#and also a morally ambiguous old man

[abovethemists]

palm tree

palm tree ⇢ do you have a fictional villain you shouldn’t like but love regardless?

My blog is pretty much dedicated to fictional villains. I generally find heroes boring. But I never feel like I shouldn't love them. It's fiction. I can enjoy all kinds of fucked up shit. I never feel guilty for my pleasures.

Rumplestiltskin is canonically a serial killer. He's also baby boy.

[waywardsunlight]

Some people on this website are taking a very uncool approach to media criticism.

[dapper-nahrwhale]

was looking thru my posted ninjago fics and have come to a very obvious conclusion. All of my fics are about ronin, like all of them, every single one is so ronin centric. He lives in my brain I cant stop him I've tried!!! Aaa

[blkkizzat]

COME PUT THAT MILLI★N D★LLAR PU$$Y ON ME, MAKE ME RICH!

FARMHAND!TOJI X BIMBOBUNNY!READER

☼ summary: au. a quiet farm life and a young pretty thing—what more could an ex-con want? you're a bit of a brat, but that can be fixed too. ☼ wc: 4.0k ☼ cw: age gap, panty flashing, voyeurism, brat!reader, fantasizing, spit play, biting, hickies, breeding kink, olfactophilia, teasing, perverted toji, morally ambiguous toji, creampies, squirting, unprotected, pet names: Bunny and standard p in v stuff. ☼ a/n: idk y'all farmhand!toji possessed my mind. literally did this all in tumblr drafts again today. Lets see if tumblr actually lets me post this or cucks me again.

FarmHand!Toji who only got the job in the first place because of a prison rehabilitation program. It was either work on a farm or rot in a cell for another 2 years.

Toji chose the farm.

The work wasn't easy, but Toji couldn't complain. It was a very large farm, secluded and he was paid well—but most importantly?

It kept his fuckin' P.O. off his back.

Toji works on the farm for three grueling months until you, the farmer's niece, arrives for the summer to also work.

Well, 'work' wasn't really the right word, because you never did any thing of the sort.

Barely, 19 and kicked out of your house for smoking pot. Your parents sent you to your uncle, hoping the hard work and the ex-cons he had working for him would scare you straight. Additionally, due to the fact your Uncle had no wife and no kids, the sole owner of a large farm, the old bastard was pretty well off. As the only child of your dad, his only sibling, farm would eventually be left to you.

Everyone (not like you had a say) agreed you should know how to run it.

But the thing is—you suck at everything.

You're too flighty to work with the chickens, too prissy clean the pig cages and you'd complain you'd break a nail just from lifting an empty bucket—so milking cows were also out of the question.

Yet you still managed to get your work done.

Precisely cause you weren't the one doing it.

Aware of your youthful looks and charms, you don't hesitate to use them to your advantage.

Your shapely curves are always clad in some in a thin wispy dress, which would turn damn near see-through at the smallest bit of moisture. Wearing no bra and the tiniest of panties, you were always giving a show.

No you weren't scared of these ex-cons in the least bit.

Evident by the way you flounce around the farm, unabashfully, pretending to do the chores the women-starved prisoners were too eager to do for you.

For their efforts you reward them with smiles, blown kisses and sugary words. Sometimes for rewards came in the form of a peach you would sneak them from your uncle's grove.

Always bringing one for yourself you'd sensually bite into the ripen fruit. Allowing its juices to linger on your cherry-glossed lips and dribble down your chin—the slurping noises are the perfect fapping fodder for them.

Yet the best prize of all—and only if you were feeling particularly generous—a flash of panties.

Toji though had not fallen for your charms though.

Not that he wasn't susceptible to them, hell naw—he wanted to bend your pretty ass over the nearest fence and roughly fuck some decency, along with manners into your haughty lil' cunt.

But Toji, as well as any of the prisoners, knew better than to touch you. Not only were they risking their freedom, with even the slightest offense here was enough to send them back to the pen—they were also risking their lives.

Your uncle was no fool. The older man regularly carried a sawed off shotgun slung over his shoulder, which used to be a pistol before you arrived.

The farmer didn't make it a big announcement, simply reminding them it was prison or a grave if they fucked this opportunity up—but the underlying message was crystal clear:

He'd blow anyone to hell who even thought about touching his niece.

Oh, but Toji did think about touching you—alot.

Often staying up late in his shared bunk room—jerking his cock to a frilly pair of panties of yours he'd stolen off the laundry line—once he was sure the others had gone to bed.

Toji wants to teach you a lesson badly.

Not for your benefit though, it be payback for all your goddamn teasing.

Toji isn't a pushover for you.

Nicknaming you 'Bunny' since you were such a clumsy lil ditz. He often made his silly lil bunny do whatever work he was stationed at when you had chores there—yours and his.

And oh, you hated that. You only tried harder when none of your pouts, provocations and seductions move him. It was pure hell, but Toji had resisted every trick you had. An unintended benefit however, was that he'd likely seen every pair of panties you owned by now (which is why he had stolen his favorite).

At one point, when you were particularly annoying one day, Toji even tried straight up ignoring you.

Yet that didn't work either.

You only upped the ante, 'accidentally' spilling a whole bucket of cow's milk on yourself. The very color of your perky nips are clearly visible, poking through the now transparent fabric which clings to you like second skin.

Staring Toji dead in his eyes, a coy smile on your plump lips as your pink manicured nails rubbed circles over your soaked nubs.

It took everything Toji had in him that day not to force you down to the dirt floor, fucking your pussy open just as hard and flithy as you'd been asking for.

Turning away from you, he threw a hay laden blanket over you and told you to go back up to the house n' clean up.

Toji didn't miss how badly you pouted, even though he pretended not to care. You reluctantly listened to him, leaving the barn and back to the main house up the hill.

You were both playing with fire.

Yet from that point something broke in Toji.

He still never crosses the line to touching you, but he'd starts pushing your buttons.

He wants to rile you up just as you had him.

As a result, Toji is working around you without a shirt more often—sometimes even with a raging hard on in full view. Also he doesn't hold back any longer from any of the vulgar thoughts of you that cross his mind. Regularly vocalizing them with a smirk, making overtly perverted comments towards you.

This was even something the other prisoners were too pussy to do to, given the very real threats of your farmer uncle.

Yet Toji wouldn't be a two-time ex-con he is if he didn't mind gambling with his life for a big reward. Toji relishes in your flustered, indignant reactions, loving to see how your face heats up everytime without fail every time he teases his lil' slut, his sultry voice whispering things like:

"I bet y'er cunt is riper than those peaches, Bunny."

"Bunny—think your pretty pussy can squirt more milk than these cow udders?"

"I wonder if my lil' Bunny can actually ride dick, since she's not half bad on a horse?"

You'd call him a 'perverted old man' like you weren't anything more than just a causal cocktease yourself—obviously you get some sick satisfaction knowing you had every man on this farm but Toji at your beck and call.

In reality, you were just as twisted in nature as him.

Still you were stubborn.

And as retaliation for his resistance, you play all manners of pranks on Toji. Doing anything you could so it was harder for him to do his job—from stealing his work gloves, boots and tools—to more serious ones like letting a weasel loose in the chicken coop when it was his shift to collect the eggs.

You deemed it your right to punish him for teasing you, for not becoming one of your simps and most fiendish of all?

Making you actually do work.

You harass him so often, it's not long before Toji realizes you're seeking him out intentionally.

Not even bothering to visit the other workstations where your chores are, they would get done by your lil'fan boys regardless, in favor of following him around all day like a lost lil' chick.

On a particularly hot n' sweltering summer day, Toji is stuck with the job of moving machinery from one side of the farm to the other when the sun is at its highest.

Like usual, he's since removed his sweat-drenched work shirt—remaining only in unhooked overalls and his briefs.

Toji hasn't seen you though, which isn't surprising given how broiling it is outside. Someone with as delicate a disposition as you, who also happened to be as manipulative, probably convinced your uncle to let you laze around inside the house, away from the heat—and Toji.

But you were a needy little thing, always seeking attention. Toji occupies his thoughts for most of the morning imagining you growing so bored, not having him to harass and all day.

With idle hands and absolutely nothing else to do, you'd start playing with that plump lil' pussy of yours, wouldn't you?

A supple girl like you had to overflow like a dam. Toji would bet money you'd already be wet enough, even untouched, to drench his fingers—just from palming your ripe pussy in his hand.

He wouldn't mind taking more than a sip of you on a miserable day like this to quench his thirst.

Continuing his work (and lewd thoughts of you) until his break, Toji discovers he's misplaced his work shirt.

Searching for it in the heat proves annoying—it's not on the grazing pasture fences, nor in the workshed by the machines. Tsk, he swore he had taken it with him to his last station near the horses.

Passing by the cow barn, Toji hasn't had a shift in there today but he absentmindedly remembers there's was a water hose in there. He could at least cool off for the remainder of his break—maybe even rub one out to you.

However, upon sliding open the Toji's smirk grows almost bigger than the hefty cock in his pants.

Looks like he hit the jackpot, today.

There you were in the middle the of the barn, on your back in the hay, thin dress bunched up past your hips and panties dangling off one of your shapely legs—all while feverishly fingering your fat wet lil' cunt.

You salaciously had even dripped a dark sizeable puddle on the dusty floor beneath you.

But the cherry on top?

You're quite shamelessly moaning out cries of his name, uncaring of who could happen to passby and hear you.

'T-Toji!'

'T-Toji, fuck me harder, Daddy!'

All while your pretty angelic face is twisted in pleasure, eyes closed and nose buried deep in the fabric of his soiled work shirt.

Daddy? Oh how fucking filthy of you—God you were perfect slut, just his fuckin' type.

Solely focused on cumming, your hips thrust up desperately to meet your fingers as he stalks closer to you—looking every bit of the predatory ex-convict he is.

"Well, well look at what we got ourselves here doll....n'here I thought the only degenerates on this farm were us prisoners?"

Your eyes widen in shock, but you don't stop your fingers right away. You were so close to your release before Toji suddenly appeared in front of you, there's no way you could physically stop chasing it now.

Not when it only takes a lingering glance at his dark features, muscular tanned sweat slick body, and the painfully obvious way his dick jumps in his pants to have you falling over the edge. You gush, mewling as you cream around your delicate lil' fingers.

"You've been a very naughty lil' bunny..."

Sheepishly pulling them out, covered in your slick, Toji's eyes zero in on the way your hole still gapes open. You're cunt quite literally throbbing for more, you'd cum but she's still left unsated.

You clearly needed something much bigger and harder than your flimsy little digits.

You unconsciously back up deeper into the bushels of hay around, putting distance between you as Toji gets closer.

"Tsk, tsk, nuh-uh Bunny, none of that shit. Not when I just caught you being such a whore for me."

You gulp, your heart racing as he crouches over you. Toji removes his work gloves, discarding them as he forces you to lay back on the soft hay.

“How sweet of you to prep yourself for me babydoll. But, Bunny, you dumb little girl, you’re too careless. What if it wasn’t me who walked in 'ere and saw you playing with my pussy?”

You didn't think of that, when you had so brazenly snuck up without him noticing to nab his work shirt.

Initially, you wanted to just be annoying to him again, too bored of being in the house all morning. At first you recoiled when you touched his soggy shirt, yet that all flipped once you caught of whiff of his scent.

Toji smelled of a farm but somehow that smell mixed with sweat, musk and notes of his aftershave hit you straight in your cunt. Your panties becoming just as drenched as the shirt in your hands.

You didn't realize Toji, grimy from farm work, could still smell so good.

Knowing it was far past the time for anyone to come milk cows, you headed straight to that barn. You just wanted some alone time, where you'd be free to touch yourself while thinking of the ridiculously sexy ex-con farmhand.

To say Toji had been plaguing your thoughts and dreams for the past few weeks would have been a massive understatement. You were obsessed with him. Him and his irritatingly smug expression, accentuated by his scar that made him appear all the more dangerous—you wanted him to fuck you—your uncles warnings be damned.

"You tryna get me to do more time, girl? Ya know Bunny, I'd kill anyone who touched you, if your uncle didn't get to 'em first."

Your face is hot with embarrassment but your cunt is also burning up—thinking you might die if he doesn’t actually touch you soon.

Letting his coveralls drop unceremoniously to the floor, he shrugs off his remaining clothes.

Toji's calloused hands, smudged with oil and grime, grab your hips and yank you to him. You yelp and his cock twitches even harder at your cute lil noises, smearing pre on your already soaked thighs.

Toji presses his sweaty body onto yours. It's cool in the barn but Toji's heat is so intense you feel like you are out in the sun again. Having him on top of you like this finally is overwhelming your senses. Toji is intoxicating and you're so feral with need for him it makes you dizzier than a heatstroke.

Fuck, you looked so ready for him.

He'd love you take his time to really break you in—make you fall apart until he's screwed every word out of your head but his own name.

Tch—but there's about 10 more minutes left of his break—and a good 15 or so more after that before anyone notices he's not where he should be.

Toji would reluctantly have to make this quick. Snatching your dress off overhead, he tosses it across the barn.

Mouth latching to one of your stiffened nipples, Toji simultaneously bullies his cockhead past your entrance, sinking into your slippery cunt.

Both of your collective groans fill the barn.

Goddamn, you're fuckin' tight.

Your eyes go wide and moisture pricks your vision as the sting of his girthy cock splitting you open nearly brakes you. You weren't a virgin by any means, and you knew Toji was huge—but shit—it was way bigger in thickness and length than you could have imagined.

Toji has to physically take your legs and wrap them around his body so they stop convulsing.

You whine for him to wait a moment but he couldn't—he didn't have the time.

Toji cups your face, unintentionally smearing dirt across your warm pristine lil' cheek.

"Daddy doesn't have time to wait for ya Bunny, can't get caught by y'er mean ole uncle, yeah?"

"*sniffs* I-I know, b-but—"

"No buts, baby—you want me to fuck ya, rite? Then just lay back and be good doll—promise I'll make ya feel good, eh?"

You can't stop the tears that roll down your cheeks, the burning still evident in your cunt as your walls spasm around him. Toji nuzzles your neck, grunts fanning across your sweetly scented skin as he begins moving his hips.

Soon the sounds of wet flesh smacking, resound in the barn with every harsh thrust of Toji's broad hips. The sloppy squelching noises your pussy cries out has Toji feeling like she's talking directly to him.

Sweat drips off his brow and onto your face as he pulls back a bit to see just how well your slutty lil' hole is globbling him right up—you already frothing a ring of cream around his base like such a good girl—like you were made to take his dick.

Your teeth bite into his shoulder and your nails rake red streaks across his back when his fat cockhead brushes against your g-spot.

Instantly, the shocks vibrating in your cunt overtake any remaining discomfort from your pussy accommodating his massive cock. Your tiddies bounce violently whe he picks up speed rocking into your cunt—spurred on by your cute bites gnawing into him.

Toji would mark you up similarly.

God you were so fuckin' wet though, milking him so well.

For all the trouble you gave him your lil' pussy was obedient as hell once she got a lil' dick in her.

"T-Tojiiiii, puh-leaseee k-kiss me, Daddy!"

Slurring, you gaze up at him, eyes blown out in pleasure begging for more of him—for anything he'd give you.

"Yeah, baby, Bunny wants Daddy to kiss her, hm?"

You frantically nod, your whole body is tingling. You just want to feel him consume you completely, all parts of you.

"Heh, of course I'll kiss my lil' bunny—only if ya let me cum ya—m-motherfuck—ya know how long its been since I had pussy this good doll? Gotta cum in 'er."

Mewling under him, you're easily left at his mercy—yet Toji would show you none, devouring you just as greedily as you wanted him to. Your body responds so well to his praises, so needy for them and Toji doesn't mind indulging you when you're being this sweet for him.

Throwing your legs onto his shoulders, Toji raises your ass off the hay onto his knees as he folds your body in half—fucking into you deeper, abusing your cervix as he smashed his lips onto yours.

Truthfully, there's no way in hell Toji would pull out now.

Making the decision for you, the kiss Toji gives you is searing hot. Sucking on your tongue, Toji has you melting you completely under him, your pussy clamping harder around him. His deviant tongue and heavy cock fucking you into submission.

Hell, she was begging him to cum in her even if you weren't or couldn't—you looked absolutely gone—like not even the smallest thought lived in your fucked out lil' head.

Even when Toji pulls back to allow you air his lips never leave yours, biting your kiss swollen bottom lip almost to the point of drawing blood.

You tighten even more than Toji thought possible in the moment once he forced your mouth open and spits into it and your instantly swallowing it—sticking your tongue out for more.

Oh? Bunny becomes such a dirty whore once you're fucking her silly, eh?

Toji wonders what else of his you'd swallow. He'd save that for next time though.

For now Toji had to finish you, he was running out of time. Besides, he was speaking true earlier, he really hadn't had good pussy—pussy at all—in literal fuckin' years. Toji didn't think he could last much longer in a hole with as much wet suction as yours, even if he did have more time.

Slipping a hand between your slick bodies, Toji is now furiously thumbing circles on your sensitive clit.

"C'mon, Bunny baby, cum for Daddy, yeah? Squirt on this dick, just like you did your fingers earlier, doll."

Your body, utterly under the spell of his engorged cock which was currently digging into your kidneys, can't do anything but obey him.

Tumbling over your peak, you do as he asks, splashing fluids onto his pelvis, abs and chest with how much squirt he has gushing out of you.

Your head lulls back and Toji has to clasp his hand over your mouth from how loud you started screaming.

