeks. And with the innocent joy he always held for these intimate moments together, he wondered if you’d let him do this again for his birthday.

[a-a-a-anon]

appreciation post for Lise Mayer!! she co-wrote The Young Ones (and The Bachelor Boys book, additional material like when they did Comic Relief, etc), which is well known. but she also wrote for other things in the alternative comedy scene like Rik Mayall and Ben Elton's comedy tour (source: BBC Breakfast Time interview)! and, something I didn't know until recently: she co-wrote/wrote for Kevin Turvey! she's not credited in his television appearances, but see below for sources.

i really loved the podcast episode she did with Alexei Sayle about TYO, you gain a lot of insight into her perspective! she also mentions misogynistic treatment like being asked to go make tea when they were doing script readings, not getting invited to a big BBC party because it was presumed she'd be Rik's plus-one, and getting groped at the BBC bar. it pissed me off on her behalf and partly prompted this post.

some specific accolades/accreditation/fun facts:

Rik crediting her with writing/conceiving the Kevin Turvey non-joke "All right, biting political satire: What do Lech Walesea and Menachem Begin have in common? They’ve both got foreign names! What do you mean it’s not funny?" (x)

Alexei Sayle in Thatcher Stole My Trousers crediting Lise with co-writing Turvey: "Lise was, like Linda for mine, a vital part of Rik’s career, co-writing both The Young Ones and Rik’s character Kevin Turvey..."

a 1987 source for Lise co-writing Turvey: "The assumption that women do not write comedy scripts was one with which Lise Mayer, co-writer of The Young Ones television series, has also had to contend. She started writing for Rik Mayall’s Kevin Turvey in the television series A Kick Up the Eighties..." (x)

Rowland Rivron (comedian who toured with The Comic Strip gang and lived with Rik and Lise) in What the f*** did I do last night?: "[Lise] also had the unenviable job of standing at the side of the stage when Rik was performing, and jotting down anything he said that was unscripted. If it got a laugh, it would be woven into the next night’s routine."

the only time i've ever seen a Rik Mayall/Ade Edmondson/Lise Mayer writing credit: for a poem called Distance which was collected in this anthology! Rik and Ade seem to have acted it out (or at least a version of it) in this 20th Century Coyote performance

Rik on Lise writing TYO: "‘She discovers different things: the comedy of embarrassment and awkwardness – she draws out the cheating and stealing that goes on in the house.’" (x) (Lise also says her "favorite comedy was always the comedy of embarrassment" in the Alexei Sayle podcast)

Rik: "... Lise Mayer wrote this great scene where I find a tampon in a handbag and it's my birthday party and I think it's a present because my character is Rick, who is such a git, he didn't know." (x)

Helen Lederer in Not That I'm Bitter, writing about being on The Young Ones: "[Lise] was known to be the brains behind it all, particularly the more surreal elements…"

she and Rik chose the bands (x)

Lise: “We’d have a table read at which point we’d discover that the script ran over an hour long, and then I’d have a sleepless night editing it.” Alexei: “You did that?” Lise: “Usually me, yeah…” (she later explains they'd present the script Monday and rehearsals were Tuesday, Wednesday-so she literally had one night to edit!) (x)

facts from the blu-ray commentary tracks:

Rick's yellow dungarees in Interesting were based off a picture of Lise in a similar pair

Lise wrote an essay about the tampon joke in Interesting so that the BBC didn't cut the scene (though they still edited it)

Paul Jackson (producer) credits Lise with arguing "you are seriously telling me that we cannot refer on television to something that happens to 50% of the population for about 30 years of their life? and we're not allowed to even refer to it" to make an executive back off about the tampon joke in a meeting

Lise came up with Neil's flowerpot covering in Nasty

Vyvyan/Vivian's name comes from Lise having lived in Vyvyan Terrace, Bristol

Lise thought of the cast switching costumes in Bambi (one of my favorite moments!!) (/end of commentary track facts)

this is guesswork, but i've seen Ben Elton and Rik Mayall's handwriting and i'm pretty sure the editing/handwriting on the bottom left on this script must be Lise's, which gives insight into what/how she wrote: (x)

i feel like it's easy for people to overlook or minimize Lise's impact, something that happens to female creators far too often. i hate when women's identities are framed around their association to a man-girlfriend to Rik in this case-which was the norm whenever i saw Lise discussed in articles/books/online discussions about TYO. it's important to know she was a writer and co-creator with her own identity and (underappreciated) contributions. The Young Ones (and Kevin Turvey, and things we don't even know she goes uncredited for) would not have been the same—or wouldn't have even existed—without her!

[spicywhenspeaking]

heaters out: noah x reader

Just some fluff about you and Noah dealing with a little power outage during your weekend away.

🥶🌬️⛄️❄️🩵

“Its freezing, Noah can you check make sure the heater is on please?” you ask from the bundle of blankets you’re buried under on the bed. Noah surprised you by whisking you away for the weekend to a secluded bed and breakfast in th mountains.

“Oh shit.” You hear noah mumble from the other side of the room. “Umm, I think the power is out. Let me run down to the front desk and ask really quick.” He runs over to where you’re huddled and gives the top of your head a kiss before quickly exiting.

You get out of bed to add more layers on, one of Noahs hoodies he brought back from tour and a second pair of fuzzy socks you packed. Hoping back under your mountain of covers you wait for Noah to get back. Several minuets pass and Noah returns with a bundle of fire wood, more blankets and a thermos of something.

“Well a few things.” He begins. “The power is out and we are snowed in for at least the next day or two until the snow plows can get up to clear the roads. Good news is I have firewood, more blankets and hot chocolate.” He throws the blankets onto the already comically large lump on the bed and sets to building a fire in the fire place. Thats the great thing about staying in cute bnb’s like this. Each room has a beautiful fire place but unfortunatly the electrical work is old and apparently prone to outages when the snowfall is heavy.

Crawling out of the cave of blankets, you move to sit on the small loveseat next to Noah as he pours two mugs full of steaming hot chocolate. “There is also a huge collection of games down in the library if you want me to beat you at monopoly again.” Noah jokes and you knock into his shoulder “hey! You totally skimmed from the bank last time.”

The two of you laugh as you warm up by the fire and drink the delicious chocolaty beverage that heats you from the inside out. “This is the best hot chocolate i’ve ever had.” You groan as you finish the last sip. Noah grabs a blanket off the the bed and you cuddle closer together, watching the fire shift in orange and reds and hear the wood crack and splinter. “They said they’d bring some more wood when it’s closer to dinner time so we should stay plenty warm tonight.” Noah tells you. We spend most of the day cuddled and reading by the fire.

Before dinner, which is soup the owner of the air bnb cooked over the fireplace in the main room. We played a game of monopoly like Noah suggested and he beats you. “How!? How are you so good at this game? You- you capitalist!” You joke and he holds his hand to his chest, gripping his heart. “Capitalist? I resent that, I’m just a master strategist.” You roll your eyes and laugh “okay, okay, but next time I get to pick the game.” He holds out his hand to shake and says “you got a deal.”

“Perfect. Strip poker it is.” His eyes widen and then he gets knowing look in his eyes. “You’re just trying to get me naked arent you? Last poker night you nearly got Jolly to bet the keys to his new car.” You both laugh because you’ve always won when you played poker. “What can I say, I guess I’m just lucky.” He leans over the small table you were playing at and kisses you softly. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

After eating you decide to both bundle up and go on a walk in the snow.

“Wow, it's so beautiful. I haven’t seen snow like this since I was a kid” you pick up some of the snow in your hands and ball it up tight. Noah is looking out onto the snow covered field so he doesn’t see you when you wind up to lob a snowball right into his left shoulder.

“oh! It’s on now!” He exclaims as he rushes to make his own snowball to throw in retaliation. The two of you spend the next 20 minutes until the sun has begun to set, throwing snowballs at each other until you start to feel the cold sneaking into your coats.

“Okay, time to go in and warm up” Noah says as he wraps his arms around your shoulder and ushers you back inside the bnb.

Heading back up to the room you get inside and quickly remove the first layer of our snow covered clothes. Hanging them to dry on the coat rack while Noah goes to start up the fire again.

In your warmest pajamas you sit cuddled on the love seat in front of the fireplace as Noah opens the bottle of wine the owner gave him after dinner and pours you each a glass. “This, along with the fire should warm us up pretty fast.” I comment as I take a sip of the silky red liquid. “I can think of a few other ways we could warm up.” Noah says in a sultry voice as he leans to place a soft kiss to my neck.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Man-Sized

9/9 Peace in a Lifetime of War

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

He didn't call, didn't text, didn't explain himself.

She wrote dozens of texts, mostly with one sentence, Where'd you go?, Could we talk this through?, I'm sorry, would you please come back, but never sent them.

But she was also being ripped apart by the feeling that this simply couldn't be happening. It couldn't end like this. There was something real here. There had to be.

Pride got in the way. He didn't deserve her begging after leaving her like that without even an explanation as to why. He cared about his job more than her, and she would no longer beg for leftovers. She would not be the girl he could come and fuck in the dark when he had the time for it.

Let's make this work.

That's the sentence she wrote the most, to reverse the last words she had said. A nervous voice inside her told her that she had driven him away. That Simon was somewhere out there thinking she didn't want him in her life. After all, she had shouted that he should go and do his job… Practically, get out of her life.

But how could a few words spoken in anger drive him away? How could he just cut her off after everything? Player or not, she had thought him a better man than this.

He still had the key. He hadn't left it on the table or mailed it to her. He might still walk through that door when she least expected it.

But days turned into weeks, and somewhere in her heart, she knew a decision had been made. Simon never half-assed anything. If he had left, he had left. End of fucking story.

After three weeks, she threw away the shower gel. It reminded her of the time she had come from the shower to a dark room filled with him. When she had teased him, and he had sent her to heaven, when they had confessed their love to each other. It stared at her from the bin until she went and took out the trash with not much else but that single men's shower gel bottle in it.

He had left one of his hoodies in her apartment, and she almost threw it into the bin too. Then she crawled inside it like a child who had lost her parents.

It smelled of him, and it was so big that half of her disappeared inside it, and she felt warm, and safe, and devastated. That hoodie and her bedroom walls twisted the knife by whispering the words Marry me, laced with an echo of his laughter. Every day she decided to throw it away and start a new life, and every night she curled inside it to cry herself to sleep.

Bolognese was ruined for her. Motörhead was ruined, bourbon was ruined; the smell of tobacco brought tears to her eyes. She walked past springtime tulips like they carried the plague itself. Even Dürer was ruined.

How could a heartless, cocky 21st-century soldier ruin the genius of a Renaissance master?

Luckily, she hadn't told anyone who she had been dating for months now. She had never asked Simon to meet her parents. She hadn't even told them she was seeing someone… Her mother had made a remark on how nice it was to see her happy when she was visiting on holidays, and she had told her she had gotten good grades this semester. In her heart, she had perhaps always known that things with Simon wouldn't last. It all seemed like a dream. A beautiful, heated, fucked up pipe dream.

It was like the very oxygen from her life was gone. She didn't have the will to masturbate; the toy she had only reminded her of the embarrassing incident where she had forgotten it on the bedside table, and he had seen it and made her blush with a laugh and a comment; "That's the competition?" Such a small, pink thing compared to Simon, and even that reminded her of him.

Her workplace was a smoking rubble after a war. The pole choreographies had the atmosphere of Swan Lake rather than anything sultry and sexy — she flicked the pole to spin mode more often, started to do leg hangs and suicide spins and unicorn splits and chose music with lyrics about betrayal and other heartbroken, forlorn wailing.

Her gaze swept the audience before she grabbed the pole. Just in case. There were hungry eyes, but none belonged to the man with a winter-over stare, sleeve tattoo, and voice burnt from scotch, smoking, and sleepless nights.

The room spun, and her heart hurt, and she wondered if Simon had found another sweet girl or if he was bleeding in the blur too. Perhaps he was taking his pleasure with the women on his team, no strings attached. Fucking those tough army girls who were everything she was not. Making them moan with slow, heavy torture.

She wanted him to hurt. And then again, she did not. She wanted him to be safe, and for the first time in her life, she prayed even though she had never believed in God.

That forgotten oversized hoodie was her temple, and she wasn't sure who she was even praying to before falling asleep inside that black cotton. But she asked for Simon to stay safe, to not do anything stupid. She even prayed for his happiness, but then the prayers turned more selfish, and she asked that he would come back to her.

Just come back to her.

Her prayers were answered sooner than she would've thought. It was a frightening invocation, because when she finally caught him as a black, massive shadow against the darkness of the club, it was clear that he was in an even worse shape than she was.

He was still big, still menacing, a powerhouse of a man, but she saw that he had lost weight, the shade under his eyes was even darker than when they had first met. He was looking at her dance like he was attending a funeral: there was no smile, no hunger, only suffering in his eyes that followed her from inside a black hood.

She wanted to jump from the stage in the middle of her show, climb onto his lap, cry all the tears still uncried, although she had done nothing but bawled every night since he had left. Sweat made the pole slick, and she closed her eyes as she spun, hoping to be somewhere else entirely so he wouldn't see the hurt in her eyes. But the lights were pointing at the stage, and her face must've been a pale mask of fear and longing, and the dance turned into the ending act of her own personal Swan Lake.

It had been almost a month, and he barged back into her life like he would barge through a door into a room full of prisoners. The game was on again, and he was the fucking worst, and the relief and longing turned into red, blazing rage.

How dare he show up here? Still without warning, without a single message, when he knew how much it meant to her. Especially after what had gone down.

When she was done, she didn't go to him; she left the stage before the applause had even died, rushed to get her things, and stormed out the back door, half fearing that she would bump into him. He wasn't there, but when she walked past the entrance to get home, there was a man smoking outside. She wouldn't shed a look his way but knew from the aura of darkness and hellfire and silent leadership that it was him. There was no sound of footsteps, but she knew he was walking behind her, could almost smell the smoke, could feel his stare on her back as she rushed down the street like she was being hunted by a ravager.

