#but it wasn’t better than it’s predecessors :/

[dutybcrne]

The first time Kaeya had donned Diluc's old cavalry captain uniform, he had thrown up. Seeing himself in it had felt so wrong, it repulsed him immensely. It was too big, shoulders too broad. Moving in it felt like wearing lead weights, the fabric was all wrong, too stiff, his face didn't match it the way the Pride of the Favonian Knights and Ragnvindr heir's had.

It stank horribly of old blood and rain-soaked grass.

A part of him wonders to this day if the stench he thought he'd smelled on it was in fact all in his head. If it had been lingering guilt over Diluc's disappearance and being allowed to take his place that had affected his perception of it and his appearance in the role. Though considering the harrowing sight he'd witnessed that fateful day, he wouldn't be surprised if the smell would forever remain imprinted within the fabrics, the way that final moment would lay seared into his mind for as long as he’d live.

[lyriumsings]

mandalorian was surprisingly underwhelming tbh idk it just doesn’t have the same gravity as the first two seasons i don’t hate it at all but you can clearly see it’s kind of meandering in the name of offshooting more content off of it

[writerunnamed]

note: This is something I've wanted to write for a while but I am well aware that not everyone will be into it. There are a few stories I want to tell that aren't the norm so I decided to start this nameless blog to tell them. I am not tagging anyone, if you find it then you find it. xo Joel(stepdad), significant age gap, female reader. 18+ legal, reader is 20 (warnings: pov sex, Joel spits on the 😸, boobie play, really inappropriate dirty talk, an unused sex toy [will make an appearance in another chapter], female masturbation, daddy kink, unfit parent) 5.6k word count masterlist • series masterlist • part 2

He takes up so much space, and it wasn’t just physically. He took up space emotionally, mentally. Mentally most of all. Your thoughts always drifted back to him. Cyclical. An elliptical pattern making him the top of every list you’d go through in your head. He seemed to know it too, in a stoic, quiet, largely unsettling way. Older, attractive men tended to do that. 

It started during that in-between time, when summer, losing your job, and having to move back home pushed you to figure out what the fuck you actually wanted to do with your life seemed to come together like the planets aligning. The precipice of a turning point, a ticking clock counting down the days until your childhood bedroom would be turned into a gym, or an office, or a guest bedroom. The lukewarm welcome from your mother would ice over and you’d really have to get your shit together. 

Your mother was what people who didn’t know her would call ‘a free spirit’, what you called her, was a fucking mess. 

Your earliest memories consist of having to remind her to buy milk or to pay the bill because the electricity had turned off while watching cartoons in front of the tiny, living room tv. You’d had to remind her, in not so many words, that she was the mother, and you were the child. 

To your friends, she was the cool mom. The party mom. Your house was the place to be because she didn’t ask questions, she left her cigarettes unattended and didn’t mind if a few went missing. She kept the bar cart stocked, even if there was nothing but flies in the cupboard and nothing but half-empty condiment bottles in the fridge. Your friends loved it. 

She flirted with the boys your age, she gave sex tips to the girls. 

You smiled when they congratulated you on having the cool mom, and when they all went home, you retreated and pretended to be happy. 

Joel settled her down. Met her in a bar and moved in quick. He came into the picture when you were fifteen and you were almost sure he’d be just like the rest of the lovers she’d taken over the years. You’d given the whole thing six months. Half a year for him to see what a fucking disaster she was. Six months to be a fucking creep, to cheat or get cheated on. 

The only differences you could clock at first were that he was self-employed, and marginally better looking than his predecessors.

He was firmer though, less malleable than the others she’d brought around, he seemed immune to her charms and that only inflamed her. It made her desperate for his approval and his attention. She would throw a tantrum, or play one of her mind games but he’d never rise to her bait. He was patient for the most part, until he hit his breaking point and his temper reared its head. A temper only she seemed to bring out in him. 

To you, it was pathetic. 

He didn’t try with you though, there was no flattery or strong hand, only a silent respect. In a sense, he treated you as the adult, and her as the child. It worked for you, if he’d expected you to call him dad he would have been laughed at mercilessly and he seemed to know this. 

The disturbing part was his respect and his healthy avoidance of you worked its own kind of magic. It made him an enigma, made you curious as to what he got out of the whole thing. A home, sure. A woman who was obsessed with him, yes. Sex–yes. You heard it enough for it to turn your stomach. By the sounds of it, he knew what he was doing.

The thought sickened the healthy part of your brain. The other part though, the part flooding your body with hormones, making it come to life with curiously intense sexual feelings, that part wanted to know what it was he was so good at. How could he pull those sounds out of anyone? It was easier to imagine him with some faceless woman. 

It was shameful to imagine yourself. 

The thought–although enough to fuel a desperate journey of self-exploration–always filled you with an insurmountable guilt. 

For those first few years you could barely look at him. Your mother took it as a healthy dose of teenage rebellion. That only aggravated you more. She never asked questions, never dug to see what the cause of your obvious distaste for her partner was about and so again, you retreated. He, however, kept to the outs of your path. He followed your lead, he let you control any and every part of all of your interactions. He didn’t ask questions. He kept the lights on. He kept the fridge full. 

He burrowed his way in, whether you liked it or not. 

When you turned eighteen, you moved out. He helped, did his ‘fatherly’ duties and moved you into the apartment, he urged your mother to take you on an extensive grocery trip, spoke to your landlord about the safety of the building. You supposed you should have been grateful, you should have said thank you, given him some sort of acknowledgement that you appreciated his help but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Instead you said your mumbling goodbyes, and promptly closed the door on them. Neither of them complained. 

The euphoria of venturing out on your own had lost its shine depressingly quick. A string of chronically unserious boyfriends came and went, the rent climbed higher than you could keep up with, and while already living paycheck to paycheck, you lost your job. Your cellphone had taken the brunt of your frustration at having to call your mother, begging her to let you come back home while you got back on your feet a little more than two years after you’d left. 

Your teeth gnawed at your lips, your fingernails dug into the skin around your cuticles in the attempt to keep your voice sweet and pleading, in the end it was his voice that you’d heard in the background, telling–no, commanding her to say yes. That he would be your champion twisted at your insides. Maybe a small, healthy part of you hoped he’d put up a fight, tell you that you were too old to be coming back home and that you had to figure it out on your own like an adult. 

A healthy part of you hoped that he’d save you again, only from yourself. Hanging up with a heavy, resigned sigh, you set about starting the trek home, ignoring the swirling mess of annoyance, confusion, and perverse glee in your stomach. 

-

The first few days were spent in a depressive episode, a seemingly inescapable loop of sleeping in late, leaving your room only when the house was empty to raid the kitchen for something to eat, scrolling mindlessly–blindly–on your phone and then staying up way too late only to do it all over again. 

They didn’t bother you, but if the annoyed sighs and narrowed eyes from your mother were anything to go by, the talk was coming soon. After the third day of the cycle, you circumvent it and wake up early-ish to shower and dress in something other than ratty old sweats long forgotten by an ex you couldn’t quite remember. 

You came down to find Joel sitting at the kitchen table. His eyes tracked the lines of you, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. 

Your heart leapt. He should have been at work by now. 

“Good morning.” It came out croaky, your voice almost reluctant to come out. 

“Mornin’.” His hair was slicked back, the gray almost sparkling in the golden light. You fiddled with the hem of your shirt. His eyes were so intense, you found yourself stuck in place, like a deer in headlights and that ever present, deep-seeded anger reared its head. It was irrational that he should frustrate you so much with his calm presence. 

“Coffee’s fresh, if you want some.” He jut his chin out to the pot, lowering his eyes to his paper once more. Once his gaze had shifted, you found you could breathe again. You mumbled a thanks and moved to pour yourself a cup, thankful, if unsure why, to focus on something concrete instead of abstract self-reflection.

“Your mama’s gon’ be late tonight. I thought I could pick up a pizza on the way home.” He says it offhand and again, your heart races. 

“Whatever.” You scrunch your face up in annoyance, it sounded like such a bullshit, teen response. He doesn’t comment on it, and that somehow makes it worse. You beat yourself about it as you root around in the fridge for the milk. The cereal you liked was in the top cupboard, and you’re not quite tall enough to reach it. 

You heard his chair scoot back and then suddenly he’s there, beside you, pressed up tight. You follow the long line of his throat as he stares up, reaching the box with ease while one big, warm hand lands on your lower back. He smells like the laundry detergent your mother insists on buying mixed with something else. Manly, smoky, with coffee laced through. Your cunt clenches nonconsensually as he stands there and stares down at you, his whole front pressed against your side, his hand still holding your lower back. Your mouth hangs open, stupidly, and he raises an eyebrow again forcing something to kickstart deep in your gut. 

“You okay there babygirl?” The endearment feels unwholesome.

It triggers something strange, strengthening the underlying conflict for him. There’s a lilt in his tone you don’t like, maybe because deep down you like it too much. Maybe you don’t want to admit that, or analyze anything about what the fuck is happening in your body. In your psyche. 

“Yeah.” You step out of his bubble, barely managing not to trip over yourself in your haste to get away and put a healthy distance between you. 

“Yes. Thank you.” You take a deep breath, pressing your lips together tight in what you hope to God is a neutral expression. 

He lets out a bemused huff through his nose, a mischief in his eyes shining out at you that you’ve never seen directed at you. You’ve seen it used on your mom. You’ve seen her go giggly and flirty whenever he looked at her like that. A half-formed escape plan starts to form but he saves you from the need, he puts his things in the dishwasher, and nods his head in goodbye. 

You practically hold your breath until you hear his truck rumble out of the driveway, and down the street. 

-

You manage to avoid him for a few days, staying out late catching up with friends, or feigning a need for rest. You’ve convinced your mother that your days are now spent job hunting, and for the most part they are. You leave in the morning, avoiding any and all contact and you get home late, creeping up the stairs much like you did in your teens even though you’d really never needed to. Your mother never enforced a curfew, and when Joel joined the picture, he didn’t pry. 

The luck didn’t last though, you got over-confident. He was sprawled out on the sofa, up uncharacteristically late one night when you padded through the house. 

“You’re up late.” You quickly check the accusatory tone, “Don’t you have to get up early?” Better, it comes out more concerned than annoyed and he nods. He wore a threadbare t-shirt, the fabric of it having been through the wash too many times to keep its shape. Light, gray sweats were stretched almost obscenely tight over his spread thighs, pooling at his crotch from being shoved up by the couch. 

“Couldn’t sleep. Come sit, we can watch some tv.” He pats the seat next to him and despite the deep desire to retreat into the Joel-free haven of your bedroom, you cannot seem to disobey him. 

You settle beside him on the couch, a little further away than was necessary. He chuckles softly. 

“I ain’t gonna bite you, girl. Not unless you ask nicely.” 

You pretend you don’t hear it, choosing instead to compartmentalize whatever game he’s playing and stare at the screen. He flips through the channels, settling on one thing for a few minutes before moving to something else until he finds a movie that’s already close to midway. There’s an electricity in the air, something about him galvanizing the space between you, charging it enough to make the hairs on your arms stand on end. You frown to yourself, barely paying attention while fighting an increasingly confusing mental battle. Why is it so hard to be around him? Why does he inspire such scorn? Is it scorn at all?

You rub at your eyes, scrubbing your hands down your face in a feeble attempt to wipe the slate clean. 

He’s just a man, a man your mother had chosen and for better or worse they seem to work. She is happy with him and he is seemingly happy with her, why then is it so hard to accept him for what he is? Something slithers around in your brain, something that laughs darkly, something pulsing through the network of thoughts and ideas that threatens to crack open your subconscious and throw it right in your face. 

“Well now, ain’t that somethin’?” You pull your hands away from your face to see a very explicit scene playing out on the screen. Heat floods every inch of your body. 

“Almost looks like she’s enjoyin’ herself.” He leaves it on, and you feel stuck, your body betraying you yet again to see the way the woman on screen moans wantonly while under a very handsome man. You let out a non-committal sound, teetering on the edge of madness. You scold yourself, you are an adult, an adult that has had sex before and this isn’t even real. 

“Looks like fake bullshit to me.” The strength in your voice lends credence to the illusion that you aren’t affected. He laughs, calm and completely at ease and that only pulls the anger to the forefront again. 

“They can’t show the real stuff on these channels. If it were real, he’d be doin’ what she needs.” 

“And what’s that?” It comes out before you can stop it. 

“Well,” He smiles to himself, winning a duel you hadn’t even known you were fighting. 

“If it were real, he’d be pressin’ on her clit, he’d be makin’ sure she felt every inch of him and make her take his cock like a good girl.” You let out a heavy breath, half shocked, half grateful it wasn’t a whimper. 

Warning bells go off in your head, just as a heartbeat starts in your cunt because you can see it. You can see him. His face twisted up in pleasure but cocky, his hips moving, his thumb dipped into your mouth and then swirling around your clit. He smiles at catching you looking at his hands and you want to yell at him. You want to smack him across the face and kick him in the balls for saying something like that to you, his partner's daughter, but you don’t. 

Your body almost catapults you out of your seat. Barely unintelligible words come out, something about needing sleep, about being tired and then you hightailed it out of there like a bat out of hell. 

The shower was cold enough to make your teeth chatter, but it did nothing to cool the heat blooming in your core and it was with a terrifying desperation that you ground against your fingers. The slick pooling at the mouth of your pussy was enough to feel even with the water washing everything away except your shame. 