His own release follows soon after. Pumping his extra-thick load, all built up and saved over the years for a pussy as sweet as yours, into your well-fucked-open cunt.

Curses and swears pour out of Toji's mouth as remains side you, still pistoning in you with fervor through both your orgasms. Toji doesn't leave the snug warmth of your gooey core until you squeezed out every single drop he had to give you.

Pulling out, Toji immediately rolls over next to you as not to crush you further. Yet, like a magnet, his needy lil' bunny is curling up against his side, a sleepy sated expression on your angelic face.

Toji hated to leave, but he had to haul ass now if he wasn't gonna get caught.

A crude form of aftercare, but Toji hoses the both of you down.

The cold water snapping you from your lethargic afterglow immediately as you pouted and whined—the brat in you almost instantly returning.

But Toji couldn't just let you sleep ass naked, covered in his cum in the hay for your uncle to find you or worse—another prisoner to find you.

Toji was serious. He really would kill someone if they tried anything with you, he'd taken many innocent lives before as a former hitman—he had no qualms killing some no good convicts.

Setting you upright, Toji finds your dress in the hay and puts it on you. It's soiled and dusty but he straightens it enough so you're at least halfway presentable.

Toji knows you're clever enough to think of a lie if questioned further.

Although, you'd better back to the main house quickly, in case those hickies he gave you start showing up. Toji smirks to himself.

Sending you on your way with quick sloppy kiss and a firm smack on the ass, he lets you leave first.

After waiting a few minutes, Toji exits the barn, grinning devilishly upon seeing you.

You're halfway back up the hill to the house by now, but you still steal glances back at him every few paces. Still panting, you're too shy now to meet his own eyes for longer than a second with your coy smiles.

Toji chuckles.

He had you hooked.

Hah, a slut like you? You'd probably be begging for his cock all throughout the day from now on.

However, Toji knows if he keeps fucking you like this he'll soon get you pregnant.

But ya know? That might not be half bad though.

This simple farm life had been a nice change of pace.

And who wouldn't want a young n' tender cunt like yours to dump in daily? Toji would keep you stuffed full, belly round with his kids and soft tiddies full of milk—for his consumption only.

Toji muses once he had finished fucking the brat out of you, Bunny, you'd become the perfect lil' wifey.

It be good for Megumi to have a mom again and some siblings to keep em busy. Toji would finally have a decent place to raise him too, away from the city and his toxic as fuck family who'd Megumi had been with since the first time his dad got locked in the slammer.

Not to mention—the farm was a perfect cover for his con activities that he couldn't wait to back start up.

He'd only able to do so much with the burner phone Shiu smuggled-in for him, concealing in a shipment of animal feed.

Heh.

All Toji needed now was to knock you up, apply pressure on your strict, God-fearing parents to agree to the marriage, and then orchestrate an 'untimely and unfortunate accident' for your uncle. Thereby leaving the farm and the substantial inheritance to you—and by proxy—to him.

Yeah, FarmHand!Toji planned to become Farmer!Toji real soon.

©blkkizzat 2024. do not steal works or gfx, do not translate.

☼ a/n: y'all toji be making me write the most twisted nastiest things for him. i realize soft toji just don't do it for me like depraved toxic morally corrupt toji does, i really would let this man ruin my credit fr y'all, he can have it all.

i didn't expect to write this, all in a day but im at the beck and call of my main mans. otaku!gojo and nerd!gero lovers dun hurt me. taglist in reblogs.

☼ comments and reblogs appreciated ‪‪❤︎‬

[deebris]

The Mysterious Visitor 2

Batfamily x batsis (platonic!)

Synopsis: The unknown child evokes conflicting feelings in Bruce Wayne, who once again finds himself needing to deal with Talia's life problems. The girl only wanted the simple desire to see her brother again, unaware of the danger she had put herself into on her journey.

Warnings: The reader is 13 years old and is Damian's twin sister; the tone of the story is somewhat sad; Bruce is intimidating; Hugo Strange mentioned.

Word count: 2.8k

Note: I feel like maybe I could have developed a more emotional scene between Bruce and the reader, I also want to delve deeper into her thought process, but I hope to make up for that in the next part.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

Alfred could finally check the exact time now that he was standing in front of Bruce's room, admiring for a few seconds the clock in the corridor's decoration, which showed 4:17 am. He prepared to knock on the door, but suddenly a thought crossed his mind: would it be more rational to wake Damian instead of his father? Throughout his life, he had faced unusual situations thanks to the Wayne family; hardly anything would shake him now. His concern, however, was not for himself, but for Bruce.

Talia was a persistent shadow in Bruce's past, still haunting him, and although he had tried to convince the butler many times that the only link he had with her now was because of their son, Alfred still doubted it. Their relationship had been complicated in many ways, either because of her ambiguous nature or Ra’s al Ghul's insistence on trying to persuade Bruce to join the League of Assassins, making Alfred fear that Bruce's morals might deviate because of this passion at the time.

Alfred raised his fist to knock three times and waited patiently as was his custom, but it seemed that was not enough to wake his master. He knew the door was open and knew he was allowed to enter without knocking, so just this once he used the liberty the young man had given him over the years; because in the end, Bruce Wayne was just that, a young man, and would always be seen that way by him.

Inside the room, he turned on the light, and the intense glare made him close his eyes to avoid the sting of the brightness. Approaching the bed, he sighed at the sight of Zolpidem pills left on the nightstand. This had been the only way Bruce found to stop spending sleepless nights, reluctantly since he was too stubborn and preferred to patrol in the darkness. Waking him would be a difficult task.

"Master Bruce," he called, waiting for a response, but got nothing. Alfred felt sorry for waking him, seeing how he finally seemed to be resting. "Master Bruce," he called again, this time nudging his shoulder. The pills must have been wearing off because he started to stir on the mattress.

"What’s going on, Alfred?" Bruce asked in a hoarse voice while rubbing his eyes to relieve the discomfort from the lamp. He sat up in bed, leaning his back against the headboard, blinking several times to see the butler in the corner. One of the room's curtains was open, and he saw the snow falling outside with the dark sky, showing that it was still night. "Is it Hugo Strange? Has he shown up somewhere?"

"Unfortunately, or fortunately, no, sir." Alfred paused, then licked his lips, preparing to continue and finally revealing, "There's a young lady downstairs who claims to be Master Damian’s sister." Direct, as always.

"Sister of Damian?" Bruce repeated the information, still not fully comprehending its meaning. He needed some time, just standing there absorbing the words. It seemed to be taking an eternity, but Alfred wouldn't interrupt the moment of clarity he was having.

He squinted, pushed the covers aside, and picked up the shirt he found nearby. Buttoning it up and getting out of bed, he continued, "When did this happen?"

"Just now, sir."

"Did Damian bring her here?" The question had a bitter tone but never crossed the line of respect that was drawn between them, and Alfred knew he should prepare for his interrogation. Bruce saw the alarm clock and, like the butler a few minutes ago, checked the time. "He never mentioned anything like this."

"Nor to me." Alfred suddenly extended a coat for him to take. Bruce held the fabric between his fingers, confused. "This coat is hers. There’s a map of Gotham City and a letter inside. I recommend you take a look at the addressee."

Pulling the papers from the right pocket, Bruce noticed a map folded into many smaller parts and a letter witch was still sealed, though the corners were noticeably crumpled and marked by small fingers. Carefully analyzing the cursive handwriting, he read. "I had no idea Damian still had contact with his mother. Much less that Talia had a daughter," he said, still drowsy, staring at the name 'Talia Head,' to whom the letter was addressed and recognizing his son’s elegant handwriting. Apparently, she still used the alias surname.

"It's not surprising considering you only discovered your son after so many years." The statement could have easily been interpreted as irony, but it was acidic. "She didn’t seem sure Damian lived here; I suppose she found out because of this letter."

"You left her alone downstairs?" he ignored the previous comment.

"I left her in Master Dick's care."

Bruce stared at him for long seconds and hurried out of the room. Halfway down the stairs, he could already see some glimpses of Dick's hair over the back of the sofa, talking to someone, or rather, laughing with someone.

"Dick?" The voice quickly caught his attention, turning his face to see his father approaching. When Bruce stood in front of the fireplace, he could finally look at the child beside the boy. Dick began to say something, but Bruce couldn’t hear. 

He stared at the girl, analyzing everything about her, from the way she intertwined her fingers nervously to her deer-like eyes. Her iris were shining, as if she had cried, and her swollen and bruised lips were quite noticeable. She had definitely been outside not long ago, shaking and rubbing her hands together constantly to warm herself up. She seemed too sweet, but Bruce knows that appearances can be deceiving.

His gaze passed over the pendants hanging from her bracelet, a simple detail that caught him off guard. Two crossed swords and a demonic head, he understood well what they meant; they were some of the symbols of the League of Assassins, the third was a simple "T" surrounded by a moon. He shouldn’t have been surprised, Talia was a possessive woman and he knew that the "T" was her way of marking property.

"Her name is Y/n," he heard Dick say after a long time.

You noticed how this man's eyes went dark while he watched you and couldn’t help but shrink back on the sofa. It was impossible to hold his gaze, and you began to feel ashamed of being stared at for so long.

"Y/n, this is Bruce Wayne."

"What do you want?" That came out ruder than he intended, but his aversion to the League of Assassins stirred a certain anger. The idea that this could all be a trap crossed his mind. You might be young and exude innocence, but you must have enough understanding to participate in their malicious plans.

"I just wanted to see my brother," you said with sadness in your voice, questioning yourself if this whole situation was worth it. Bruce knew the best way to confirm if this was all true would be by his son’s word, but the signs were so explicit that it might not even be necessary.

You don’t look anything like her, at least at first glance, but you wore her favorite colors and clothes so perfectly matched that no girl your age could choose yet, exactly to Talia's taste and with the appropriate youthful touch for your age. The pendants, the cut of your hair, literally everything had her touch. It was impossible for anyone to convince him otherwise.

"Go get Damian." He said, and Dick understood that the message was for him. Bruce needed to make sure you were telling the truth, or at least needed to make sure you weren’t dangerous. This could still be a League scheme or some plot by your mother.

"Can I see him?" Your voice was the loudest you had spoken that night. The excitement was clear, and it was so much that irrationally you stood up to follow Dick, but a calloused hand suddenly wrapped around your torso and stopped you, making your back hit a slightly prominent belly. You looked up and saw the old man again, his expression was not happy, and you realized it was directed at Mr. Wayne, who had an arm extended towards you but that never managed to touch you.

Like his face, his arm was tense, with visible veins and contracted tendons. You didn't know what his intentions were, but by the way the old man grabbed you to prevent him from laying hands on you, maybe he wasn't as good as he or Dick. It was a very scary sight., making you feel that this man could be dangerous. Trusting the old man, you turned to hug him, hiding as much as possible. Mr. Wayne’s aura was dark, very unfriendly, but you still saw how he recoiled with his face displaying a certain sense of regret.

Dick noticed Alfred's sudden movement behind him before he could leave the room. He glanced at their faces and for a moment considered whether it would be appropriate to turn back and mention the conversation he had with you to the butler in secret, but then his eyebrows furrowed thinking of Damian. Maybe he should confront the little demon first.

"Don’t do anything stupid, Bruce." Dick thought.

Frantically he knocked on the boy’s door. One, two, three, four times until he lost count. At no point did he hear any noise inside, so he began to turn the doorknob, only to find it was locked.

"Of course he’d lock it, that brat..."

"What are you doing?" Suddenly Tim's bedroom door behind him opened abruptly, making a sliver of light from inside illuminate the opposite wall. He was obviously irritated at being woken up but still had that tone of seriousness he carried most of the time.

"Where's his room key?" Dick completely ignored his brother's attitude.

"Forget it. I heard him sneak out to patrol again." Tim's voice sounded tired.

"And you let him?!" Dick snapped but reminded himself to contain it, remembering that Jason was sleeping in one of the rooms in that wing and that you three downstairs might hear the commotion. "Why didn’t you stop him?"

"And what good would it do? That boy is too stubborn." Tim tried to defend himself. "Besides, I have his location right here. He’ll be fine." He opened the door a bit more to show one of his computer monitors tracking the trajectory and heart signals of a green dot on the streets of Gotham City.

Dick looked both ways down the hallway before pushing Tim back into his room and closing the door.

"Hey, what's this? Why are you acting so weird?" Tim was startled by Dick's unusual behavior, feeling anxious as he watched him go to the computer to check Damian's exact location, observing the dot on the screen moving. Dick pressed a button, likely an emergency notification to get Damian to return home. Then he turned to Tim, gripping his shoulders and looking at him with intense seriousness.

"Tim, what I'm about to tell you might be a lot to take in, and I need you to try to understand as much as possible." Dick pointed a finger in his face, waiting for confirmation.

"You're scaring me like this. What the hell happened?"

"No questions and no interruptions! Understood?" Dick's tone was authoritative, stepping back only when he saw Tim nodding affirmatively.

"Why the hell is everyone awake downstairs? Did someone die or something?" Jason barged into Tim's room without ceremony, trying to make a joke, but when he saw the ghostly expressions on their faces, he quickly shut the door again, this time with him inside the room. "My God," he exclaimed in shock. "Can I join in on your little secret?" he asked ironically.

"Did you see the girl?" Dick asked Jason nervously, with a certain expectation.

"Yeah. I saw a girl with Bruce and Alfred. But they didn't see me, since I went back upstairs. The mood down there is pretty tense." Jason threw himself on the bed, making the mattress bounce and Tim frown in displeasure. "I think Alfred is going to give him a lecture afterwards."

"She's Bruce's daughter."

Jason propped himself up on his elbows, and Tim had to sit in the computer chair. His mouth formed a perfect 'O' as he struggled to believe Dick's words.

"With who this time?" Jason seemed to be reacting better than Tim to the news, even letting out a light laugh. It was a typical, caustic Jason response.

"That's not all." Dick ignored his comment. "She said she's Damian's twin."

Tim let out a short whistle, processing the idea like a complex calculation. "Tell this story from the beginning, Dick. Why did she show up now?" He finally managed to rejoin the conversation. It took a while for the shock to pass, but now he had his usual rational demeanor.

Dick rubbed his hands over his face, trying to recount the night and organize the information. "Apparently, she doesn't even know Bruce is her father. And he doesn't know about it either."

"Damian also never mentioned having a sister."

"Damn. Hiding one kid for a decade is something, but two?" Jason stared at the floor as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, a strange sensation taking over the room. But seeing the melancholic expression on Dick's face, his curiosity grew even more. "What else do you know, huh Dick?" He questioned him, sensing there was something much deeper behind this, and his brother just gave him an enigmatic look.

"She said she came here to see Damian. That she found out where he was because of a letter he wrote to Talia..." Dick suddenly froze, pulling a little box from his pocket as if it were a dangerous bomb. "While we were talking, she said a man had helped her get here. He gave her a map and asked her to deliver a present to Bruce, but she gave it to me to deliver." He handed the beige little box to the two, but it was Tim who took it.

Whatever it was, it was very well wrapped.

"Is it right to open it?" Tim asked. "I mean, it's for Bruce, isn't it?"

"I already opened it." Dick said bluntly. "I thought it might be a trap, I was careful."

"Give it here." Jason took the small box from Tim's hands. It was the same size as an engagement ring box, perfect for carrying in a pocket. He pulled the lid off and took out a card, freezing when he read it.

"What does it say?" Tim was curious, taking the card from his hands and reading it out loud:

'I sent your daughter home as a demonstration of my benevolence. Merry Christmas, Batman. Signed, H.S.’

"Holy shit," Jason exclaimed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "That bastard figured out Batman's identity."

"Even worse: he knew about her before we did." Tim added reflectively, his voice barely a whisper. "That means he knows much more than just Batman's identity. He might know other things, including our identities. He probably suspects we are also vigilantes."

"I want to hear the whole story properly." Jason's intensely serious voice broke the silence that had settled in the room, determined to fully understand the appearance of this girl and how she got involved with Hugo Strange.

Dick took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before speaking. "Alright, here it is. Minutes ago, Alfred and I woke up because a girl showed up at the manor claiming to be Damian's sister. She told me that she had a map of Gotham and a letter addressed to Talia from Damian. Alfred brought Bruce to her, and then I went upstairs to call Damian, but I discovered that he's out on patrol. And now we're here."

Tim interrupted, "Wait, so Damian's been in contact with Talia and didn't tell us?"

"That's what it seems like," Dick confirmed, rubbing his temples. "The girl didn't even know Bruce was her father. She mentioned that a man helped her get here and gave her a map along with a present for Bruce."

Jason leaned forward even more. "And this man was Hugo Strange."

"Not xactly, he could have sent someone else." Dick nodded. "The present was that card. Strange knows about her and about Bruce being Batman. He sent her here as some twisted gift."

Tim, processing the information, asked, "Did she say anything about why Strange would do this? What does he gain from sending her here?"

"She didn't seem to know much about Strange's intentions," Dick replied. "She just wanted to see Damian. But it’s clear that Strange knows a lot more than he's letting on. He must have some larger plan in mind."

Jason clenched his fists, his anger palpable. "So, this girl is just a pawn in his game. We need to figure out what his endgame is."

"Agreed," Dick said. "But first, we need to make sure she's safe and find out everything she knows. We also need to talk to Damian and see what tell us about all this."

Tim nodded, adding, "And we have to stay vigilant. If Strange knows this much, we can't underestimate him. He could have more moves planned."