And hadn't he, in a way, promised to haunt her, dead or alive?

She cried the whole way home while being followed by his ghost – silent tears of anger and relief and sorrow, jaw trembling and hiccups tickling her throat.

When she reached her apartment, she opened the door as quickly as possible, then slammed it shut behind her.

Would he use the key and force himself in? Would he take the closed door as a sign not to trespass? She almost went to open it to let him know that this area was actually a No Man's Land, not a threshold to her personal space, much less a fortress he needed to conquer.

But he had decided to pursue her, and a clear-cut knock sent her heart up her throat.

She had a choice not to open that door. Return to her old life without this fuckery. He wouldn't use the key she had given him, he was gentleman enough not to. Or perhaps not a gentleman: he simply knew when he was not welcome and would be too proud to force a connection.

But the decision had really been made a long time ago. It was made when she asked for that drink, when she accepted his flowers, when he pushed inside her the first time. Perhaps even on the moment she first laid eyes on him.

So, without having a grain of rational thought behind it, her heart walked her to that door and opened it.

He was leaning on the frame with one hand, and the hooded head rose from a heavy hang. He looked defeated for a moment, and she realized she had taken a while to come to the door… But then he squared his shoulders and raised his chin, bounced away from the frame, and the tiniest little smile played on his lips.

A look of I win.

It was something so Simon that it burned her heart, and the love returned – as if it had ever gone anywhere – and she was so angry that she slapped him to wipe off that stupid look that told her he could drop her like a toy and then come back and pick her up again.

Her palm met his chin, and it hurt her too: to hear that slap and know he allowed it to happen.

He allowed her to slap him. Again.

He reduced her to someone who hit people, like this was some trailer park romance where physical abuse was ok.

It was his fault, not hers.

It was his fault. It was.

His head was turned to the side from the force of her palm, the eyebrows rose in muted surprise. Then he slowly turned to look at her, and couldn't hide his smile anymore. He fucking got off on this.

Which was why she slapped him again – only, this time he caught her hand and finally forced himself inside, like it was an invitation that she tried to hit him. Her other hand shot out, rather impassively, and he caught that, too.

"That's quite enough."

That gruff, dark voice was probably what she had missed the most. Or those big, brown eyes full of promise. Or all that muscle wrapping around her in a crushing hug, those lips that smashed against hers in a starved kiss.

The door slammed shut behind him as he devoured her. The moment his hands let go of hers and enveloped her into that secure embrace, she dissolved and let him crush her mouth, her ribs, her everything — her hands reached for the hood and tore it down, clutched his back, his jacket, threatening to tear the clothes apart from how much she had missed him.

Tears gathered up her throat, and her eyes burned and squeezed shut, she held the black fabric in her fists and pulled, trying to get closer even when there was not a breath of air between them. His scent brought back so many memories that she threatened to drown in the flood.

The kiss left them both breathless and huffing when he drew her against him. She felt like a hostage when he closed one heavy palm around her head and simply forced her cheek to meet his chest. He had never closed her in a hug quite like this — like he was afraid that she would disappear into thin air if he didn't hold on tightly enough.

"Sweetheart." It was a rumble in her hair, a deep vibration in the solid wall she was smashed against.

"Don't you dare," she whispered through tears, but her hands told a different story as she clung to him like a drowning person.

"Sarah…" He only squeezed her harder, so hard that she feared he would soon break bones. "Love. I'm sorry that it took so long."

Her fingers flexed, then wrapped around that jet-black cotton again. The tears disappeared in his shirt, and she was glad he always wore black; otherwise, the mascara would've made a visible mess.

He smelled so good. She inhaled him like a drug — even after the desertion, his scent meant safety and home to her.

"What the fuck happened?" She sniffed, trying not to wail like a child against that firm wall of chest. "I thought you only went for a smoke."

He stroked her hair so gently that the shirt was soon soaked from her tears.

"I thought it would be best if I left you in peace," he muttered, sounding almost guilty. Her hand twitched in the folds of the hood from the utter folly of it all. She thanked the heavens that he hadn't. She had never exactly found peace with him, but being without him was even worse.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," she retorted.

"Yeah. I used to be a better man. But if ya think I'm cocky… Hah, you should've seen me back then. Feared nothing."

She had expected him to share a reason for leaving her like that, but she hadn't envisioned it to start with those words. The world was quaking again in her hallway, lit by a single, lone lamp.

"It didn't work. It got people killed. Even my brother's little kid." He was still talking to the crown of her head as if exposing the darkest of secrets, fearing that the walls were wired.

"I'm not really… alive, you know? Died with them about ten years ago."

From any other man's mouth, that trace of information, an explanation for his handicaps, would've felt melodramatic. When it came from Simon, it felt like a void was yawning before her.

"Swore that day I would never let it happen again."

How could she always forget that her judgment concerning Simon was flawed – no – distorted as hell? She knew he had lost everybody but didn't know how exactly. Of course there had been violence. She had never really understood just how important it was for him to protect people from getting too close.

I didn't mean for things to go this far suddenly stood for something completely different.

He wasn't playing or toying with her. He was being absolutely, vehemently, utterly serious.

Even… intimidated.

She felt even worse about not being there for him when he had been thin with his skin. She had made it all about her when he tried to share a deep fear.

"I tried to keep my hands off you as long as I could." He hummed, a sound of a distant, pleasant memory. "You were so… fuckin' graceful. Felt like you were dancing just for me."

The tears kept flowing, the world kept quaking.

"I was," she whispered. "Even when you weren't there."

"Thought you was just teasin' me. Seemed such a tough girl." He gave her one of those short laughs, a cynical scoff that said he wasn't easily caught off balance. "'N then you turned out to be sweet as a pie. So bloody sweet. Swept me right off my feet."

She pulled back a little and saw that his eyes were liquid too, the pale lashes fluttered over bloodshot, melted chocolate, but no tears came out. It was like he didn't quite know how to cry, like that skill had been tortured out of him, never to return.

"Nothing lasts. Especially if it's something good and pure." He ran a thumb over her cheek, catching a tear, like he was soothed by seeing someone crying the tears he could not. "Really wanted this to last."

Her lower lip trembled at that, and she had to fight back a whole bawl that threatened to erupt. He was stupidly eloquent when he wanted to. But he was also blind if he couldn't see that no one else but him had tried to end things this time. How could a man so mature and smart be so stupid?

"You're the one who walked out the door, Simon."

He blinked a few times. Yeah… He was that stupid, even if he was sharp and trained and brave. But it was also stupid of her to think there wouldn't be problems. He had built a wall, five-foot thick, since childhood. She had tried to penetrate it with a needle and had had a fit when it wouldn't budge.

"Look... You can't just come into my life and fuck around and fuck with my head — and fuck me… and then leave and say Darling, it's dangerous."

He huffed a laugh at her imitation of him. "You make me sound like a jerk."

"That's because you are."

A sigh. "Right."

She had expected him to return the quip, make some clever comeback, but their love had been on ice for weeks and weeks. Even if the warmth was there, and he was close, so close… Something was still wrong.

She pulled herself back to the solace of his chest. There were broken things inside, and she was a brittle vase herself, barely able to hold all the sorrow in.

"Why do you always have to be so dramatic?"

"Comes with the job."

"I hate your job," she mumbled in his shirt, and he chuckled humourlessly.

"Me too."

"No you don't. You love it." She sent another accusation in the air, and the penalty was an open prison, a slackening muscle around her.

"Guilty as charged."

"Why are you here, Simon?"

There was a pause, one, two breaths…

"Can't fuckin' live without you."

He had no doubt tried, tried to veritably leave her from fear of setting her in danger. Only Simon could leave a woman for fear of losing them…

"Even if I only get scraps and slaps. Phone's full of look at me's but you never call."

Her eyes flared wide open, her lungs ceased working for a second. Five months flashed backward, then forward, their shared moments twisting and turning, words finding new meanings.

Scraps…

You never call.

Jesus Christ.

It was bitter, and it was true. She had guarded her heart like a prisoner of war during a time of peace. Sent him thirsty selfies like they were the only thing he wanted from her, refused to call in fear of losing some game.

He wasn't the only one who was proud and dramatic. She had had a whole month in her hands. She could've called him, sent him those texts. She could've made it known that she hadn't meant her last words as a command for him to get out. But she had done none of those things. Instead, she slammed the door in his face and slapped him when he finally came back with his tail between his legs.

It was never about his job. She could deal with that. It was about the game.

They were both boneheaded, proud little creatures, and she realized she was the one who had been playing, playing for far too long…

"You said you'd rather call me," she whimpered, voice barely even a whisper.

He pulled her away by the shoulders and took a quick scan. There was patronization and pity, and she wondered whether he would take the blame for her failings too. But the pain was more profound than that.

"Sarah. Do ya even like me?"

Of all the things said that night, said ever, that was probably what hurt her the most.

"Yes," was all she managed to say to the man who was, in truth, the love of her life.

"Alright. Then I don't see what the problem is."

He was being reasonable, but there seemed to be a whole other problem she had never acknowledged. Had never even known existed.

And it was a rare, rare thing, that he chose to break first.

"Sarah, bloody fucking-... It kills me to imagine you with someone else."

All in.

As if she could ever find a man like him. As if she could even see other men. They had ceased to exist five months ago.

Just say it.

"I don't want someone else," she said, knowing that games like these should be illegal. But she was not playing anymore. "I only want you. Remember?"

The wall cracked, crumbled a little, exposed some softness in those chocolate eyes.

"Now that's what I like to hear."

Annoying, lovable, cocky bastard. This time, it was her turn to pull him in for a kiss.

He let her take some of his clothes off but then seized the reins from her again by hauling her to the bedroom like a doll. Everything happened right according to a script: she was undressed, tossed on the bed, and he was climbing on top of her before she could even say his name.

He just wouldn't allow her to touch him. She had given him one and a half blowjobs, one handjob, and slapped him two times. They cuddled every now and then. That was basically it.

He was always on top, had fucked her against this and that wall, fucked her with his clothes on half the time. He initiated everything, made her feel good, and so, so subtly prevented her from touching him. Did he even know he was doing it, or was it subconscious?

This would have to change.

Past torture or not, it would change now.

"Simon," she placed a hand on his chest when he was already inserting himself inside her.

"Hm?"

"Can I be on top?"

Something akin to worry flickered in his eyes, but it was only a brief glitch that soon changed into an intrigued look.

"Why not," he tried to hide the remnants of his bafflement, then crashed to the bed beside her. She flicked the table light on as if making it clear that this was the dawn of a new era. He gave it a hasty side eye, then turned his attention back to her.

"Have you ever heard of Adam's first wife?" She asked when she climbed on top of him. God, but he was wide, even though men were supposed to have narrower hips. Simon was a man in his prime, threatening, even when lying under her in a seemingly vulnerable position.

"You givin' me a history lesson too?"

"She was banished from Eden because she wanted to be on top during sex." She tried to seek support from his chest, knowing it would be of minimal help. If he would get too enthusiastic, she might be bucked off.

"I won't be so cruel," he said with a soft smile as he ran hands over her thighs, then up to her waist, hesitantly. Simon never hesitated.

From what she understood, he was far from a footsoldier. The people he killed never even heard he was coming for them with a thick, ugly blade. Perhaps he preferred to fuck like that, too: stealthy and intimate, in the darkness, keep his victim in a sturdy embrace so he could feel how they bled to death.

That light was a threat. Her stare was piercing awareness: also, a threat.

And it was only now, from this position, that she finally caught the wounds. Fresh, ugly holes that should've probably been under bandage still.

"What's this?"

There were not one, but two cavities surrounded by discolored skin, bruised dark purple, virtually black — gunshot wounds that had barely missed his liver. Had the bullets reached the internals, they would've likely been the end of him.

"That's the reason why it took so long."

Shallow breathing was a stupid response from a body already feeling faint. But the next few breaths were just that: an attempt to sustain the flow of oxygen and allow reality to sink in.

The last time Simon had gotten hit was years and years ago: a bullet to the arm, not nearly as severe as an abdominal wound. She thought they used bullet vests at work. Unless he had chosen not to wear it. Her brain was a horrid thing, pushing a clinical sentence out of a psychology journal to her mind.

"The root cause of self-destructive behavior can stem from a mental health condition such as depression: overwhelming sadness and loss of interest."

She had drowned herself in self-pity in her cozy little apartment and taken revenge on a shower gel bottle while Simon had gotten himself wounded, nearly killed. Probably spent the last few weeks in a hospital after the operation in whatever medical facility he had been brought to from the field. Without telling her, stubborn and proud as he was. Lying there, with no visitors, thinking it was better to leave her alone…

She knew he had a death wish, but this… This crushed her soul.

"Soap said I should ask you to marry me instead of trying to prove something by killin' myself."

Shit…

More edgy, dark humour — but her insides shuddered.

The axis of melancholia turned and turned. She hadn't told anyone about them, but Simon had. So that someone could deliver the message if need be. Even the thought of a Scottish jarhead appearing at her door and telling her how Lieutenant Simon Riley had been killed in action made her eyes sting.

Soap was a clever man. Much more intelligent than the one between her thighs.

"What am I to do with you," she whispered while placing the lightest, faintest touch on the stretched skin around the injury. The muscles rippled underneath her fingertips, and a soft hiss drew her attention back to his face, but the discomfort was hidden from view before she could decide whether it was caused by her words or her touch.

"A few ideas come to mind," he spoke with his everlasting cheek, even when healing from both gunshot wounds and a broken heart. "Wanna hear?"

"How about you shut your mouth for a change," she offered, gently enough to make it clear that some things should be fixed with another kind of communication.

When she reached to guide him inside her, he was uncommonly solemn. The dry spell had ended at the door already, but that drowsy, flaming rust of a stare caused the cup to overflow. She was slippery as hell, but he was patient, mostly having a ball watching how she went through trial and error to get him in. The intimacy made her flustered, and that stern expression soon turned into a smug one as she fucked up guiding him in smoothly and with finesse.