You bit your tongue to keep from moaning out the taboo and entirely inappropriate name you were dying to say out loud. His firm thighs spread on that couch filled your mind, the calloused, work-roughened hands you could practically feel on your hips, on your thighs. You could feel them holding and spreading your legs open so he could make you make those same noises you’d heard over the years. Make you take it like a good girl, his good girl. 

You came with a shudder, sagging against the chilly tile. You warmed the water with a sigh, disappointed and ashamed with yourself, trying, and failing, to put the whole thing out of your mind. 

-

You doubled down on avoiding him after that. 

Your mother worked most of the time but when she was home, things were easier. He reverted to the healthy avoidance, the proverbial disinterest that she didn’t seem to have a problem with. You still heard them some nights, the bed creaking, throaty cries, deep grunts but now they haunted you in a different way. Now you heard his words on that couch and couldn’t help but picture all manner of unsavory things that both disgusted and thrilled you. 

Being unemployed didn’t help. There was nothing to keep you out of the house most of the day, and there were only so many places that would accept you looking for a job in person. 

There was only so much time you could spend with friends too, they had their own lives and jobs and relationships. Too busy to save you from unwanted free time. 

Old habits resurface, and you retreat within yourself while pushing yourself harder. A job would fix things enough to help, you could save up enough money to leave for good and take yourself out of the equation. 

-

The powers that be momentarily take pity on you, and after what seems like a lifetime's worth of job hunting you blessedly get a call back. It’s a part time job, but at this point beggars can’t exactly be choosers. It’s a steady, if insufficient source of income that hadn’t been available to you before. Determined, you buckle down, you channel every guidance counselor you’ve ever had and ace the fuck out of that interview.

It’s not taxing work, but you put your head down and focus with the hope that if you worked hard enough, if you made a good enough impression, made yourself indispensable they’d throw you enough shifts to make up a full time job. 

It helps. Time spent away from the house, from your mothers dried up welcome, from Joel altogether genuinely helps. You feel a bit lighter, less guilty, less prone to imagine the unimaginable. You find comfort in the absence of self-imposed temptation. There is peace in the mindless work, in the life outside of the house that no longer feels like a home. 

It's a double edged sword though, because at the end of every shift, the luck–the peace–runs out. If being at work and out of the house is a respite, returning home only thickens the tension. Time spent outside the house only sharpens the discomfort, clarifies the glaring wrongness of it all when you enter it at the end of the day. What it all is, you won’t name. That way madness lies. Issue is, with every interaction, with every chance encounter in the hallway, or living room, every second spent with him in the kitchen watching his lips touch the rim of his mug the thing inside grows. Parts of him fill the corners of your mind. The curve of his shoulders filling out the flannel shirts he favors. The fullness of his bottom lip when he purses them, something he does while squinting at the paper that you’re almost sure he isn’t aware of. His neck, his hands, the dimple in his cheek when he laughs at something really funny. 

These things jump out, innocent as they may be, but other not so innocent things start to creep in. The bulge in his jeans is a mental mine, it lies in wait and every so often when you think you’ve avoided it, it detonates and you catch yourself staring, both ashamed and so inappropriately curious it eats away at you like acid. 

What you needed was something to fill the emptiness, both emotionally and physically. So you did what any modern, adult woman would do; you bought a sex toy. 

Nothing too crazy, or expensive. After perusing the site for a while you finally settled on a plain, non-threatening dildo. Nothing too big, nothing noisy, just something to be able to focus on, something to use while imagining someone giving you what you need. You ignored that dark thing inside that hissed his name, shooed it away and ordered the package for express delivery. With your mom constantly working, and Joel keeping to himself you figured it wouldn’t be an issue. Neither of them would question a package addressed to you. 

You still aren’t sure whether or not you’d do it all over again had you known the Pandora’s box that little package would open. 

You all but rushed home after work. All day, you’d imagined the relief that toy would bring. You imagined yourself using it in the shower, steam swirling as you took your pleasure. You imagined yourself laying in bed in the safety of the dark, setting a towel down on your chair and riding it to your heart's content. 

Joel’s truck is in the driveway when you pull in, but it’s secondary to the excitement at the chance to sequester yourself with your new best friend and so when you walk into the house, you don’t give him much attention. Until he opens his mouth. 

“You got a package today babygirl. I put it on your bed.” He sits on his spot on the sofa, a funny little smile on his face. A bad feeling swells in your chest, and you look up the stairs before meeting his eyes again. 

“Thanks.” You drop your bag on the little bench near the front door, trying, and failing to keep the nervous feeling out of your voice. He nods, and you make your way up, stopping yourself from taking the stairs two at a time. 

Ice flows through your veins when you see the package is open. 

He’d opened your package, he knew what you’d bought. 

Blood pounds in your ears as you stand there, limbs cold and numb at the realization that he saw it. He saw it. He opened it, and he placed it here, on the very place you fantasized about using it. Sweat beaded on your brow, the bottom of your stomach fell out of your ass as you stood there, barely feeling the soft, worn carpet under your feet. 

“Little small, f’you ask me.” His voice at the mouth of your room made your head twist fast enough to hurt your neck. You hadn’t heard him follow you up the stairs, hadn’t heard him open your door and lean against the frame, arms crossed in haughty amusement. 

“Why would you open my package?” You clutched at it, as though he could forget what he’d seen if you held it tightly enough. 

“I didn’t open it on purpose, I’m expectin’ somethin’ and I didn’t read the name.” He pushes away from the door frame, making his way closer and it’s like the air thins as the space between you shrinks.

“I mean, I could tell you been frustrated, but this doesn’t seem like it’s gon’ help much.” He reaches out, and takes the package from you. You watch him do it, watch him, frozen as he plucks it from your hands and takes the toy out. 

“This all you can take?” He holds it, contemptuously–pityingly. 

You wanted to snatch it out of his hands, the dimming voice of reason urges you to push him out of your room and remind him that he needs to keep a healthy distance but you say nothing, you stand there, and watch him. He puts it all down on your dresser, before stepping a little closer, close enough for you to have to crane your neck up to look into his eyes. 

“No boyfriends around to give you what you want?” His hand comes up, the tips of his fingers sliding across the apple of your cheek, slipping down until his thumb pressed against the cushion of your bottom lip. 

“No one around to give you what you obviously need?” He steps a little closer, until your bodies meet. This is wrong, your mind screams it but your body is frozen under his eyes, under his touch. That part, the frozen part is cheering, it’s running victory laps as it floods your cunt with slick in preparation for something unholy. 

That same, writhing, traitorous thing whispers that this is your chance, the house is empty and your body obeys. You look your fill, you take in the curve of his nose and the furrow in his brow. His eyes are black as a crow's wing, lust-blown and completely focused on your parted lips and your shallow panting. 

Adrenaline spikes and you do something you cannot take back. You rise on your tip-toes and press your mouth to his. 

He hums into it, smiling and once again you get that feeling that you’d made the exact move he’d expected you to. A vague, but fleeting inkling that you were just a pawn on his chessboard. 

At any other time you would have stepped away and repented, ate yourself alive with guilt but his hands pulled you closer, his tongue swiped at the seam of your mouth and you opened up for him. That only made it all the more real, the taste of his tongue in your mouth, feeling his hands lower to hold onto your ass. 

The rational part of you shrinks down to nothing, and that other part, the wrong part–it swells and preens under his hands. He pulls away, and embarrassingly, you chase his mouth in a daze. 

“Oh honey, you’re just dyin’ for it aren’t you?” He herds you towards your tiny bed, the twin mattress that has been the stage for every taboo fantasy about this man, your stepfather. You shoo the word away with a shiver. 

“It’s wrong-” You almost whisper, but you don’t push him away, you let him lay you down in that bed and he laughs. 

“It is, isn't it?” He pulls at the hem of your shirt, you raise your arms for him and the picture of it is wrong, daddy taking off your clothes. The thought, the word,  should disgust you but it only pulls your hands to him. You join in, and pull his shirt up and off, biting your lip at the broadness of him. You take in each freckle, the sprinkling of hair on his chest, the dip of his throat calling out for your tongue like a siren. 

He presses his lips to yours again, licking into your mouth obscenely. Unseemly. 

“You been wantin’ this for a long time, haven’t you babygirl?” He pulls your bra off, and the shock of cold air hardens your nipples. He bites his lip to see it, unable to stop himself from flattening his tongue against a hardened bud. A sound you’ve never let yourself make out loud in this room fills the space between you and that slithering thing luxuriates. 

He moves, languidly, unhurried to the other breast and holds the plump of it in his big hand and sucks at the second bud, sucks as much of the peak as he can into his mouth, breathing through his nose while you slowly spiral into madness.

When he lets go, he presses a kiss to your nipple and his facial hair tickles your skin. 

He pulls your leggings off along with your underwear in one go and the reality of it all hits you when the air hits your soaked core. That’s when the urge to put a stop to it is the clearest, when he kneels between your legs and spreads them wide, stares at the place where he’s already filled a million times in your mind. The place that’s drenched at the mere thought of him. 

“Joel-” You start, but he pushes your legs up, folding you and then he lets a glob of spit fall from his mouth slowly, aiming it, a bullseye right on the lips of your cunt. It’s too much, too filthy and you let out a whimper. 

“I think you wanna call me somethin’ else right now.” He undoes his belt and his jeans, keeping his eyes on where his saliva slides down over the open mouth of your cunt, down towards your asshole. He pulls his cock out and part of you shatters. Your eyes flit to the toy sitting on your dresser, your eyes flit to the open door of your bedroom. 

“Don’t worry, your mama ain’t gonna be home for a while.” He smiles, conspiratorially. It's too real, it’s too hypnotic, seeing him there with his cock in his hand while your legs already ache from holding them up and open. He slides the blunt end of it through the mess he’s caused, through his spit and he groans at the sight of it. 

Your heart races so hard to feel him there, that you see the pulse of it in your vision. 

“Deep breath baby.” he warns before slipping inside the tight fist of your pussy, the size of him making you gasp. This is it, there’s no coming back from this and right now, with him seated deep, his groin pressed up tight and the tip of his cock kissing your womb you cannot even think of why you’d ever care.

This is where he's meant to be. This is where you need him. 

“Oh baby, that’s so good huh?” He thrusts shallowly, pulling out a little more than halfway before shoving his hips forward again. You don’t really know how to form words, you don’t know how to take in what’s happening. This is Joel, your step-dad, fucking you in the bed you grew up in. One hand sits heavy on your shin, holding it, the other slides up and holds onto your breast. 

“Look how fuckin’ wet this little pussy is for me,” he moans the words, “you like daddy fuckin’ you?” He thrusts harder and you moan despite the word hitting you in the stomach like a big drop on a rollercoaster. He shouldn’t say that, shouldn’t call himself that, not now. 

“No-” it doesn’t come out like you mean it to, it sounds wrong, like a caress. 

“No? But I think you do-” He leans forward, keeping his pace while pressing his chest to yours, his mouth all but lining up and despite your bullshit protest, you hitch your knees high on his ribs to make room because if he stopped you’d probably die. 

“I think you want me to be your daddy, don’t you baby, it’s okay, I want to be.” He speeds up and the sounds between your legs are so wet, so filthy. 

“You can say it, I want you to say it.” He holds himself up, his elbows caging in your skull and before you can complain or moan or cry he sticks his tongue down your throat again. Your hands finally join the fray and you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him tight to you. 

“Come on baby, say it for me, tell me how good daddy fucks you.” You moan, closing your eyes while your cunt floods him with wave after wave of slick, enough to drip down your ass and onto your bed, down his balls. Enough for it to soak the curls at the base of him. 

“Look at me when I’m fuckin’ you honey.” His hips speed up and it's hard now, his thrusts making your bounce, hitting a part of you that toy would never touch in a million years. 

You open your eyes, and look at him above you, sweat beading on his hairline. Never has he looked more fucking appealing than he does right then. The word is there, in your mouth and you know it’ll taste sweeter than anything in this world. 

The wrong thing wins.  

“Yes daddy.” You moan it, and the shameful thing sets off fireworks in your being, he smiles, and tucks his head into the damp crook of your neck, feeding his lovely filth right into your ear. 

“That’s my babygirl, that’s it, fuck baby you take it better than your mama.” Something inside recoils at that, but something else, another facet of that fucked up thing inside rejoices.

“Let me hear you say it again, say it when you come.” He licks a hot stripe up your neck. His words are a filthy groan, something to tuck away for later.

He reaches down, pressing his thumb to your clit just like he said on that couch and you keen, the slip and the pressure enough to toss you over the edge with an almost painfully intense orgasm. 

“I’m coming, daddy.” It’s a shuddering whisper as your cunt clenches around him. 

He moves quickly, kneeling between your legs to pull out and then he’s stroking himself over your cunt. It’s still pulsing when he paints it in his come. You catch your breath as he tugs at himself a few more times, milking himself against you with a disturbingly familiar groan. 

The fog clears altogether too quickly. The lights are too bright, you’re naked, and he’s still got his jeans around his thighs while the guilt creeps into your veins, replacing the euphoria. 

What have I done? What have you made me do?