Jason stood up, his determination evident. "We need to get to the bottom of this before anyone gets hurt."

"But what about Talia? Did she just let her daughter go out there, be deceived by a stranger, and then simply come here?" Tim pointed out. "And you, Dick? Are you going to tell Bruce?"

Suddenly, the sound of someone tapping on the window glass was heard. The three brothers turned their heads to see Damian, clad in his Robin attire, asking to come in. "Open up already, you idiots."

Tag list:

@lafrone @sylum @mileskisser @belowbreadcrumbs @riddle-me-im-sirius

@rafa-the-beautiful @shehrazadekey @fairuzwhat @bedeater @arianapjs

@idonthaveanameforthisacc @azulawayne @nciolisa @lovelywritersgarden

@spideybv28 @faimmm @formula-space @cherry-peach-flavored

🍒

@nebuluma

Credits for the divider: @cafekitsune

[pearlessance]

Moral Modification

Summary: When you decide to pierce your nipples, Joel Miller breaks his moral code to lend a helping hand.

Pairing: JacksonEra!Joel Miller/reader

Warnings: Explicit sexual content MDNI, seduction, age gap(undefined), piercings and needles, nipple play, moral ambiguity, oral sex, unprotected sex, praise kink, size difference

NOTE: this one shot was written for my bff joelmillersgirlfriend and all of the bolded words are titles of her fics over on AO3!! if you haven't read any of her work i def recommend going over there to check it out she's incredible. we also have a 3-part co-write we did on AO3 called False Pretenses! thank you to everyone for reading, love u all <3

[cross posted on AO3]

[masterlist]

You find it on a scouting mission.

Maria had sent you and Joel out in search of books to fill the shelves of Jackson’s overused library. It was a leisurely mission, moving slowly from house to house, searching through broken shelves and dressers and nightstands.

The blistering summer heat has you feeling exhausted by midday, and so the sun hasn’t even set when you pick a still-standing apartment complex and settle in for the night.

You drop your pack and flop onto the moth-eaten couch while Joel triple-checks every exit and every entrance in the tiny apartment he’d picked on the very top floor. He’s going at it again, glancing out of the wide windows with his rifle in hand, when you say, “If there was a way in or out, I think you would’ve found it the third time.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not a man of many words, Joel Miller. But he was certainly fun to torture with lewd suggestions. 

“It’s real hot today,” you say. And it’s the goddamn truth—your skin is warm and your shirt sticks to the small of your back, and even though you’re wearing jean shorts the fabric chafes at your thighs. 

He does nothing but grunt in agreement as a reply. Few words. 

Though you try, you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face as you tell him, “We’d be a lot cooler if we took off some of these clothes, you know.”

Joel Miller is a good man. A really good man. This is why he pretends you don’t get to him, why he pretends to shrug you off as just a naive little girl whenever you brazenly flirt with him.

But you see it. 

The way his calloused hands tighten around his rifle, the flush that creeps up his neck, the way he turns his head just enough to keep that smirk from out of view. “You’re ridiculous,” he says. But he leaves his spot at the window and joins you on the couch instead.

You set your legs in his lap and when he rests his hand on your calf you half expect him to push you away. But he doesn’t—his fingers linger, pressing into the tender muscle. “How am I ridiculous? It’s only common sense, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes catch yours at the name. He’s never directly said it, but you have a hunch that it does something to him, speaking to him as an authority. A part of you wonders if he ever thinks of you in the way you think of him, wonders if his mind is often filled with sinful, raw images. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t.” You do. Of course, you do. But you’re out here all alone and he’s sitting beside you and you can feel the heat of his skin against yours and he’s so big and warm and masculine. You want him, need him in a way you’ll never even try to understand. “Explain it to me,” you urge.

Joel leans his rifle against the arm of the couch and reaches up to rub the tension from his jaw. He smiles, one of those all-knowing smiles that makes your heart flutter. It’s a secret sort of smile, meant for just you and him. “You got any idea how old I am, girl?”

You shrug and say, “It doesn’t matter.” Because it doesn’t. “I like that you’re older. Besides, I’m not talking about that.” You are. “I’m talking about the weather. The heat. I’m going to take my shorts off.”

Slowly, carefully, you trail your fingertips over the curve of your chest, down the center of your abdomen. His eyes follow your every movement, pupils blown wide and jaw set firmly. His hand flexes around your calf, squeezing softly.

When you slip the edge of your pinky beneath the denim waistband his lips part. You trace the seam, from one hip to the other and back again, real slow. Joel watches you and you watch him, transfixed, thighs pressed together to abate the ache that forms between them.

For a moment, a single moment, you think you have him. You can see the temptation on his face, clear as day. You think you’ve finally cracked the eternal goodness and strength of one Joel Miller…but his hand covers yours the moment you reach for the silver button.

Embarrassment flushes your cheeks and you feel a little like you’ve been caught red handed. 

His fingers squeeze yours, but his touch is so sudden and electrifying that the faintest whimper erupts from your chest. You want him to touch you with those hands, to touch you everywhere. You want him to take all that you offer and more.

But he’s just so good. “Stop,” he says, breathless. 

The hesitance is palpable. The strain in his voice. You know he wants you, can see the growing erection pushing at the metallic zipper of his jeans from the other end of the couch. You know it’ll only take a little more convincing, a little more of the delicious chase…but you want the final decision to be his. You want him to need it, too.

So you relent.

You stand to your feet and move towards the staircase in the abandoned apartment. But when you step between his thighs, you linger. “Did you check for any books upstairs?”

He shakes his head. “No. Don’t think whoever lived here before were much the readin’ type.”

“Yeah, well…didn’t think you were much the reading type, either. But here you are.”

Joel shrugs. “Not much to do at the end of the world. Helps pass the time.”

You knock your knee against his playfully. “You even know how to read, old man?” He chuckles softly and it feels like a victory. “Never seen you in the library.”

He spreads his legs further to give you more room, settling into the couch with his head tilted back. You know he doesn’t mean to look that fucking good doing it, but he does. Taking up all that space, commanding without even trying. It makes your mouth water, makes your skin prickle in every spot he allows himself to look. And then he says lowly, “I’ve seen you.”

It gives you pause. Because if he’s seen you in the library back in Jackson but you haven’t seen him, it means he notices you. Even when you’re not out here alone, even when you’re not urging him to touch you, even when you’re not trying. A seductive smirk finds your lips. “You gotta crush on me or something, Mr. Miller?”

Joel scoffs and shakes his head, turning away from you to hide the redness on his face that has nothing to do with the heat.

You giggle softly and decide to grant him a little reprieve. “I’ll be back,” you say, escaping the growing tension and focusing instead on the task at hand. “If they don’t have books, maybe they have something else that could be useful. Clothes or shoes or batteries or something.”

It only takes a few minutes before you realize what he meant when he said the past inhabitants of the apartment don’t seem much like the reading type. There’s not a single bookshelf to be found. Nothing on the walls, nothing standing in the spare room. There are three computers, though. Not that they’re worth anything now. 

Still, you try your damndest to find something. Anything. You rifle through drawers and find nothing but a cracked and weathered bible, of which you have a thousand and one copies in Jackson.

The closest thing you find to a real book is a stack of magazines in the cluttered bathroom. All are covered in a thick layer of dust and most have images of sports cars on the front, but they’re worth grabbing, anyway. You’re sure Tommy or Greg or someone wouldn’t mind skimming through them, so you grab the whole stack and return downstairs to Joel. 

You’re halfway down the stairs when the magazine on the bottom of the stack tumbles from your hands. And it’s not a sports car on the front page.

Instead, it’s a woman all dressed up in leather. She wears platform boots that reach her knees, adorned with heavy silver buckles down the front. Even though you were born not long after the outbreak, you’re not oblivious. You know what pornography is, but you’ve never seen anything quite like this.

You pick it up and put it on the top of the pile.

When Joel sees the small stack in your hand he asks, “Anything good?”

“Mm. Not sure yet.” You set the pile onto the floor beside your pack, nestle back into your spot in the opposite corner of the couch, and flip open the magazine with the leather-clad woman on the front, reading the title aloud. “Have you ever heard of a porno mag named Dreadnought?” 

“What are you—is that—?”

“I’m just curious, Mr. Miller. Relax.” You lift your feet and put them back in his lap and discover he is anything but relaxed. You can feel the stiffness in his thighs even through the thick soles of your high-top sneakers.

“No, what? No, you shouldn’t—you should…”

You ignore his stuttering, flipping quickly through the pages. Most of them are filled with erotic images of women dressed similarly to the one on the front page. They each have a man in a curious, submissive position. But none of this interests you, none of it even surprises you, in truth.

Near the end of the magazine is where you find exactly what you’re looking for. The woman on the front page is in different outfits, one in leather, another in red lace. But it’s the third page of her feature where she’s completely naked. Her breasts are full and sit too high on her chest to be real, but they’re beautiful. Not for any reason other than those pretty silver barbells that are pierced through her nipples. 

You lean up, tucking your legs beneath yourself, and show Joel the image. “Was this common? You know, like…before?”

His face is red and you think maybe he’s forgotten how to speak. Because no words come out, he just sputters. “Is…what…which part—are you…I don’t—”

“I’ve never seen anyone with pierced nipples,” you interrupt. “That’s what I’m talking about. Was it common?”

He seems to find himself. “Uhm…no. Not really, I guess. Why do you ask?”

You shrug and find yourself leaning into his side, flipping to the next page. There’s another image of the woman, and though she’s back in that red lace again, you can see the piercings pushing against the thin fabric. “It’s pretty,” you say. “I like it. Do you think you could do something like that still?”

“Well, back then they had people who’d do that sorta thing professionally,” he says. “But as long as you’re careful, I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to.”

You let it go, and the two of you ration what food you have left, deciding to head back to the commune within the next day or two. You fall asleep leaning up against him, head resting on his shoulder. And you know Joel doesn’t rest much outside of Jackson’s walls, always too worried about being found or threatened in some way. But halfway through the night, you wake covered in a thin layer of sweat, scorched by the warmth of his head against your belly.

At some point in your sleep, you’d shifted, laying on the couch on your back, and Joel must have followed you. His arms are wrapped around your waist and his torso covers your legs, body heat warming you to uncomfortable temperatures. 

But you don't dare move. Instead, you slide your fingers through the soft tendrils of his hair and scratch softly at his scalp, smiling in the dark as he moans in his sleep.

Your luck the following day is much better. You stumble upon an old strip mall, and inside there’s a small, indie bookstore. Joel picks through the science fiction section, stuffing his pack with everything he thinks might be interesting. He finds a few children’s books and pockets those, too, while you browse the romance section.

Half the books are crumbling dust in your hands and the others have so much water damage they’re hardly legible, but you pick up what you can. While you’re rifling through the horror books, stashing anything written by Stephen King or H.P. Lovecraft, Joel comes up behind you and says, “You really read that kinda thing?”

“What, scary stuff?”

He nods, takes the copy of Carrie from your hands, and flips it over. “Yeah. Ain’t we got enough horror out there already?” 

You roll your eyes dramatically. “It’s not the same,” you explain. You flick the corner of the book in his hands and go back to browsing the shelves. “ This you can turn off,” you try to explain. “If you get too scared you can just close the book. Have you ever read anything scary before?”

Joel shakes his head. “Not really.”

“Try it one day,” you say. “The best time is in October, though. Under the sheets with a flashlight, scared out of your mind. It’s so good, Mr. Miller.” 

His jaw feathers as if there’s something he wants to say. But the words never pass his lips. He simply slips the book into your pack and remains silent as he watches you. 

It takes a while, but eventually, you’re satisfied with your haul. The day is still early, and so you say, “If we head back now we could save some time. Get home before dark tomorrow.”

To your surprise, he agrees with you. The extra weight of the books has you feeling sluggish an hour into your journey back home, but you persist. And even though it’s significantly less hot today than yesterday, at least once an hour Joel’s passing you his plastic bottle and urging you to drink water.

It’s a sweet gesture, in truth. Joel’s got this innate instinct to provide for others, you know. You’ve seen it a hundred times, the way he just silently takes care of the people he cares about. Ellie, Tommy, Maria, you. You’ve observed him for long enough to know that he’s a protector, a nurturer.

The only problem with Joel taking care of you is how much you like it. It makes you feel soft and gooey on the inside, producing sordid images in your brain of repaying the favor on your knees. You think about Joel’s big hands on you often—in your dreams, even. 

But…today is different because you can feel the weight of the magazine at the bottom of your pack. You can’t shake the image of the woman on the cover and that metal through her breasts, can’t get over how elegant and edgy and bewitching she looked. You begin to wonder how it would feel to have Joel touch you if you had the same body modification—would his calloused hands feel more intense, sensations heightened with the sensitivity? Would he be gentle and slow-moving? How soft would his tongue feel against your skin over the adornment? 

He seems to sense your distracted thoughts. “You okay? Seem quiet.”

“Fine,” you answer a little too quickly. “I’m just…just hot is all.”

Joel reaches behind him for his water bottle again but you shake your head. 

“No, no. Not like…not like that.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat, and you can feel his eyes on the side of your face but you don’t have the energy to tease him about it. Not when you can’t stop thinking about his fucking hands. “Let's, uhm…let’s find someplace to rest for the night. Sun’s startin’ to set anyhow.”

“Yeah, that’ll be good.” As long as you stay six feet away from him. As long as you can keep your godforsaken hands to yourself. As long as he doesn’t look at you too long or ask too many questions or grunt an answer.

You find yourself praying, hoping to keep yourself from any further embarrassment, hoping to fight off that ache that seems to have made a home inside your belly. You cross your fingers at your sides and hope God’s got a private channel open for young girls with an insatiable desire for rugged, older men. 

It feels like divine interference when you crest the hill of the street you're walking on to discover a run-down tattoo parlor. It still stands in perfect condition apart from the crumbling siding. Windows dirty but intact, door closed and stagnant.

A distraction will work.

And it looks sturdy enough to rest for the night. You know Joel will circle it a hundred times before he’s satisfied, but you think eventually he will be satisfied with it. “Didn’t people do piercings at tattoo shops, too?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah, they did. At most of them, anyway.”

The thought seems to cross Joel’s mind the second you look at him. “Do you think I could…?”

“Maybe. Let’s see.” 

You follow behind him as he approaches the building. He uses his knife to wedge the door open, and the two of you wait and listen for any approaching sound. 

There’s nothing, though. Nothing but stale, empty air, and a whole lot of dust. You stick by his side for the first two rounds of inspection, as is your routine. But when he goes back in for a third, you decide to take a look around yourself. 

In the front of the parlor, there’s a big, circular desk that sits atop the black and white tiles on the floor. The walls are painted maroon, and there’s a neon yellow leather couch near the door. You can only assume it’s where people would sit to wait, but the leather is smooth beneath your fingers even after all this time sitting unoccupied.

There are six smaller rooms behind the desk, each set up similarly with a blackout curtain and a medical-looking chair in the very center. In one of the rooms, there’s a binder flipped open, and as you begin to turn the pages you realize it’s an art portfolio. 

For a moment, you wonder about the person who’d drawn all of these designs. How old were they when they drew them? Did they have tattoos themselves? Are they still alive, out there somewhere still creating art?

People in Jackson still get tattoos, you know. But not as often as you think it might have been before the outbreak. You trail your fingers lightly over the next page. It’s an image of a glass half-filled with amber liquid, some sloshing out of the side. Below it, the words Tennessee Whiskey are written in cursive.

“Should be good.” His voice nearly makes you jump out of your skin. When you turn to face him, Joel’s got his rifle slung over one shoulder and he’s leaning against the doorframe, curtain pushed to the side. “Help me barricade the door?”

The two of you spend the next ten minutes moving furniture around the parlor, setting it all in front of the entrance. It’ll be harder to leave in the morning, you know. But you know, too, that a barricade like this means that Joel’s feeling too exhausted to spend another night pacing and you’re happy to give him the assurance of safety he needs. 

When you’re done, he spreads out on the leather couch and you put your pack beside his. “Joel?”

He turns just his head to look at you.

You sift through the books in your pack and reach towards the bottom, pulling out the magazine that’s plagued your every waking thought. “I’m going to pierce my nipples, I think.”

For several seconds, he doesn’t say a word in response. He just swallows hard and when his eyes leave yours, trailing down your neck, he squeezes them closed before they reach your chest. But you know, you know, even without any words, that he’s thinking about it. That he’s thinking about you, forgetting his morals for a single second.

It isn’t until you stand to your feet and start towards the closed-off rooms, magazine in hand, that he finally speaks up.

“Be careful,” he says. “I don’t want you hurt.”

You smirk at him over your shoulder. “Is that the Mr. Miller version of saying, I care about your tits?”

He snorts incredulously, but a chuckle follows shortly after, erasing all of your earlier embarrassment.

It doesn’t take you long to find the materials you need. In one of the cases you pry open with your knife, you choose two matching silver barbells with dainty, white diamonds on each end. You use a cloth to clean off a tall mirror in one of the rooms, and there’s a bottle of isopropyl alcohol that you use to disinfect both a steel surgical tray and your hands. 

You discard your shirt and bra, laying them in the chair in the middle of the room, and flip the magazine open to further observe the woman in the image. Thankfully, you find a drawer full of individually packaged needles and take out several just in case. 

Sterilizing your hands with the alcohol again, you align the jewelry over your nipple, inspecting the placement and maneuvering it until you’re satisfied. You rip open one of the packaged needles with your teeth and sterilize it too for good measure.