And it was wishful thinking that Simon would keep his mouth shut.

"Ya need help with that?"

"Shush," she said, knowing it was futile, a laugh bubbling in her chest as she tried to sound convincing with the command. As if she could order someone like Simon around.

He broke again when the thick of him finally pushed in, slow and steady like a reverie.

"Always so fuckin' tight 'n wet for me…"

"You can't just shut it for one minute, can you," she breathed while gliding down the cock that spread her wide — and God, she had longed for that familiar invasion.

"Not with you, sweetheart."

She had barely even started when she saw how his throat worked, then felt him tighten the grip on her waist.

"Did ya have others while I was away?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

The muscles on his jaw tensed, then unwound with a sigh, the heavy-lidded eyes making him look like a man about to pass out.

"Neither did I. Seat's already taken."

The jesting, his laugh, their togetherness — she had missed it so much that it physically hurt.

But at the same time, it felt like they were meeting for the first time. This time with more than just their clothes off. Everything was…amplified, and not just because the lights were on. This was not a lazy Sunday morning fuck under the sheets.

She had been squashed against his chest, but she had never traced the muscles with the tips of her fingers, watched how his nipples grew hard at the contact. She had never quite seen how his jaw clenched, how his abs pulled taut just from a slow roll of her hips. Her hands looked tiny, dainty, when they swept over him – a man made weapon – all corded muscle and uneven skin, tone changing with the map of old and new scars, fresh scratches here and there, ill-healed burn marks and whatnot coating a skin that had seen more than just rough weather. He didn't treat his body like a living, breathing thing; it was simply a tool.

Her past boyfriends had been just that. Boys compared to him. It wasn't just his size, that he was older than her. It wasn't even the map of scars spread over muscles built to withstand and wage war. It was just something so inherently him, a maturity, ripe survival, toughness that came from another age entirely.

She tried to be worthy of him, make love to him in return for all the favors he had so generously given her.

He appeared to enjoy it with the most laid-back attitude she had yet seen on him. She had prepared for intensity, as always, a bit of devilry, but not for that daydreamy stare. That absorbed, blissful look could only be compared to someone easing down on a divan, waiting to be served wine and grapes like they were some Roman deity. Or, in his case, on a lush sofa, waiting for his girl to bring him a scotch after a long day. Maybe take his boots off, and his pants too, kneel and take him in a warm, wet mouth…

God, she was fantasizing about blowing Simon while riding him. But she'd be damned if she didn't serve him that back rub with a happy ending as soon as she had ridden him to the finish line.

"Should do this more often," he noted evenly, echoing her thoughts – and trying to grasp some sliver of control by telling her he liked this. Liked being served.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Can't complain."

And she realized now that she wasn't the one in charge, no. He was looking at her much in the same way as he did when she was up on that stage. Only, he was now both the stage and the pole… and the audience.

Fuck.

Every time she tried to get in control, he did that rear choke on her. Even this turned out to be another counter technique. He was simply enjoying her take her pleasure.

The notion didn't cause fires anymore, other than a flare of licking heat down to where they were joined. Her inner walls had decided that he was a keeper too, gripping him so violently that the tendons on his neck became visible. The callous of his hands traveled upwards to her ribs, and she caught a thought of how he could easily crush her if he wanted to — but he only proceeded to hug her waist with an iron grip to join in the show.

"Keep doin' that and there's gonna be a real mess," he said, voice thick, sending more heat trickle down her spine.

"Isn't that always the case with you?" She was on the brink of laughter now, because it felt stupid that it had taken her so long to enjoy this man to the full.

"Yeah… But you love it. Admit it." He wasn't bulldozing now. Just enticing, eyes glimmering from seeing her so evidently happy.

And she did admit it. She didn't hold back at all. She allowed him to see exactly how much she wanted and admired him, how good he made her feel.

The account started as a steaming, almost pissed-off checklist, a confession rather than a declaration of love. It contained pent-up love and hate, from how he fucked her in the dark to how he drove knives to a wall she didn't even own. But then it turned into a hymn. Nevermind ego; she wanted to stroke his heart and soul. He fucking deserved it.

She told him he was a good man, the best man she had ever known. How she had never loved anyone like this. How she was his, had been from the moment he came to that club. She even told him how big he was and how she had trouble concentrating in class because of it. That she had trouble focusing pretty much anywhere.

How she had cried herself to sleep in his sweatshirt every night after he had left… How she wanted him to never leave again — how she wanted to solve every argument they would have from now on with a hatefuck instead.

At first, he looked at her curiously, probably thinking she was joking. Then his expression turned to a choked-up stun.

“Sarah– Fuckin’ hell…"

Every secret thought from the past five months was laid out before them; every little thing she admired about him from body to soul.

It seemed to be a shock treatment, a little too much all at once, but he was true to his word and didn't complain.

"You're gonna make a grown man cry 'ere."

He didn't cry, but if there was still some invisible wall between them, every last brick was blown apart at this point.

The poker game was finally over, the whole table was cleared of cards and chips and bets.

"Do you even like me… Unbelievable, Simon," she said as a final notion. There was a soft smile, but it wasn't arrogant or vain in her eyes anymore. Just proud, pleased.

God, had she been stupid.

She descended to celebrate, to seal it all with a kiss. He welcomed her with fast allegiance: arms went around her as soon as her breasts pressed against his chest. It was all hunger, but ten times more tender than the starvation at the door. Slow, deliberate, and it went straight to her cunt, gripping him — and of course he responded with a groan, straight into her mouth.

His hips jerked up to meet her, and had she not been in the safe custody of freakishly strong arms, she would've fallen off her ride. And it was high time to investigate whether he had a vulnerable spot in his neck as well.

A sluggish, flat-tongued lick up the column of his throat and some open-mouthed, sloppy kisses sent him contracting from the middle, pushing in, balls deep. She risked a nib, even a soft bite, and eventually, went a bit feral on that neck. It was another jackpot for the both of them.

"I need-.. need you on your back," he had never stuttered like that, out of breath, trying to be polite with a raspy throat. But he wasn't really asking, and it wasn't really mannerly. It was actually a demand.

"Wanna fuck you hard," his voice was so low that it was almost a growl.

Yes. 

Yes. Yes, please.

And she knew just the trick that would ensure that he did.

"Hmh. Denied," she said to his neck, and waited for the punishment that was brief and thorough.

"The hell it is."

He rolled over and switched their roles without even pulling out, and just like that, her feeble attempts to be the rebellious first woman turned to dust. But she didn't really mourn the loss. Her Eden resided right here.

"You're such an asshole," she was laughing from mirth and love and the joy of being pressed under that safe weight again.

"Would like to fuck that too someday."

Oh my God..-

She wasn't a blushing lady from Victorian times, but this was a little unexpected, even from him.

"Bet you're even tighter down there… I might just pass out."

Her jaw must've fallen an inch or two, her eyes no doubt shot full of shimmering glee because nothing, absolutely nothing escaped him, and her face was now more than that of a stupefied goldfish.

"I suggest you close that pretty mouth before I-"

She cut him short by sinking nails in his skin — more precisely, his ass. He arched his back with the following thrust, even exposed his throat with a satisfied grunt.

"Lil' wildcat… I could do this all night." It was a pleased chuckle, and her heart hurt — she was constantly calling him annoying, an asshole, a jerk, and he told her she was beautiful, sweet, his girl, or a little wildcat in return…

"Would ya like that?"

She could only nod, time and again, and the sex turned messy, noisy and unhinged, weeks and weeks of frustration and longing dissipating with fucking that spread her thighs wide and made the whole bed wail. Her head hit the frame once or twice before he moved her with an annoyed grunt while she was having a laugh about it, but then she remembered he was injured and that this was a bad idea.

"Your wounds-" she tried to stutter amidst a pounding that had certainly been held back for longer than five months, not to talk of a few weeks.

"I'll live."

She was close, but so was he, and it seemed it was the most difficult decision he had ever made: to choose whether to slow down and grit his teeth or just give into the temptation and spill. A split second, and he chose the latter, and she must've been gawking: all that muscle towering over her went tense, the halved slant between his pecs sheened with sweat.

He came with a long groan and a head rolled back, the tension leaving him in shivers before his head fell back down, chin to the chest. The stare behind those heavy lids was unfocused, heady, drugged.

"Fuck, you're a glorious sight," he said while sweeping a hand over her sternum and closing the giant palm around her throat — nothing brutal or rough, just a little bit of fun that probably shouldn't have made her tighten around him as furiously as it did. It felt like she was one of his victims, held in place by one hand only, as his gaze dropped down to marvel at how his cock disappeared in her and came out all wet. The thrusts were erratic and desperate, the ending throes of ecstasy — must've been a glorious sight indeed.

He wouldn't even pause to enjoy the trip back to earth to the full. He left her, eyes both determined and drunk, cock still half hard, so abruptly that a sad little whimper fled her. But he wasn't gone for long, just settled next to her and gathered her in his arms, wracked with purpose.

She gasped when not one, but two fingers dipped inside, then drove deep to the knuckle.

"Fuck…"

"Will do."

It was a scant substitute for his cock, even with two thick fingers. But he was good, so damn good that it didn't matter.

He did everything right, perfect, precise. Made a mess of the cum that joined the wreckage, played with it, slathered it all over her until she was sticky and wet and the noise was well-nigh filthy.

But even more unbearable was the intimacy, the way her hand found him, the bunching muscles on the forearm, the thumb brushing her clit, his fingers curling in a loose fist while two of them curled inside her…

She wanted to participate, feel the fierce connection that had gained a whole new level. There was a sense of belonging, merging — did he feel it too?

Yeah, he definitely did.

Their gazes were locked, but the depth in his eyes wasn't hunger or will to dominate or even meant for fishing cues, it was pure surrender, actually, it was… love.

"Please," she whispered while he made love to her with both his hand and those eyes, not knowing why she even said that. But he had told her he loved it when she begged, so that's what she did. She would give him every fucking thing he wanted.

The sweltering bronze of his eyes broke a little, his brow gave a minimal tug.

"Simon - Please," the words were a mouthed prayer rather than an audible whisper, and she knew her own gaze was fractured because the warmth in his eyes only spread.

"I got ya," he crushed her in a devout hug while spreading her open, breathed into her ear, all joking gone. It was a solemn pledge, a guarantee.

"Promise I got ya."

This wasn't affection anymore; it was bonding.

She came with a strained whimper in his neck, curled into the hug with thighs trembling and hands grabbing whatever she could: a sheet, a tight muscle. He was an absolute genius for not moving, just stayed inside as her muscles sucked him in with a long, hungry pull that turned into a shudder that went through her whole body.

"Uh, fuh-…" She was cursing, sobbing, coming apart by the seams, and he took it all in, breathing high and wide from witnessing what he was doing to her.

It was a slow and tense shattering but turned messier after: into sloppy writhing and moaning, and he moved gracefully to ride it out with her. An absolute ace at what he did.

He might've said something, cheering her on with That's it or Fuckin' beautiful or something like that. She couldn't hear it, and it didn't really matter anyway. The looting was sweet, and he was the perfect fit, so fulfilling, still inside her after the waves had passed. They were breathing into each other, holding the space, sustaining the present moment just by being entangled together, all limbs and breath and sweat on sweat. When he ultimately pulled out, the hand joined the one wrapped around her, holding her like the most precious thing in the universe.

Her depression was gone, the man supporting her being a better cure for her condition than any kind of antidepressant ever invented by Western medical professionals could ever be. There was no fear, only a terrible will to live, a hunger for love and life.

It felt too lame a thing to say: I love you, in that kind of a moment. But something needed to be said. It wanted to come out like a wild thing from a cage.

"You brought me back to life," she whispered to the pulse on his neck, tasting both their salt, feeling like crying again, but this time for a different reason. "When we met. And every day after."

He was calm and still, frozen in time, but she could feel his heart thundering underneath that chest. Fast and overwhelmed.

"You're good at so much more than just killing people. I hope you know that."

The world could use another flood, but he chose to be the floodgate, chose to fight back mass destruction and death and darkness while looking like it. A hero, if there ever was one.

Simon didn't just take lives. He saved them.

"You saved my life, Simon." She stirred a little to look at him, wholly stripped of all his masks.

"There.. Finally shut you up."

He swallowed, and a steady hand brushed the nape of her neck, dissolving the tension if there still was any left.

"Yeah."

The soft silence covered them like a blanket until he bore even deeper.

"I'm glad you could finally join us."

And she realized he was talking about the Game. Their game. The poker game.

She had been a player while he had been here all along with palms facing upwards, with no cards at all. Just waiting for her to catch on.

"Yeah. I'm here."

"'Atta girl."

The kiss was gentle and slow. He grunted in her mouth, and when she withdrew to look at what was wrong, he opened and closed his jaw, then rubbed the side of his chin that had begun to swell a little.

"You hit hard for a historian."

Oh God.

She felt bad, but not bad enough to suppress a chortle.

"Remarkably hard for a woman. Almost dislocated a jaw," he continued when he saw she was laughing at the whole situation.

"I hope it swells real bad," she chuckled. He cast her a look that said So much for sweetness.

"You're ruthless."

"Do you need ice?"

"A kiss'll do."

She didn't deny him that kiss. She wasn't that ruthless. But after that soft peck, she turned to whisper in his ear.

"You deserved it."

He scoffed lightly, gave her a squeeze. It was the middle of the night, but it felt like the midsummer sun was shining.

"You deserve the best."

"And you're the best?" She asked, while they both already knew he was.

"I try to be."

That was probably the most humble thing she had ever heard him say, but then again, when had his arrogance ever been ego? He had always delivered. He was a soldier, but he was not a killer. He was a protector.

But if he would protect her by leaving her in peace, she would start a war of her own.

"Then don't leave me."

"Never."

Her heart skipped a beat, then fluttered flush against her ribs like an overjoyed bird.