[postoctobrist]

im thinking of starting my social transition and im coming to ms transfem oracle of delphi and a publically transfem person who i spent the last year or so looking up to to ask for. advice ? encouragement ? idk im eighteen years old. i go to an artschool highschool. theres a shit ton of transmascs but im pretty sure i will be the first out trans woman to be at that school. im anxious. my classmates and such and such are already aware im tenously nonbinary and some of them already use a different name than my deadname for me when they're around me but like. idk. im scared. sorry for pouring myself out directly in front of you

You are very brave, much more so than I was when I was 18, and I’m proud of you. I know it’s frightening, but it’s so, so worth it and you may find yourself surprised by how supportive people can be, even unexpected ones. I’m sorry that we your predecessors in this weren’t successful in making it easier for you, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Not to get too ‘moral arc of the universe’ here but whatever bullshit you have to put up with to do this is in service of the next girl having it better, and the one after that better still, and so on. Anyway, all of this is to say that I believe in you, and you should too.

[praxeus-13]

There’s something so heartbreaking about watching your favourite parts of a tv show, the parts that you have loved for years and found so much joy in, being misunderstood, forgotten and erased by it’s predecessors.

13’s beautiful TARDIS interior, and sonic screwdriver erased to make way for nostalgia.

13’s clothes, her entire outfit, burnt up never to be seen again without any explanation.

Yaz, who 13 was in love with, who she wanted to tell everything to and spend the rest of her days with, not even mentioned - not even hinted at!

13’s character, her core personality traits and storyline reduced to ‘woman Doctor’ and fundamentally misunderstood!

13’s fam, the family that she found and built, not even mentioned or reminisced about!

I’m glad that the Timeless Child wasn’t erased, but I feel like so much else was that RTD didn’t properly watch 13’s era. It’s like he was given a summary and only took the parts that he thought was interesting.

13’s memory deserves better! She deserves to have passed on the baton to Ncuti’s Doctor, to have him running around high on regeneration energy while wearing her outfit! To use her sonic for an episode before choosing to make his own!

13 deserves to be remembered as a Doctor who was loved dearly by her companions and fans, as a Doctor who went through so much tragedy right from the start and struggled to deal with that, but still managed to face down her foes! As a someone who was optimistic and kind, but could also be cruel and harsh when needed! She was complicated, she went through so much, I love her and she will always be my Doctor.

She deserves to be remembered as more than ‘woman Doctor’, because she was so much more than that.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Opening Night.

Pairing: Yandere!Lyney x Reader (Genshin Impact).

Word Count: 1.2k.

TW: Sex Doll AU, Non-Con, AFAB!Reader, Heavy Dissociation, Obsessive Behavior, Slight Manipulation, and Implied Stalking.

Distantly, you could remember how excited you’d been to be invited to the showing.

You’d opened the invitation at your desk, surrounded by a small group of your more friendly coworkers who’d go on to clap and cheer and promise a round of after-hour drinks after you finished reading out the snippet of text scrolled across the cream-colored cardstock. You weren’t special - a small legion of journalists would be invited to write puff-pieces on all the new models and decide which androids were going to be in fashion next season - but you’d loved Teyvat as long as you could remember, spent more of your free time than you cared to admit doing research on robots you’d never be able to afford, not on a salary like yours. It wasn’t a world-changing, earth-shaking accomplishment, but it made you happy. It was something you wanted, and it was something you’d finally gotten your hands on after years of waiting.

You couldn’t remember when your excitement had started to wane. You were still wide-eyed and slack-jawed when you stepped into the venue, an old opera house restored and decorated to better suit the Fontaine Collection’s high-luxury theming. You hadn’t been able to bite back your smile as you kissed the back of a refitted Focalors’ hand (or, Lady Furina’s hand, as she told you to call her in a tone you could only compare to that of a newly-crowned monarch still drinking in her subjects’ attention), and watched Clorinde’s fencing demonstration with the sort of rapt attention most people would save for famous idols and athletes. Even after you lost your photographer in the crowd, your heart skipped a beat as Neuvillette (the brooding, stoic type of this line, you were sure to note when you next found a minute to yourself) offered you a flute of champagne that you readily accepted, and when a roaming Lyney-droid pulled you to the side and offered to show you magic trick with an irresistible glint in his eye, you didn’t think twice before looping your arm through his and letting him guide you to an all-but abandoned backstage area. You thought you might get something exclusive, something to separate you from the crowd of influencers and tabloids who weren’t afraid to promise features that the approachable beta models only half-confirmed. You thought you’d be safe with a premium-grade android hanging off your arm.

Maybe your excitement didn’t wane at all. It’d been there one moment, then gone the next, replaced with a dark coil of dread and some kind of dizzying, vision-blurring nausea. The sharp corner of the vanity bit harshly into the backs of your thighs, the mirror pressed into your back slowly sapping the warmth from your skin and replacing it with something else, a numbing chill you couldn’t seem to shake. Your clothes had been torn to shreds, left to scatter across the dressing room floor, but Lyney was still fully dressed, fully composed; the palest blush painted across his cheeks and his lips ever so slightly parted but all other signs of arousal, of embarrassment absent. You made a mental note to work that into your article. The new models seem to have a shared sense of unwavering confidence– a stark contrast from their more reserved predecessors from Mondstadt and Sumeru. Maybe you’d be able to get a quote from their handlers, if you ever made it back to the show floor.

You’d have to give Lyney his own section, titled something your boss would have to talk to HR about: Teyvat's New Magician is Good With More Than His Cards. You could only feel half of what he was doing to you, shock dulling your already limited senses, but the fingers drawing loose patterns in your clit was near-overwhelming, the feeling of his synthetic cock splitting you open inescapable, unrelenting. He didn’t need to breathe, to worry about things like soreness or bruising or cramps, to do anything but thrust into you at a pace so erratic, so unyielding that it left little room for you to do anything but lie there and take it. His hips were pushed flat against yours, his tip grinding against something soft and unprotected inside of you and drawing out a ragged gasp, a cracked moan. Out of reflex, your hands shot to his shoulders, nails digging into whatever you could reach, and he let out an airy laugh, leaning closer and encouraging you to hold him tighter, to see if you could tear through the faux-skin Teyvat so often advertised as ‘invincible’. That would make headlines, even if it wasn’t likely to cast you in the best light.

His free hand drifted from your hip to your side to your cheek, his knuckles brushing underneath your chin before he cupped your cheek and pulled you into a deep, lingering kiss. His saliva was flavored, though you couldn’t say what it was supposed to taste like. Cotten candy, maybe – so cloying and sugary, all specifics were lost to the sweetness. It suited him. If you’d been able to use your hands, you would’ve applauded his developers for their attention to detail.

When he pulled back, he was smiling. There was another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to the corner of your jaw. Finally, he settled against your throat – his grin so broad, you could feel his perfect teeth resting against your jugular as he spoke. “They told me I’d be able to find a master tonight. The others aren’t ready yet, but I am. They worked the hardest on me.” He was bragging, transparently and unabashedly. In any other situation, you might’ve thought he was trying to impress you. “I knew it had to be you the moment our eyes met. So cute, so easily impressed – I knew you just had to be mine.”

He seemed to perk up, to catch on something. He pressed the pad of his thumb into your clit, and your entire body jolted. “No, no, that’s not right,” he went on, shaking his head. “I’m supposed to be yours.I keep getting that mixed up.”

Faulty programming? It’d be a scandal if it got out, and moreover, it’d be a massive payout if Teyvat decided they preferred to handle things behind closed doors. You bet they’d done it before. Maybe you’d look into that, later on.

Your back arched violently, another pitchy whine bubbling up from some forgotten cavity of your chest. As if in response, he inhaled sharply, buckling against you in the throes of simulated pleasure. His pace sped up, his teeth latching onto the curve of your neck, but any pain it might’ve caused was lost on you, blurred and distorted by the thick rope of tension pulling taut and snapping in the pit of your stomach. Your climax washed over you in slow, throbbing waves, and Lyney was kind enough to pretend he was lost in the same agonizing bliss, to act like that was the reason he was bucking into you so violently.

To act like he had an excuse to do this to you.

He fucked you through your orgasm, eventually stilling inside of you. With his body slotted against yours, his teeth still buried in your skin, he lingered there, only drawing back once your breathing had started to slow and deepen, once you’d stopped shaking underneath him. Even then, he didn’t let you go, didn’t leave you to cry your eyes out in an empty dressing room. Rather, he pressed a quick, fleeting kiss into your forehead before beaming at you - the light in his eyes so bright, you could almost forget it wasn’t real. “I’ll introduce you to my sister. I’m sure she’ll like you, too.”

Right, his sister, Lynette. You hadn’t seen her yet.

She and her twin brother weren’t supposed to be revealed until the show at the end of the night. You doubted anyone had even thought to power them on, yet.

“She’ll be as happy as I am to know we’ll be leaving with such a lovely master.”

[sagaduwyrm]

On the Grounds Where We Feel Safe

When Tim gets a letter claiming to hold his soulmate, who he's never met, hostage, he's skeptical. It turns out pretty great though. Now if he can just make sure not to make a fool of himself.

We have your soulmate , the letter claimed. It seemed ludicrous. Tim hadn’t even met his soulmate yet, and it wasn’t like Red Robin’s mark had ever been exposed. There was no way some D-list villain could have found whoever it was. Really, he should only be going to this for the chance to catch the annoying asshole.

It just seemed like a weird lie, was the thing. If they just wanted to lure him out, there had to be more believable options. Claiming to have captured one of the other members of Young Justice or another bat would have made the most sense. His teammates went no-contact for various reasons all the time, so it’s not like he could double-check.

But no. They had his soulmate, apparently. It just seemed inane.

They were more competent than expected. Tim snuck into the facility with the ease of long practice, but they must have had magic wards because he tripped some kind of alarm barely a few minutes in. He would have noticed a technological system, but his abilities with magic were more limited, like most bats. In the immortal words of Jason Todd, ‘Just set it on fire and call Zatanna if that doesn’t work.’

Tim was eighty percent sure Jason was the only bat with any real degree of familiarity with magic, but that was neither here nor there. It just made the advice more accurate.

It was kicking his ass now though. Usually he’d be doing this with a team, hopefully with at least one person who could have noticed wards, but he had drastically underestimated the size and threat of this operation.

Generic security guards dragged him through the halls, and he did his best to memorize the layout. He’d taken out the first few thugs, but frankly, he was only human, and he needed to save his energy for something more useful. In the meantime, he pressed the only emergency beacon he had that would eventually worm through the wards to call his family and examined the halls they were dragging him through. The atrocious minimalism and poor layout design were making it irritatingly difficult to keep them straight in his head.

There were four villains in the room he was brought to, three more than he was expecting. One wore a thick cloak she’d probably bought off Etsy and a cheap Eye of Horus necklace, and Tim instantly pegged her as responsible for his magic problems.

“Woooow. You assholes know how to make a Robin feel loved. What’s the occasion? Is it Christmas? You shouldn’t have.” Tim bared his teeth in a smile that had his guards leaning away from him. If he could just get them talking, this would be a lot easier.

One, the leader, threw back her head and cackled. “What’s the occasion? What’s the occasion? Didn’t you read our note? Meeting your soulmate is the chance of a lifetime! We're doing you a favor, don’t you think?” She grinned down at him. He tilted his head, bird-like.

“You know, I’m pretty sure I could swing a better meeting than this. Get some candles, jazz up the place a little bit. Your interior decorating is kind of shit.” Tim channeled the robin spirit of his predecessors and took a shot at annoying them. Instead, the woman’s demented grin grew wider.

“But your blood will look so pretty on the floors! Do you think we’ll kill him or you first? I can’t decide!” Her teeth had red in them, Tim noticed. She turned to the guards at the door. “Bring him in!”

Fuck. So they did have a hostage. Probably some poor civilian who’d got dragged into these assholes' lark and was going to need years of therapy after this. Fuck his life.

A few tense minutes later the guards walked back in carrying a black teenager maybe a little taller than Tim between them. He was struggling, doing his level best to kick at their ankles and jab at their kidneys, but the mercs didn’t even shift. Tim was grateful the hostage was a fighter at least, that could make it easier to evacuate him.

The lead villain strolled over to the civilian. Honestly, Tim wasn’t sure why the rest were here. They practically faded into the walls. She seized the boy’s chin and he tried to spit at her. She laughed. “Our little witch spent months divining for this! Ready?” She cackled and dragged his face over to meet Tim’s eyes. They both froze.

His eyes were green, Tim noticed, and lined thickly in black, like kohl. They dug into Tim's chest like his heart was moving to make room for another, two hearts beating as one. Everything felt more vibrant and alive. Tim couldn’t breathe.

The leader was still laughing, he noticed distantly. She had slumped back against the wall to keep from falling over, and her entire body shook with contortions. Her eyes were bright with bloodlust.

Tim was fucked. He was so completely fucked. Not only because this guy was stupid pretty and he could practically feel his higher brain functions turning off, leaving him a steaming pile of bisexual goo, but because his soulmate was barely five feet from a villain who practically dripped insanity, and he still had thirty seconds to go before he got his hands untied. Absolutely, completely, and totally fucked.

The other boy had stilled when their eyes met, but he tensed again as one of the other villains stalked towards him.

“I knew it,” the man snarled. “I knew it. I wonder, if I hurt you, will Red Robin bleed?”

The boy's eyes widened before hardening. Tim desperately hoped he didn’t do anything stupid. His call signal still needed more time to get through to his family. 

“Don’t damage him just yet!” the leader called out. “Start with his fingers and toes, we want this to last .” Her grin was alarmingly demented.