Carefully, you orient the needle just right, inhale until your lungs ache, and when you exhale—

“God fucking dammit!”

You can hear his footsteps before the sound of his rifle, and then comes his voice. “You alright? What happened?”

Your exhale is somehow shakier than your hands. “I’m okay, Joel,” you say quickly. You knew it was going to hurt, you’re literally piercing a needle through your flesh. But you didn’t expect it to be so excruciating. It stings even now with the needle pushed through, completely still.

He stands in the doorway, rifle lowered and pointed at the ground. Through the reflection of the mirror, you can see him glance around the room, looking at everything but you. “Are you sure? Maybe you shouldn’t. This could be dangerous, you can wait until we’re back home and—”

“And have someone else pierce my nipples? Yeah, Joel, I’m good on all that.” You pick the jewelry up, sterilize it again, and breathe slowly as you push it through. This part, while uncomfortable, is a world easier than the piercing itself.

You twist on the tiny diamond ball at the end of the barbell and admire your work. It’s perfectly straight, much to your surprise. And though it’s just a small change, it makes you feel as entrancing as the woman in the magazine. 

There’s no blood, which you take as a good sign. And as the seconds tick by the pain subsides and is replaced with a dull throbbing instead. It hurts, but it’s bearable. The only problem is that as you try to line up the second needle, your hands tremble too much to keep it straight.

Even though you try to take deep breaths, try to shake the tremors from your hand, nothing works. And you can’t just have one, can’t just leave this task unfinished, and so you gather your courage and turn fully towards him. “Joel? I need your help.”

You’ve never seen him quite like this, you think. There’s no flush to his face, no chagrin or hesitance or resistance. All of his morality seems to be replaced with a dark desire, a need unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. 

Immediately you know this is the Joel Miller he’s tried so hard to hide from you. Only glimpses of this terrifying man have slipped through the facade, each one smothered quickly by restraint.

Yet here he stands, hungry eyes swallowing you up, tracing the outline of the jewelry without remorse.

“I can’t…my hands are shaky. I need you to do the other one.” 

His hands twitch at his sides. And even though you now know he longs to touch you just as much as you want to touch him, his words tell an entirely different story. “I shouldn’t,” he says. “It’s not…it’s not right. Shouldn’t even be seein’ you like this. Too…too young. Too sweet.”

The southern accent in his voice is thicker now than you’ve ever heard it. Deep and husky, sending shivers down your spine. “Please, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes snap up to meet yours. He pins you with that intense stare of his and you suddenly can’t move, can’t breathe. Flickering flames gather low in your belly.

“I promise I won’t try anything. I’ll just stand here. I just need you to…to push the needle through. That’s all.” 

It takes him a second, but he nods. “Alright…alright. I, uhm…okay. Yeah.” He nears you slowly and you feel crowded. You can smell the salt and sweat of his skin, can feel that warmth even though he doesn’t yet touch you.

You pour the alcohol over his hands and hand him another packaged needle. “Here,” you say. “Just do it as straight as you can, and once the needle’s in I can do the rest.”

Joel peels apart the packaging and takes the needle between his fingers. He discards the plastic and you can hear each of his ragged breaths echo in your ears. Slowly, experimentally, he reaches out and presses his fingertips just below your ribcage and it makes you moan. 

He pulls away immediately as if he’d been burned by your skin. “You said you wouldn’t—”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. Hold on.” You try again to catch your breath to no avail. “Let me close my eyes. I’m sorry.”

Joel nods, jaw feathering as he clenches his teeth. But you do as you say, closing your eyes and trying to convince yourself it’s not Joel touching you. It’s someone else. The same person who drew everything in that portfolio.

But when he does touch you again, his hands are warm and calloused and big and familiar. You know it’s Joel. Your Joel. The brooding man of few words. The too-good man who cares about you, who lets you sleep even though he never does, who gives you his water to guarantee you stay hydrated.

His hand moves upwards, palm pressed flat against your ribcage. It stops just below your breast as if he’s feeling the weight of it in his hand and you wonder if he can feel the hammering of your heart behind your sternum, too.

You don’t have time to think about it for long, though. Because his thumb slides across your nipple, hardening it into a peak, and all you can think about is the fact that he’s touching you. He’s touching you and you want more, want to feel him on every inch of your skin.

This time you’re able to hold back your moan, but only barely. It’s more like a whimper that gets caught in your throat instead. But he doesn’t pull away, and soon his other hand joins in. “Should I…uhm,” he clears his throat. “Should I count, or…?”

You shake your head. “No, no. Just…just do it. Please.” The words are desperate for a whole new reason. Your hands tremble even more at your sides.

The biting cold of the steel reaches you before you feel the pain. You try to breathe through it but the second one is somehow even worse and obscenities fall from your lips at the agony. It hurts so badly that you don’t even register as Joel slides the jewelry through and screws the diamond onto the barbell.

Ultimately, it’s his voice that cuts through the fog.

“Hey, hey. Shh. Hey, c’mon. Finished. Look at me, pretty girl. Open your eyes.” You do because that thick, southern drawl is more enticing than anything you’ve ever heard. You’d follow it anywhere, you think. Do anything it asks. “There you go. Atta girl.”

His words make your mouth water. You want to taste them. Joel’s hands are still on you, holding your hips, pressing into the exposed flesh. It’s all you can think about until he turns you away from him, forcing you to look into the mirror on the wall. “Oh my God.”

It surprises you a little just how much you love them. It makes you look powerful, like you are the one who belongs in a magazine.

“They’re perfect, Joel.”

“Did it hurt too bad?”

The question is so insane that it makes you laugh. “Are you kidding? It was awful. I don’t even know what to compare it to to try and explain it.”

He laughs too, a deep, throaty chuckle that brings a smile to your face. “Well, you have my sincere apologies, little lady.”

When you turn back to face him, you ask, “What do you think? Do they look good?”

You know you said you wouldn’t torture him, but the look on his face is so sweet that you can’t resist. “They’re real pretty,” he says. “They, uh…they suit you.”

“Think so?” You look up at him through your lashes, trying your damndest to look as desperate for him as you are. “Hurts a little,” you tell him, pressing your thumb gently over the center of your nipple, the one you’d pierced on your own. “Right here.”

He sees right through your false pretenses. You watch him swallow, watch his eyes darken. “Careful, little girl,” he warns, voice low and gravelly.

The name makes you squirm beneath his catastrophic gaze, thighs pressing together. He catches the movement—and you realize you want to be anything but careful with this terrifying, powerful man. Of course, you don’t heed his warning. “Might help if you kiss it better, you know.”

“S’that right?” You nod and a sinful smirk pulls at the corners of his full lips. He leans down and you can feel the scruff of his beard brushing the side of your face. Against your ear, he whispers, “You don’t know what you’re askin’ for, sweetheart.”

You know you shouldn’t. You know it, and yet you can’t fucking resist. You’ve never been able to resist him. “Then show me.”

And just like that, his resolve withers. The cord snaps and the good Joel you know vanishes into thin air, leaving nothing but this hungry, desperate man behind. He grabs your waist and hauls you up against him, legs wrapping around his hips on instinct.

Your chest presses against his but the pressure is bliss, fighting off both the ache in your breasts and the one between your legs. He swipes everything off the metal table in the corner. Alcohol and needles and portfolio all crashing to the floor. 

Joel sets you atop it and his mouth hovers an inch above yours, breath fanning across your cheeks. “Last chance, little girl,” he says.

He’s giving you an out, you realize. One last opportunity to escape him. You lean up and press your lips tenderly to his instead.

It’s answer enough for him.

Joel’s mouth moves greedily against yours. One hand rests against the small of your back, pressing you against him, and the other holds the nape of your neck. His tongue slips into your mouth. He tastes like honey and whiskey and sunlight. You could drown in it, you think. But Joel doesn’t linger for long. 

He trails open mouthed kisses down your neck, your chest—-and when he flicks his soft tongue across your nipple, your back arches and you forget how to breathe. 

“Joel,” you say, voice needy and desperate. “Touch me. Please touch me.”

His hands flex against your skin, still holding himself back. You don't understand—can’t he feel how much you want it? Can’t he see it on your face, in your eyes? “I want to,” he admits.

You grind your hips against his and the sensation of the bulge in his jeans against your center has you shaking. “What’s stopping you?”

A self-deprecating laugh bubbles out of his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, kisses the tip of your nose gently. “You make me crazy, pretty girl.” His hand comes around your throat, cradling your face. With the rough pad of his thumb, he traces the outline of your lips and says, “You make me feel like I’m eighteen again.” His hand travels lower, down your neck, knuckles dragging between your breasts. “Like I’m some little boy who gets a hard-on over a bra strap.” Lower, down your belly, between your ribs. “Or these fuckin’ shorts, baby.”

Everything aches for him. Every cell in your body has been lit aflame beneath his touch, longing to feel his hands, his tongue, to feel all of him. “Joel,” you say. “Please.”

He kisses a trail that follows the path of his hand, but this time he stalls at your breasts. “Sound so fuckin’ pretty when you beg,” he mutters against your skin. And then he’s kissing and sucking and biting marks into the softness of your breast, leaving proof that he was here, evidence of his affection. “If I touch you, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“I want you to,” you say. “ I think about it all the time.” Your head falls back, hips rolling against his, seeking out any sort of friction you can find. “God—I dream about it. I want you inside me.”

His eyes darken as he looks up at you. 

A man of few words. This time it’s him who reaches for the metallic button. He pops it open in one smooth movement, tongue lapping over the metal barbell through your nipple. You can feel each pass over the sensitive flesh down to your toes. 

He wriggles his hand into your shorts, deft fingers finding your clit easily. You let out a lewd moan at the commanding way he just takes —as if he’s right where he’s always supposed to be. Right where you want him, right where you’ve needed him for all these years. 

Joel kisses a path across your sternum, mouth giving the same tender care to the opposite breast. He slides his fingers through your wetness, gathering your slick and using it to circle your clit. “M’gonna take care of her, sweetheart,” he says. “Gonna make her feel real good, s’that alright with you?” 

His words are filthy and obscene and you love it. You’re nodding quickly and saying, “Yes,  Joel, yes.”

A cold shiver passes through you as he rises back to his full height, towering over you when he takes a step back. “Let’s get these off,” he says. Joel helps you shimmy both your shorts and your panties down your legs until you’re sitting there in front of him completely naked. He’s still completely dressed and it makes you feel small and minuscule beneath the weight of his predatory stare.

He places both hands on your thighs and pushes them apart, spreading you open. And then he drops to his knees and lazily strokes his fingers through your wet heat. You can feel the chill of his breath against your clit and your fingers find the outgrown tendrils of dark hair on instinct, trying to pull him closer, wiggling your hips to the very edge of the table.

“Needy girl, hm?” He laughs softly. It’s not malicious but rather adoring, and you wonder how it is that someone so strong and authoritative can make you feel powerful and cherished in the same breath. “S’okay. I’ve got ya.”

And then his tongue is on you and it feels like heaven. So much better than you’d ever imagined, ever dreamed. His scruff scratches at the inside of your thighs as he slides his tongue through your pussy. Joel groans against you like this is more for him, and the vibration of the sound pulls staccato moans from your mouth.

He slips two fingers into you easily, encountering no resistance. You’re too wet, too eager to have him inside you. You whimper his name as he sucks your clit into his mouth, hands pulling tight in his hair. It feels so good it’s almost too much—but he seems to know what you can take more than you do. 

Joel looks up at you from between your thighs and you can see the palpable hunger on his face. You think maybe he’s wanted this for longer than you, maybe he’s somehow been even more starved for this than you once thought.

You can feel your orgasm creep down your spine, inferno building and building, settling low in your belly. You try to tell him, to warn him—but then he hooks his fingers inside of you, pressing against that sweet spot and—

“Oh, God—God, fuck—Joel, I—!”

“S’alright, baby, go’head. Cum for me, oh—yeah, that’s it. There you go, sweetheart.” His voice is so gentle, a stark contrast to the assertive way he moves his hands, pulling from you everything your body can give. The southern accent is thick as he talks you through it. “Feels so much better now, huh? Y’look so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby. So pretty when you’re all full’a me.”

Your thighs tremble even as you begin to come down, trying to catch your breath, holding onto his arms to ground yourself as he stands back to his feet, thick cords of muscle sturdy beneath your shaking hands. And he’s right—it does feel better now, but as he eases his fingers out of you and you watch him lick them clean, your pussy clenches at the sight. It’s better, it is… but when it comes to good and moral Joel Miller you are insatiable.

A deep, rumbling groan reverberates in his chest when you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him towards you. Your slick stains the bulge in his jeans, darkening the denim material. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, big hands running slowly up and down your smooth thighs. “Shouldn’t be doin’ this…shouldn’t be takin’ advantage of you. Such a little thing, don’t know what you want.”

The answer comes quickly. “You, Joel. I want you.”

You reach for his belt and he watches your nimble fingers undo it, pulling the leather through the metal fastening. He hisses when you reach into his jeans and pull him out. 

He’s bigger than you thought, and wrapping your hand around him completely is a troubling task. You’re not sure he’ll even fit but it makes your mouth water, makes your swollen clit pulse with need. “Please.”

“I can’t, baby. Believe me, I want it, too, but I…you’re too good for me. Too—” He stops when you slide the head of his cock through your pussy, coating him in your slick. You watch the movement together and this time it’s Joel’s hands that shake. He curses under his breath, admiring the way he fits so perfectly. 

“Just a little?” Your own voice is hardly recognizable in your own ears, needy and deprived. You slide his cock back up towards your clit and it catches at your entrance. You both gasp in tandem. You love Joel and all his goodness but right now you want the worst of him. You want all of him. 

He nods and presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. “Okay…okay,” he says to himself. “Just a little. You sure? You’re positive you want—?”

You line him up and shift your hips forward, words fading into nothingness. It’s just a little like you promised, but the stretch is so delicious you find yourself wanting more. More, always more—you think you could die without it.

Joel pushes in further, a little less than halfway, and then pulls out slowly. He groans and you feel like crying. His cock is covered in your wetness and when he pushes back in you think this just might be enough to make you cum a second time. 

It’s filthy and obscene and you love it. You love him. He reaches down and circles your clit with his thumb, fucking you slowly, eyes locked on the place you’re joined. “You’re so big,” you whimper.

You can feel the tension in his shoulders and you do your damnedest to smooth it out with small, massaging motions. He touches you just right but you want it to feel good for him, too.

That heat of an orgasm begins to build again. A low, incessant thrum between your hips.

“I have to,” he mutters so softly you hardly hear him the first time. “I have to, baby. I’ve gotta feel you. I’ve gotta…” And then he eases his cock into you to the hilt without any warning, filling you so full it hurts. The invasion stings but your body adjusts quickly, making room for him in the same way your heart has. His head falls to the crook of your neck and you can feel him shudder as he breathes the word fuck into your skin. 

“Oh my God—it’s too much, too much—!”

“You can take it, baby. C’mon, spread your legs wider. I know s’alot,” he praises, circling your clit a little faster now. Your slick drips down your thighs, into the dark hair between his hips. “You got it, sweetheart. See? There you go.”

He pulls out just to sink into you again. This time there’s less pain and more divinity and your nails dig into his shoulder through his flannel as you adjust to the size of him.

Joel uses his free hand to tilt your chin up, pressing his mouth to yours and kissing you deep. He sets an unrelenting pace, hips grinding against yours with each thrust. It’s so much and you’re so full of him in all the best ways. When you moan into his mouth you can feel his lips turn up at the corners, a predatory grin saved just for you. 

The sounds are filthy and echo in the room, an obscene symphony of devotion. You’d let him do anything right now—anything. 

He picks up the pace, hips snapping against yours. All you can think about is how right this feels, how you were made for him, how well he fits inside you.

A low grunt filters through his teeth and he says, “Fuck, baby. You look so pretty. How’s it feel? Tell me. Use your words.”

“S’good,” you whimper in response. Your brain is mush and your thighs become a vise around his waist, pulling him in impossibly deeper. “So good, Joel, don’t stop. Please don’t stop, I’m—I’m close.”

“Yeah? Gonna cum again already, hm?” He pushes his palm against your belly, thumb still gently stroking your clit. And the pressure of it feels so intense you let out a whine of bliss. “Yeah, you are,” he whispers. “Can feel her squeezin’ me. S’alright, baby. Wanna feel it.” 

His words send you tumbling over the edge of bliss, and he fucks you through it. Stars blind your vision and your ears fill with static. But you can hear Joel though, can hear him and feel him deep inside you through it all. 

“Ohh, that’s it. Good fuckin’ girl. Pretty little thing’s just fuckin’ dripping all over me, feels so good. You feel so good.”

Before you even realize what’s happening, his rhythm falters. You can feel his cock pulse inside of you as Joel falls off the precipice. His head rolls back and the muscles in his forearms flex around the prominent veins. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, and you know you’ll never see anything as beautiful as this big, powerful man weak for you.

He’s panting when he slowly pulls out of you with a hiss. Sweat dots his hairline and that flush on his neck certainly seems like it’s staying for a little while longer. He’s beautiful, you think. Crafted by the hands of God himself, made with imperfect grace.

When he looks up at you he smiles in the way he always does, like the two of you share a secret. And maybe now you do. A sinful, dirty secret that’s all yours. You laugh softly and he mirrors the sound, helping you back to your feet. 