"Is that a promise?"

She caught a smile, cocky, but only because he knew he was the best man for the job. He was best at what he did, and it had nothing to do with games.

"It's a vow."

[andromeda3116]

going back and rereading order of the stick from the beginning, and like. god, the first 250 comics or so are just. not good. they don't fully suck, but they are so generic. and so early-2000s. but once you get to azure city and start to get the lore, it's like.... okay. we might be onto something here. and then the battle for azure city starts and it's like... shit, we're definitely onto something here.

and then you get to don't split the party, and while it's got its weak points, you hit the soul splice arc with v, and it's like. holy fuck this is good. how the fuck. this was a gag-a-day comic strip about a dnd adventure, how did it come to this? the fact that that arc is all about how one of the good guys descends into madness -- using characteristics that were originally one-off jokes -- and ultimately ends up committing the most Evil act in the entire story, and it's completely in-character, and then has them reach the very bottom, hit their "what you are in the dark" moment, and go back, thus seeding the possibility of their redemption --

shit.

and then it only gets better from there. everything past don't split the party is phenomenal storytelling, world-building, and characterization, and we're coming up on the final battle, and i'm just like -- there are several shoes that are still waiting to drop, and i legitimately cannot tell how this is going to end. i mean, the oracle said that elan would have a happy ending, which means that the world isn't going to be destroyed, and he wouldn't be happy if he, haley, or roy died, so probably at least those three are going to make it, but beyond that...?

this started off as a mediocre early-aughts dnd-based stick-figure comic and turned into a legitimately incredible fantasy tale

shit, and this isn't even starting on redcloak, especially if you read the prequel story, start of darkness. like, he is the poster-child for the sunk-costs fallacy, but at this point, what will it take to convince him to turn on xykon? he loathes the lich, is using him for his own purposes, but he truly believes that he needs xykon to accomplish his goals. but the good guys need him to turn on xykon! they need him to join them, or else all of this is for nothing!

i feel weird recommending it to people because it's like. the first 250 or so comics are mediocre at best, but you can't skip them. early on, there's a lot of casual sexism and a lot of casual homophobia, as was normal at the time this was published. it starts off simplistic, making a lot of cheap dnd jokes. it doesn't start to get impressive until the army shows up at azure city around strip 415, but after that, it will start to blow your fucking socks off.

but you can't skip the first 400 strips! you have to read it from the start! and you'll read them going "is this really what you're recommending?" and i'm like YES!!!!!! just wait for it! the payoff is so fucking worth it!!!

[chainsawcorazon]

January 8th - 14th, 2024

Monday, January 8th - Sins of the Family // Isolation

Tuesday, January 9th - Prophecies // Deadly Devotion

Wednesday, January 10th - Superman Cults // Possession

Thursday, January 11th - The Forgotten One // A Hole in the World

Friday, January 12th - A Parent Knows Best // Eldritch Horror

Saturday, January 13th - It Takes a Village // Inheritance

Sunday, January 14th - Mistakes Were Made // Horror Movie AU

Purpose?

Not enough horror-themed fanworks in the world about the Superfam. Got jealous of the Batfandom having all these horror-themed events and projects, so I decided to host one for the Superfam.

Why should we participate in this?

Because you like seeing the soupeyfam in ever-increasingly fucked up situations that elicit a deeply-rooted, ancient dread :3

So how does it work?

The release date for fanworks is from Monday, the 8th of January through Sunday, the 14th of January, 2024. 

This aint a Halloween-themed event! You have well over three months to write, draw, and create fanworks. However, use the spooky season to help generate some ideas and propel you forward! :3

This an opportunity for people who’d like to explore the Superfamily characters, dynamics, and relationships through a variety of prompts. Although romantic ships are nice, please make sure the Superfam are the focus of your fanwork.

Superfamily characters include, but are not limited to:

Clark Kent

Lois Lane

Kara Zor El

Jonathan and Martha Kent

Jon Kent

Osul Ra and Otho Ra

John Henry Irons

Natasha Irons

Kon El/Conner Kent

Chris Kent/Lor Zod

Karen Starr

Kong Kenan

Superfamily characters of ANY comic book universe are acceptable. If you want to spend the entire fanweek exploring Ultraman and Injustice!Superman because you love drama, then be my guest! If you want Ultraman to kidnap Lois this time instead of Jon, go for it!! Let that imagination run WILD!!!

Darkfic, horrorfic, genre-specific work, and other both safe and not-safe-for-tunglr dot hell tropes are welcome. Just make sure that you post any Mature content on a landing page that doesn't restrict Mature content (like AO3). I don’t want anyone getting their blog banned. We cannot defeat our capitalist overlords, but we can definitely work around them.

This fanweek will not have a dedicated blog. These prompts are free for anyone to use. Because it is a non-traditional, non-monetized, and free-to-opt-in casual event, there will be no mods but moi, no advertising of paid services, and no ratings or participant restrictions. I will open a collection on AO3 in January for anyone who wants their work collated for this event.

In order to ensure that both creators and the audience are making informed decisions about what they engage with, all creators are encouraged to include triggers, ships, and any other squick warnings. 

Please utilize the read-more function for fanworks that are longer than 250 words. We're tryna read yer stories, not get spammed with a wall of text. Please Be Courteous.

And last but not least - if you are engaging with any of the fanworks, reblog, reblog, reblog! Share the work with your followers. Send all the love to the creators for crafting their masterpieces!!

What can I contribute?

Fanart (standalones, comic strips, etc.), fanfiction (one-shots, multichapter, etc.), fanmixes, gifsets, graphics, meme collections, fanvids, whatever your heart desires! Go wild!!!

Can I create/write not-safe-for-tunglr dot hell content?

Yes!!! All creators are encouraged to include triggers warnings, sub-genre specifications, ships, and other warnings in their posts. I will not discourage you from writing your 16k Kara-goes-evil fic, but please... Be Courteous and tag your fanworks appropriately so people can make an informed decision on what they're comfortable with viewing.

What does (X) prompt mean?

Each day has two prompts!! You can either pick a prompt OR you can combine prompts in different ways. Let your imagination take you where you want to go with each prompt!! If you want to explore both in the same fanwork, then be my guest!!

Mainstream Canon, Elsewords, and AU content is acceptable! Just make sure to stay within the comicsverse. Creativity is key! Have fun!!!

Can I crackship/multiship/harem/OT3/polyam the characters?

Absolutely!!! Just please remember that this is the Soupeyfam horror week, not the Lois-Has-A-Harem-of-Elseworlds-Supermen week. We love ships and things, but this week is about the Superfamily. The characters can have their lovers, but their personal romantic dalliances shouldn't overtake the Soupeyfam dynamics (unless you're pulling a Cersei and Jaime, lmao, if that's the case, go wild).

Does this have a tag?

During release week, use the general “superfam” tag to share your work with the wider Superfam fandom on tunglr. You can use whatever other tags you fancy. The best way to share, however, is to directly @ me so that I may reblog it.

I didn’t read a damn thing before this, Ava.

TL;DR: Over three months until the fanweek!!! For all fanwork creators out there, now’s the time to start thinking about what prompts you want to utilize for your creations. There are no creative restrictions, but I do ask that you follow these posting tips:

All fanfiction should be under a read-more.  

Not-safe-for-tunglr fanwork should be LINKED to whatever landing site the content is being hosted on (Twitter, AO3, etc). This includes both fanfiction and fanart. I don’t want your blog getting flagged bc tunglr hates gay people.

Provide content warnings for all triggers, squicks, and sub-genres. Unfortunately, in my ten odd years away from DC Comics, the fandom's seen a resurgence in puritanical behavior and tons of censorship and self-censorship. Please list content warnings on your work but do not be discouraged in sharing your work. If a fancop gets on your ass, block them. Please block as MANY as you can. They're like pests, they're always gonna be there, but their influence can be diminished by staunch blocking and reporting.

You can participate as much as you want!! Maybe you only wanna create for one day? Cool! Maybe you’re an overachieving corporate clown insomniac like myself, and wanna create for every day of the week? Go for it!!! 

The most important thing is to have fun :)

Truth be told, this event is entirely selfish. I personally love to the horror genre, and would love to see the characters in the Superfamily get more canon content as seen through beloved horror tropes. Unfortunately, Status Quo often gets in the way, and the current fanworks are largely ambivalent to the Dreadful and Despairing. If you'd like to join me in creating deliciously dark fiction featuring our favorite DC clan, please do! I would love to read your 10k character study of Otho and Osul assimilating into human society after spending their formative years as slaves in Warworld.

We’re over three months away from release week, so take your time, look through the prompts, and get your creative juices flowing! I will be sending out reminders until the go-live date.

For the people who showed interest during the initial interest check, I hope you're able to participate. To the four people who hate me, your mom's a hoe. Thank you.

[about-faces]

Is there a comic line where Harvey Dent is allowed to be happy

Yes, actually! Well, sorta. It depends on what you mean by "comic line."

The very first version of him, the Golden Age Harvey Kent, got to keep his happy ending from the original Two-Face trilogy and marry Gilda. Their only other appearance was in Superman Family #211 where they were seen in attendance of Bruce and Selina's wedding:

Of course, given that this was Earth-Two, this meant that they along with their entire universe, died in Crisis on Infinite Earths. Not just died, but were so obliterated that they never truly existed. So that's a downer. But hey! At least until some writer comes along to remember them again. Still, they presumably got to live a long, happy life together, which is far more than Harvey gets the vast majority of the time!

Then of course there's the universe of the 1989-1991 newspaper comic strips, which (spoiler alert!) ends very happily for Harvey. The strip was being cancelled anyway, so it's wonderful that writer William Messner-Loebs decided to end it with a celebration for Harvey's recovery.

The other one that comes to mind is the DC Bombshells comic series, where Harvey was the mayor and brainwashed by Hugo Strange into going after superheroes. After getting burned, he's rescued and adopted by the teenage group of Batgirls.

This is the only time Harvey has ever been officially considered a member of at least ONE form of BatFam. He then became their butler. It's cute but weird.

Aside from these, there're also a couple Elseworlds books where Harvey's life doesn't end in misery or death, notably Batman: Two Faces and Gotham Noir, but I wouldn't say he's exactly HAPPY in those. He's just better off than the usual Harveys.

Ultimately, the problem with even these stories is we never actually get to see any more of him doing stuff. No one has ever really tried exploring the potential of what a post-redemption Harvey Dent could bring to Batman. But given how much misery Gotham characters go through, perhaps the only way to ensure him being happy is to let those Harvey's go off to limbo where they can't be hurt anymore.

[paragonrobits]

more weird Calvin and Hobbes details!

One running gag in the comic strip involves Calvin dealing with the monsters under his bed. Much like how the reality of whatever Hobbes is, is a recurring element with all kinds of fun blurrings (such as him taking his baths by getting put into a washing machine and simply complaining about it making his fur frightful), Calvin is regularly menaced by monsters beneath his bed. They're pretty vocal about wanting to kill and eat him, and a lot of the jokes around them are blended with genuine (if incompetent) menace from these monsters.

They seem to be products of Calvin's imagination to at least some degree; in one strip, he actively attempts to avoid thinking about them, only to pop open an eye in terror as one looms over him with only its eyes and massive claws visible, and the monsters complain that he lied to them.

Calvin is legitimately terrified of them; one collection includes a story that is a mix of poetry and artwork, portrayed from Calvin's point of view detailing him being afraid of the monsters under his bed eating him, with some borderline graphic depictions of his bones being left behind as his parents wail about how they should have listened to him; its operatic and dramatic, but it was pretty damn freaky to read as a kid.

These monsters are also never entirely seen clearly. They are ALWAYS depicted completely in shadow, and the most we see of them at one time is their eyes as they bicker with each other under his bed, or glimpses of their claws as they loom over him to scare him. As best as can be seen, they are apparently pretty intimidating and they're extremely big, looming over him.

They're also extremely dim-witted. As much as Calvin is afraid of them, he pretty regularly plays mind games with them or tricks them to exposing themselves in the middle of trying to trick him into lowering his defenses. At one point Calvin remarks, after they ineptly try to convince him that there's nothing under his bed despite TALKING to him from underneath there and awkwardly claiming they're just tiny dust bunnies, that they've got no brains and are just digestive tracts.

So they're genuinely malicious and honestly kind of threatening (fully intending on killing Calvin if they can get away with it), though comically inept and extremely unintelligent, but really scary seen through his eyes. So you might have noticed that the comic strip is called 'Calvin AND HOBBES' and Hobbes wasn't mentioned in this so far. So how does he deal with them, you might ask?

Hobbes rarely interacts with them, though he's always sleeping next to Calvin. He occasionally is shown waking up to offer Calvin advice or make gloomy comments on how annoying they are to deal with, however, whenever he DOES directly say anything, the monsters usually shut up extremely fast. Remember that poem from earlier?

This is how it ends:

apparently Hobbes' presence scares the monsters so much that they never actually physically threaten Calvin deliberately, they just lurk and try to lure him to his doom, but they're so scared of Hobbes they avoid him completely. Hobbes himself, as noted, never interacts with them directly, though he's aware of them and complains about them causing trouble from time to time.

[violetixdigo]

Expanding onto this (this is probably going to get rambley):

I question whether the brothers even care about the hierarchy in place or not. Nyen explains it as if they do, and it's claimed that they arranged them there. But you never see any other references to it, and it seems like Luther keeps a form of equality towards the pets (at least most of the time, some of the videos/comics display a form of favoritism) but even if they do care, Nyen enforces the rankings the most. 

This is strange, because at the same time, the comic also points to Nyen being an useful catman to have around (he knows how to hunt, physically fit, can drive, etc.) So it's not like he Needs to prove his value to Luther if he's popular, but still chooses to regardless. As if for him, it’s very purposeful.

Additionally, the Pixiv strips centered around his character have this kind of withdrawn tone? And his words suggest that he's waiting for something to happen, slipping into yearning.