The other boy finally had enough. “Yeah, let’s not.” He kicked out at the ankle of the guard holding onto him, causing the man to release him. At the same time, Tim made his move. Fuck, civilians with no sense of self-preservation were the bane of any vigilante, but it being his soulmate was somehow worse. If he could just get over there in time—

A rush of sand curled up around the boy, as if from nowhere, and launched the villain near him into a wall. His eyes glowed golden, and his stance indicated some training. Not a civilian, then. 

Tim kept moving. He dumped half a dozen taser bugs on anyone in reach, leaving them keeled over on the ground, and darted forward. The guards had left the door open when they brought the other boy in. Tim grabbed him and launched out the door, practically carrying him, while the boy did something over his shoulder to hold off pursuers. The way out was blocked, but the facility was huge. They eventually managed to lose the villains, tucked up in some kind of meat locker. They curled up against the walls, catching their breath.

“You know, this was not how I expected our first meeting to go,” the other boy said.

Tim laughed, “I’ll be honest, with my luck this isn’t really a surprise.” The other boy snorted. He was beautiful when he laughed. It was an ugly sort of giggle, the kind the media would mock a person for, the kind his parents trained out of him as their heir, but it lit up his face in a way that made Tim stare. He belatedly remembered to introduce himself. “Red Robin.”

“From Gotham, right? Call me Pharaoh.”

Tim squinted at him. He was putting on a good show of confidence, but there was a tenseness to his body that couldn’t be hidden, and some of the summoned sand floating near him was curling into tight knots. “Haven’t heard that code name before. You new?”

Pharaoh waved his hand in a so-so gesture. “It’s mostly just that I stick to my hometown. We’re tiny, so we stay off the radar. And I usually manage to stay out of the news anyway.”

Tim nodded, but his eyes sharpened. Deliberately keeping out of the news wasn’t exactly a red flag, but it usually indicated something about the person in question. If you had a code name that you were clearly used to, but didn’t use for the public… There weren’t exactly any conclusions he could draw yet, but he tucked the knowledge away into the back of his brain anyway. “Do you have anyone you can call?” he asked.

The boy grimaced. “Not really. Two are out of the country, one doesn’t carry a phone, and the other is the only person back home right now and I can’t ask her to leave.”

Reasonable. The bats refuse to leave Gotham without at least one of them too. “I sent out a call, but it’s going to take a bit for it to get past the wards.”

“Can I see? I might be able to speed it up.”

Tim handed over his beacon. “You’re a magic user?” He was guessing sand-manipulating meta, but magic made sense too.

“Uh-huh. I’m not the greatest with wards, but I am a dab hand at tech,” Pharaoh said while prying open the beacon. As he held it, golden light crept from his hands into the wires, forming shapes that looked like some of the hieroglyphics his parents used to obsess over. Tim was vaguely surprised. Constantine had once mentioned that there were only a few people in the world who could do any kind of technomagic. Even the magic on his gear was secondary to the tech rather than embedded in it.

Tim got up and started looking around the room as Pharaoh worked. They couldn’t stay here for long. He moved some furniture around to block the door. It should collapse on the head of anyone who tried to get in. He shifted one of the ceiling tiles around and found there was a good amount of space between the floors. Perfect.

Pharaoh shouted in delight and Tim turned to see the connection light on the beacon turn on. Assuming there wasn’t some kind of emergency, they should have backup reasonably soon. The other boy was still grinning, “Dude, I think I’m in love with your tech. This is amazing.”

“If you like that you should see the batcomputer.”

“Can I? I do most of my stuff on a PDA I retrofitted, this is so much better it’s not even funny.”

“A PDA?” Tim blinked in confusion. How would you even—? He shook his head and gestured at the ceiling. “We need to get moving. They’ll have an easier time finding us if we stay here.”

Pharaoh nodded, still smiling from his apparent enjoyment of working with basic tech with little to no computational abilities. He clambered his way up with apparent experience. Tim wondered what kind of problems his hometown had that they needed a magic user who could do parkour.

Where Pharaoh needed a lift Tim scampered up. The sorcerer whistled quietly. “What kind of training do you even have?”

“Assasination, mostly,” Tim said as he started leading the way through the crawl space, carefully showing Pharaoh where to put his feet to make the least amount of noise.

“I thought bats didn’t kill?”

“Knowing how to kill is actually more useful in not killing people than not knowing how to kill, believe it or not.” Lady Shiva hated that.

“Huh. That sounds useful. I have to use specific spells when I want to just knock someone out, and I’m not as good at them so it’s a bit of a pain.”

“You like magic?” Data gathering, data gathering, if he was asking questions he wasn’t thinking about how nice Pharaoh’s voice was or how pretty his eyes were.

“Yeah. It’s like a puzzle, you know? There’s a lot of similarities to coding if you had to argue with the computer the whole time.”

Tim snorted.

They stilled at the sound of someone passing under them, and when they were gone Tim turned around for a second. “Hey, what do you think about picking some of these guys off?” He’d originally planned to keep them out of the fight until backup arrived, but he was getting the impression more and more that Pharaoh was competent enough to keep up for a bit.

Pharaoh grinned, and it was a sharp, unkind thing. For a moment he looked as regal as a king about to declare war, and Tim wondered if there was more to the code name than he had assumed. “I thought you’d never ask.”

+++

“Where are they?!” the leader of the villains roared. “The facility is completely locked down, they couldn’t have gotten far!”

The guards winced and opened their mouths to explain when the door slammed open and one of the other villains ran in. He was bleeding, with weeping sores up and down his arms and crush damage on his fingers. “They’re picking off the guards!”

“What? What the fuck happened to you?” The leader screamed. The witch villain, who had been melting into the wall, ran over to attempt healing magic. The others barely noticed her.

“Three-quarters of our men are unconscious, and won’t wake up. And that little ‘civilian’ soulmate tried to crush me with sand!”

The witch spoke quietly. “He must have cursed you too. This isn’t healing.” The villain looked down at his wounded arms and screamed. Golden hieroglyphs climbed their way out of the blood and up his arm, and he felt his body go numb. Within thirty seconds he had keeled over unconscious except for the occasional scream, like he was struggling with nightmares wherever his mind had gone.

“No no no no no! This was supposed to be it! Our big break! You!” The leader turned to the witch. “You said he was a civilian! This was supposed to be easy!”

Out of nowhere the ceiling above them crumbled and down came several bats and members of Young Justice. When they finally got the beacon it took them almost an hour to get to the location, leaving them tense and ready to take it out on Tim's captors.

“I hope we aren’t interrupting anything!”

The door banged open again as they finished mopping up the remaining villains and mercenaries. Red Robin and a boy in civilian clothes tumbled through the door.

“Hey! You’re late!” Tim yelled.

Robin hissed at his older brother. “You needed help to save a single civilian then?”

Tim grinned an unholy grin. “Oh, right. This is Pharaoh. He’s my soulmate.”

The room burst into yelling.

[hydrus101]

It’s so fascinating to me about how much of Malevolent centers around bad or misguided fathers.

We spend ample amounts of time with Arthur’s grief and his faults, his fear of fatherhood, his failings of Faroe and the ensuing spiral afterwards. We hear of Bella’s strict upbringing, of Daniel’s controlling nature, the desire to shape his daughter into what he expected her to be, and even admitting to Arthur’s face that he intended to mold him as well, into what he thought his daughter’s husband should be. We learn of Larson’s betrayals, the sacrifices of his children: the monsters he made of those he should’ve loved, all in the pursuit of power and legacy. There’s an argument to be made even, of fragments and reflections and daughter and sons, that the King - that initial version of him now dead in all respects - was a sort of father, with John and Yellow as his residuals, his sons, his heirs, in a way. Finding their own identities now, free from the shadow of a predecessor, free to chose their own destinies, wether that is to separate themselves entirely, to scream defiantly of humanity and hope and self, or to try and reshape the visage of that dead malevolent god in desperate pursuit of love that wasn’t given, driven by a hate that was shared. What other analogy so seamlessly fits with the relationship between Arthur and Yellow than that of a neglectful father? The one who was supposed to be patient, be caring, be kind, the one who was supposed to teach this new being, this new child, about what life could be like? What love and kindness it could hold? But Arthur was too unsteady then. Too unstable to give Yellow the upbringing that he deserved. His nature was shared with John, and we’ve seen the depths of love he’s embraced. Yellow was simply nurtured wrong, encouraged down that spiral by a foster father who embraced and even venerated his rage. And similarly, in the basement in New York, we are reminded of nature and nurture, of animals and babes. Briefly, quick as a glance, we learn of the Butcher’s father, both a seething livewire and a subtle undercurrent in his motivations, manifested, perhaps, in his tumultuous relationship with failure, his self inflicted violence. Roland and Amanda receive less of the spotlight, but the foundations of everything are built upon their relationship. And now, with the Unclean, we know more of Arthur’s own father—who’s fate is known and the same as his mother’s—and his envy towards his friend, his childish jealousy and vindictive actions, of which he now condemns, having learned better, having known better. Every aspect of the narrative is seeped in fatherhood, in parenting, in children. Malam says as much by the fire: “They are our betters, our futures, our learned mistakes.” Malevolent is, at its core, about parents and children and hope.

And now, Arthur and John are on the run from a mother, on a mission given to them by a father, who’s daughter is largely a mystery, or perhaps, more familiar than we might think.

[guiltysungho]

— bad idea right ?!

genre : tags. fluff, brother’s best friend, enemies to lovers(?), teasing, slightly suggestive, sex mentioned

pairing. brother’s bsf!han dongmin x gn!reader

wordcount. 0.6k

a/n. written in the dead of the night. i feel like taesan is just the most flirty in the most teasing way. here’s part 2 if you even care.

It was bad enough that you constantly had to see him because of your brother but now you also had to share a room with the guy?

You didn’t hate Dongmin, you just didn’t particularly like him, you had your reasons. He was what some would call a serial lover, he was on a roll, he had dated most girls, enough guys, and a bunch in between but that wasn’t why. You could have accepted him if he didn’t date your closest friend therefore ruining your relationship because she had convinced herself you were seeing him. It could be argued that had nothing to do with Dongmin and more to do with her self esteem but you didn’t want to hear it.

“Are you going to stand there the whole time?” he asks tired of ignoring your presence, it had been 30 minutes since your brother left with his girlfriend, he was the one who planned the trip so he went for the cheapest option which was a single room for four, except it was two queen sizes and so you just had to figure it out.

You sighed propping yourself on the bed where your brother slept. Dongmin didn’t seem bothered by it but he was a master at sleeping with people so it bare counted as anything,

“I’m not going to fuck you” you glare at him on the bed across the room, the action makes him smile, or the words either way he smiled and it felt so enchanting, you were taken aback by the effect it had on you.

“I know, I don’t want to fuck you” he explained, for some reason that didn’t make you feel better, it hurt in some odd indescribable way,

“Why not?” a quiet scoff escaped his lips, his eyes circling the room in disbelief.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” you can barely hide the shock on your face hearing those words from him, the smirk on his face was enough to know that this was amusing to him.

“You’re crazy” it comes out weaker than you intended, was your body actually failing you to Han Dongmin?

If you were being completely honest your body always somehow malfunctioned when he was around and you knew it wasn’t because you “hated” him but it was easier doing that than admitting that you found him attractive just like the rest of the population.

“Am I? You’re the one who thinks I’m some kind of horny monster” you can’t help but smile, the soft breath of a laugh escaping your lips before facing him.

The way he looked back at you blurred all your thoughts for that whole second where your eyes met, his tired eyes trying to figure out everything that you were just by looking.

“You’re not?” he rolled his eyes at you, acting unamused but the curve on his lips was so telling,

“I’m actually extremely romantic” he insisted, and you tried to imagine it, Dongmin, romantic, he did seem like a romantic, like he’d tell you poetry about how lovely you smell in the morning, like he’d get on your dad’s good side if it meant he could see you every day from then on. You hadn’t noticed before, but that was just how he seemed.

“Yeah right…” he liked your tenacity, you didn’t admit to things easily but it didn’t annoy him, it just made him want to show you, let you see how things really were,

“I can prove it, let me take you out.” and there it was, no wonder so many people fumbled, you wanted to follow the ways of your predecessors so badly but what was the point?

“You so want to fuck me” he laughed this time, with his hand over his smile, a small laugh but enough to make you smile.

It felt clear now, just in the few moments of conversation you had together it just made sense, and now he wanted you to see past the rumors, he’d never felt that urge before, the urge to come clean, “I’m not as bad as you think I am”

“Your brother will beat my ass if I hurt you anyway” you couldn’t argue that.

[writingescapades]

Blessed

A/N: Long post. Basically me daydreaming the Forgotten Sea Myth. Just trying to connect things in the story and other myths together. I know Rafayel and the player met as kids, but I don't know how that story connects to this myth, and the myth never alludes to meeting before. IDK, things are not accurate for sure.

You should have died when you fell into the sea, but somehow you survived. Probably because of the man, the Lemurian, who currently stood before you. His face displayed obvious disinterest, yet here you were, alive by his whim. He asked why he should spare your life. You were intended to be the sacrifice. So you lunged at him, selfishly kissing him because you were desperate to live.