You hold his shoulders for balance as he helps you back into your shorts. And when he hands you your bra and t-shirt, you’re starkly reminded of the dull throb in your breasts and think better of it before putting them on. “I think they might be too tight. I’ll look around and see if I can…”

Before you finish the sentence, he’s unbuttoning his red flannel and tossing it to you. He wears a light brown tshirt underneath, the arms just a little too tight on his biceps. He looks so good that you want to take him between your legs again even with the sweet ache that lingers. “Here,” he says. “Take this.”

You do. He helps you with the buttons and it’s too big but gives your new body modifications room to breathe and heal. You ask him how it looks. 

“Better on you,” is his short response.

When you begin to fall asleep on the yellow leather couch later that night, all wrapped up in his arms, Joel presses his lips to your forehead and says, “When we get home, I wanna read that book of yours. Carrie, was it?”

You shift at his side, turning your head up to look at him. “You’re not gonna wait till October, like I said?”

Joel shakes his head. “You got any idea how old I am, girl? I’ve got no time for waitin’ till October.” He’s quiet for several seconds. And then his voice is nothing but a whisper as he says, “No time waitin’ on this to be right in the eyes of others, either.” 

And you can feel the heat behind his words, can almost hear the unspoken meaning. No time for waiting until you’re older, no time for waiting until the perfect moment. Your mouth pulls into a wide grin. “Are you asking to go steady with me, Mr. Miller?”

With a scoff, he runs his hand playfully down your face and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous,” he says. 

When he kisses you, you make a promise against his lips. “I’m yours, Joel.” 

He doesn’t say much in the way of a reply, your big man of few words. But he pulls you closer, holds you tighter.

It’s more than enough.

[leporellian]

actually i'm going to talk about the met's weird thing with the rust belt more because it was definitely one of those things where a few years ago when the new met lucia was in development i was like, oh cool i wonder what they'll do with that, but now that we're here... man does it leave a bad taste in the mouth.

here's a question for you: Why Do So Many Operas Take Place In Seville?

seville is the setting for some hundreds of operas, including many of the famous ones: the barber of seville, carmen, la forza del destino, the marriage of figaro, fidelio, don giovanni (which actually might not take place in seville but given don juan stories up to them did it sticks)... the list keeps going. and there was a legitimate reason for this- for hundreds of years, seville was seen as a seedy and sexualized location where anything could happen. that exoticism carries over into the plot of many of the Seville Operas, which often feature seductions, crimes, and passion stories that fit neatly into the tales of the seedy city.

opera is about, in a lot of ways, EXOTICIZING OTHER PLACES. the spectacle of a setting was often a major part of the excitement of seeing a new opera, especially in the 19th century. but some of these places 'work' better than others, for a variety of reasons that boil down to the politics of representation and who is being who onstage.

seville works as an Exotic Opera Location Du Jour for multiple reasons. for one thing, if you notice, a lot of the seville operas take place 60-100+ years before the composition of the opera. for example, the marriage of figaro and don giovanni were composed in 1786 and 1787 respectively, and both depict 1600s seville. if you were writing a Seville Opera right now, for comparison, it would probably take place between 1890 and 1960- there's enough of a time gap that exploring the world as a more fantastical setting is easier to swallow. for another, seville is in western europe, and many of the composers depicting it were also from western europe. there is an evened playing field. (THERE IS A NOTABLE EXCEPTION about this that I WILL GET TO SOON.) finally, now that these operas are over a century old, we're even more removed from their concept of 'seville' and the 'seville' in operas has been turned into something of a convenient fantasy location in which to put an opera. it's something out of a medieval times dinner and tournament and not necessarily meant to be Actual Real Seville at all, which works fine because Seville Operas work without needing much context about the location. don jose is a soldier, you don't need to know what seville soldiers' duties were. figaro is a barber, you don't need to know what barbers in seville were like. and so on.

but there are other opera locations that don't serve this purpose as well- often nonwhite regions appropriated by white composers. the incredibly warped conceptions of egypt that show up in aida and the magic flute, the looking-glass japan of madama butterfly, the brief moment in which la fanciulla del west wherein the opera remembers the existence of native american peoples... suddenly the make-believe of exoticism goes away and is replaced by a sour feeling because in many cases these cultures could not have a say on their own depictions in the operatic world, while the western europeans featured in the operas that exoticize locations like seville or paris could.

carmen is an interesting case study in Opera Exoticism because it features a location that is fine enough to exoticize (early 1800s seville) and a titular character that is not. carmen was- and, in many productions, is still- written as romani. she embodies many negative stereotypes about the culture- she is seductive, morally ambiguous, a smuggler, a femme fatale. yet we as an audience are made to sympathize with her. she is honest about who she is, accepting of the hard truths that are given to her; she is close to her friends and her crueler moments come across as more of an ill-planned joke than a real sense of antipathy. carmen is both a product of how romani people were written by white men in her time, and progressive in that we root for her against the (white) don jose. (and it should be noted that she knows that if he kills her he will be executed for it- carmen is about a mutual kill.) a good carmen production will evaluate all of these features and include them into the work somehow; be it through metatextual commentary, or careful representation, or understanding of what the audience is seeing.

anyway, now that we've covered all that, let's go look at The Met Opera's Current Fascination With Lower Class American Communities and see what we find there.

the rust belt and the sun belt have captured the imagination of the met opera recently, as seen in their current productions of lucia di lammermoor and carmen. these settings are depicted as grimy, miserable, and joyless; women are thrown around by men, men are depicted as one-dimensional monsters that are not to be understood or seen into. the cruelty is the point- these productions do not treat lower-class americans as people to relate to or understand. the sole exceptions are lucia- who is made out to be something of an outsider, so the audience can relate to her- and carmen, who is misinterpreted into being a sad woman who just wants love (god forbid a woman have some other motivation). the racial issues that dominate the cultural conversation in america are unspoken of in these productions, even when there is an opportunity to; this becomes especially uncomfortable in carmen, where the above history of carmen as a nonwhite woman and the opera's setting on the US-Mexico border (with the soldiers cast as border agents!) goes unmentioned in the name of 'heightening the class and gender inequality'- both of which were already in the original work along with the race inequality! these productions are both directed by non-american white people. simon stone is from australia, carrie cracknell is from britain. why would they want to depict this setting? because they see it as a dark, cynical den of seediness and repressed sexuality- a world where we don't have to worry about empathy, or broader implications, because the people in these settings do not go to the met- a world where we can look on with revulsion and unease.... this crosses the line from exoticism into fetishization, in which lower class people become pawns for the met to use as set dressing.

this is especially uncomfortable because of opera's long history being seen as a 'rich people hobby'. opera is characterized as snobbish, useless, reprehensible; an art form that exists only to please the rich and the white and the male-dominated. all of which is not true! i believe to the bottom of my heart that everybody deserves a night at the opera, and that there is an opera for everyone, and everybody should feel welcome in the opera house (or other opera space du jour). and there are so many people working to change the industry from the inside, particularly the work of artists of color to broaden the opera canon and depictions of that canon as we know them. but as long as the met continues to use poor people as set dressing instead of bothering to communicate with them in a meaningful way, as long as the met sees these settings as places where brutes live instead of human beings, that stereotype of the rich man's hobby is going to continue. and the met is going to suffer for it- as i suspect that, as time goes on, the voyeuristic lens of these operas into the lives of abused lower-class women will be seen as more and more revolting.

TLDR

[thewertsearch]

TT: You mentioned immortality. TT: Godhood makes one immortal? […] One will live forever, unless killed. The death must be either heroic or just. TT: How are those terms defined? Broadly, mysteriously, and according to the case of the individual. One may be killed by opposing a corrupt adversary and die for a just cause, as through martyrdom, for instance. This would be heroic. Or one may be subject to corruption, and slain by a hero. This would be just.

Heroic Players can die fighting 'corrupt adversaries', whereas Just Players can be 'corrupted', and 'slain by a hero'. There's a clear dichotomy here, wherein 'corrupt' God Tiers are particularly vulnerable to self-sacrificing God Tiers, and vice-versa.

I like it. It's a very mythological way for immortality to work, and it gels well with Sburb's fantasy narrative. Rose's alliance with the Horrorterrors probably marks her as corrupted, so God Tier ascension probably wouldn't grant her true immortality.

The concept is fascinatingly ambiguous, too. Morality is a controversial subject at the best of times, and allowing Sburb to judge the ethics of a Player's actions could get very tricky, very fast. There's no doubt in my mind that Sburb and I disagree vehemently about what constitutes a just cause, and I'm sure I'm not the only one.

TT: Which sort of death will you have when I destroy the sun? Neither. I'm not a god. I'm a guardian, a servant, and a weapon. I have power and knowledge far surpassing a god. But I am not one.

First Guardians are considered far more powerful than God Tiers, then. Aradia was able to get the drop on Jack, but Jack's really just a Kernelsprite imitation of a First Guardian. Scratch is far more threatening, especially since his brain isn't scrambled by dog memories.

...that said, his brain might be a little scrambled by whatever was in that HONK code. Who knows what Alt-Gamzee was cooking there.

My master can't enter this universe until I am killed. […] TT: That almost sounds like martyrdom. Are you sure it won't be a hero's death? Quite sure. My master is a very evil man. TT: Who is he? I won't tell you his name. But he goes by the title, Lord English.

About bloody time. This guy’s been sneaking around the back of the story for over two thousand pages, and it sounds like we're finally going to shed some light on this mysterious adversary.

But you must decide which objective is more important. You may decide to attempt to destroy the sun and end my life. This will neutralize Jack, who is also much more powerful and dangerous than myself by virtue of the ring he wears in addition to drawing energy from the same sun as I. He poses a significant threat to reality.

I'm still skeptical about this assertion. What could Jack's other kernels possibly offer that his First Guardian powers don't render obsolete?

Anyway - even if Jack does have better numbers, Scratch is still far more dangerous by virtue of the mind he wields.

TT: But in the process of killing him and you, I release your master, who is just as deadly? He's more deadly. But the danger he poses is sanctioned by paradox space. It is a known quantity. His very existence in a universe will mean it will inevitably be torn apart. But there are rules to his entry, and his grim procession through paradox space is rather orderly. The present equilibrium has accounted for him, and will continue to.

I did wonder if English was part of Paradox Space's natural ecosystem, charged with destroying old universes in much the same way Sburb destroys planets.

Even if he is part of Skaia's ineffable plan, I don't think that should stop us from ending his sorry ass. We might not understand English's motivations, but we do know that his plans destroy anyone unfortunate enough share his plane of reality, and countless lives have already been ruined in Scratch’s quest to bring him out. I don't really care if Paradox Space sanctions his actions - he needs to be taken down, and if that upsets the natural order, then it's time for a new natural order.

Besides, we probably don't even need to destroy the Sun to stop Jack. We have plenty of other angles to work, from exploiting his psychological weaknesses to negotiating with his slightly more reasonable deputy. Additionally, Jadesprite won't be out of action forever, and Jack can't even harm Jadesprite, due to the aforementioned psychological weaknesses. Even if she's inherited Bec's 'don't fight Agents' programing, that doesn't stop her from simply stealing his Ring. She's done it before.

Jack however is a loose cannon. He will not stop until he destroys everything he encounters.

Yeah - to be honest, Scratch, I'm starting to think you're laying it on a little thick, here. Is Jack really the omniversal 'threat to reality' that you're making him out to be?

Let's not get it twisted - I have no trouble believing that he's dangerous to individual sessions. But does he really have the juice to wreak cosmic destruction on the scale of Lord English? His battery is only as strong as a couple of universes, and he has to share it with every other First Guardian in the cosmos.

Plus, the kids can't be the only Players in the multiverse to accidently prototype a First Guardian. I'm sure it's rare, but it can't be once-in-all-the-worlds rare. There should be plenty of other rogue First Guardians floating around Paradox Space - and if they're all enormous threats to reality, then reality should already have been destroyed.

In conclusion: No, Doc. I don't think Jack Noir is an English-tier threat. And for the record, I think there's a much more dangerous First Guardian in this equation than the Sovereign Slayer.

[soufflegirl]

I love Roy Mustang, because usually the "charming and morally ambiguous™" guy of the situation is that detached, cold, emotionally unavailable character who only shows his emotions in extreme circumstances. And then there is Roy, who is this pathetic moron who constantly picks fights with his 15-year-old employee and is useless on rainy days because his alchemy ,, does not work. And he is also this character who loves so fiercely that his affection for his loved ones is his greatest strength and also his greatest weakness. Roy does not want to rise to power because he desires power itself, but his ambition is dictated purely by a desire to establish a system in which people can protect each other so that he can in turn protect the people he loves.

The villains' way of neutralizing Roy the moment he becomes inconvenient is to dismember his team and place his subordinates in the four corners of the country and take his lieutenant hostage. What keeps Roy sane after Ishval are his friends - and also his plans, but mostly his friends. And when he collapses in Lab 3 after the fight with Lust, his first thought is to make sure Riza is all right and then send help for Havoc. When he re-emerges from the Gate and is blind, his first thought is to ask Riza how her injuries are. When he has a chance to recover his sight, he decides to do so only after Havoc is healed. Roy is absolutely destroyed by his best friend's death and he's consumed by the desire of revenge, and yet what stops him from crossing the line is the idea of losing the other person he loves the most.

Roy is an extremely complex character, a flawed man who has committed unspeakable horrors and unforgivable monstrous deeds and has paid dearly for his naiveté and idealism, yet that desire to protect people that drove him to enlist in the first place has never gone away and that's what keeps him moving forward. In Ishval he betrayed all his ideals, he betrayed himself, he betrayed Riza and the memory of his teacher and the very concept of alchemy in which he believed, but that part of him that wanted to protect people did not die. And when he comes back to East City and decides to start climbing the ranks, he hides his ambitions from his superiors basically by continuing to be the idiot and lazy and womanizer colonel who hates paperwork and dicks around in the office. And everyone falls for it, and meanwhile he quietly manages to become a freaking colonel at 29 !! I love this pathetic jerk so, so much.

[verdemoun]

Fun fact, Kieran may have been originally supposed to live longer, at least judging by his many unused voice lines (found on YouTube) and a longer hairstyle which I actually think looks better for him (found on rdr wiki of cut content). Maybe he was supposed to go to Guarma? The voice lines to me suggested going on hunting missions with him but I’m not too sure.

spoilers. obviously

fun fact i have listened to the 2+ hours of Kieran's cut voice lines so many times even my housemates know it and groan when they walk in and i'm listening to it. Did you know one of his cut voice lines for a near miss in a shootout is 'whoo, nearly took my head off!' to foreshadow his eventual demise? And he has several variations of lines telling Arthur to rest with the gentlest tone suggesting he would have been one of the few characters to show concern for Arthur's illness in later chapters? And slightly less relevant but there is a cut interaction in where he asks Jack to sneak him some food only for Arthur to threaten to kill him BUT CALLING HIMSELF UNCLE KIERAN???

screenshots by cad5150

About Guarma, all but confirmed. Here is one of his cut outfits, which I think very obviously suits the vibe of what most of the gang wore in Guarma like compare it to Micah's Guarma outfit in particular. Additionally he has this hood as an outfit accessory: some people think it was intended that when he rides into camp Horsemen Apocalypse there's a moment of the hood being taken off and then the characters having a much more visceral reaction to his eyes being gauged out but personally I think it makes way more sense that he was meant to be in Banking, the Old American Art 'replacing' Sean as an extra gun. Which would have been really cool because I would have loved a conversation where they bring up they're a gun short and it spiral into more reflection on how they're not just a gun short, they're a man down, they lost the 'joy in their lives' Sean Macguire and they were still hurting instead of just NEVER MENTIONING HIM AGAIN other than a few rare character lines.

Side tangent also his scarf is different in his guarma outfit which is it's own essay because if you're going off the blue high honor red low honor theory this so strong implies we could have seen some really cool character development. looking at what the gang were wearing in banking and then in guarma there's no obvious explanation as to where he got it. how cute would it have been if we got a scene where mary-beth gifted him a scarf?? but the also terrifying implication that we might see kieran become less high honour good boy blorbo to someone a bit more morally ambiguous?

I think the question really is how he would have fit in in Guarma, which of course we will never know and considering how much cut content there is about Guarma. Like everyone else in Guarma makes sense: Dutch's descent into immorality being so clear even Arthur questions it, Bill being the one trusted to look after Javier following his rescue, supporting their friendship in rdr1, Micah reaffirming his position as an actual piece of shit in his lines responding to Hosea and Lenny's deaths and complete lack of empathy. Maybe a kieran who is slightly more ruthless and active in shootouts in guarma but also shows compassion for arthur as arthur gets sick? Maybe the attack on Hanging Dog Ranch was meant to be more a revenge for Kieran's death assuming he was taken and killed similarly to his death in chapter 4 (given how much much foreshadowing there is for his death), but just another misery in chapter 6 that hits harder because we have more time to grow attached and see him develop?

Except. Except then we get to cut outfit kieran.

first. hellooooo sailor. but who is this man. who is this man who looks older. and wears a very, very low honour red scarf. and is obviously dressed still as an outlaw, and didn't go live a happy life with mary-beth. is it. is it possible. kieran was not always meant to be doomed by the narrative??

is it possible we would have seen kieran become more loyal to dutch and micah, true to his army abandoning, gang jumping, choosing to ride with the o'driscolls rather than die, immediately 'loyal' to the vdls despite torture because being alone meant certain death, coward nature? or would he have just been a character john could encounter in the epilogue? perhaps shaken by knowing arthur, as one of his very, very few friends, died trying to be a better person and abandoned any effort to be more than an outlaw?

but. but kieran. shirt all buttoned up. scarf on. thick coat. hair slightly feral and wild. why does it looked like you're all dressed up for the cold, buddy? like- like you might have been hiding out up mount hagen.