Which brings me back to wondering if Nyen's even meant to be the Favorite of the pets, or if simply being acknowledged by Luther as a right-hand type of cat just isn't working for him. He is still the "Jack" of the family, meaning he's only still a servant. They can be called and relied on, but they're always in the background. A crush on Luther doesn't seem too far-fetched, but that isn't the point. It's very possible we just Don't know what his complex is.

And even despite this + him generally being rude to everyone else + asserting his authority, it's still implied that he cares for them like any of the others should (Cares for Nyon in spite of the bullying, got gifted a shoujo manga by Randal)

The only people (or person, rather) he's completely been predatory with being the ratmen. Since in that case the main goal was protecting Luther's sanity + getting a good kill, so he's now in free rein to just go all out (and not hold back, like with Sebastian)

Now in the current Vol, it feels like he's since calmed down from the events of Vol. 1 (makes sense since his eye was still healing at the time, but he doesn't seem to take the eye patch off.) 

tldr: spouting similar points other ppl have probably made and overanalyzing an surrealist comic with episodic type lore for the lols of it

[rainbowmoonstonestories]

Let Your Dreams Be Your Wings | Chapter 18

Chapters: 18/? Fandom: The Sandman (Netflix 2022, minor content from the Comics) Rating: Explicit Relationships Dream of the Endless/Morpheus x F!Reader  Characters: Dream of the Endless/Morpheus, Lucienne, Matthew the Raven, Mervyn Pumpkinhead, Hob Gadling, Death, Rose Walker, The Corinthian, other minor Sandman characters, Original Characters. Warnings: 18+ content (minors DNI), explicit sexual content, POV switching, very long chapters to read. Summary: You always dreamed of becoming a successful Fashion Designer, sharing your creations with the world and making your father proud. But with him being very ill and so many costs solely weighting on your shoulders, things didn’t go as planned and you had to take a different path instead. An interesting offer led you to the elder Alex Burgess and you were hired as a new housemaid for a very good pay. However, your kindness and outstanding empathy convinced the man to give you an additional task for a doubled compensation; gaining the trust of Dream Of the Endless, held captive into the basement for over a century. Despite the shock of finding such an ethereal entity stripped of all his clothes and contained into a confined space, you had to accept for the sake of your father. But the more you got to speak to the mysterious anthropomorphic personification who didn’t utter a single word, the more you were lost into his eyes that, conversely, seemed to contain the entire universe. A deep connection formed between the two of you, separated only by a thick layer of glass.

Little did you know, what started like a simple housemaid job was about to change your life forever.

Credits: The moon dividers were made by firefly-graphics

Tagging: @number-0-iz, @emarich7, @jaziona92. If anyone else wants to be tagged in the next updates, let me know! I noticed that Tumblr sometimes won't let me tag everyone for some unknown reason, so if it comes to that I can at least send you a message to notify you.

You can also read this on AO3 if you feel more comfortable!

While on one hand your work in Cape Kennedy was progressing without any hiccup, the situation with the Vortex was beginning to escalate and deteriorate at a very alarming rate. But there was only so much that you, as a mere mortal, could do to assist.

The Corinthian lounged in his chair, his unsettlingly perfect smile unwavering as he examined you through his disconcerting, mirrored sunglasses. You stayed as motionless as a still lake, frozen and unflinching, with your heart pounding intensely in your chest.

Even though fear engulfed you and the Nightmare instilled a chilling sense of dread, you were determined not to present yourself as vulnerable or an easy prey.

"Well, look who we have here," he remarked, settling comfortably and flashing his trademark grin. "Do you remember me?”

"Naturally," you replied, your tone distant and firm. "Thanks for the drink, but I must admit I'm not really into the Black Russian Cocktail.”

He let out a chuckle, seemingly entertained by your biting response. "Ah, such a shame. I thought it might be to your taste,” he said, his voice silky, laced with feigned charm. "But I assure you, I'm not just here to buy you a drink. In fact, I'm more interested in...conversation.”

A shiver coursed down your spine, but you held your stance, your hand reaching for the Moonstone necklace as a form of support. "What do you want, Corinthian?" you questioned, managing to keep your voice steady despite the terror simmering within you.

His grin broadened at the mention of his name. "Straight to the point. I like that.”

He leaned slightly forward, cautious not to breach the invisible protective barrier that the necklace symbolized. "I just happened to be in the area and saw a familiar face. It's always nice to catch up with old acquaintances.”

You narrowed your eyes, not letting his nonchalant demeanor fool you. "Acquaintances? Is that what we are now? Because the last time we met, I didn't even know your name.”

The Corinthian shrugged, pretending indifference. "Names are overrated. It's what lies beneath that's truly interesting. Speaking of which,” His gaze shifted to the pendant in your hand. "That's a beautiful Dreamstone you're wearing there.”

As an entity crafted by Morpheus himself, you speculated it would be easy for him to sense his master's essence residing in the stone. The crystal had not yet shone any light, but it likely wouldn't trigger as long as a secure distance was maintained.

Given his aim to stay under the radar, it was certainly unthinkable to do anything that might catch Morpheus' attention.

Despite this, you were not ready to lower your defenses. You gripped the pendant tighter, your knuckles whitening, until you were overpowered by a terrible uncertainty.

The pendant housed Morpheus' energy, the identical one he employed to craft his subjects. All of them, Dreams and Nightmares alike, including the Corinthian. Would it even function against that creature, or was it destined to stay inactive in the presence of its creator's power?

However, understanding Morpheus as you did, you figured that he wouldn't leave anything to chance.

"You stay away from me," you warned, your voice low but fervent.

He lifted his hands in a mocking gesture of surrender. "Easy there. I'm not looking for trouble. Just a friendly chat. After all, it's not every day you run into someone who's so... special."

His tone bordered on teasing, but underneath it lurked a layer of menace.

You shot him a stern look, your heart maintaining its rapid pace. "Why are you really here?”

The Corinthian's smile remained, but a spark of irritation flickered across his face. "Let's just say I'm here on business. But you, my dear, seem to have stumbled into something far bigger than you realize. I wonder...do you even know what you're protecting yourself from?”

You offered no response, your silence serving as a testament to your fear and resolve.

The Corinthian reclined again, his expression contemplative. "You know, the Dreaming is a fascinating place. Full of wonders and horrors alike. It's a shame, really, that some of us can't ever truly escape it.”

Your fingers traced the contours of the Moonstone, deriving fortitude from Morpheus' gift.

You looked intently at him, your jaw set rigidly. "You were meant to stay. The Waking World is not the place for you.”

The Corinthian chuckled with a predatory glint that seemed to emerge on the dark lenses. “Ah, but the Waking World is so much more entertaining. So many unsuspecting souls, so many dreams to twist and shatter. The Dreaming can be quite confining, don’t you think?”

"You're playing a dangerous game here. You know that sooner or later he's going to find you, right?”

He laughed once more, a sound lacking any semblance of mirth. "Oh, but I have plans, my dear. Grand plans. And they don't include being sent back to the Dreaming like a misbehaving pet.”

His presence was deeply disturbing, stirring an urge in you to eradicate him instantly. It would be so easy; you had the means to inform Morpheus, to signal him that his nightmare had reappeared before your eyes. Yet, despite your impulse to act, you were held back by the bustling public scene, brimming with humans immersed in their own lives.

“Dreams are fragile things. And even the most powerful can crumble under the right pressure.”

You swallowed hard. "Be that as it may, you can't hide from your master forever.”

"That won't be necessary.”

At that moment, the suspicion began to creep into your mind that he was not only aware of the forming Vortex, but also harbored intentions of exploiting Rose for his own gain. Perhaps that could provide an explanation for the persistent feeling in your gut.

Alternatively, it could be your paranoia casting a cloud over your perception, and his presence in Cape Kennedy might not be related to the girl at all. However, his hints towards a grandiose scheme were undeniable, and whatever he was plotting, it was improbable that it would result in anything remotely beneficial.

Your phone began to vibrate and ring on the table, breaking the tense silence yet escalating your alertness. Andrew's name lit up on the screen, and despite your strong desire to extricate yourself from that situation, your body didn’t budge.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?”

Your eyes blazed with defiance. "Just so we’re clear, I won't let you harm anyone. Especially not him.”

It was a daring move on your part. What could a mere mortal such as yourself, lacking any supernatural abilities and unaware of this Nightmare's true potential, realistically hope to achieve against such monster?

“We’ll see about that.”

The Corinthian maintained his malevolent smirk, as he rose from his chair and smoothed out his jacket. The ringing of your phone ceased, the screen going dark. "Well, it's been delightful catching up, but I must be going. Places to be, people to see, dreams to corrupt. You know how it is.”

He made a motion to leave, but then halted, casting a glance over his shoulder. "Oh, and one more thing. Give my regards to Dream. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again very soon.”

Your blood ran cold as he continued speaking, gradually advancing towards the door.

“Enjoy your stay in Cape Kennedy, sweetheart. And remember, nightmares can follow you anywhere.”

With that, the Corinthian vanished into the bustle of the street, leaving you in solitude at the bar, your thoughts spiraling out of control.

You exhaled a prolonged, trembling breath of relief as soon as you found yourself alone at the table, your fingers finally releasing their grip on the Dreamstone. The fact that he left you entirely untouched, without even attempting to lay a finger on you, could signify a multitude of possibilities. Was he planning to toy with you a bit longer before erasing your existence from this world? Did he have intentions of annihilating the entire human race, you included, all in one sweep?

When your phone rang again, you jumped in your seat. You allowed the call to continue for a few more seconds, swallowing down your anxiety and only answering it when you were certain you could muster up your voice.

"Andrew, hi.”

"Oh, Y/N, you answered! I'm nearly there.”

"Yeah, I inadvertently left my phone on silent," you feigned. "I'm on my way.”

"Oh hey, is everything alright? You sound strange...”

Apparently, you weren't very good at concealing it.

"I'm fine! Just a bit tired, it seems the jet lag is really taking a toll on me now.”

Fortunately, Andrew seemed to accept your excuse. "Ah yes, of course! Sorry for having you run around like this.”

You swiftly settled the bill for your drink, leaving the undesirable Black Russian Cocktail abandoned on the table. "No need to apologize, I came here specifically for this.”

"Yeah, but I'm not in any hurry at the moment. So if you need to take things slower, just let me know, okay?”

You smiled, exiting the bar and crossing the street, breathing in the refreshing salty air. "Of course, but don't worry!”

"Right. I've just arrived. Are you nearby?”

"Yes, literally five minutes away.”

"Great! I'll hang up now, see you in a moment!”

As you slipped your phone back into your bag, you were taken by a sudden wave of calm and contentment, simply from Andrew's display of kindness and concern. Given the extremely negative energy you had absorbed from the Corinthian, the positivity radiating from your newly-acquired friend served to completely dispel the Nightmare's impact on you.

Nevertheless, the situation was not to be underestimated. Even though Morpheus might have been unaware, the possibility of his own creation plotting to obliterate not just the Dreaming but also the Waking World was a grave matter. It was vital that he be apprised of the looming threats he was up against.

Unfortunately, given his perpetual sense of duty, there was a fear that this revelation might exacerbate his self-blame. The notion of you coming across the Corinthian in London had already caused him significant distress, to the extent that you were fearful of his reaction to finding out that the Nightmare had, in essence, posed an indirect threat to you.

No, it was preferable to keep this information to yourself for the time being. Having a line of communication with the King of Dreams, you had the capability to reach out and converse with him if the need arose. Thus, as you spotted Andrew awaiting you on the most picturesque beach of Cape Kennedy, you made a silent pledge to yourself to monitor Rose as closely as possible, ensuring that no harm would befall the girl and, by extension, all of you.

Andrew couldn't have come up with a better idea. He intended for you to experience the magnificence of Cape Kennedy up close, guiding you on one of the most serene strolls you'd ever taken in your life. The melody of the sea was enchanting, the sky was unblemished, and the ocean was astoundingly beautiful. Owing to the Beach Land that was a frequent destination in your dreams, you had cultivated a deep fondness for the ocean.

Once again, he transported you back to his quarters for a thorough work assessment and outline. Charlotte was even more ebullient than the previous day, welcoming you with a warm hug and presenting another tray of fresh beverages and snacks, which you gladly accepted. Andrew had already given his approval to your drafts and the requested modifications, so technically, a large part of your job was already completed. What Andrew sought from you now was counsel on the overall presentations, along with guidance regarding the advertising strategy.

You were so immersed in the task at hand, surrounded by stacks of papers as you both scribbled notes and laid out plans on your laptops, that time slipped away unnoticed. Dinner had come and gone in what felt like an instant, the sky transitioning from daylight to a dark canvas speckled with twinkling stars amidst your ongoing conversations.

As the day came to a close, Andrew drove you back to Hal's B&B, suggesting you get some rest before the next briefing. A tranquil night was upon you, underscored by the calming whispers of rustling leaves and cricket melodies.

Yet, you couldn't shake off the feeling that something could emerge from the shadows unexpectedly at any moment.

Your footsteps reverberated along the pathway leading to the front door. As you pushed it open, the sound of Hal's voice drifted from nearby.

“There’s not much to do in Cape Kennedy after dark. Or during the day for that matter.”

You stopped in your tracks. His voice resonated with an unmistakable undertone of exhaustion and defeat.

“That’s kinda what I like about it,” Rose retorted in response. “I was thinking, maybe I should move back.”

“Why? To do what?”

The tone of Hal's inquiry made his disapproval abundantly clear.

“I don’t know. Before my mom died, I was gonna go to grad school… and try to become a writer.”

Nonetheless, Rose appeared unperturbed and relaxed, exuding an air of tranquility.

“But maybe it’s like you and New York.”

“God. I hope not.”

“No, I mean, your life is here,” she corrected. “You have this house, people who love you. You’ve got Dolly.”

You generally refrained from eavesdropping, but you felt that interrupting at that juncture would be incredibly inappropriate. Thus, you remained standing outside, right before the slightly open door.