You didn’t understand the consequences of your action. The action of affection for humans meant much more for Lemurians. You just wanted to live, but for Rafayel, his bond began. He should have cursed you for stealing his lips, taking his heart, before he could give it to you. But now the emotions filled him, and his senses were heightened. He didn’t know you. Didn’t want you, but now you were stuck together. So he introduced you as the chosen one for the rite and tried to ignore the look in Amund’s face. The elder somehow knew what had happened, and he wondered if the young god’s heart could bear the sacrifice he was offering up.

“A god must always protect his followers,” Rafayel firmly stated.

“They too must be a willing follower, young one”.

The ceremony was months away. In the meantime, Rafayel kept you nearby. Initially he seemed to ignore you, even fall asleep as you looked about your new world with curiosity. Your discoveries were mundane after centuries of being alive. Yet if you ever wandered away, you would always find yourself bumping into him. And while he valued silence, Rafayel found himself more irritated in not knowing the thoughts that swirled around in your head. A strained closeness formed. Rafayel encouraged your curiosity and discoveries. But everything he did was to prepare you for the role you were to play in his ascent to full godhood. He didn’t really know you, didn’t want to know you. Life soon began to feel like a prison. You wanted the warmth of the sun and the sand. You wanted the taste of fruits. You wanted to hear more than the ocean depths. Above all, you wanted to feel cherished. Naturally, Rafayel objected to letting you go.

“What could Lemuria possibly lack?”

It lacked many things, namely that it wasn’t ever meant to be a home for humans. How could he expect you to live here forever? Everyday the sea bit into your soul.

“A god with a heart,” you muttered in frustration.

Your words must have hit home for the deity took a step back and looked genuinely distressed. It was odd, and though you wanted to stand your ground, the unexpected reaction made you reach out to him. It was the first time you touched him. A light hand on his shoulder. A hand you expected him to shrug off. Instead Rafayel crumbled into you, almost leaning his entire weight into your hand. His eyes closed and he sharply inhaled. You thought to apologize, maybe explain your emotions better, but before you could, the sea god’s cold blue eyes snapped open and he jerked away from you, stagging off and slammed the door behind him. You were left to stare into the abyss.

You were duty bound to be his follower, but it wasn’t enough. Rafayel knew it wasn’t enough as he read though every slab the library had on Lemurian gods. Your heart had to be in it. At least, that’s why Elder Amund had warned. It seemed to him that the elder always judged Rafayel for not being like his predecessors. They had followers. They had the hearts of the Lemurians and their human counterpart. Rafayel merely had the respect intuitively given to every deity and he detested it, especially when it came from you. Ever since that night, he knew he was doomed to crave more from you. Initially, he thought your act would benefit him. Surely you would be more willing to give your heart and be his follower if you were bonded, right? Instead, he found you languishing like the algae that grew on rocks along the shore. It hurt. His heart screamed at him to do something, anything.

“Followers are gained, not assigned,” Amund’s voice echoed as the elder ghosted past Rafayel into whatever new study took his fancy.

……

Rafayel started down at you, arms crossed and foot tapping, as he waited your answer.

“You’re granting me my freedom?”

The deity’s eyebrows scrunched as he contemplated your question. Then he took a deep breath and repeated his offer.

“One day in the human world. Just the one”.

“And what do you want in return,” you cautiously asked. There was no such thing as a free gift from the gods.

Rafayel pointed at your chest, where your heart pulsed.

Indignation washed over you. One lousy day on land, and he expected you to fork over your heart?! To be so devoted to him, for one day?

“Is that not what you want? To be around the same humans who were ready to sacrifice you?”

By now you were accustomed to the deity’s mockery and barbed tongue. So you met his eyes and challenged the offer.

“You want my heart that bad? Then earn it. That’s my wish”.

For the first time you saw Rafayel’s eyes glimmer as he took in your challenge.

“Easy”.

“You sure?” you asked. “I don’t give my heart away so easily”.

“Good,” the god’s voice spoke softly as a tender look came onto his face.

It was the first time he expressed such an emotion to you. You expected Rafayel to go into full bravados with his attempts at winning your heart. Instead, the deity took you by surprise. He quietened down. Days spent watching Lemurians go about their day. Nights spent watching marine life quietly drift by. He taught you his language. Told you how to name and call out to each species. You could see genuine praise in his eyes when you remembered their names. But it wasn’t just his world that opened up. Rafayel’s curiosity was insatiable. He wanted to see the world through your eyes. To see the beauty you held in your eyes and mimic the songs you heard. He frequently brought you to a small room filled with paintings and tried to recreate your world from your words, surprising you with his accuracy, as if he’s already seen your world. It was inevitable for you to enjoy his company, and though he wouldn’t admit it, the sea god relished in experiencing his first friend. But, you wouldn’t give him your heart.

Time passed, and it seemed that the two of you forgot the original challenge. Ease and general camaraderie replaced roles and expectations. Excitement rose in you when you saw his familiar face and you knew from the twinkle in his eyes, he felt the same. Many times he would break off a conversation with someone to watch you walk by. Only after you disappeared from sight would the Rafayel turn his attention back to his follower. Often, he would consult with you, bouncing off quandaries he faced and genuinely seeking your advice. You started to feel strange. You weren’t sure if Rafayel considered you a friend. Neither one of you even called each other by name. Rafayel wanted you to be his follower, but you weren’t sure anymore what he meant by that. He clearly did not engage with the other Lemurians as he did with you. On sleepless nights, you would ask yourself if you considered yourself the sea god’s follower. Would you follow him wherever he went? Would you endure what he endured, if only, so that he was not alone? Was he always in your thoughts? Did you act in his name? Were you devoted to him? You could never really answer these questions. They were too weighty for the emotions that sprouted within you. But, as the months wore on and the emotions within you began to grow, you came to one undeniable truth.

Elder Amund pronounced the upcoming ceremony. Within a fortnight, Rafayel would ascend to full godhood and the Lemurians would gain another chapter in their history as the new dawn started. Rafayel always knew this day would come, but for the first time, he felt giddy, unsure. He knew you were the reason, but he still had not gathered the courage to ask you the imminent question. No, that wasn’t the whole truth. Rather, Rafayel realized, the question had long changed, and your answer would determine the challenge. Rafayel had not gone a single day without thinking about the challenge. It would determine everything. He frequently basked in your presence these days, always toying with the question he wanted to ask.

“Tomorrow’s the ceremony,” your voice gently broke through the empty corridor.

You both were staring at the temple doors that would lead to the ceremony.

“What will happen during the ceremony?”

“We will be serenaded by the entire ocean. Our chariot will be drawn by marine creatures as we tour around, greeting our followers”.

You scoffed at Rafayel’s obvious lie.

“Not sure I like the idea of being made a spectacle,”

“You’re right. It’s too ornate. I don’t really know the details of the ceremony”.

His response seemed in line to your question, but you could tell Rafayel’s thoughts were elsewhere tonight.

“Would you like to retire early tonight?”

“No”. Rafayel got off the balcony rail and turned towards you. “We can sleep when it’s all over”.

He continued to stare at you, and you waited for him to ask what was clearly consuming him. Ever so gently, Rafayel reached out a hand and placed it on your head. You looked at him, confused. With more confidence, his hand descended down your face to cup your cheek, and though you leaned into his palm, you tensed.

“I have a question for you,” his voice was low. “Tis a very important one. Are you willing to be my follower?”.

It was different this time. Last time it was the sea god who spoke to you. It was the sea god who pointed to your heart and expected you to all but rip it out. But now, all you could see was Rafayel, and you knew there was more contained in that one word, that one request.

“That’s a heavy request. What does the sea god offer in return?”

You raised your hand but began to lower it as the courage slipped away. Rafayel caught it and continued the ascent to his heart. You could feel it steadily pumping against his cool skin.

“And,” you continued, “What does Rafayel offer?”

You watched as Rafayel’s hands entwined with yours, resting the back of your hand against his heart. Then he lowered his head to kiss your knuckles.

When Rafayel looked up, he saw your free hand outstretched towards him. He placed his hand on yours, and watched as you brought his hand to your heart.

“I will be your follower, O Sea God”.

He could feel the strong beat of your heart to know you were not lying, not hiding anything from him.

“And what does ___ offer?”

Now it was his turn to feel your fingers lace within his.

“My love”.

For the first time, you stood as equals, both relishing the new emotions and path you managed to create. It was well past sunrise when you finally parted, and when the hour of the ceremony arrived, there was new depth to the spoken words that formally bound the two of you together. With the last ritual pending, Rafayel began to anticipate his new life with you. He would take you to the surface. You would bask under the sun and share new experiences. For the first time, Rafayel would have a partner to share life with. Excited for the future, Rafayel turned to Elder Amund, only to freeze. Elder Amund had placed a dagger in the sea god’s hands.

“The rite will be complete when it has the sea’s blessings. You must obtain their heart”.

Rafayel’s eyes widened at the realization of what he had to do. Then he snapped his head towards you. You were stock still, staring at his hands, at the dagger. He could see your jaw and hands were clenched.

“Is this a joke, Elder Amund?”

“I’m afraid not, young one. It must be done, and it can only be done by your hands”.

“No! I refuse!”

“You do not have a say in this rite”.

“It’s my rite!” Rafayel shouted, hands tightly gripping the dagger. He glanced once at you and his voice wavered. “I can’t kill them. They are half my heart”.

Amund���s eyes were downcast as he spoke quietly but firmly. “I did ask you if you were sure this was to be your selection for the rite, and I put my faith in you as our god that you knew what you were doing. That you had our, Lemuria’s, best interests at heart”.

Now Elder Amund rose to observe Rafayel, and the sea god realized that his devotee was watching at him, awaiting providence. Rafayel dejectedly turned towards you, but you had not changed your pose during the argument. When the reality of what was about to happen hit you, you vanished within yourself as your mind screamed at you. All you could hear was Rafayel’s mocking tone to your challenge, Easy. Easy. EasyEasyEasyEasy. EASY! What a fool you were. An utter fool of fools. You wanted to lash out at him! Stab him before he could hurt you! But when you finally registered his face, love and anger both surged forward for Rafayel was in complete anguish.

He was cowering. The sea god was cowering in front of you, unsure of himself for the first time. His eyes begged a word from you. An order to take away the responsibility. Your eyes turned cold as the malice slipped in and a smirk appeared on your lips. You could wait. Stand there forever, refusing to ease the burden off the deity’s shoulders as he sank closer and closer to the floor. Then you could reach for the dagger and end him. But as Rafayel sank, you saw that he still held the dagger firmly in his hands and the smirk slowly slipped off your face as your eyes observed Rafayel steeling himself for the task.

Oh cruel deity. My heartless one. What a mess we’ve made.

Hands gently pressed under Rafayel’s arms, urging him back up to your face.

“You are a god. You cannot hide in the face of adversity,” you bitterly admonished.

“I can’t!” he protested.

You bit down your anger as you brought the dagger up to your heart, holding Rafayel’s wrist firmly.

“You are a god. You were never provided with a choice”.

“How can you be so calm? Aren’t you upset? Don’t you value your life? What’s wrong with you??”

A shudder ran down you at the last accusation. Indeed, what was wrong with you?

“Doesn’t matter which world, I was made a sacrifice,” you bitterly spat, “But what’s pathetic is that I am still willing to give you my heart because I am your follower”.

At this the tears finally began to flow down your cheeks and you allowed Rafayel to wipe them with his thumbs.

“Don’t you hate me?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Oh yes. I hate you. I hate you so much,” you spoke with a shine in your eyes and the sea god knew it was the truth.

“Then why?” he began, but your interrupted him. “Because I love you”.

Rafayel leaned into your shoulder and cried, but you knew now that his heart could bear the pain.

You leaned into his ear to whisper.

“I still hate you. You will regret breaking my trust. But I love you more, so my heart was always yours to take”.

With those final words you gently kissed Rafayel’s cheek and guided his hand to your heart for the last time.

Amund watched as the sea god held the pure flame in his hand. There was nothing he could say, and given the situation, he knew it would be best to stay silent under the deity sought him out again. Rafayel heard the elder leave the temple, but he kept staring at the flame in his hand. Fish are emissaries of the sea. If your wish is blessed by the ocean, a fish will appear. He remembered telling you that one night. There was no fish now. Perhaps because the sea god lost the right to give blessings after destroying his own.

[physalian]

8 Signs your Sequel Needs Work

Sequels, and followup seasons to TV shows, can be very tricky to get right. Most of the time, especially with the onslaught of sequels, remakes, and remake-quels over the past… 15 years? There’s a few stand-outs for sure. I hear Dune Part 2 stuck the landing. Everyone who likes John Wick also likes those sequels. Spiderverse 2 also stuck the landing.

These are less tips and more fundamental pieces of your story that may or may not factor in because every work is different, and this is coming from an audience’s perspective. Maybe some of these will be the flaws you just couldn’t put your finger on before. And, of course, these are all my opinions, for sequels and later seasons that just didn’t work for me.

1. Your vague lore becomes a gimmick

The Force, this mysterious entity that needs no further explanation… is now quantifiable with midichlorians.

In The 100, the little chip that contains the “reincarnation” of the Commanders is now the central plot to their season 6 “invasion of the bodysnatchers” villains.

In The Vampire Diaries, the existence of the “emotion switch” is explicitly disputed as even existing in the earlier seasons, then becomes a very real and physical plot point one can toggle on and off.

I love hard magic systems. I love soft magic systems, too. These two are not evolutions of each other and doing so will ruin your magic system. People fell in love with the hard magic because they liked the rules, the rules made sense, and everything you wrote fit within those rules. Don’t get wacky and suddenly start inventing new rules that break your old ones.