[curtwilde]

Henry vs Julian

I have been thinking about this a lot. While Henry clearly admires and models his scholar self on Julian, their essential difference is in how they perceive the Ancient Greeks.

Julian's interest in the Ancient Greeks is true interest, he admires their high and exalted values. For him, the Greeks were the highest point of human civilization, and the closer he comes to his own time the more his disdain increases - the Roman Catholic Church he holds in contempt but it's still a 'worthy enemy' not as bad as the Presbyterian Church. It isn't mentioned but he must hold modernism and it's philosophy with disdain - modernist moral vacousness being a direct contradiction of the idealist values loyalty, honor, chastity etc. that were so exalted by the Greeks. Which is why he is always cherry picks, sees only what he wants to see, and invents what he can't - both for himself (his ambiguous involvement with the Isrami government) or for his students (encouraging Richard to lie about his life in California). Since he can't time travel back to Greece himself, he must try to live that life as much as he can and believe himself a character in a Greek play. But it comes, not from a place of wanting to escape his current reality, but true admiration of the ancient Greek way of seeing and doing things.

Henry is a true modernist. The monologue about feeling dead is central to his understanding his character:

Maybe it stems from his near death experience but he sees the world as inherently meaningless, God is dead and heaven and hell have been revealed to be man-made constructs, there is no punishment for evil and since there is no moral line. I think he subconsciously realised all of this before coming to Hampden, but to truly accept it would have been soul-crushing. So he tries to escape it by immersing himself in the Greeks, I imagine the absolutist values, vague representational ideas pertaining to each god might have interested him but really, it could have been anything else, the Medieval Age or the Victorians, anything. He just needed something to be obsessed with, to give meaning to his existence which he subconsciously knew to be meaningless. So is his adoration of Julian, he admired and wanted Julian's ability to almost half-live in another time when, in his view, things mattered more (we have divinity in our midst). It also explains the Bacchanal which is otherwise so out of character for him. The appeal was to escape the soul crushing knowledge of meaninglessness - even if for a while. To worship and call on Dinosiyus with the blind belief of the Ancient Greeks, a kind of belief that simply cannot exist anymore in the postmodern, post-Neitzche world. His harebrained plans also came from the same impulse, including the poison plan, and the one way ticket to Argentina.

I suspect that what subconsciously drove him to murder bunny, aside from the obvious fear of getting caught - is the same thing that drove Mersault to murder the Arab - it's the old existentialist question, if good and bad are relative and there is no punishment for evil, how far can one go? Bunny's murder was Henry's existentialist experiment with himself. And, I think in a way it confirmed for him what he already knew, they escaped unscathed and he didn't feel any of the fear or remorse he expected to feel. While it did give him the momentary sense of power, the feeling that he could now do whatever he wanted if he can be clever enough to not get caught, since he won't be punished for it otherwise. While it gave him enough courage to go get the girl he always wanted - it did confirm for him the inherent meaninglessness of the world. Also, conversely, Camilla could have been another experiment - something must matter, was it love? Camilla was the only girl he knew and he was fond of her - he may not even have thought of her romantically before considering he never cared to act on it in all the time he had known her. But either way, Julian's abandonment broke him.

Coming back to Julian, Julian's abandonment omakes perfect sense to me - he was disgusted by the modernist moral vacousness in his students. He himself was a moral man, but his morals operated on his own standards. He based it on the Greek sense of Honour, not the more modern sense of Justice. His basic instinct was the preservation of his own purity - he couldn't possibly keep on as their teacher. But also, to turn them in would be against his sense of honour - he must have very little respect for the police and law enforcement as institutions being the kind of person he is. Not to mention it would mean his having to be in frequent contact with the police and court. From his point of view atleast, leaving is the only thing he could have done, really.

For Henry however, he sees that his obsession with the Greeks as well as his admiration for Julian as the sham that it really was, is disillusioned with the world, shattered. Except for his fondness for Camilla he didn't really have anyone he loved, he saw his friends as pawns, wasn't close to his family, didn't have any goals in life with everything in his reach with his father's money - the only person he had really loved was Julian, and there he was betrayed. His obsession with the ancient Greeks was also thus tainted with Julian's betrayal - since it wasn't true interest at all, only a disguised attempt at escapism - it wavered and fell apart, and he didn't have a reason to live anymore.

.

Side note : Richard falls between the two. Like Julian, he had a real interest in the ancient Greeks, but he didn't put them on a pedestal like Julian did. He realised that like his own time, and like all other times in history the Greek civilization too had its own good and bad aspects, and he wanted to learn about it for its own sake. But he doesn't make it his life, or use it to escape his own reality - outside of his classes he was very much rooted in his own time.

[oswildin]

Debated making this, but oh well, here we are…

I rewatched the Loki series.

Going to add here quickly that I have been a fan of Loki since 2012/2013, and I personally relate to his character for a multitude of reasons.

Now, I enjoy the series, but I wish they made it more character focused than they had. I do feel like they prioritised story in terms of making it fit the next phase over exploring and expanding on Loki’s character to some degree (a lot of it was surface level).

For example, I would’ve loved to have seen:

Exploring Loki’s Jotun heritage, even if it was a variant of him in the void that embraced it, dropped his aesir form, a conversation between Loki and his Jotun variant as they explain why they chose to embrace it, giving a different view to maybe how our Loki sees himself/the Jotuns. If ‘What If’ could have a frost giant Loki variant, why couldn’t the show?

Expanding upon what happened to Loki during that year after his fall from the Bifrost. The reason for this is self explanatory really, it would add more lore/depth to his experiences/actions during the Avengers. Maybe address the trauma he has from it.

Loki fighting with his so-called ‘desire’ for a throne more. By this I mean, I felt he flipped pretty quickly from his plan to overthrow the time keepers to just following along with Sylvie - which is fine, but I kinda thought there would be more push back from him. I get it was a life or death situation and Loki’s whole thing is ‘survival’, but it would’ve added to their dynamic and the fact the writers clearly wanted to push how Sylvie was different to other Loki’s.

Exploring Sylvie’s backstory more. It really did feel like it was an afterthought, which is a shame. I suppose they left it ambiguous for certain reasons, but I think they should’ve had more flashback scenes of what Sylvie could remember. I think it would’ve helped people understand and relate to her more. (I do love her though).

Actually showed Loki’s gender fluidity & shapeshifting ability more. Again, self explanatory really & important to his character, plus the whole implied only ‘woman variant’ thing with Sylvie should’ve not been a thing, like at all.

They should’ve given Loki more time to process everything. This show really should’ve had 8 episodes each season, I get that’s not the writers fault, likely Disney/marvel’s doing. Perhaps then the shift in his character wouldn’t have felt so jarring, especially considering he’s 2012 Loki. I do agree they wrote him as if he was Ragnarok!Loki, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it just felt jarring considering the last we saw of this Loki was Avengers. But then I could also argue that maybe he thought ‘what’s the point of it’ because the TVA know everything about him, but I digress.

Used Sylvie more in S2. It did feel like they didn’t quite know what to do with her, her and Loki clearly just needed to sit and discuss the citadel fight, but the closest thing we got is in EP3 where Sylvie says ‘this is all rather familiar, isn’t it?’, referencing their different/opposing opinions on the TVA/He Who Remains. And also maybe the pie room scene, but it’s very vague/not directly addressed.

Explored the fact that Mobius is not a good guy more. Because, he isn’t. And that’s okay. To me, the whole point of the show is based on Loki’s quote of ‘no one good is ever truly good, and no one bad is ever truly bad’, and whilst they do reference Mobius’ own morally grey actions/traits, they don’t particularly make it clear and most just see him as this ‘happy go lucky old man who likes pie and loves Loki variants’. In fact, I actually really liked the scene where Sylvie confronts him - which is a very unpopular opinion to have it seems, lol.

Delved into the psychology of Loki further than surface level/what we already know about him. Yes, we know he’s the God of Mischief. Yes, we know he isn’t evil. Yes, we know he is redeemable. Yes, we know he’s cunning, manipulative and selfish. We get that he projects this ‘illusion’ of himself, but it was only really mentioned in S1 EP1, maybe slightly EP2, before it’s never really mentioned again. I suppose S2 does this to a degree with the bar scene and EP5 of S1 in the time cell with Sif - also I think they tried to take the narcissist angle from the pov that it’s because of his low self-esteem as to why he needs validation and it’s a defence mechanism, but they didn’t particularly make that clear and made it seem like he just thinks highly of himself.

I know it seems like I have a lot of issues with the show, and I do, but I still enjoyed it. It’s okay to be critical of a piece of media and still enjoy it.

I do prefer S2 to S1, mostly because I prefer the direction they took it in and whilst I, of course, wanted better for Loki, I can’t deny S2 EP6 is a stunning finale. I sobbed so hard during the ending and still feel the grief that I actually lost someone I knew personally. But I also have hope that this means Loki is now a main player in the next phase (am I delusional? Maybe).

I enjoyed the dynamics, the back and forth/chemistry, the story was interesting, the set & costume design, the acting, the directing/colour grading, the music (Natalie Holt, you are genius), the emotions, the fun, the characters…

So this is not a hate post by any means, I will once again state, I enjoyed the show. But, I do have issues with it, and that’s okay too.

Please, dni if you’re just going to be argumentative or confrontational. I also don’t want to hear that just because I enjoyed the show that I’m ‘not a real fan’ lmao. I’m sorry, but I’ve been a Loki stan for over a decade, and I will not have someone tell me I’m not a real fan because of a piece of fictional media. Also, please do not mention anything regarding ships on this post, I do not care for it because it always ends up in arguments and I am a multishipper so I don’t tend to fight for any side. Thank you! :) /gen

[la-pheacienne]

Ok I've rambled about this before but I want to do it once more.

You may need to sit down for this one but the Wicked Stepmother Trope is a reflection of very real life situations. There were and still are, "wicked" stepmothers. This is not just a stereotype. Irregardless of the societal reasons behind this (patriarchal structure of society), we cannot deny the fact that women, deprived of any real political power in the outside world, often abuse the little power they had inside their own household, at the detriment of other, weaker family members. Women are people, not holograms. Women historically had power however limited, and they too abused that power when they could, and they could do that against children because children are weaker. This is a centuries old societal problem that still exists today, especially in more traditional cultures. It is not mere construction. If you are not familiar with this issue, you have lived a very privileged life and I am happy for you.

However, let's suppose for a moment that the Wicked Stepmother Trope is indeed problematic and has a misogynistic nuance. I believe this is often the case and I will explain why.

If you want to deconstruct the Wicked Stepmother Trope, you have to be sure that there is a proper Wicked Stepmother Trope to begin with in the source material. You also have to make sure that the Wicked Stepmother Trope isn't already deconstructed in the source material. Which is EXACTLY the case in Fire and Blood.

So let's take a typical example of the Wicked Stepmother Trope : Cinderella. Let's compare Cinderella with Fire and Blood for a second.

There is no Wicked Stepmother resembling Cinderella's stepmother in Fire and Blood, for the simple reason that there is no Cinderella héroïne. What is a Cinderella héroïne : a passive, innocent, purely reactive girl, that patiently suffers and awaits for her Prince (a man) that will save her from her evil Stepmother (a woman). All these elements need to exist in order to talk about a proper Wicked Stepmother Trope. This trope gets this misogynistic nuance only when it is paralleled with the poor innocent fairytale heroine. It's the antithesis of the willful and driven woman that is punished in the end (stepmother) Vs the passive perfect feminine figure that is rewarded in the end (stepdaughter), that gives the Wicked Stepmother Trope the misogynistic nuance it has. And this is very important.

Now back to Fire and Blood.

Well, Rhaenyra isn't a Cinderella character at all. She is willful, she's radical, she claims her birthright, she makes mistakes, she dares, she goes against the status quo. She fits the stepdaughter role, and she too has a dashing Prince that tries to save her. Except that he doesn't. He dies, and so does she, horribly. She is not rewarded by patriarchy for her youth, beauty and submissiveness (very important factor if we wanna talk about misogyny in fairytales). Quite the contrary, SHE is punished by patriarchy.

Alicent fits the stepmother role, except that she doesn't fit the misogynistic Wicked Stepmother Trope because her punishment does not constitute an exemplary punishment for NOT being a Cinderella type of female. It's this juxtaposition to Cinderella that makes the trope misogynistic to begin with.

If anything, the Wicked Stepmother Trope is ALREADY deconstructed in the source material. By not respecting that, the writers achieved of course the contrary result : a deeply misogynistic narrative. Rhaenyra is basically a whore. The entire Dance stems from the fact that Rhaenyra had extramarital sex and that's it. That's literally it. The main antagonist was reduced to a rape victim, and had no ambition whatsoever. Since Rhaenyra wasn't a rape victim and had sexual freedom, morally she comes across as more ambiguous than the pure one dimensional victim that show!Alicent is. Rhaenyra had a choice, Alicent doesn't. So the whole BS that both women are equally victims of patriarchy comes at the expense of the actual female protagonist, the willful, daring, non-conforming female character trying to preserve her agency : Rhaenyra. It also comes at the expense of creating characters that feel real and consistent and are not just the product of a power-point on misogyny in uni.

Book!Alicent does not fit a stereotypical misogynistic Wicked Stepmother Trope, a trope whose main goal is to reward submissiveness and punish willfulness. It's already deconstructed in the source material. The author did all the work, all they had to do is copy it. They didn't, which is why we have takes like "oh if Rhaenyra didn't want to be burned alive she shouldn't have had a paramour in Court".

[jcxbliss]

Song Of The Deep

Pairing - Lee Seokmin (Siren) x Female Reader (Researcher)

Genre - Fantasy, Angst, 18+ Themes

Warnings- Alcohol use, mentions of death and suicide, darker themes present, mentions of sexual encounters, sexual themes, intercourse, unprotected (wrap before you tap please), swearing. (If I missed anything let me know)

Author's Note -sorry this took so long a lot happened since the last post from this series. I also wanna say smut is not my strong suit so keep that in mind. I appreciate it. Please Enjoy<3

(ANYONE CAN JOIN THE TAGLIST)

Tags - @hipsdofangirl

Seokmin’s Point Of View

They say that stories from the past often contain hidden truths, whether the modern world chooses to acknowledge them or not. Tales of vengeful gods and goddesses, of malevolent creatures and spirits—each carries a thread of reality that resonates through time. It was with this understanding that Seokmin, finding himself alone in the house, felt the pressing need to confront his reality. Deep down, he knew that action was imperative, and it had to be swift. Time was no longer on his side, and he could no longer afford to remain passive. This moment was not just about protecting someone—it was about confronting the very nature he had spent his life trying to escape.

Seokmin sat in his dimly lit bedroom, the glow of the computer screen casting an eerie light across his face. He sifted through an array of ancient texts and myths, seeking guidance from stories that stretched back to the dawn of Greek civilization. Each account, each legend, held the potential to reveal insights that might inform his next steps. He scoured these narratives with a sense of urgency, hoping to find a clue, a strategy that would help him navigate the path before him.

As he delved deeper into these ancient records, a recurring theme emerged, one that troubled him morally but resonated with a deep, unsettling truth. It was the concept of staking a claim—an idea that spoke to an intrinsic need for ownership and control. This notion, though ethically questionable, was a consistent thread woven through the tales of gods and monsters alike. It was a concept he now realized he could no longer ignore.

Seokmin knew he was at a crossroads, caught between the man he had been and the nature he had tried so desperately to deny. The choice before him was clear, though not without its moral quandaries: to assert his claim and embrace his true self or to continue fleeing from the very essence of who he was.

Seokmin leaned back in his chair, the weight of his decision pressing heavily on him. His fingers drummed absentmindedly on the edge of the desk as he mulled over the implications of the stories he had just read. Each tale of gods and sirens spoke of an inherent need to assert dominance, to claim what was perceived as rightfully theirs. Yet, as he considered the ancient texts, he was haunted by the ethical implications of such actions.

The room was silent except for the soft hum of the computer and the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards. The darkness outside the window seemed to mirror the uncertainty within him. Seokmin’s reflection stared back at him from the screen, a man caught between two worlds—one of modernity and reason, the other of ancient instincts and primal urges.

He glanced at his watch, noting how the hours had slipped away as he delved into the past. He was running out of time. The urgency of the situation was compounded by the fact that the safety of those he cared about hinged on his next move. He needed to act, and to do so with the decisiveness that his nature demanded.

A flicker of resolve sparked within him. He rose from his chair and paced the room, his mind racing through the strategies he had gleaned from the texts. The notion of staking a claim, though morally ambiguous, seemed to be the key. It wasn’t just about possession; it was about establishing a presence, asserting control in a way that would secure his position and protect those he cared about.

The only other time he felt so connected with his siren was when he was a kid. He didn’t know who he was but he knew he was different. Whenever things wouldn’t go his way he would manipulate his way to be the only correct answer. That was until he was so angry about his mother canceling his tenth birthday party that he uttered the words ‘I hate you, I wish you were dead’ to his mother. Two days later his mother was found dead floating in a river. She had killed herself, with no prior history of suicidal ideations. She left no notes behind saying why she did it or what compelled her to leave such a happy life behind. But Seokmin knew, he knew he had used his powers for evil, a power he didn’t understand. Everyday he hated himself for what he did and the fact that he could tell noone that he knew why.