“Rose, do you think I wanna be here? Cleaning after Barbie and Ken? Don’t get me wrong, I love them, they’re great. But if Broadway called tomorrow, I would sell this fucking house.”

The palpable sorrow in his voice touched a nerve. You had experienced similar sentiments once, longing to discard everything you had in pursuit of the fulfilling life you aspired to lead.

“And I would never think about any of these people ever again.”

There was a pause, followed by Hal's voice resuming once again.

“Go to grad school, write a novel… about me, but do it now while I’m still cute enough to play myself in the movie.”

Rose's soft chuckle was barely audible, but the joy it conveyed was unmistakable. It mirrored the enjoyment you felt, prompting a quiet smile to spread across your face.

“’Cause this, was never my dream.”

Soon after, Rose withdrew to the room she shared with Lyta to turn in for the night. Hal continued to clean up the area, the sound of glasses clinking against each other echoing throughout the room. Truth be told, you were keen to have a one-on-one chat with the girl as you hadn't yet gotten a proper chance to explain your encounter. But in that moment, you felt an overwhelming urge to give Hal some words of support, a growing desire in your heart that you simply couldn't overlook.

At last, you walked inside, gently closing the door behind you and advancing towards Hal, who was gathering the last vestiges of the drinks the others had left behind. Catching sight of you, he performed a graceful twirl and greeted you with a smile as radiant as the sun.

"Hi! I haven’t seen you all day. Has your work with Andrew been keeping you on your toes?”

"Somewhat, but things are progressing quite well," you responded.

"Oh, I'm certain. With your talent and his qualities, I can only anticipate the best.”

Shadowing his movements, you nervously bit your lower lip. "Speaking of talent, I couldn't help but overhear your exchange with Rose.”

Hal halted, clutching the empty tray in his hands. "Well, it was just, you know, something I needed to get out of my chest.”

You nodded in understanding. "We need that sometimes. But allow me to remind you that you already have everything you need within your grasp.”

He let out a sigh. "If only, my dear.”

"No, I'm serious. Maybe I don't have the right to say this, given we just met yesterday. And I understand this might sound like empty encouragement from someone who doesn't fully get your struggle. But you are so much more than this life you're discontented with.”

He had already talked about his aspirations with you - his dream to take center stage in Broadway's grandest shows, to become a celebrated star whose name would be remembered by all. Observing how his present life was constricting him, you felt an irresistible need to emulate your mother and extend as much consolation as you could.

You were no deity, no monarch of dreams. But he was a reflection of your past self and everything that persona embodied. Though you understood you were not your mother, you were at least confident in knowing the right words to express.

Hal's shoulders sagged and the new smile he offered was imbued with sadness and resignation. "Y/N, you're so kind to say that. But do you really think anyone would consider a Drag like me?”

"Hal, I witnessed your performance last night. Your voice is spectacular, and your stage presence was so mesmerizing that I couldn’t even blink while watching you.”

"Thanks, darling, But that won't exactly open the doors to Broadway for me.”

You shook your head in disagreement. "You don’t know that.”

He persisted in his skepticism, his countenance marked by desolation, as he found it impossible to conceive a more promising future for himself. You couldn't simply stand by and accept his surrender to circumstances.

“I mean, look at me. I am a living testament to how a life that once felt riddled with misery can transform into everything you've ever dreamed of.”

"Yes, and I love having you here right now. But I'm not like you, Y/N. All I can do is wait and hope that this endless cycle will take a different direction. Rather sooner than later.”

His pessimism didn't surprise you. After all, there was a time when you too were unwilling to believe in the possibility of betterment, bracing for nothing but disaster despite your father's and Hob's efforts to help you see things from a different angle.

"Or, you could cultivate this talent of yours and follow your dreams. Don't let it go to waste, you truly deserve to shine,” you said, giving his arm a gentle squeeze.

At that moment, something unusual occurred. A warmth emanated from your heart, appearing to radiate along his sleeve. Hal's face transitioned into one filled with wonder and surprise, staring at you as if he'd just seen a miracle unfold right before his eyes.

"Hal, you have your own individuality that defines who you are now, and also who you can become if you don’t give up.”

This time, he seemed to contemplate it, diverting his gaze and pursing his lips. "You do have a unique flair for words, don't you?” he noted, breaking into another bright smile and letting out a profound sigh.

He wasn't the first to compliment your communication skills, which evidently played a significant role in your professional success.

Still, you couldn't help but feel that it wasn't merely a perk you had acquired, but more so a family trait that you had inherited from birth.

"I try, at least.”

"Keep doing that, and you'll go really far in life.”

You chuckled, releasing him and slipping off your jacket. Somehow, as soon as you moved away, it felt like the enchantment had shattered, returning the atmosphere to its prior, ordinary state.

“Just give it some thought,” you suggested.

"Oh, I will. Maybe a good dream will stir some inspiration tonight.”

As you approached the stairs, gradually ascending the first few steps, you flashed a playful yet sincere wink in his direction. "Dreams have the power to do just that.”

If only he, or anyone else for that matter, could comprehend the depth of that truth. If only they could marvel at the wonders that the King of Dreams could bestow upon each one of them, had they dared to ask.

How had the mortal realm managed to endure an entire century devoid of the Dreaming? How had you navigated through countless silent, barren, desolate nights?

However, the elements within the dream realm could be as breathtaking as they were daunting. There were beings as mighty as the Corinthian, who had transformed what was meant to merely mirror humanity's deepest fears into a tangible nightmare in the Waking World.

Upon finding the plush comfort of your bed, you attempted to expunge all traces of those convoluted emotions from your gut. As you drifted off to sleep, you could only wish to find yourself enveloped by the dream figures you held so dear, all except Morpheus who, much to your chagrin, was preoccupied with the quest to locate his Dream and Nightmares.

One of which was tremendously close to all of you in the mortal realm.

As you leisurely strolled along the beach, your father's hand in yours, your younger self dipped her toes into the moist sand along the shoreline. You felt incredibly small and unburdened, reminiscent of the times you used to visit the seaside many years ago. The beach was tranquil, with no one else in sight, just you and your father gathering exquisite seashells and breathing in the refreshing air.

"Be careful there," he teased. "Or else you'll run out of space in that bucket.”

"I can't help myself," you replied cheerfully. "There are so many seashells, I want to collect them all.”

"This really is the best place in the world, innit?”

You nodded emphatically. "Of course it is, we're in the Dreaming.”

It was fascinating how a part of you maintained awareness, while another part seemed to have been transported back to the innocence and simplicity of your childhood.

"Beautiful. Simply beautiful," he observed.

The day was idyllic, reflecting the splendor of the dreamworld. You watched your small fingers digging into the damp sand, extracting more seashells and stones, each one glittering under the sun like a precious jewel.

But it was not reality, it was merely an illusion, a façade on the verge of shattering before your eyes.

Suddenly, a distant rumbling echoed in the sky, a sound that wasn't a novel occurrence.

"What was that?”

Your father appeared completely unconcerned, disregarding the approaching roar entirely. "Mh? What are you referring to, darling?”

“That sound.”

"What sound? All I can hear is the ocean.”

You stopped, causing your father to pause his strides as well. With the bucket's handle clenched tightly in your small fist, you focused on discerning the subtle noises in your surroundings.

Indeed, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, leading you to conclude that what you had heard was merely conjured by your imagination.

Until a colossal fissure, which jolted the entire landscape, emerged in the sand, a hair's breadth away from your father's feet.

"Dad!" You cried out. "We need to get away from here, now!”

“Mh? Whatever do you mean?”

With a trembling index finger, you pointed towards the ominous crack. Despite your frantic warning, he continued to smile - a wide, almost terrifying grin that you had never seen before.

You released his hand, the bucket falling to the ground. "You're not real. None of this is. It's all just a dream,” you repeated to yourself.

"Is that so? Well, I suppose I can't let you leave now.”

What on earth?!

You started to retreat, but he made no move to follow. Your dream father stood there, statue-like, tilting his head and staring at you with an utterly blank expression. You could feel the chaos mounting in you, the urgency to flee and awaken. The crack continued its course, spreading around your father like tree roots.

Paralyzed, you could only watch the horrifying scene unfold in front of you. The sky turned ominously dark and the ocean receded, only to rise again and form a gigantic wave. It towered over you, threatening to crash down imminently.

And then, a hand clamped down onto your shoulder, compelling you to pivot around. Your face, no longer that of a child, was reflected in the Corinthian's round black lenses.

“Give my regards to Dream. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again v͔̠ͬ͝e͕̰̥̦̐ͥͪ̇̓͊ͭ͊ͧ̏̕͢r̵̡͕͕̮͉͙̯̅̇̄ͣ̊̑y̲̼͋͐̓ͅ s̱̭͔̪̩̳̜̹͕̹̩͙̙̪̗̤ͮ̊ͥ̏ͮ͋́͗ͧ̐̽͘͜͟͝͠ͅǫ̷̷̛̙̫̞̳̮͆̒͐̐ͯ͛͡ǫ̙ṇ̵̆ͬ̓͘_̛̬̣̻͙̐̅ͥ̓ͪ̃_̵̶̝̣̝̈̆ͣ̍̉.”

His voice echoed all around you, reverberating in your ears and becoming distorted. The tidal wave crashed, engulfing everything in its path and wiping it all away. You were caught in a maelstrom, spinning uncontrollably, gasping for breath in the underwater whirlwind.

Awakening with a jolt, you kicked off the covers and sat bolt upright, pressing your back against the pillow. Panting, anxious and disoriented, you looked around to anchor yourself and dispel the remnants of your dream hung in the air, creating hypnagogic illusions of shadowy figures and wavering walls. It took a moment of deep, calming breaths and a run of your fingers through your tousled hair to bring your racing heart back to its normal rhythm.

Morpheus was absent, and the idea of slipping back into slumber was out of the question for now. You sprang to your feet, slipped into your cozy slippers, and draped a long open cardigan over your pajamas. A hot cup of tea, you thought, might just be the remedy to calm your frazzled nerves and restore your sense of lucidity.

Making an effort to keep the noise low, you stepped out of your room and gingerly made your way down the dimly lit hallway. You arrived at the main staircase, cautiously descending, with one hand instinctively placed on your chest where the feeling of water filling your lungs persisted.

Distractedly, you moved forward, and the light turned on in the dining room immediatly piqued your curiosity. The table was decorated with a tray full of traditional British biscuits, and a hot teapot was perched on it. A hefty figure was seated in front of the nocturnal treat, humming contentedly while relishing it.

“Gilbert?”

“Oh, hello Miss Y/N! What are you doing up at this hour?”

You smiled, observing his apparent fondness for his cane, which he seemed to carry with him wherever he went.

"I can't fall asleep," you answered. "What about you?”

"I was reading, lost track of time again. I brewed a spot of Chamomile, fancy a cup yourself?”

Given the state your nightmare had put you in, the prospect of a calming cup of Chamomile tea indeed seemed heavenly.

“Yes, please," you agreed. "I would appreciate that.”

"But of course! Would you mind having a sit? I’ll be right back.”

His warm and courteous manners always uplifted your spirits. Even the way he carried himself was full of grace and poise.

The soft sound of him rummaging through the cupboard reached your ears as he pulled out a vacant mug from the kitchen. Upon his return, he presented you with some of his biscuits with a sincere smile, and you felt like a spoiled child in need of a sweet snack to alleviate the tension. Had he possibly discerned your distress?

“Do you often make tea in the middle of the night?” You asked.

The corners of his lips curled upward even more, his mustache following the movement. “Old habits, I suppose. There's something comforting about it, don't you think?”

“Yeah. It reminds me of home.”

Gilbert sat down beside you, spooning a generous amount of sugar into his cup, now promptly refilled. "Feeling a touch of homesickness, are you?”

"Oh, it's more about the folks I hold dear back there. You know, family, friends.”

Gilbert savored a new sip of his Chamomile, licking his dampened lips and appreciating the warm brew. "And a dashing young chap too, perhaps?”

You held back a chuckle, finding "young chap" to be a rather amusing term for someone of Morpheus' stature.

"Let's say there is, in some sense.”

"Splendid. I won’t pry then.”

You truly pondered where this man originated from with his old-world sophistication.

The warmth of the beverage slid down your throat, finally dispelling that dreadful feeling of suffocation. "I love reading, too. It's unfortunate that I no longer have enough time to dedicate to it, but I’m passionate about my job."

"Yes, I did catch a few snippets. You work in the fashion industry, don't you?”

"That's correct. I'm a Fashion Designer, so I handle all aspects of the creative process and general promotion.”

Gilbert cast his gaze downwards, seemingly deep in contemplation. "Creative, that's marvellous. You know, it reminds me of someone I used to know a while back.”

“Really? Someone special?”

"Ah, my dear. He was the very heart of the place I hail from.”

"He’s not anymore?”

Gilbert grew nostalgic. "Oh no, he is. He'd been away for a very long time, you see. Without him, my homeland lost its essence. I left because I wanted to... embark on new experiences, I would say.”

You had a multitude of questions, but given your limited familiarity with the man, you didn't want to overstep any boundaries. You hypothesized that he originated from a quaint English town, and the person he spoke so warmly about was possibly a revered clergyman or a commoner cherished by many.

"Do you plan on returning?" You asked.

"Eventually, yes. I never intended to leave my place, I simply... needed to explore… more of this world.”

His explanation was notably vague, giving you the sense that he was carefully choosing his words to sidestep other topics he seemed less eager to discuss.

But ultimately, that was just a part of his charm.

"I understand. Thank you for sharing, Gilbert.”

"A pleasure, Miss Y/N.”

As you both continued to enjoy the Chamomile and savor the tasty biscuits he had provided, a momentary silence fell between you. Oddly enough, it didn't feel awkward or uncomfortable; instead, it nurtured a feeling of closeness. His presence was soothing, organic, and serene. You could faintly detect an aroma of damp moss and lush greenery emanating from him, along with hints of apples, sea ozone, musk and sandalwood.