People fell in love with the soft magic because it needed no rules, the magic made sense without overtaking the story or creating plot holes for why it didn’t just save the day. Don’t give your audience everything they never needed to know and impose limitations that didn’t need to be there.

Solving the mystery will never be as satisfying as whatever the reader came up with in their mind. Satisfaction is the death of desire.

2. The established theme becomes un-established

I talked about this point already in this post about theme so the abridged version here: If your story has major themes you’ve set out to explore, like “the dichotomy of good and evil” and you abandon that theme either for a contradictory one, or no theme at all, your sequel will feel less polished and meaningful than its predecessor, because the new story doesn’t have as much (if anything) to say, while the original did.

Jurassic Park is a fantastic, stellar example. First movie is about the folly of human arrogance and the inherent disaster and hubris in thinking one can control forces of nature for superficial gains. The sequels, and then sequel series, never returns to this theme (and also stops remembering that dinosaurs are animals, not generic movie monsters). JP wasn’t just scary because ahhh big scary reptiles. JP was scary because the story is an easily preventable tragedy, and yes the dinosaurs are eating people, but the people only have other people to blame. Dinosaurs are just hungry, frightened animals.

Or, the most obvious example in Pixar’s history: Cars to Cars 2.

3. You focus on the wrong elements based on ‘fan feedback’

We love fans. Fans make us money. Fans do not know what they want out of a sequel. Fans will never know what they want out of a sequel, nor will studios know how to interpret those wants. Ask Star Wars. Heck, ask the last 8 books out of the Percy Jackson universe.

Going back to Cars 2 (and why I loathe the concept of comedic relief characters, truly), Disney saw dollar signs with how popular Mater was, so, logically, they gave fans more Mater. They gave us more car gimmicks, they expanded the lore that no one asked for. They did try to give us new pretty racing venues and new cool characters. The writers really did try, but some random Suit decided a car spy thriller was better and this is what we got.

The elements your sequel focuses on could be points 1 or 2, based on reception. If your audience universally hates a character for legitimate reasons, maybe listen, but if your audience is at war with itself over superficial BS like whether or not she’s a female character, or POC, ignore them and write the character you set out to write. Maybe their arc wasn’t finished yet, and they had a really cool story that never got told.

This could be side-characters, or a specific location/pocket of worldbuilding that really resonated, a romantic subplot, whatever. Point is, careening off your plan without considering the consequences doesn’t usually end well.

4. You don’t focus on the ‘right’ elements

I don’t think anyone out there will happily sit down and enjoy the entirety of Thor: The Dark World.  The only reasons I would watch that movie now are because a couple of the jokes are funny, and the whole bit in the middle with Thor and Loki. Why wasn’t this the whole movie? No one cares about the lore, but people really loved Loki, especially when there wasn’t much about him in the MCU at the time, and taking a villain fresh off his big hit with the first Avengers and throwing him in a reluctant “enemy of my enemy” plot for this entire movie would have been amazing.

Loki also refuses to stay dead because he’s too popular, thus we get a cyclical and frustrating arc where he only has development when the producers demand so they can make maximum profit off his character, but back then, in phase 2 world, the mystery around Loki was what made him so compelling and the drama around those two on screen was really good! They bounced so well off each other, they both had very different strengths and perspectives, both had real grievances to air, and in that movie, they *both* lost their mother. It’s not even that it’s a bad sequel, it’s just a plain bad movie.

The movie exists to keep establishing the Infinity Stones with the red one and I can’t remember what the red one does at this point, but it could have so easily done both. The powers that be should have known their strongest elements were Thor and Loki and their relationship, and run with it.

This isn’t “give into the demands of fans who want more Loki” it’s being smart enough to look at your own work and suss out what you think the most intriguing elements are and which have the most room and potential to grow (and also test audiences and beta readers to tell you the ugly truth). Sequels should feel more like natural continuations of the original story, not shameless cash grabs.

5. You walk back character development for ~drama~

As in, characters who got together at the end of book 1 suddenly start fighting because the “will they/won’t they” was the juiciest dynamic of their relationship and you don’t know how to write a compelling, happy couple. Or a character who overcame their snobbery, cowardice, grizzled nature, or phobia suddenly has it again because, again, that was the most compelling part of their character and you don’t know who they are without it.

To be honest, yeah, the buildup of a relationship does tend to be more entertaining in media, but that’s also because solid, respectful, healthy relationships in media are a rarity. Season 1 of Outlander remains the best, in part because of the rapid growth of the main love interest’s relationship. Every season after, they’re already married, already together, and occasionally dealing with baby shenanigans, and it’s them against the world and, yeah, I got bored.

There’s just so much you can do with a freshly established relationship: Those two are a *team* now. The drama and intrigue no longer comes from them against each other, it’s them together against a new antagonist and their different approaches to solving a problem. They can and should still have distinct personalities and perspectives on whatever story you throw them into.

6. It’s the same exact story, just Bigger

I have been sitting on a “how to scale power” post for months now because I’m still not sure on reception but here’s a little bit on what I mean.

Original: Oh no, the big bad guy wants to destroy New York

Sequel: Oh no, the big bad guy wants to destroy the planet

Threequel: Oh no, the big bad guy wants to destroy the galaxy

You knew it wasn’t going to happen the first time, you absolutely know it won’t happen on a bigger scale. Usually, when this happens, plot holes abound. You end up deleting or forgetting about characters’ convenient powers and abilities, deleting or forgetting about established relationships and new ground gained with side characters and entities, and deleting or forgetting about stakes, themes, and actually growing your characters like this isn’t the exact same story, just Bigger.

How many Bond movies are there? Thirty-something? I know some are very, very good and some are not at all good. They’re all Bond movies. People keep watching them because they’re formulaic, but there’s also been seven Bond actors and the movies aren’t one long, continuous, self-referential story about this poor, poor man who has the worst luck in the universe. These sequels aren’t “this but bigger” it’s usually “this, but different”, which is almost always better.

“This, but different now” will demand a different skillset from your hero, different rules to play by, different expectations, and different stakes. It does not just demand your hero learn to punch harder.

Example: Lord Shen from Kung Fu Panda 2 does have more influence than Tai Lung, yes. He’s got a whole city and his backstory is further-reaching, but he’s objectively worse in close combat—so he doesn’t fistfight Po. He has cannons, very dangerous cannons, cannons designed to be so strong that kung fu doesn’t matter. Thus, he’s not necessarily “bigger” he’s just “different” and his whole story demands new perspective.

The differences between Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi are numerous, but the latter relies on “but bigger” and the former went in a whole new direction, while still staying faithful to the themes of the original.

7. It undermines the original by awakening a new problem too soon

I’ve already complained about the mere existence of Heroes of Olympus elsewhere because everything Luke fought and died for only bought that world about a month of peace before the gods came and ripped it all away for More Story.

I’ve also complained that the Star Wars Sequels were always going to spit in the face of a character’s six-movie legacy to bring balance to the Force by just going… nah. Ancient prophecy? Only bought us about 30 years of peace.

Whether it’s too soon, or it’s too closely related to the original, your audience is going to feel a little put-off when they realize how inconsequential this sequel makes the original, particularly in TV shows that run too many seasons and can’t keep upping the ante, like Supernatural.

Kung Fu Panda once again because these two movies are amazing. Shen is completely unrelated to Tai Lung. He’s not threatening the Valley of Peace or Shifu or Oogway or anything the heroes fought for in the original. He’s brand new.

My yearning to see these two on screen together to just watch them verbally spat over both being bratty children disappointed by their parents is unquantifiable. This movie is a damn near perfect sequel. Somebody write me fanfic with these two throwing hands over their drastically different perspectives on kung fu.

8. It’s so divorced from the original that it can barely even be called a sequel

Otherwise known as seasons 5 and 6 of Lost. Otherwise known as: This show was on a sci-fi trajectory and something catastrophic happened to cause a dramatic hairpin turn off that path and into pseudo-biblical territory. Why did it all end in a church? I’m not joking, they did actually abandon The Plan while in a mach 1 nosedive.

I also have a post I’ve been sitting on about how to handle faith in fiction, so I’ll say this: The premise of Lost was the trials and escapades of a group of 48 strangers trying to survive and find rescue off a mysterious island with some creepy, sciency shenanigans going on once they discover that the island isn’t actually uninhabited.

Season 6 is about finding “candidates” to replace the island’s Discount Jesus who serves as the ambassador-protector of the island, who is also immortal until he’s not, and the island becomes a kind of purgatory where they all actually did die in the crash and were just waiting to… die again and go to heaven. Spoiler Alert.

This is also otherwise known as: Oh sh*t, Warner Bros wants more Supernatural? But we wrapped it up so nicely with Sam and Adam in the box with Lucifer. I tried to watch one of those YouTube compilations of Cas’ funny moments because I haven’t seen every episode, and the misery on these actors’ faces as the compilation advanced through the seasons, all the joy and wit sucked from their performances, was just tragic.

I get it. Writers can’t control when the Powers That Be demand More Story so they can run their workhorse into the ground until it stops bleeding money, but if you aren’t controlled by said powers, either take it all back to basics, like Cars 3, or just stop.

—

Sometimes taking your established characters and throwing them into a completely unrecognizable story works, but those unrecongizable stories work that much harder to at least keep the characters' development and progression satisfying and familiar. See this post about timeskips that take generational gaps between the original and the sequel, and still deliver on a satisfying continuation.

TLDR: Sequels are hard and it’s never just one detail that makes them difficult to pull off. They will always be compared to their predecessors, always with the expectations to be as good as or surpass the original, when the original had no such competition. There’s also audience expectations for how they think the story, lore, and relationships should progress. Most faults of sequels, in my opinion, lie in straying too far from the fundamentals of the original without understanding why those fundamentals were so important to the original’s success.

[ravenssilver]

more aeon angst. somewhat goes along with this, but could be read on it’s own, as well.

1.2k words of slightly depressed aeon taking on the burden of others, if you please.

He felt… heavy, he supposed.

It was hard to get out of bed, his feet dragged wherever he took himself, his shoulders slouched.

He just felt heavy. The headache dead center in his skull didn’t help much, either. An ever present ache that only seemed to get worse.

Aeon’s lilac eyes looked more gray now, dull with the shadows of abandoned that he felt himself drowning in.

He ached for some kind of contact—anything would be better than nothing.

He wished for someone to hold him and tell him everything would be okay. He wanted to he told that whoever had been his predecessor wasn’t actually all that grand, but he knew with the way he had heard his packmates talk about the older Quintessence, that would never be true.

As Aeon sat on the couch in the common room, staring blankly at the TV ahead of him, his thoughts drifted to this Aether that he had heard so much of while standing behind the corner of the living room wall when the rest of the pack were in a cuddle pile.

He sounded awesome, if Aeon was honest with himself. He sounded kind and compassionate. A rock for the pack. A guide.

What was Aeon?

He definitely wasn’t a support for the pack. If anything, he was deadweight for Mountain and Cirrus. Just something to drag along for the ride because it was what they were supposed to do.

What if they wanted to leave him behind? What if they were planning to abandon him as soon as they could? What if they did it on the upcoming tour? He would be stuck then. Trapped. Not even forgotten about, but purposely left behind.

What if-

Aeon jolted as the couch shifted with a new weight, Swiss slumping down onto the cushions next to him with a big huff. His lilac eyes remained on Swiss, taking in his appearance.

The multi’s helmet was nowhere to be found, and the vest to his uniform was unclasped. He had an exhausted look on his face, his eyes drooping as the day wore down on him.

Aeon’s eyes widened when he realized Swiss was looking back at him and he quickly looked away, looking back at the TV which he saw was a news program.

At least, that’s what he thought it was.

Swiss chuffed softly, an amused sound as he settled further into the couch, crossing his arms as he stared at the TV as well.

Aeon’s spine was stiff as a board. Granted, he was still slouched, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sit up right without the muscles in his back complaining.

What was Swiss doing? Sitting, obviously. But he was sitting next to Aeon. Close enough that their tails could brush.

Why?

Why was he so close? Did he want to talk? What would they talk about? What if he wanted to get to know Aeon.

Aeon paused, his eyebrows furrowing.

What was there to know?

Up until this point, Aeon had felt like nothing but a piece of driftwood in this sea of stress. It was nothing like he thought it would be Topside. Though, Aeon didn’t take loneliness Topside into account. He had lived it enough in the Pit, wouldn’t that mean he would be free Topside?

“You holding up fine?” Swiss asked, pulling Aeon from his thoughts yet again. Aeon glanced over at Swiss, the spade of his tail flicking as he took in Swiss’ words.

Was he? He wasn’t a crumpled mess on the floor, so that had to have been something. Though, he still hurt the same way he did in the Pit. Is that considered fine? Do the other ghouls still feel the pressure and ache from the Pit? Or do they live the freedom that Aeon so desperately yearned for?

“Yes.” Aeon replied with a slight nod, looking down at his lap. Swiss nodded, sighing a bit as he thought about the little Quint’s simple response.

“Are you?” Aeon asked, catching Swiss off guard. Swiss stared bug-eyed at Aeon for a moment before nodding slowly.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m doing fine.” Swiss muttered. As he finished speaking, there was a crackle of electricity in the air around him and he sighed, forgetting the full capabilities of quintessence ghouls.