Shaking off the bad memory Seokmin’s thoughts returned to her—his focus, his obsession. She was both his greatest vulnerability and his strongest motivation. Her safety was paramount, and if asserting his claim was the means to ensure it, then he would have to embrace it, no matter the personal cost. He recalled the stories of sirens and their possessive nature, of how their enchantments bound their prey to them. Yet he didn’t view her as prey, he viewed her as who she is and he would have kept it at that if it weren’t for the danger he feels she is in.

That’s why, later that night at the picnic, when Lucy suggested playing "Never Have I Ever," Seokmin eagerly agreed. He knew it was wrong to deliberately try to get Y/N intoxicated, but he preferred this method over resorting to other means. From the moment she walked back into the house, every move he made was calculated—from his quick remarks to his "good boy" act. His sole aim was to make her fall under his spell, to claim her as his and his alone.

It was almost animalistic how he observed her when she wasn’t looking, a truth he couldn’t deny. He was driven by an intense desire to prove that he was not someone to have things taken from him.

--------

Seokmin’s gaze softened as he turned to you, a practiced warmth in his eyes. “Exactly. Sometimes, we need to let go of the past and focus on what’s right in front of us.”

He watched your reaction carefully, noting how you seemed to relax at his words. The subtext was intentional, part of a plan he’d meticulously orchestrated. He could see the appreciation in your eyes, and it was a small victory. “You’re right,” you said, “I’m really enjoying this moment with you.”

He sat up, his movements purposeful as he faced you. His hand brushed against yours, a touch both casual and strategically placed. “You know,” he said softly, “it’s moments like these that remind me of what really matters. Being present, sharing stories, and just enjoying the company we’re with.”

You turned fully towards him, your heart fluttering at the intimacy of the moment. “I couldn’t agree more. This evening has been incredible.”

Seokmin held your gaze, savoring the way his eyes sparkled in the moonlight and the warmth of his smile. He could sense the electricity in the air, the way his touch made you shiver. It was all going according to his plan. The space between you was shrinking, and he could feel the soft warmth of your breath against his skin.

His hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek. The tenderness of his touch was carefully chosen to evoke the right response. “There’s something magical about tonight, don’t you think?” he whispered, his voice low and intimate.

You nodded, mesmerized by his gaze. “Absolutely.”

With a slow, measured motion, Seokmin leaned in. His lips brushed against yours in a gentle, tentative kiss. He could feel your heart race, and it was a gratifying confirmation that his plan was working. The kiss was brief, almost experimental, but it stirred a deep, electric sensation.

He pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours for a reaction. There was a hint of vulnerability, a strategic gamble that you would respond favorably. Your gaze encouraged him, and he leaned in again, this time with more confidence.

The second kiss was deeper, more passionate. Seokmin’s lips moved against yours with a tenderness that spoke of the affection he was trying to convey. His hands framed your face, adding a layer of comfort and intimacy. The kiss deepened, a dance of emotions and unspoken desires, his touch both comforting and fervent.

As the kiss continued, Seokmin’s hands traveled to your back, pulling you closer. He could feel the warmth of your body against his, the rhythm of your heartbeat syncing with his own. The world seemed to fade away, leaving just the sensation of your lips and the soft evening breeze.

When the kiss finally broke, you both pulled back slightly, your foreheads touching. The connection between you felt profound, and the warmth of the moment lingered. Seokmin could see the longing in your eyes, a desire for more that matched his own.

Without breaking eye contact, you leaned in again, and Seokmin’s eyes widened slightly in surprise before softening with understanding. You pressed your lips to his once more, this time with a deeper, more fervent kiss. The passion was mutual, a melding of emotions that made the stars seem to shine brighter.

Seokmin responded with equal fervor, his hands holding you close, pulling you into his embrace. The kiss was slow and intentional, a reaffirmation of the feelings he had carefully nurtured throughout the evening. Each touch, each caress felt like a victory, a confirmation that his plan had worked perfectly.

As Seokmin pressed his lips against yours, he felt a rush of satisfaction. The taste of cider lingered between you, subtly sweet with hints of the evening’s warmth. Each brush of his lips against yours was meticulously crafted, a confirmation of the success of his carefully devised plan.

He relished the sensation, noting how your lips were soft and warm, their sweetness perfectly complementing the evening’s ambiance. As he deepened the kiss, he sensed the way his presence was enveloping you. The way your lips responded, the way you leaned into him—it was all proof of his influence taking hold.

In the midst of the kiss, Seokmin’s thoughts were a whirl of triumph and control. He could feel the delicate tremor in your body, the way you melted into his embrace. This was the moment he had orchestrated, where every touch, every caress, had led to this exact outcome. The kiss wasn’t just about affection; it was a testament to his ability to shape the situation to his will.

He could tell you were under his spell now. The way your eyes fluttered closed, your breath quickened in sync with his—it was as if he had drawn a web around you, pulling you in with each deliberate touch. Seokmin was acutely aware of the control he wielded, the way his touch made you shiver with anticipation.

Every sensation was amplified in this intimate moment—the warmth of your skin, the soft sighs escaping your lips, the way your fingers clung to him, anchoring yourself to him. It was a reflection of his success, of how deeply his influence had settled within you.

As the kiss deepened, Seokmin felt a surge of pride. This wasn’t just about physical connection; it was about the psychological hold he had over you. The way your body responded so willingly, the way you seemed to surrender to the kiss—it was all part of his grand design. He was affirming his place in your world, making it clear that his presence was both irresistible and inescapable.

As Seokmin felt her fingers exploring his hair, he was acutely aware of the subtle vibrations of her breathing and the gentle tremors in her touch. Each soft, breathy noise she made while they kissed sent jolts of electricity through him, igniting a fire he hadn't anticipated. His hands instinctively found their way to her hips, gripping them with a possessive urgency, as though his touch was the only thing preventing her from slipping away.

The world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you in this suspended reality where Seokmin’s control was absolute. But as the kiss reached its peak, he felt you begin to pull away.

When she finally pulled back, her breath catching in her throat, Seokmin's gaze remained locked on her. He saw her left hand rise to press softly against her lips, an innocent gesture that revealed the depth of her emotions. In that moment, Seokmin realized she held something he desperately wanted—something he knew she might not even be aware she was offering.

His right hand glided up her side before coming to rest on her cheek, his fingers brushing a strand of hair behind her ear to better see her. At the same time, she lowered her hand to his chest. The contact was electric, heightening his awareness of her and intensifying the connection between them.

‘Please don’t stop here’ He softly begged in his head before pushing towards his end goal.

Seokmin began to run his right end from where he tucked the strand of hair to her cheek, savoring the feel of the soft skin as he cupped it for a moment. Watching her face he saw her eyes fog over with some sort of need. Though he knew he would have to make the final push to cement his intentions.

‘I am sorry’

“Please,” Purposefully he drags his hand lower to her lips and places his thumb against her bottom lip. He lowered his voice allowing a desperate tone to escape his words.

‘Please understand, I am doing this for you’

“Please what Seokmin,” You had questioned him, there was many answers to that question.

‘Please run, get away from me’

Seokmin leans closer to your right ear, for a brief, charged moment, his gaze seemed to deepen and darken, as if an unseen force was drawing the light out of them. The irises shifted, turning into a striking shade of deep, oceanic blue, their depth now holding an almost hypnotic quality. Flecks of shimmering silver, like moonlight caught on waves, began to swirl within the changing hue, giving his eyes an otherworldly, mesmerizing glow.

“Let me ruin you,” His voice dropped four octaves lower as he tugs on your bottom lip that he was playing with before. “Let me show you that no one will be as good as me,” Seokmin adds in before dragging his tongue against the nap of your neck and sinking his teeth into the flesh. This pulls a yelp from your lips that throws fluid to his fire.

‘Kill her’

The hand that once rested against his chest trailed its way up all the way to his throat before you wrap your fingers around it. Each movement leaving his inner self screaming for her to run away from him.

“I’d like to see you try,” Your words fall into the air followed by the squeeze of his neck and is what makes him come undone, what ever self control he thought he possessed was no longer available to take up rent space in his mind.

‘Time to play’

Seokmin is quick to grab unto your wrist and push you back on the blanket, placing his free hand around your throat quickly. A growl rolls up through his throat as he fights with himself to not break your neck.

Sirens are sexual beings, but they are also murderous. They will take everything from you and kill you with the slightest disrespect. They do not care, they are selfish and vile creatures that take and never give. It is almost like a game of cat and mouse but you will always be caught in the end. There is very rare chance of escaping the grasps once a siren has their eyes on you. In Seokmin’s case, this will not end up with someone dying, this is to save someone.

Readjusting his hand placement he hold unto your chin and forces your head to look to the left leaving your neck exposed to him. Leaning down he begins to kiss your neck his grip on your wrist loosening.

“Safe word,” Seokmin mumbles into the crevice of your neck, his hand that once held your wrist glides down to your elbow leaving Seokmin vulnerable to the idea of using you for his own gain. Seokmin pulls back to look at you in your eyes to watch your reactions.

Your body shivers at the touch as you look up at him through blown pupils, your lip caught in between your teeth holding your breath scared but willing for his next move.

“Come on sweetheart use your words.” He sensually says glancing from your lips to your eyes. He watches as your look off to the side looking for something before you mutter two words.

“Red Wine.” Your voice comes out breathless as you turn your head back to look at him.

His hand that was was resting by your elbow moves further down until it stops at the hem of your dress hiking it up higher on your thigh. At this point Seokmin found himself lowering his lips to kiss down your neck once again this time traveling lower to your exposed collarbone.

Your Point of view

As Seokmin’s fingers danced across your thigh you could only respond by arching your back up towards his body. You felt like your skin was on fire, the near closeness of him sobered you up from the alcohol but filled you with a different type of drunk.

“May I?” Seokmin voice cuts through the sound of your beating heart his finger tapping against your dress.

“Yes,” This one word truly cemented that there was no way back from this. Pulling back from your body he takes both of his hands and push up your dress having it land on your belly button exposing your underwear.

A small low chuckle leaves his lips as he stares at the beauty below him. “How did you know my favorite color was blue?” He hummed as he looped his finger on the top of your underwear playing with the bow.

‘I wish I wore a better pair.’ You thought embarrassingly since you were only dawning a simple pair a blue underwear. A pair you got in a pack from walmart for less then ten dollars.

Pushing himself back he begins to press kisses against your stomach getting closer and closer to your underwear. Soft moans escape your lips, his warm lips felt like heaven against your cold skin. Seokmin takes the fingers that were once playing with the small bow and began to strip you of your garment his lips following in the trail until they land just above your clit and he stops.

“Fuck,” Seokmin purrs out looking up at you through his eyelashes, “You needy little thing.” He places two fingers between your lips gathering your dampness. A shiver runs through your body at the sensation. “So wet and I haven’t even done anything.” Taking those two fingers he brings them up to your lips.

“Suck,” He demands his voice powerful and enchanting.

Seokmins Point Of View

‘Y/N would you still be this eager for me if you knew the awful shit I want to do to you.’

As you sucked on his fingers his body felt like it was on fire. He was burning with energy, his siren screaming to be let out.

“Good girl,” He praises before making eye contact with your pussy, taking his now extra lubricated fingers he pulls apart your lips and leans closer. His eyes shifted again this time he didn't care as he licks a long strip collecting your wetness.

You tasted like honey on his tongue and the moans he enlisted from your pretty lips only made him want to take more from you. He began to lick more his tongue connecting with your clit causing your hips to jerk up instinctively.

“There you go pretty girl.” He slips one finger inside of you and curls it watching your reaction from between your legs, the way your eyes rolled back into your head and your mouth hangs agape at the new sensation. You were warm and soft around his finger, and with every curl of his finger he felt resistance causing his finger to ache but he didn’t want to stop.

“Seokmin,” You moan out your voice coming barely above a whisper-music to his ears.

“You are taking me so good,” His voice sounded slightly different, it had more of a melody to it. He begins to add another finger watching as it slips into your greedy hole. He pairs to movement of his fingers to the movement of his hand curling and licking you. Your moans became more prevalent and louder.

He pulls away from your body which causes a whine of loss to slip from your lips. He began to undress himself starting with his loose fitting white tee. As he pulls it over his head he shivers a bit at the cold air hitting his torso goosebumps dimpling his tan skin. Once it was over his head he discarded it off to the side it landing in the sand with a thump. This is when he looks at you, really looks at you. The way your eyes were heavy from the little amount of pleasure he had placed upon you. How your cheeks were red from a mixture of blush and arousal. How your hair sprawled underneath your head. You were beautiful, you had a unique beauty to you. A human beauty to you, it was so simple yet so captivating.

Seokmin leans down and places his lips against your cheek holding them there for a few seconds before sliding his hands up your dress. When his hands meet with your ribs he taps his fingers twice against them.

“Sit up beautiful so I can take this off of you.” He mutters against your cheek in which you reply and sit up with him holding your sides. He pulls the dress off of your body and takes a good look at you. “Damn.” He mutters.

‘If things were different we would be good together’

“What?” Your voice comes out small and shy as you take your arms and place them against his pecs. He shivers again as your nails drag against his skin.

“I want to be inside of you,” He says bluntly as he grabs your hands from his chest and leads them downward to his pants. “Take them off,” he growls.

Your Point of View

‘Was he always this hot?’ You questioned your body gradually heating up. Your thighs were sticking together from the mess that Seokmin had made.

With shaky hands you unbutton his pants and drag them down his body before they get stopped at his knees in which he does the rest. Watching intently you see him throw them off to where his shirt laid. The only thing left on his body were a pair of tight black briefs, outlining his bulge.

He was huge.

Laying a flat hand against his chest you drag it down his pelvis eliciting a lewd groan from Seokmin. This gave you courage to hook your fingers to his waistband and drag his briefs down.

Every inch exposed of his skin made you more excited. Eventually he was exposed to you completely naked, his eyes barring down at you. Cautiously you wrap your hands around his base causing a sudden gasp to leave his lips.

“Y/N, what are you doing?” Seokmin questioned but never made a move to stop you.

You licked your lips, shifting your hips slightly to get more comfortable. “What does it look like?” Running your thumb across the slit of his cock your hone into his reactions. A shiver runs through his body and he sucks his lip between his teeth.

You instinctively lean in, your heart racing with excitement as you draw them closer. As one hand left feathering touches against his cock you took your time with your free hand running up and down his thigh. Eventually you begin to pepper kisses starting mid thigh all the way up to his pelvis. For a brief moment you pause looking up at him for permission. He nods slowly his right hand weaving into your hair and giving he a gentle squeeze.

As you take them into your mouth, a shiver runs through you both. You can taste them, feel them, and every sensation ignites a fire within you. Seokmin tasted of salt and skin, which didn’t bother you. Taking your tongue you swirl it around his tip and push your head down until your nose meets skin. A gag mixed with a hum of surprise vibrated around him as the air filled with his pretty moans.

“Fuck-“ Seokmin groans out his fingers tightening their hold in your hair.

The connection intensifies as you lock eyes, a silent understanding of shared pleasure passing between you. You take your time, savoring every moment, the way his breath hitches and his body responds to your movements. You explore every inch, relishing the way they react, the way their pleasure fuels your own.

You quicken your pace slightly, letting instinct guide you. Each rhythmic motion drives you both closer to the edge, the night air filling with wet sloppy sounds and his melodious moans. After about two minutes Seokmin grips your hair tightly and pulls you off of him.

“Not like this,” He says breathy as he grabs your face and pulls you up to meet his lips. Pushing you back down to the blankets Seokmin hovers above you, his body blocking out the moonlight as he leans in closer. His lips continue to find yours in a searing kiss, igniting a fire deep within you. The taste of him is intoxicating, and you melt into him as his hands explore your waist, fingers trailing over your skin, igniting sparks of pleasure with every touch.

With a teasing smirk, he pulls back slightly, his breathing heavy as he gazes into your eyes. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he breathes, his voice low and husky. You feel a rush of anticipation flood through you as he begins to kiss down your neck, each tender nibble causing you to arch against him.

“Please, Seokmin,” you manage to gasp, your voice thick with need. He looks down at you, the intensity in his gaze igniting your core.

In one fluid motion, he positions himself at your entrance, his eyes locked on yours as he enters you slowly, filling you completely. You both gasp in unison—the sensation overwhelming as he stretches you perfectly. At first it hurt, a familiar burning sensation but it pooled away when pleasure hit you. Tears brimmed as you winced when he adjusted slightly the kissing of your teeth caused him to pause.

“Are you okay?” This was the first time he checked in with you. Concern lacing his eyes as he takes a hand and gently touches your cheek. With a nod in response you clench around him, he felt amazing.

Seokmin begins to move, each thrust deliberate and deep. The sensation of his body sliding against yours mixes with the sound of the ocean, creating a hypnotic rhythm. You can’t help but let your head fall back, surrendering to the pleasure that washes over you with every movement.

“Just like that,” he grunts, watching your reactions closely. His hands grip your hips, anchoring you in place as he drives deeper, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. The world around you fades—there’s only the two of you, lost in the primal dance of desire.

“Seokmin,” you breathe, the pleasure building, your body rising to meet him as your nails dig into his back. He brushes his lips against your ear, whispering words that send shivers down your spine, fueling the fire that’s pooling within you.