Even though you were indoors, your mind was conjuring up the image of a lush green oasis. Unknown to you, the dreadful thoughts of your nightmare had entirely faded from your consciousness.

That was, until he posed the subsequent question, interrupting your mental imagery.

"You said you can’t fall asleep. Is something troubling you, my dear?”

Setting your mug aside, you aligned your back more straight against your chair. "I woke up from a nightmare earlier. It was quite unsettling.”

"Oh dear," he expressed. “Are you all right?”

"To be honest, I’m a little worried about something. But I can’t tell if my feelings are warranted, or if I'm just making everything more complex than it needs to be.”

Gilbert lapsed into a thoughtful silence again, absentmindedly twirling the spoon in his tea.

"Dreams can reveal a fair bit about your-" he cleared his throat. "-our own selves. Our worries, longings, even our darkest truths. They can be quite revealing, in their own cryptic manner.”

For some reason, he seemed to possess knowledge far beyond what any typical human being should. But considering the significant time he spent engrossed in books, his extensive cultural understanding was not surprising to you.

"It's weird, isn't it? Dreams can manifest the most beautiful visions one could ever see, yet sometimes, they can be so frightful that they make you want to never fall asleep again.”

He guffawed. "I've seen my fair share of unusual dreams. Each one is a journey, wouldn't you agree?”

You, more than anyone else, could attest to the spectacular travels one could undertake through their dreams.

But those very dreams you loved deeply, those realms and magical constructs, if not the Dreaming as a whole, were seemingly endangered by a force equally formidable.

As unsettling as the nightmare had been, you couldn't let it deter you from delving into your subconscious mind.

“I do, actually. It’s a little tough, though.”

"Isn't it just? This world's a grand old place, my dear. Just as many marvels to be found as there are true horrors to behold.”

You bobbed your head in agreement, gazing at the remnants of your Chamomile. "You're so right Gilbert. I wish I could remove a thing or two from my memory.”

"I daresay. But isn't that also part of what makes you... well, human?”

His point held weight, considering the lessons you had acquired over the years. All those hardships, all the adversities you had to surmount. Even Morpheus confined to that cage, isolated, insulted, and forgotten. Had you not witnessed all that, you would have entirely overlooked his existence, and inevitably lost the opportunity to understand what it meant to love and be loved by him.

Every fear, all the concerns, all the wonderings and questions. They all contributed to your growth and shaped who you wanted to become.

"Thanks, Gilbert," you voiced softly, "I really like talking to you.”

"Absolute pleasure, Y/N. Whenever you fancy a chat, I'm here to lend an ear.”

Having finished the Chamomile and nibbled the last crumb of your biscuits, you gathered the empty mugs and plates onto the tray. Gilbert generously offered his help, which you politely declined, allowing him to retreat to his attic for some rest (or to indulge in more reading).

You let the water run at the bare minimum, washing the mugs and plates with utmost care. You returned everything to its proper place, gently closing the cupboard's door to preserve the quiet. Gilbert's footsteps were soft and deliberate, until the surroundings became so silent that you couldn't hear a fly.

It was still early, and you didn't know how long Morpheus would take to conduct his investigation. All you could wish for was that no hindrances had appeared in his way.

As you slid back under the covers and settled onto the mattress, you grabbed your phone and plugged in your earbuds. You swiped across the screen, rifling through your saved playlists until you found the specific track you were looking for.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒙𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑺𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝑴𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒄 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑨𝒏𝒙𝒊𝒆𝒕𝒚 𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒇

You used to play these melodies when contending with your chronic insomnia, and even if they weren't particularly helpful at the time, you still cherished the calming sounds they produced. And so, you pressed the play button, adjusting the volume to a moderate level, getting yourself comfortable and closing your eyes.

The soft music echoed in your ears like liquid gold. You felt weightless and cleansed, as if the bed had vanished beneath you. When sleep claimed you once more, you felt comforted and at peace, journeying through a variety of pleasant dreams.

The fact that you had no pressing obligations the following day was a stroke of good luck, for when morning arrived, you were still blissfully asleep in your bed. The Dreaming appeared to be just as it always was, granting you unrestricted exploration. You took a serene stroll in the most beautiful meadow you had ever seen, crossed a forest bathed in hues of pinks and reds, and even engaged in conversation with a chatty deer you encountered along the way. At times, the things appearing around you looked odd and somewhat nonsensical, but it didn't particularly bother you.

And then, you were enveloped in a sea of stars, to the extent that you found yourself traversing an actual galaxy. Even though you were walking, you couldn't see any physical ground under your feet.

You weren't sure of your destination, but the energy pulsating through the paradisiacal landscape motivated you to continue, and you simply couldn't resist the call. The dress you wore, so lengthy that it trailed behind you like a royal gown, was imbued with the brilliance of stars and the swirling cosmos.

All that stunning beauty made your thoughts drift towards Morpheus, and you realized how much you longed to see him again.

Distant voices began to form and resonate from the far end of the nebula, where a powerful blue light flashed and expanded. You quickened your pace, walking briskly, until the light became almost blinding, compelling you to raise your hands in front of your face.

And it was fortunate that you did, because a few moments later, you collided with something hard and icy, as solid as marble.

The galactic spectacle had completely dissolved, replaced by a radiant blue fog that began to thin out and dissipate. The pillar in front of you obstructed your view, but it didn't take long for you to recognize the castle's throne room.

How were you able to locate that place again without Morpheus’ explicit invitation?

And then, you recalled his earlier words, assuring you that you were always welcome in his castle. Could it be that this had inherently given you unlimited access to it?

“Do you have any idea what his life is like in the Waking World?”

A woman was speaking, but you couldn't identify her.

“Humans cannot live in dreams.”

Morpheus.

“As long as he stayed there, the child had no life. Nor the chance for one.”

Sensing that you were amidst something significant, you moved your body slightly to the side to survey the unfolding scene. Morpheus, as handsome and majestic as ever, stood a few steps above Lucienne and another figure, a well-defined woman who was clearly far from human. Her skin was dark, akin to a desaturated purple, adorned with fuchsia streaks that pulsed like faint lightning. Her entire body seemed alive, displaying a kaleidoscopic effect that resembled liquid shadows.

“The boy is being abused,” the creature stated. “He’s suffering.”

“You abused that suffering,” Morpheus counteracted. “To build a Dreaming you could rule.”

And then it struck you, the realization that the non-human figure was one of the Dreams Morpheus had been trying to find. Or, to be more precise, one of his Nightmares.

“I had no wish to rule.”

She didn't seem terrifying to you. Even her appearance, while peculiar and potentially intimidating, was actually quite enchanting to look at.

Unlike the Corinthian, which was ironic considering that he bore more resemblance to a man than anything else.

“I merely wish to be a Dream and not a Nightmare. To inspire rather than to freighten.”

The nightmare was seething with anger, filled with pain and grudge against her master.

Lucienne was attentively listening, without uttering a word.

“The choice is not yours to make,” Morpheus responded, calm and unyielding. “We do not choose to be created. Nor do we choose how we are made.”

His statement stirred thoughts in your head. Did he ever contemplate why he came into this universe, the purpose of his birth, his initial creation? Did he ever consider being someone else, something else, instead of perpetually fulfilling his role as the King of the Dreaming?

“That is true,” affirmed the Nightmare with a smirk. “But we can change.”

“No. We are, each of us, born with responsibilities. Even I am not free to choose to be other than I am. Nor is anyone.”

If anything, this only provided an answer to your inner query. Ever since the day you met him, you hadn't considered that his duties and what he embodied could be as heavy as a boulder to him. You knew he had to make exceedingly difficult, if not impossible, decisions. But what if, deep down, he wished to cast aside his metaphorical crown and hand over his realm to another?

“If that were true, why did all the other Dreams and Nightmares choose to leave this place when you had gone away?”

“Not all of us chose to leave, and nearly all have returned,” Lucienne finally interjected.

The creature turned to look at the librarian. “Do you think they came back out of love?” Then, once again, she redirected her focus to her creator. “Or because they were afraid of what you would do to them if they did not?”

You were cognizant of Morpheus' capacity for aloofness and command, and he had even admitted his past errors to you. But as inflexible as he could be, was it truly so erroneous to aim for maintaining proper order within his realm, if it also meant safeguarding the Waking World and its denizens?

“Because I am not afraid.”

You could sense the change in the atmosphere, which had abruptly become chilly and foreboding. Morpheus pivoted completely, fixing the Nightmare with a defiant glare. “You should be.”

You leaned forward just a bit more, taking care to remain unnoticed by any of them. It's quite humorous how you continually landed yourself in undesirable circumstances, which obliged you to stay concealed and listen in on others.

“A Nightmare’s purpose is to reveal a dreamer’s fears, that they may face them.”

You might have been wrong, but even from where you were, you noticed a reddish tint in his eyes. He was in pain.

And also, he was enraged.

His shadow started to shift, advancing along the stairs and extending out, stretching right towards where the Nightmare was positioned.

“Perhaps a few thousand years in the darkness will reveal your fears.”

The shadow made contact with her feet, and the moment it did, she began to pulverize and disappear. Her legs slimmed down, disintegrating like ash, and the rest of her body followed the same fate.

She was scared, but at the same time, she held his stare with bravery and pride.

And you could see that she was teetering on the edge of tears, burdened by the spectrum of missed opportunities.

“Better that than to make others afraid,” she said at the very end. “Even a Nightmare can dream, my lord.”

With widened eyes and a dropped jaw, you watched in sheer disbelief as the creature dissolved right before your sight. Morpheus stood as an image of defeat, quietly enduring the loss of one of his own creations.

“Even a Nightmare can dream.”

In your trance-like state, the only thought that surfaced was, blimey.

Even Lucienne was clearly distraught. How had things managed to escalate to this extent? Why did events have to take that horrific twist, landing Morpheus in such a tough spot? Why all the anguish, the torment, the catastrophe?

Only one name came to mind; Roderick freaking Burgess. What would the scenario be if Morpheus was never captured? If the Dreaming was never deserted, and if his subjects never abandoned their duties?

“You feel her punishment was unjust?”

The way Morpheus immediately sought Lucienne's approval with an expression akin to witnessing his raven’s murder once again (oh, you didn't even want to remember that, much less think about anything happening to Matthew) left you instantly heartbroken.

Lucienne contemplated her reply, then she freed her hands from their entwined position behind her back. “I used to be something else. Before you made me your librarian. We all chance, sir. Even you, perhaps. One day.”

Oh no.

His response was unsurprising. Even though his voice echoed gentleness and respect, you could perceive the bitterness lacing each word he spoke following that.

“Lucienne, I realize that in my absence, you were compelled to make decisions in my stead, and I am grateful to you.”

You sensed that a 'but' was forthcoming.

“But I am back now.” There it was. “You may return to the library.”

Ouch.

That was a lot to take in all at once, and given your empathetic nature, you rapidly absorbed the torrent of emotions floating in the atmosphere. You observed the sorrow in Lucienne's eyes, the despair of feeling obsolete to her King. She retreated with measured steps, leaving Morpheus standing rigid on the staircase.

The regret was unmistakable. His frequent blinking, the strain in his jaw, his hands curling into tight fists.

You let out a sigh, bumping your forehead against the column. If only you could do something, anything, to magically erase all that pain from their hearts. If only-

"I am sorry," he said unexpectedly. "I did not wish for you to witness that.”

Oh. Oh. Of course he was talking to you. You were in the Dreaming, right in the center of his dwelling. It was only to be expected that he would be aware of your presence in his castle, considering you were practically a whisker's breadth away.

With caution, you stepped out of your hiding spot, your gown trailing behind as you moved towards the King of Dreams. The fabric maintained its shimmer, harmoniously matching the cosmic ceiling overhead and the inner lining of his coat.

"I'm the one who should apologize," you declared. "I just wanted to see you, I didn't expect to end up here.”

The instant his eyes met yours, a flicker of astonishment and surprise colored his face. He watched you as if spellbound, descending the staircase to meet you midway. When you halted, merely inches from his face, you gave him one of those smiles he cherished the most.

You were clueless about the depth of his love for you in that moment, of how you looked every bit a queen, his queen, gracefully moving in your natural surroundings.

Your dream dresses were a mirror of your inner self, each more beautiful than the last.

"Wrong place at the wrong time, as we humans like to say," you continued. "Did you know I was here all along?”

“You thought I did not?”

“Touché.”

He lowered his tear-brimmed gaze, the tips of his cool fingers tentatively grazing yours."Are you not scared of me?”

It was difficult to fathom that he was still unsure, questioning the genuineness of your feelings for him. But upon reflection, you couldn't truly fault him.

You shook your head. "My love, I could never be afraid of you. You should know that by now.”

His hands were always so tender, so delicate, and yet so sturdy. His hands rested around your waist, only to glide upwards and adhere to your skin, the dress granting him an ample view of your back. He held you close against his chest, and you melted in his embrace.

“Do you not think Lucienne is correct? About change, about me?”

"Morpheus, I wouldn't want to change a thing about you. I think this entire matter should be handled with care, from all perspectives.”

He displayed a pouting expression, gently rubbing his forehead against yours. “I have my duties.”

“I know.”

And these obligations were eating him up from the inside. Encaged in a glass cell for a century, he neglected his realm and failed to guard the very humanity that triggered the destructionn of the Dreaming to start with. However, upon witnessing the magnitude of his role, you began to doubt whether his sacrifice was worth it. Ruling over the dream domain and protecting the mortal world shouldn't provoke such deep anguish. It was consuming him, devouring his essence.

"Don't be too harsh on Lucienne, though," you advised. "She's the most dedicated being I have ever met, but I’m sure you are aware of that.”

"I am.”

It was quite a shame that she had no clue of the magnitude of his high regard for her.

"You see, when you were still confined to that cage, I had a dream. It was one of my first experiences in this realm, and somehow, I found myself here. In this very same room.”