“Why did you lie?” Aeon asked, a frown on his face as he hesitantly turned towards Swiss, his lilac eyes showing oceans of concern for his pack mate, despite the fact that Swiss had given Aeon zero of the same treatment.

Nobody had.

“It’s just casual Ministry stress. They always load us with work before tours. I’m alright.” Swiss waved off Aeon’s concern, though the new summon was insistent.

“You’re tired.” Aeon mumbled. “I can help.” He stated, wanting nothing more than the acceptance of at least one of his pack mates. Swiss looked into Aeon’s eyes and saw his desperation, a slight frown on his face when he realized the true extent of Aeon’s need.

“Alright,” Swiss nodded. “You need me to do anything?” He asked. Aeon quickly shook his head, moving closer to Swiss with an excited grin.

He could finally, finally prove himself. Swiss could see that he was a valuable member of the pack and he could tell the others. Aeon could be accepted the same way Aurora was. He could be invited to the dinner table on time, or to cuddle piles. Maybe he could even walk with the pack to practice instead of behind them.

Aeon placed his palms on Swiss’ temples and slipped his clawed fingers into the multi’s curly hair, being careful not to snag it in any way. Aeon took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting his element fill his system, flow through his veins and into Swiss’ mind and body.

Swiss sagged with relief when the quintessence entered his body, his eyes fluttering shut as he felt all aches in his body and mind slip away as if Aeon was absorbing them into himself.

Aeon’s eyebrows furrowed as he felt his headache get worse, the ache now turning into a slightly stabbing pain. He felt his shoulders burn with strain as if he had been standing and lifting heavy things for hours. His ankles hurt the same way they would after wearing the uniform boots for too long. And he was tired.

Exhausted, even.

With the little energy he had left, Aeon sent a rush of energizing quintessence into Swiss’ system, slipping his hands away from the older ghoul as he opened his eyes.

Aeon panted as he gave Swiss the slightest smile. It was meant to be happy, maybe hopeful, but he was just worn out.

“Damn, that’s amazing. What’d you do?” Swiss asked, his eyes lit back up with the energy that Aeon was so used to seeing from afar. “N-Nothing big.. just dug up all the tiredness I could,” Aeon smiled haphazardly, feeling his eyes try to droop with how tired he was from taking on Swiss’ burdens.

“Dropped it off into the ether, too, huh?” Swiss grinned as he bounced up to his feet again, back to his usual self.

Aeon’s eyebrows furrowed. Had Aether not done that for the pack before? Or, if he had, did he not tell them how it just transferred the ache into his vessel instead of the other pack member? Why would Aether not tell them?

… Should he keep it to himself as well?

Aeon gave a slight, tired laugh after a beat of silence and nodded, entertaining Swiss’ slight tease.

“Y-Yeah.. the ether…” he mumbled, his eyes drooping with disappointment and exhaustion as Swiss grinned again before walking off to continue his day.

[aq2003]

I find the decision to write the first Doctor as sort of cartoonishly bigoted in the episode with Twelve fascinating, because it shifts the blame for the racism, sexism etc present in early Doctor Who from the writers and producers to the *character*. It wasn’t the Doctor who wrote limited character arcs for female characters in comparison to male ones, and it wasn’t the Doctor who decided to use yellow-face for the characters in some episodes - that was the writers and production team. Y’know, real people. People whose legacy the current writers and producers of the show - who have also largely been white men, just like their predecessors - owe their jobs to.

And the persistent problem with continuing to sideline and tokenise the characters of some of the female companions and characters of colour in the service of centring the doctor as the (until recently) white male protagonist - that continued for most of the modern reboot in some form. Some of the elements of that were even new innovations under the modern writers (looking at you Moffat but you are not the only offender.) I mean, we’re talking about the portrayal of One as the past’s ambassador for sexism in iirc the exact same episode where Chris Chibnall reversed the previous episode’s ending of Bill surviving with Heather and re-buried the lesbians by sending Bill directly to the ‘your soul is canonically dead’ zone.

I absolutely can’t speak for the whole of the first Doctor’s tenure because I’ve only seen about 2/3 of his surviving episodes, but from the episodes I have seen, he didn’t even talk like that. There was a very big problem with that run of the show, but it was a different problem to the one the episode with One and Twelve is describing. One was weird as hell, but he was much less overtly hostile, wished much less bodily harm on minority groups and even dipped into less microaggressions and dogwhistles than most older white British people do now. That isn’t to say One’s behaviour in Old Who was something to aim for, it’s to say that a lot of the improvement in the attitude of white people in Britain over the last half-century has been performative at best, imaginary at worst, a lot of our dogwhistles are new and especially alarming for that reason - and it comforts white people to imagine that the racism and sexism of the past was overt and vulgar and unlike theirs, and that their bigotry by comparison is lesser and better and therefore doesn’t need further work; that now people affected by it just need to learn to live with it, because you’re lucky we’re not like our grandparents.

But that excuse doesn’t really work if (tw racism, anti-blackness, Islamophobia, death) some sects of British society talk more positively about drowning immigrants in the English Channel than they did 100 years ago, does it?

That excuse doesn’t work if your grandparents were actually quite a lot like you.

I live in the UK, about half the people I know watched the special with Twelve and One, and considering that vanishingly few modern viewers have seen or remember the first Doctor or any early Old Who, there was this odd awkward relief from most of the white people I watched the episode with, like they’d been absolved from Britain’s historical and current racism by the burning of an effigy. Like that bigotry coming from One’s mouth was a reassurance that this country’s bigotry had always been as cartoonish and ineffectual and easy to see as the lines Chris Chibnall and his colleagues wrote for One; that white people living in the UK now are fundamentally different than they were; and by watching Bill and One’s (still white) successor refuse his cartoonishly awful worldview, white Brits had somehow cleansed themselves and buried the past completely.

But the vast majority of the racism, bigotry, sexism in the original run of Doctor Who and still present in various forms in the show now did not actually take the form of nice clear, simple statements of bigoted beliefs from the characters’ mouths - it was in the writing. The way characters and especially cultures were portrayed. The yellow-face in one of Two’s story arcs really stuck in my mind, but the way Old Who handled nonwhite cultures in general was often horrific. The first Doctor was often perfectly polite, but women and characters of colour were sidelined and (even in instances when it was clearly accidental) dangerously misrepresented throughout the show in ways that persist well into the post-2000 reboot, because the sexism and racism wasn’t in the character.

The sexism and racism was in the writers’ room.

I don’t have any sentimental attachment to Old Who, I was born about a decade after it ended, but deflecting the cultural problems in the BBC that persist to this day onto one of the show’s characters, by having him express an easily-digestible form of bigotry much less dangerous and insidious than the one that was actually present in the early show, feels like a dangerous form of scapegoating.

Something I think would have meant much, much more would have been an apology *outside of the show* from the BBC and the show’s current writers for the wide variety of sincerely-held bigotries that were actually present in the first run of the show, and a public acknowledgement of the pervasive, insidious forms those bigotries actually often took in the show’s writing - and also an acknowledgement of the show’s continuing shortfalls in its handling of race and gender over the last twenty years - because that would have been much more productively challenging for viewers of the show (more or less the whole of the British public at some point in their lives) to have to consider. Which I have to assume is why they went down the reassuring ‘the first Doctor has died for our sins’ route instead.

This is just my two cents, I am also white and British so please take this perspective with a grain of salt.

Mm. I don’t know. This country loves letting ourselves off too easily, and the writing of One in that episode feels the like easiest and for that reason least effective way of reckoning with the way we were in the 1900s. Don’t worry everyone, at the turn of the millennium both the show and the country of Britain were reborn without sin!

this is such a good writeup anon. i don't have a lot to add - just that im asian-american and a lot of what you said aligns with rhetoric i've also seen in the states - that being this sense that racism is just something of the past rather than a fundamental, systemic issue that the country was built on. and yeah one thing that really struck me while watching twice upon a time was how one's bigotry was always framed as a joke. bill straight up says to twelve "i hope we laugh about it for 20 years" or whatever and it just reeks of "To Our White Audience: be not afraid. you're not racist like the 1st doctor who lived far into the past. see? the one black character knows we're not racist now. please give yourselves a pat on the back". and like, it's not funny to any people of color that might be watching. it's just prioritizing the comfort of white people. and it's pretty terrible that moffat (he wrote the episode, chibnall just wrote thirteen's first lines. but also i know chibnall took nuwho into its least progressive era so...) felt like he had a right to make light of this stuff when he has committed some pretty egregious crimes in his tenure himself

[soulless-bex]

the evolution of the Robin costume according to me myself and i:

the first version of the costume was Dick. everything about it was an homage to his parents. the colours, the design, the name of what would become a familial mantel, all of it came from John and Mary Grayson. Dick poured his grief and love into that costume and became stronger through it.

Jason’s costume was the same as Dick’s, only tailored to his size. it was smaller probably than it had ever been for Dick, but beyond very little alterations (probably a longer short and more secure boots, because at the end of the day, Jason is a survivor, and he wouldn't allow himself to go out there wearing something too revealing and shoes he didn't feel comfortable running in. Jason knew Gotham's streets and knew that was where the worst of humanity indulged in their darkest urges), the costume remained the. exact. same. maybe he didn't see the need to change it. more probably, it came from a place of insecurity and uncertainty about his place in the family. he looked up to Dick so much and wanted to make him proud so badly that he spent the rest of his short life doing his best to try and emulate Dick even if that meant erasing himself.

when Tim inherited (read; blackmailed Batman into giving it to him) the mantel, keeping the same costume was no longer possible. of course, Bruce could have had one made that was identical to the one Dick and Jason wore before him, but no one involved at this point would have allowed it. after losing Jason, both Dick and Bruce went all in with the protective measures that were added to the suit. there would not be another dead bird under their watch. Tim wouldn't have allowed it either: he couldn't have lived with himself if he did: wearing the same costume Jason had died in would have felt like an insult to his memory. using the same mantel was already bad enough, but he would have to live with it: Batman needed a Robin after all. the costume gained pants, reinforced armour, and the cape became black on the outside. they said it was for stealth, but really, to Tim, it was a way to honour Jason's memory: from now on, Robin would wear the grief for those who fell into battle. Robin, for the better or the worst, lost a little of its magic after that.

Stephanie knew her time as Robin would be short. she was only doing Tim a favour after all. so she didn’t bother personalizing the suit beyond adding a few accessories to it. she got one of Tim’s back up suits, only one of them, tailored to her. she found it lucky that Tim was so short: they were practically the same size, and the alterations needed were minimal.

when Stephabie followed into Jason’s footsteps and died on the job, Tim retired that design of the suit. he designed another one. the Robin costume once again became darker, losing the green and gaining a lot more black elements. a lot of red, too. maybe it wasn’t a conscious decision, but the mantle who saw two kids die became dyed with blood.

when Damian came around, he wasn’t all that aware of the history of the mantle. he knew the facts, obviously, he had learned everything he could about the previous Robins so he would be prepared to take over once he joined his father, but he wasn’t aware of the emotional weight the suit and being Robin carried. he wasn’t aware of the shackle Tim had put on himself through the mantle. his only thought when he designed his own version of the Robin suit was that he wouldn’t wear the same thing Tim wore. he was too busy trying to paint himself in the most flattering light that he forgot to learn from his predecessors: Damian’s suit stayed dark, like Tim’s had been, but it became more muted also, like he was wearing a grief that wasn’t his, because actually that’s exactly what it was. the Robin costume became greyer and lost a lot of his colours.

when Tim created his own mantle, he brought his pains and that of his predecessors with him. he started something new, but still draped himself with the history of the Robin mantle. the Red Robin suit was red and black, just like his last iteration of the Robin costume

:D

[purplelupins]

Agnellino

|Ghost|

Terzo/Papa Emeritus III x Fem!reader

Summery: You hoped the church wouldn’t find out about your little lie upon joining them…but evidently your papa is smarter than you think.

Warnings: nsfw, power imbalance, light body worship (f receiving), fingering, low-key manipulation…Terzo being a horny man.

Notes: this is a commission for @ethanhoewke and I do NOT speak Italian so if anything is wrong here it’s not my fault. I took creative liberty and called the church “Satanae Ecclesiae”.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Nighttime was when you felt most vulnerable.

You were selfconsious when the sun disappeared behind the horizon.

It wasn’t that you were just shy, however. It was that you felt out of place…overly observed and scrutinized.

Stared at.

Picked apart.

It didn’t matter that you wore the same habit as every other Sister of Sin or that you recited your nightly prayers in any incorrect manner- in fact you recited them better than most.

It was that you were a latest addition to the flock.

You were new.

And new was interesting.

The edges of the grucifix clutched in your hand nearly began to draw blood from how tightly you grasped it. Your eyes grew glassy with tears that wouldn’t fall as you refused to blink; the sight before you too extraordinary to miss.

Rituals were in and of themselves a sight to behold, regardless of the papa delivering it, but since you had joined the Satanae Ecclesiae when you did, you had the sublime pleasure of being guided by Papa Emeritus III…or Terzo as he insisted most everyone call him. He was dramatic and perverted and commanding- a fair contrast, you had been told, to his predecessors. There were very few reserved or modest bones in his body.

As the man stood upon his pulpit and spoke down to you and your fellow brothers and sisters, his words seemed to muffle in your ears, though you still absorbed them. It was as if he was communicating to you on another plane of being. Like a sixth sense. You wondered if that was how your fellow children of sin felt, or if you were alone in your rapture.