As the tension reaches its peak, you can feel yourself spiraling toward the edge, pleasure coursing through you like a wave crashing onto the shore. Seokmin can sense this too or at least you think he does because he grabs onto your thigh and digs his nails into your skin.

“You are so close Princess,” He grunts into your ear, caging you underneath him as he slows down his thrust. “Beg for me to let you cum.” He growls into your ear, his grip on your thigh tightening as he halts his movements. “Beg like I am the only man who has ever made you feel this good.” He coos before nipping at your ear.

“Please,” You choke out, “Please l-let me.” He chuckles at your pleading as he begins to speed up his hand wrapping around your throat.

“Cum for me princess,” He grunts, using the hand that gripped your thigh he begins to rub against your clit to get you closer than before.

The band that had been building in your stomach snaps. Warmth floods over your body gasping out in need of air as his name leaves your lips like a mantra.

Seokmin follows closely after, his own moans mingling with yours as he finds his release, burying himself deep within you as waves of pleasure radiate through both your bodies. During the slow down he pushed his head into your neck breathing heavily against it. Your hands find solace against his back as you guys are still only breathing away the sex and high.

In the middle of gaining coherence you hear him say something strange.

“She is mine.”

[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

Fic: Something to Sink Your Teeth Into 1/3

Guys, I don't even know. Have some Vampire!Tommy/Witch!Buck for shits and giggles.

(CW: age gap? In that Buck's like 22 and Tommy's like 800; morally ambiguous!Tommy in that he's decent for a vampire but does not have a problem with hunting humans)

Read on AO3

The music was louder, the skirts were shorter, and lights were brighter, but somehow nothing at all had changed about these parties in two hundred years.

Wall-to-wall bodies, all of them vying to show off who had the most money, the finest jewelry, the prettiest partner hanging on their arm. The din of voices rising and falling to be heard over the music pumping through the room. Liquor flowing like water, waitstaff carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres that probably cost more than they made in a month. People practically falling over themselves to be seen, to be noticed, to be admired.

All of them completely unaware of the predators that walked among them.

“You don't look like you're having much fun, Kinard.”

He didn't react outwardly beyond raising an eyebrow as Lucy sidled up next to him, a glass of what was most assuredly not red wine in her hand. She leaned back against the wall he'd been holding up all night, scanning the crowded room in front of them with a practiced eye. No doubt she'd already identified the major players here tonight and had been working the room to their advantage since she arrived. Lucy was the youngest of their little coven–turned a mere fifty years ago–but she was already Alonzo's right hand. A position he had been only too happy to cede to her.

“I'm not,” he said dryly, waving away pretty waitress when she started to approach with a tray of champagne flutes, and ignoring the look of pouty disappointment that flashed across her face.

Lucy gave a neutral hum and sipped at her wineglass, her nose wrinkling briefly. Tommy could smell the anti-coagulants in the bagged blood Gerrard was serving the special guests…cheap bastard. Though he supposed it was better than the old days where he would just lure some desperate, destitute souls in off the street and bleed them dry right into the decanters he had sent up to the banquet tables. Okay, maybe these parties had changed a bit in two hundred years.

“You trust that shit?” he asked, jerking his chin towards the glass. Lucy smiled and threaded her arm through his.

“Gerrard's not stupid enough to try and poison me with you and Sal right here,” she said. “Spiteful enough, sure. But not stupid enough.”

Tommy grunted, a slight smile twitching at his lips. It was true. Gerrard was one of the oldest and most powerful vampires on the west coast. His coven sprawled across several cities, and his place at the forefront of coven politics was undisputed. In comparison, Alonzo’s coven was tiny. But they were incredibly respected, well-connected and well-established. Sal had friends in nearly every coven apart from Gerrard's and Tommy…well.

Tommy was also one of the oldest and most powerful vampires on the west coast.

He and Gerrard had history that stretched back much farther than the two centuries Gerrard had been hosting these “parties,” a long and (quite literally) bloody history. He hated the man more than he had ever hated anyone or anything in existence. Including the vampire that had made them both. Gerrard was better at politics, had amassed more power than Tommy could ever have even if he wanted to.

But Tommy had always been stronger.

So yes, Gerrard may have been spiteful enough to try and fuck with their representatives at this little soiree…but he wasn't stupid enough to try anything with Tommy right there.

“Any chance we can duck out before the finale tonight?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

Lucy dug her elbow into his side before letting go of his arm. “Hey, I know you can get by on a couple pints every month, but I'm fucking starving,” she said. Then she sobered and glanced around before leaning up to whisper in his ear. “Besides, Gerrard's been trying to put some bugs in ears about us going soft, not hunting properly. We can't afford to look weak with Gerrard trying to ally with Ortiz. The humans he brought in tonight are gonna die no matter what. Sucks for them, but things are too volatile. You don't have to tear some kid's throat out, but you're not leaving.”

“I hate it when you're logical,” he muttered back, leaning down to kiss her cheek before disengaging from her entirely and straightening up from the wall. “Guess I'll go do a lap. Remind everyone I'm here,” he said. Lucy chuckled.

“Oh trust me, Kinard. Everyone knows you’re here.”

He flipped her off as he skirted the edges of the party, scanning the crowd of writhing bodies with distaste. There were a lot of humans here. Maybe a few coven pets or potential turns–but if he knew Gerrard (and to his everlasting despair, he did) most of them were completely ignorant of the nature of this party, and the bloodbath in their very near future. No doubt they were all people not many would miss–struggling actors who'd come to LA with nothing but audacity and a dream, broke college kids with few family ties, temp agency regulars who barely stayed on a job long enough for people to know their face, let alone their name. Cattle, as far as Gerrard was concerned.

Granted, Tommy used to share that attitude. And hell, it wasn't like he was protesting the mass murder that was about to happen, or trying to warn anyone. He did, as a rule, avoid the wanton violence that Gerrard enjoyed so much, preferring to drink from willing coven pets or flit from victim to victim in the anonymous atmosphere of a club or bar, taking a sip here and a sip there until he was satisfied. Tommy had the self-control to do that, though, and at his age his hunger was easily sated.

He waded through the crowd, expertly ducking away from wandering hands and flirtatious glances, and nodding politely to the members of other covens he knew. Gerrard was hosting in one of the many sprawling mansions his coven owned, the party spread throughout the entire ground floor of the house. Eventually he found a parlor or gameroom or something that had been set up as a sort of bar area. Several bartenders were stationed at various points, all of them dressed in rental uniforms from the same temp agency. Idly, he wondered if Gerrard had someone on staff funneling victims to him. Probably.

Fucking bastard.

The guy holding court at the section Tommy ended up at was just a kid. Granted, pretty much everyone in the room, fellow vampires included, was a kid to Tommy. Hell, there were world heritage sites that were younger than him. But this was a kid. Tommy knew he had to be twenty-one for the temp agency to send him to tend bar, but if he was much beyond that, Tommy would kiss Gerrard when he saw him. He reminded Tommy almost painfully of Lucy the first time he'd seen her.

Granted…he'd never been quite so aware of how beautiful Lucy was.

And the kid was. Beautiful.

Unfairly blue eyes. An easy, charming smile that lit up his whole face like sunshine. Sandy brown hair that was starting to curl where his hairline was damp with sweat. A pink splotch of a birthmark over his eye that gave his handsome face a bit of character in the sea of LA-good-looking people. He mixed cocktails and poured drinks with a smooth confidence that didn't quite go all the way through, the whiff of false bravado in such a pretty package drawing the predators around him like catnip.

What was weird, though, was the guy seemed to be noticing. Not that it was particularly noteworthy that some hot young thing in this line of work would notice unfriendly eyes on him…but as Tommy watched, the kid's blue, blue eyes skated dismissively over the humans watching him with hungry eyes, but zeroed in on every single vampire that approached him and watched them unblinkingly until they moved away from him.

Intrigued as well as admiring now, Tommy slid into an open spot at the bar being tended to by another young man (not nearly as interesting or attractive) and ordered a whiskey, neat, and separate glass of Coke. Human food and drink was useless to him, of course, but he did still enjoy the taste of good alcohol. He could while away quite a bit of time just sipping on a drink, holding the taste in his mouth, savoring the flavor, before reluctantly spitting it out into another glass.

He watched the young man with the birthmark get jumpier and jumpier as the night wore on, though he hid it well. He didn't have any of the tattoos or sigil rings or jewelry that the covens used to mark their pets, didn't smell like he spent a great deal of time around vampires (although whatever cologne he was wearing smelled fucking delicious, and Tommy usually hated the artificial scents humans doused themselves in). He wasn't exactly sure why he was so interested in the kid…but damned if he wasn't curious. There was maybe even the thought that if he had to participate in tonight’s “feast,” he may as well indulge in such a tempting offering. The poor boy was going to die, anyway…Tommy could make it gentle. Pleasant, even.

He'd resolved to hang around the bar and stake his claim quickly when Gerrard announced that dinner was to be served, when the kid quietly grabbed the bartender who had served Tommy by the elbow and jerked his chin towards a darkened hallway that led off into another part of the mansion. The other bartender rolled his eyes, but followed willingly enough. Tommy was debating on following them, when one of Gerrard’s newer turns melted from the crowd and followed the path they'd just taken.

Tommy narrowed his eyes, recognizing the expression on the younger vampire's face. He was hungry. And he was tired of waiting.

It wasn't really his business. But unaccountably, he didn't like the idea of one of Gerrard's lackeys following the pretty human. He didn't like the idea of anyone else sinking their fangs into the intriguing kid, but especially one of Gerrard's people. Damn it.

He got up from the bar and made his own way down the hall.

“I'm telling you, man, something’s off here! We should go.” The urgent voice was whispering, but away from the music pumping in the other parts of the house, Tommy was able to hear it easily.

“Go? Are you fucking crazy? Evan, we're getting two grand each plus tips. That's rent and bills for this month and it's only the first!”

“Exactly!” ‘Evan’ hissed back. “You don't think that's fucking weird? The temp place doesn't book us in places like this! Please, let's just cash out and go. Something's…something's really wrong here. Something bad.”

“Evan,” the other bartender sighed. Tommy paused in the shadows of the darkened hallway, cocking his head and just listening. “Dude, normally I would totally take your word on vibes, but we need the money, man. Like–are you seriously telling me you can't show some creepy old dude a good time for a couple hours? For two grand?”

“Max! I'm not talking about some old creep grabbing my junk, something is wrong here and we need to leave.”

‘Evan’ sounded increasingly desperate, and Tommy frowned. Just what was freaking the kid out so much? What had he figured out? Tommy fucking hated Gerrard, but credit where credit was due, he was good at hiding the true nature of these parties until it was too late.

“Look man, you can leave if you want. I'm sticking it out. If one of these rich fucks tries to touch your no no box, send ‘em my way, okay? I will be happy to show them a good time for this kind of cash.”

“Max!”

Tommy heard a scoff and then the sound of feet rapidly approaching. The other bartender stalked past Tommy without even acknowledging him. Shame. He should have taken Evan's advice. It had to be getting close to midnight, and Gerrard was a dramatic fuck. If all the doors and windows weren't locked, yet, they soon would be.

But Tommy wasn't interested in Evan's friend. He continued down the hallway, ears pricked and listening for the other vampire that had followed the young men. The mansion was a labyrinth of hallways and interconnected rooms…the other must have skirted another route to avoid being seen.

His suspicions were proven right when he rounded the last corner of the hall and came out into an unused parlor. It was too small to be of much interest to the party-goers, too far removed from the main part of the house. It did have a lovely pair of French doors that opened out onto the moonlit garden, though. The other vampire must have detoured through the gardens.

He'd burst through the French doors.

And he had the pretty human pinned up against the opposite wall.

He wasn't even trying to hide his true nature, his fangs fully dropped and grinning, his eyes the gleaming, blood red of vampire about to feed.

“No need to leave early,” the vampire hissed, like a fucking cartoon villain. “We can get started on the main event right now.”

God, even Gerrard's turns were dramatic fucks.

The kid was clawing at the hand around his throat, his eyes wide with terror, the piercing scent of fear filling the room. He kicked and hit at his attacker, fighting like a maddened animal. Gerrard's turn just laughed, enjoying his struggles, a cat playing with a mouse. Tommy growled, low in his throat. He didn't really mean to…it just happened.

The other vampire startled a little, his gaze whipping over his shoulder towards Tommy, his grip on the kid's throat loosening.

Evan dragged in a desperate gasp of air, grabbed hold of his attacker's shoulders, and croaked out a word in a language other than English. Tommy's ears caught on it, the shape and sound of it dimly familiar, calling up barely-there memories of sitting in church with a woman whose face he hadn't been able to picture clearly in centuries.

Beneath Evan's hands, the other vampire's clothes started to smoke. Still facing Tommy, his face contorted in surprise. And then pain.

And then he was burning.

Fire raced over his body, exploding outwards from his chest, consuming him in a flash, in a heartbeat, in an instant. Before Tommy's very eyes, the turn's body dissolved into glowing ash, erupting into a cloud of fine grit that scattered over the floor in front of the kid.

A witch.

The thought skipped through Tommy's head, shock almost making him slow, almost making him miss the way the kid's head snapped up, his terrified gaze zeroing in on Tommy. A witch. The kid was a witch. He was a witch and he was looking at Tommy, realizing Tommy was another of the things that had just tried to kill him.

He saw the kid's face harden, saw him reach one hand out towards Tommy, pointing as he opened his mouth again.

The kid was a witch. But Tommy was very powerful. And very fast.

In a flash, he was across the room, snatching the witch up and shoving him against the same wall Gerrard's turn had. He clapped his hand over the boy's mouth, crowding in close and holding him immobile with his bulk.

“None of that,” he said, “someone's gonna have to vacuum this carpet tomorrow.”

The witch, Evan, glared at him furiously, his chest still heaving, his scent still sour with fear.

Behind them, the thumping music of the party suddenly cut off. A moment later, the first piercing scream rang out in the mansion.

“Guess it's dinnertime,” Tommy sighed, groaning and looking up at the ceiling a moment. “Well. What am I gonna do with you?”

[medusas-graveyard]

Unhealthy Obsession.

Okay wait actually, remembering how it took a while for Pariah Dark to get sealed off just means that they were some bending in his sworn oath, right?

Okay another angst prompt, consider; softly insane! Danny.

(Tw: Dark!Danny, morally ambiguous? No one's having a great time tbh but like it's poetically soft imo. Also our boy's officially lost it :∆ his words are cryptic.)

Final warning: This is depressingly sad for Danny's part, sure. But he's also unjustified so I'll classify this as [Dead Dove: Do not eat]

Danny's adopted by the Waynes just like, a bit little short time before his coronation (also he's around 16-18 years old because I'm dragging the desperate for validation because he never felt seen unless someone praises him trope). At that time span he's this very rarely seen brother that's absolutely trying his best between juggling his very impromptu 'how to be a proper monarch' lessons (read: the ancients drilling manors, rules, oaths, etc to his poor head because they don't want a repeat Pariah Dark) and being a present family members because he genuinely loves them. (They know about the vigilante stuff and the Waynes understandably backed away from convincing him, seeing how Danny already has shit ton on his plate.)

Until one day something big happens that almost ended the world, and Bruce dies. It was just him and his dad there, with no other bird or bat in sight. No one knew yet— no one needs to know. Kronos' carefully crafted human, no— prince finally shatters after all the pressure, and all he thinks is how unfair the world has been to him.

It's a very, very slow descent to insanity, what he had been through.

He lost so much, he won't lose anything again. And amidst the eerie scenery of a prince cradling the body of his father, was the sight of himself stitching him back together— giving him a new life. He whispered apologies after apologies to the unconscious man; and for a second Kronos would've pitied him.

Except he didn't. He knew he can't.

After all the chaos they finally had each other again, and Danny stood contently as he watched Alfred personally tend to his family's wounds, big or small. He also watched as his family bicker with each other after all they've been through, and realized something; all of this will die.

Alfred, Bruce, his brothers, Cass and Steph— they're all painfully mortal. He'll outlive his family, and in the end he'll be alone. He doesn't want to be left alone.

And what is to do when you realize your family is painfully, awfully mortal?

...you either curse them with immortality, or place a generational curse on them so you'll all meet in every life, of course! (Oh, did I mention about cursing your family so they'll all get reincarnated everytime they die to make them find each other by everytime?)

... except these curses are incredibly forbidden, because they go against the nature of life and death.

Which leads to the sight of Danny being cuffed from his neck, his arms, his wrists, and his legs. His expression is deadly calm, he smiles softly contrast to the Waynes that are watching in horror. He watches as his family's face contorts to something unreadable when his captors reads over his charges, and he couldn't bring himself to feel remorse.

"By the name of the Infinite realms, Prince Phantom is sentence to imprisonment, for the charges of tempering with the cycle of life and breaking the Royal oath."

"He will be serving until the day of his coronation by the terms of the infinite realms, under the watchful gaze of the ghost of time. The guilty may be there farewells before they are sent to their sentence."

Danny smiles at them; soft but undeniably cruel. He bows at them, like how he would bow on days where his father would teach him how to ballroom dance.

"this is not a goodbye, it is merely a see you later." He starts, voice full of merit. "May we meet again, and may the circumstances of our next meeting a better one."

His smile turns sharper then, the contrast between it and his soft eyes sends an unpleasant shiver. "For our destiny are tied, and our Fates will overlap with each other."

"You cannot change our destiny. For the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, and our bond has tied us together."

"None of you will run from me— none of you can run from me."

"Because I will chase you down and hunt you until our family is complete."