He listened quietly, his hands softly gliding down to your lower back.

"I was lost. Everything was in ruins, devoid of life. But Lucienne was here, aimlessly roaming the castle, and she found me. The sight of a human standing in the midst of your throne room took her by surprise, after such a long time.”

The way she sustained and persevered for over a century remained a mystery. She deserved a dedicated monument.

"She was so alone, Morpheus. She was waiting for you to return.”

None of his words were intended to diminish her. Lucienne held significant value to Morpheus, not only as a trustworthy librarian but also as a competent collaborator within his domain. He only adopted a defensive stance when the topic of change surfaced, a concept he struggled to grasp given the nature of his own existence.

"And, about the Nightmare you punished...”

“Gault.”

The fact that he still wished for her name to be acknowledged despite his conduct, did not elude your notice.

"I don’t know what happened, and if she did wrong you, it's in your rights to restore the original state of things. But... she appeared honest about her feelings, about her wish to become a Dream. Is there truly nothing you can do about it?”

For an instant, you were apprehensive that he might reproach you merely for daring to discuss matters you didn't completely understand.

But his eyes held nothing but tenderness for you. "Y/N, she was made to be a Nightmare. In order to make her into a Dream, she would need to be undone and recreated.”

"But isn't that a part of any creative process? Altering things that already exist, but no longer fulfill their original purpose?”

“It is different.”

Your smile broadened as you caressed his cheek. "I know that I can't compare what you do with my work in the Waking World. Your subjects have a function that accompanies humans through their personal journeys. But, consider this: everything we make, whether it be clothes, art, music, movies, or novels, it all influences us in one way or another.”

He furrowed his brows, mulling over your words and attempting to decipher the implications of your statement.

"Sometimes, an artist might choose to redraw an old piece to make it better. A writer might opt to remake an entire chapter if it doesn't align with their envisioned perfection A composer could discard a fresh song and reconstruct it from scratch just for that note they didn’t get right. An entire dress can be taken apart, mended, and redesigned.”

Your focus moved to the location where Gault had once been. You could still observe traces of smoke and ash spiraling around the room.

"Gault wasn’t a mistake, Morpheus. She just wanted to be understood, regardless of how wrong that might be.”

He stayed silent, tracing your line of sight as he swallowed.

"Ah, but I'm only human. So, what could I possibly know, right?”

And then, he flashed a small grin. It was almost unnoticeable, barely distinguishable, but just clear enough for you to catch it.

“No, you are observant. Your words are truly valuable.”

You weren't expecting him to affirm your truth, nor to retract the punishment imposed on Gault and reinstate her to her rightful place. But that was acceptable. Because you realized that Morpheus was not simply disregarding your viewpoints.

“You are valuable, too.”

You ran your nails along the collar of his coat, savoring the clear contact, the softness of the material.

"I need you to understand that you're not alone in this. You have Lucienne, Matthew. Even Able and Cain, despite the latter's rough character. And naturally, you have me.”

For him, it was tough to believe that a genuine support system existed behind him. Given all the trials he had to withstand, the burdens he shouldered away from others, and the solitary grief he faced after the loss of his son.

Even now, distancing himself from Lucienne and dispatching his creation into the darkest void, were not measures he felt particularly prideful or content about.

He smiled. "Having you by my side is more than I could ever hope for or deserve, my love.”

You craved him as much as you needed the blood flowing in your veins. You longed for the sound of his voice, so low, smooth, and resonant, his words overflowing with love and adoration for you.

He kissed you, slowly yet assertively, before pulling away and letting you go. But now that he had a moment of tranquility with you, as the day on the other side had just commenced, he wanted you to savor every last minute in the Dreaming, before you ventured back to your world and he proceeded with his investigations.

The final moments in the Dreaming had been unforgettable, with Morpheus guiding you through parts of the castle you hadn't yet explored. But before you fully succumbed to the pre-awakening haze, you chose to contradict your prior decision and confessed that the Corinthian was, in fact, in Cape Kennedy.

The realization that his nightmare had encountered you for a second time, unbeknownst to him and with all the potential dangers it could entail, inevitably sent Morpheus’ mood spiraling downwards all over again. For a moment, you feared that he might harbor resentment towards you for not summoning him at that time. However, when you explained how cunning the Corinthian had been by choosing to meet you in a public place filled with mortals, the Endless pronounced that you had acted prudently.

Morpheus also confirmed that the Corinthian had evidently been drawn by the Vortex herself. That also signified that, should he locate her, things could potentially escalate to an irreversible point for all of you. Therefore, he tried to convince you to head back home, with the aim of keeping you shielded from both Rose's power and the Nightmare's grasp.

Regrettably, you had to reject his suggestion, as your work was far too important for you to merely abandon it. Morpheus attempted to argue, but eventually, he let the topic rest. He made a solemn promise to utilize all his resources and abilities to ensure your safety, insisting that you alert him immediately should anything unusual, or even remotely dangerous, occur in your presence.

Admittedly, having Morpheus concerned for you amidst all that he was grappling with did make you feel quite guilty. Nevertheless, there was no way you could leave Andrew in the middle of the project without a valid excuse. Morpheus understood the amount of effort you had invested in establishing your current career, and the last thing he wanted was for you to lose all that you had achieved.

By the time you woke up, everyone else was already bustling about town attending to their own affairs. The only exception was Lyta who, conversely, was strangely sick and confined to her room, not making an appearance even once.

You seized that day off as a chance to recuperate, with the lingering effects of jet lag still draining you, and the remnants of your tumultuous night further exhausting you. It was approximately lunch time when you noticed Rose crossing the threshold, her fatigued, baffled expression indicating that something was drastically amiss.

"Rose?”

"Oh, Y/N, hi," she said in a distracted manner. "Is Lyta still in her room?”

"I believe so, she was feeling under the weather earlier when I knocked. But, on that note, are you okay?”

Rose shook her head, offering a feeble smile. "I don’t even know, to be honest.”

You could only speculate that what kept her outdoors that morning was linked to her brother Jed. Clearly, things didn't pan out as she had hoped.

"Come on. let's talk," you encouraged her, softly draping your arm around her shoulders and ushering her upstairs.

"Oh, there's no need to, I mean-”

"Yes, Rose. There is," you corrected. "There's something I need to share with you.”

You were aware that Morpheus would have preferred to keep you as distant as possible from everything the girl embodied, but you couldn't just ignore her when she looked so afflicted.

And despite her apparent eagerness to retreat to her room, she consented, trailing behind you and stepping into your chamber without any protest.

You let her settle on your bed, which was still partly unkempt, and you took a seat next to her. "Firstly, tell me what happened."

You noticed her hesitation, stumbling over her words. "Well, I actually found Jed. I went there because I wanted to speak to his foster parents, to see him, and possibly bring him home with me.”

"Let me guess, they didn't permit you to.”

She sighed. "Even worse.”

“Worse?”

"Y/N, I... I went there and the police were swarming all around the house. I found out that the couple is dead, and Jed is nowhere to be found.”

Out of all the things you thought she might say, that was definitely not one of them.

“Wait, what?!”

"I know, it's insane!”

"But, do they know how they died? Was it an accident? Were they killed in their own home?”

How could she be so close to reuniting with her brother after so many years, only to have him slip even further away?

Right then and there, your intuition flared up more intensely than before. Something was undeniably wrong. What were the odds of that happening?

"I have no idea. The police didn't want to disclose any information. I wasn't even allowed near the house.”

You gently placed your hand on her back, moving it up and down in a comforting motion. "I'm so sorry Rose. The silver lining is that he wasn't there, so he's at least unharmed. Right?”

"But now, I don't even know where to start looking.”

What kind of comfort could you give her in a situation like that?

"Y/N, you said there was something you wanted to tell me. But... could you answer a question for me?”

“Of course.”

She pressed her lips together, staring at you with a hint of apprehension. “"Are you real? I mean, you're human, right? I'm not just imagining you.”

You laughed. "I am very much real, I assure you.”

"It's just... you were in my dream. I met you before actually seeing you in real life.”

You nodded. “You did.”

"So... how...?”

You clasped her hand, which felt somewhat cold and trembly. She appeared so fragile and delicate, how could she contain such a potent power capable of not only shattering the Dreaming, but also penetrating its walls and affecting the Waking World?

"Rose, I'm sure you know the answer to that.”

She blinked a few times, permitting you to gently squeeze her hand. “I think so. And you?”

She was testing the waters, probing to see what you might potentially know or be oblivious of.

You couldn't find any valid reason to not tell the truth about it.

“Yes, Rose. I know you are the Vortex.”

For a moment, she appeared flabbergasted, not really anticipating your forthrightness. She stood, pacing back and forth a few times, only to raise her voice in desperation.

"Who are you, really? What's going on?”

Her outburst was more than justifiable. She was separated from brother when she was a teenager, never having the chance to see him ever since. Then, her mother passed away just before she could uncover the true nature residing within her, which could endanger her life, due to the need to eliminate any direct threat against an Endless' realm.

It was unfair, you thought to yourself. She deserved better than what life had dealt her.

"I'm simply Y/N,” you replied. “A human being just like you. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“But how do you know I’m the Vortex?”

Was it even permissible for you to divulge your relationship with Morpheus? Could you be open about your association with his realm?

In the end, you carefully opted to omit the major details.

"I am acquainted with the King of Dreams."

"You know Lord Morpheus?”

“Yes. Very well in fact.”

She returned to the mattress, allowing her body to slump onto it like a sack of potatoes. Her eyes clamped shut, and she took a deep inhalation, only to exhale it out.

"Rose, I wish I could tell you more about why or how you became a Vortex, but not even Morpheus himself has an explanation. All I can say to you is that you need to be careful.”

"All I do is sleep, and all of a sudden I'm in everyone's dream.”

How dreadful it must feel, to intrude upon your friends' subconscious and probe their minds against their will.

"You haven't come across a man with blond hair and dark round sunglasses, have you?”

"No, not that I can recall," she specified. “Why?”

With Matthew keeping a watchful eye on her during the day, you knew that she at least had some form of protection from the Dream Lord. But was that truly sufficient to keep the Nightmare at a safe distance from her?

You couldn't afford to give her one more cause for alarm. She couldn't find out about that creature tailing her, aiming to use her Vortex abilities to annihilate the Dreaming and take complete control over humanity. It was such a hefty load for you alone, understanding how dark and warped the minds of mortals could be and how readily they could be remolded.

For the moment, you wanted her to concentrate solely on her brother, who seemed to be entirely missing, if not kidnapped by someone malevolent for all you knew.

"Let's just hope it never comes to that.”

You blinked a few times, clearing the haze from your brain, as you peered into the distance at what appeared to be a barren wasteland, gloomy and parched. It was dark and cold, reminiscent of a swamp.

What was that place, and why did it evoke a sense of déjà vu?

You glanced around, took a few steps forward, and inhaled the aroma of earth and decaying vegetation. Nothing was there apart from some patches of mud, scattered algae and rocks that either looked shattered or flipped over.

"Yep, I'm afraid so.”

A voice from behind caused you to startle, but when you spun on your feet, nobody was there except for a deer, watching you with a pair of large, glossy black eyes.

"What...?”

"Oh come on. Don't say you don't remember me.”

You were completely disoriented, unable to even recall your own name. But then, as time progressed and the gears in your mind kicked back into action, everything fell back into place.

You knelt down, gently patting the deer's head. "Of course I remember you. I'm sorry, it took me a moment to realize I was dreaming. I must have dozed off on the couch...”

The animal smiled. "Eh, it happens sometimes. No big deal. But I'm glad you're back. Things are really getting messy over here.”

“Messy? What do you mean?”

The deer's expression morphed into one of puzzlement. "Are you serious? Can't you see the state of this place?”

"I do see it," you responded. "Where exactly are we? I know this is the Dreaming, but...”

"Y/N," the deer advanced. "You know where you are.”

That proclamation sent a chill down your spine, and as soon as you looked up, attempting to detect any sign of what the deer was referring to, the surroundings trembled and shook violently. You heard the loud noise of something fracturing, splitting apart. And then you saw it, the same crack from your nightmare, widening and branching out. It continued to broaden, wildly seizing the landscape around you.

The deer was correct, you knew exactly where you were. Merely contemplating it caused your heart to plummet, and your stomach to coil into a painful knot, tugging from every direction.

Without a shadow of a doubt, you were in the Beach Land. Except now, it was just land, bereft of beach, water, and signs of life.

“No… please tell me this isn’t real. Tell me this is another nightmare.”

The deer sighed. "It is a nightmare, in a sense. But I'm afraid this is simply what the Dreaming is starting to look like. All of it.”

You slumped onto the ground, letting your arms hang limply at your sides. "The Vortex did this?”

“I assume so.”

Was your proximity to Rose that late morning in any way accountable for such a significant, vital part of your dream life, to be completely eradicated? Or had she caused such a disruption recently that your nightmare delivered the final blow?

You didn't have the time to figure out an answer, because another earthquake rattled everything again. It was fierce, horrifying, and certainly not something you wanted to see worsen any further.

"You need to leave," the deer told you. "Exit this place before it's too late.”

"But this is a dream, right? Nothing can physically harm me here.”

"That's not the main problem. If the Vortex strengthens, you could be disconnected from this land, if not the Dreaming itself.”

“What??”

Could it really be possible that Rose accidentally set off something so grave? You dismissed the thought; the idea of losing the Dreaming was unbearable. Morpheus. Lucienne. Abel and Cain. Goldie. How could you ever bear to be separated from them all, from the love of your life?

"Go, Y/N. Wake up now. Or else he'll never forgive me.”

He?

“Wait, did you-”

“ሠ𐌀ኡ𐌄 𐌵የ!”

Your eyes flew open, and all you could see was the ceiling of Hal's B&B main hall. No peculiar noises, no tremors of the earth. But you, on the other hand, were profoundly rattled, your heart pounding fiercely in your chest.

And that, wasn't even the full extent of what you were about to confront.

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