I got accused of not caring about Cassandra Cain's development and just her fighting recently.
Yes, on the dreaded hellsite, I should really just leave. 😭
Idk, it might shock some people to know where most of her development comes from, lmfaoooooo.
Like literally fighting Shiva in her first arc was the ONLY thing that got Cass to develop as a character, Bruce and Babs could not get through to her about not holding this guilt over her head and it took Shiva beating her senseless for her to finally get over her sins.
Like I'm sorry, but Cass develops through fighting, her character is tied to being a warrior, that's just her.
LIKE IT'S LITERALLY HER LANGUAGE, MY GOD!
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tw the creepiest fucking whumper, stalking, intense parasocial relationship, masochist whumper, lady whumpee and whumper, fantasies of noncon, fantasies of … honestly just some good kinky bdsm fantasies, some exhibitionism, some very noncon leaning vibes that i can’t even explain properly, i don’t know how to tag any of this
What could Whumper ever give her? When her deepest desires at the bottom of her heart were others’ nightmares, when the things she wanted were only ever doled out as an act of hatred and punishment, then what was there to offer? What deal was there to be made, when all her mind and body wanted were consequences?
What did she really want? Did she want Whumpee to look at her with disgust? To be repulsed and angry enough to hit her?
Whumper didn’t want her to be repulsed, not in earnest. Or maybe she did. Maybe she would’ve loved it all the same.
She sat in her car and watched her beloved colleague walk to the end of her driveway with a heavy-looking trash bag, wishing she had been more responsible. Sure, nine o’clock at night wasn’t that late to be doing this, but it was dark enough that Whumper couldn’t see the way her muscles worked as she threw all that garbage in the ugly, black plastic can.
It was so careless. Whumpee didn’t think twice about it, and why would she? It was nothing but trash.
Whumper wished she could just ask to be treated with the same level of cold indifference.
How could she ever force someone to be indifferent in a way that felt just right? How could she forcefully invoke such specific emotions? If she wanted to be treated like an object, how was she meant to take any control?
She almost wished her desires had been simpler to act on. If she had craved dominance and control, she could’ve marched into that house and knocked her out — a thought that had crossed her mind more times than she could count.
But she wanted quite the opposite. She walked around in her bedroom with the lights on at night and imagined Whumpee driving past her house the same way she’d driven past hers, watching her half-naked silhouette and planning a break in. She wore her nicest lingerie and imagined Whumpee picking her lock, only to sneak inside her bedroom and watch her sleep. She closed her eyes and imagined a blindfold keeping her in the darkness, she crossed her wrists over each other and imagined the bite of the rope forcefully keeping them in place, she tilted her head up and imagined Whumpee’s fingers hooked under her chin, and her voice as she cooed ‘Pretty thing, all mine.’
How could she ever force that? How could she ever force that sick obsession, that want? How could she ever force Whumpee to look at her the way she wanted to be looked at: a pretty doll, a prized possession one day, a used toy, a discarded piece of trash another.
She wished Whumpee would just know. She wished she could force her hand somehow, and at the same time knew it would defeat the purpose.
Whumper stared at the house longingly. Did Whumpee have a closet to keep her in? A basement, perhaps? Did she have all different kinds of rope, or chain, or handcuffs? Did she have a collection of whips and canes? A wide array of gags? Whumper liked to imagine she did. She liked to imagine Whumpee sitting in her room, knowing full well that she was just outside in her car, watching, fantasising, dizzy from the weight of the scenarios her mind had conjured up.
Whumper would do anything for her, if only she asked. She would do all the disgusting, humiliating, dehumanising things, sleep in a cage, eat out of a bowl on the floor, lick her boots, be her doormat, let herself be yanked around on a leash— And yet whenever they met, Whumpee only ever gave her a kind smile and a polite greeting, and told her ‘Oh, no, please don’t bother, I can do it myself, thank you.’
It was driving her mad.
She wanted to do everything for her.
She wanted Whumpee to make her do it.
She had the most perfect hands for wrapping around Whumper’s throat, she knew it, she could imagine it just perfectly, and yet all she used them for were handshakes firm enough that Whumper got a taste, but mild enough not to cause any discomfort.
Sometimes, Whumper liked to imagine this was part of the game. That Whumpee was teasing her, specifically playing at making her cry into her pillow at night. Sometimes, when she was sitting in her car outside of Whumpee’s home, she liked to imagine that Whumpee wanted her to break in so she would have an excuse to do whatever she wanted with her.
Whumper waited until the light flicked off in the bedroom, then got out of her car. Whumpee was really good at playing this game, at baiting her until she couldn’t stay away any longer.
Truth be told, Whumper wanted nothing more than to lose to her; this game, and any other they ever played.
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