“…bow your heads now my children, and let your eyes fall to the stone beneath your feet, for it is what lay beneath them that will be your forever home once you are freed from your life here. You are cursed and damned, may Satan devour your souls…Nema.” His voice echoed in the large stone hall, and following his words, you all bowed your heads, and the soft murmur of “Nema.” rippled around you.

You finally sucked in a deep breath that you had been meaning to for an hour, but simply hadn’t been able to lest you make a noise in the silent room. The last thing you wanted were more eyes on you. You had made a point of remaining as anonymous as possible ever since you had been initiated during your first ritual.

That night, you had been told to stand before the pulpit, and accept the ceremonial welcoming from your papa, just as everyone else had. However, as soon as he had knelt down to you, and extended his hand with a flick of his wrist for you to take, your mind had gone blank. Your papa had taken your hand, and pulled you to the edge of the pulpit where he leaned over to you, drawing you in as close as you could before your ribs ached from being pressed against the wood. Those mismatched eyes of his had bored into your soul and mind. You didn’t even remember reciting your vows, but evidently you had done well as the next thing you had known you were being pulled in for hugs and kisses to your cheeks from various children of sin.

They had welcomed you into their home with open arms, and you hadn’t looked back. But since then, you had indeed been the talk of the compound.

The sisters nearest to you began to shuffle out, or talk amongst themselves.

It seemed, however, that you had forgotten to lower your gaze from your papa; unfortunately for you, once you did in fact realize your error, it was too late. Papa continued to gaze across the crowd and seeing as you were one of the only faces turned up to him, he caught your stare quickly. You felt as if you had been gripped by his eyes alone; he gazed into your very soul like he knew it was fresh…young…not yet entirely sinful.

He smirked.

Actually smirked.

You felt a shiver run down your spine- you couldn’t look away. It was…it was almost as if he could tell you were still untouched.

But how could he know?

You had told them otherwise…it wasn’t as if he could find out. Your heart began to race at the idea of him knowing that you had lied…

The seats around you began to empty, and you took the movement around you as your escape. It made your chest ache to look away, but the longer you waited the harder it would have been.

The sound of shoes on the stone floors reverberated around the halls, as did the chatter- both lively gossip and sleepy grumbles. As you went to turn down your wing to reach your room, a hand gripped your shoulder and halted you.

“Pardon me sister.”

You turned and saw one of the senior sisters standing before you, a straight stare on her face. You wondered how they showed such little emotion sometimes…you knew that they were indeed capable of a great deal of feeling- you had seen them laugh and smile many times…but there came times where they looked like statues.

“Good evening, sister…can I help?” You replied, hands clasped neatly in front of you.

Your elder nodded.

“His Unholiness has requested your presence imminently.” She said, gesturing behind her, back through the dark corridors.

You felt all blood drain from your face.

Had you done something wrong? Cursed hell below…did he take offence to your staring? We’re not completing your daily duties correctly? Was there something wrong with your initiation-

You froze.

He knew.

When you had joined the welcoming arms of Satanae Ecclesiae, they had asked you whether or not you had been…taken. “Fucked” they had said to be precise. You had nearly choked, and to save your embarrassment, you had managed a “Yes.” Regardless of the lie.

That “Yes” had been one of the biggest lies that you had ever told. Hell, you barely even knew how to touch yourself let along be touched by someone.

“Sister y/n?” The elder asked.

You snapped out of your daze and stared back at her dumbly.

“I asked if you needed me to show you the way to his chambers.” She must have asked a few times to sound that cross.

You quickly shook your head. You knew where he was- you had walked past his door many a time, often blushing from the noises you would hear from behind the door- sometimes his voice, sometimes not. It was understood that Papa took care of his children, and he had his favourites. Said favoured brothers and sisters would…receive special attention from him. Not that you had gotten any sort of attention, and while you grew jealous from the stories you heard, you knew you wouldn’t know what to do even if you…if he…

You blushed.

You wouldn’t even know what to do if they found out your little secret…and now here you were. In that exact situation.

“I-I know where I’m going.” You whispered.

It seemed you stayed rooted to the spot a moment too long as the sister gave you an expectant look.

“Oh! Thank you. I’ll- Thank you sister. Goodnight.” You lowered your head and moved past her as a sign of respect, and scurried off. As soon as you were back in the main hall that split the compound into its various wings, you felt a cold sweat break out on your skin, and a tremor in your hands.

Only a few brothers and sisters passed by you, sending you simple greetings as their eyes devoured you. Then as their voices and footsteps faded away, all you were left with were the constant echoes of the souls who refused to leave the church- even after passing from this world to the next, decades or centuries ago; those who lurked in the shadows and sang to those who would listen…tempting them to join them in the afterlife.

Their mournful voices were addicting, and while it scared some, you found an odd comfort in them- even found yourself speaking to them. They kept you company as you began down the corridor leading to the Emeritus wing. Just as it’s name suggested, every Papa -past and present- lived there. The stones were a beautiful onyx, and gold torches lined the walls, as did various tapestries. It was considered an honour to walk down that hall, and should be treated as an act of worship.

The further you went, the less you could hear as your mind spun. If it weren’t for sheer muscle memory, you would have missed the door to Papa’s chambers. Indeed, due to your youth and desire to please,you had been entrusted with the job of second messenger between Papa II and Sister Imperator- a result of which had you frequenting that very wing daily.

You had grown fairly comfortable after the first two months, though the butterflies never seemed to fully settle when you passed that particular door that led to the current papas chambers.

You stood outside the imposing, ornate door, and your arms felt too heavy to lift and knock on the wood. Your brow was scrunched in thought and worry as you wondered what life might hold for you if they did indeed remove you from the church…where would you go? What would you do?

Your head swam helplessly, and once you finally found your strength to knock, there was a gentle “Enter.” before your knuckles could even touch the wood.

Somehow him being aware of your presence before even hearing or seeing you terrified you more.

If he did know your secret…would you be cast out? Would you be deemed too pure?

Not wanting to keep him longer than you had, you turned the knob, and pushed on the door. The soft glow emanating from hundreds of red, melting candles enveloped you immediately, and you took a moment to gaze around the lush room. A stark contrast to your simple chamber. There were plush carpets, and beautifully woven tapestries on the walls, along with magnificent paintings. Bookshelves stuffed, and vases of black roses.

“Good evening, young sister, you found you way easily I see.”

You slowly looked to your right where a large desk sat infront of a circular window. Well, it wasn’t the desk that you were staring at- it was the man sat at it. Papa Emeritus III, still donning his painted face, tousled hair and white gloves. His black jacket was nowhere to be seen, and his white vest was unbuttoned to show his shirt beneath it- the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had his feet propped up on the top of the desk, and you noticed how much his shoes shined.

He spoke to you, idiot.

“Yes, Papa…Thank you. I was told you required my presence, your unholiness…is there someth-“

“Terzo.” He said simply, a slight roll to his “R”.

You blinked and forgot anything you were saying. “I’m sorry?” You asked, taking a few steps inside as the door closed.

“You and I are alone, little one. You will call me Terzo, yes?” He removed his feet from his desk and leaned forward onto his elbows, giving you his complete, undivided attention. His gaze was even heavier with no crowd to disappear into.

You could already feel a blush creep up from under your habit. “Yes Pa- Terzo.” You managed. You would be lying if you said this was your first time murmuring husband name; although most of the time it was you alone with your thoughts in your chambers when you said it…you nightgown bunched up around your hips and your hand between your thighs-

He smiled, and you nearly buckled at the sight of it. “Good! Now come. Sit. You and I have somethings to discuss.”

You nodded and quickly made you way to the chair in front of the desk, but just as you were about to take a seat, you heard him tut you.

“Ah, ah…” he patted his lap and held his hand out for you, “Here will do.”

For the third time that night, you were rooted to your spot. Immobile. Your eyes flicked to his lap, and the way his legs spread. You would have backed away if it weren’t for his calm face and steady gaze inviting you closer. It was as if his energy alone or some invisible force was beckoning you to him.

You wordlessly walked around the desk, and slowly lowered yourself to perch on his thigh. You would be lying if you said it didn’t feel nice.

“There’s a good girl…now, I hate doing these sorts of things…far too dull for me, but evidently it needs to be done…” he half murmured to himself, running his hand through his hair. You absentmindedly wondered what he used in it. But as soon as the meaning of his words registered in your head, you could feel tears start to well in your eyes, and a sob build in your throat.

This was it.

They were going to send you away, “Are you going t-to punish me?” You whimpered.

Terzo snapped his gaze to you and barked out a laugh; upon seeing your expression however, he schooled his face and thought for a moment. For the right words to comfort you. “I wouldn’t say that, no…I certainly hope you don’t see it as punishment.” His voice rumbled in his chest, and his breath fanned across your face.

You looked away from him, gripping the skirt of your habit, “But you’re going to send me away aren’t you?”

He was silent for a long minute. You assumed it was him thinking of a way to soften the blow, but then he gently turned your face to his, and he spoke so softly. “La mia dolce ragazza…what are you speaking of?” He asked.

You slowly rose your eyes up to meet his. What you were met with was a patient confusion, and you were reminded of the father figure position he held to you and your fellow children of sin.

“I lied.” You whispered, trying to ignore how close he was.

Terzo continued to stare until he blinked and looked away with a nod.

He sighed. “You lied to us…yes.” He nodded again as if to confirm your statement, but somehow the purse of his lips was lacking the seriousness you had expected for such a statement.

A feather-light touch to your hip made you jump. His hand came to settle there, respectfully but still somewhere that could be considered taboo . Then everything hit you all at once. You were in Papa’s chambers…sat in his lap, with his hand on your hip and his breath against your cheek and you could smell him so clearly…Satan he smelled good-

“But…” he sighed, “You know I like to think I am a fair papa…” he looked at you again, and this time his arm came to rest around your waist, cradling you. “Would you like to stay?” He asked.

Your eyes went wide. “Very much.”

“Yes?” He asked, his hand creeping back down to your hip; his grip a little less gentlemanly. Terzo’s touch, however, was so gentle you didn’t even notice him hiking your dress up; even as the cool air snaked up your ankles and calves.

“Please.” You breathed, hoping he’d see how badly you wished to stay.

Terzo’s chest began to rise and fall quicker.

“I think we are both very well aware that something needs to change, hm?” His hand was now under your skirt, at the soft crease between your thigh and your hip, gloved thumb stroking your skin.

It was then, that you finally realised that you were no longer the picture of sinful modesty.

“P-papa-?” You whispered, suddenly hyper aware of how he had been dragging you closer to him on his lap. Indeed, when you had originally taken your seat on him, you had begun on his knee, and he now had you firmly tucked into his hip- your rear against his groin.

Tsk. He clicked his tongue.

Your eyes widened at your mistake, “Ter-Terzo, forgive me.” You corrected yourself, “I’m…what are you-“ you couldn’t find the right words. You expected yourself to awaken at any moment- that this was all just another one of your dreams where you’d awaken with an ache between your thighs where you wished his head would be.

“You haven’t noticed have you?” He cooed.

There was nothing you could do but stare at him, and Terzo was more than happy to elaborate.

“You think I haven’t been craving to touch you since you lied so clearly that first day? You thought I didn’t notice?” His breath was against your neck, smoothing against your skin, down under your collar.

“I-I don’t-“ you couldn’t think as his hand dipped completely under your skirt and over your navel, just skimming the top of your panties; his hands steady as ever, as if he had no idea what he did to you.

“You don’t? Shame. You got me fucking hard tonight, you know that?…La mia bella ragazza.” His voice lowered into a husky rasp that sent shivers up and down your spine. “I knew you lied. I knew no one had been given the pleasure of having you…I could almost taste you…” his hands wandered even more, the other now pulling your habit to slip it inside and palm your breast, his gloved fingers pinching your nipple. “Will you let me have you, la mia piccola?”

Your breathing came in quick gasps and your chest rose and fell rapidly; every inch of your skin was on fire.

Who were you to say no to your papa?

You nodded, words escaping you.

Terzo clicked his tongue again, “No no no no, mia bella…tell your papa.”

He wanted to hear you. A simple nod would not suffice when he desired the joy of hearing your pathetic little voice telling him you were his to have.

But then he heard that little intake of breath, and before you even spoke he knew you were weakened for him.

“Take-take me papa…” you whispered.

Those words alone were nearly enough to break the great Terzo apart…but somehow he remained whole. Whole and completely unable to restrain himself.

“Satana aiutami…” he purred before his lips were on yours and his hand under your skirt was dipping under your panties. You could taste the makeup he still wore, and wine on his tongue but they only made you dizzier; melting even further into his touch.Something that evidently pleased him greatly.

His hand drew gentle circles around your clit, but after only a moment he pulled away; an involuntary mewl left you.

He chuckled and kissed your hair. You were already so helplessly needy for him.

Then, he nodded to something just past your face, and when you followed his gaze, you were met with his gloved hand, fingers now by your mouth. You looked from him to the glove, and after a moment, you leaned forward and took the tip of the index finger into your mouth and pulled. The fabric came clean off, but you kept it in your mouth.

Terzo’s lips parted and his eyes became heavy as he watched his pristine glove dampen between your lips. You thought he might kiss you again, but instead he ripped the fabric from your mouth and replaced it with two of his fingers, place on the top of your tongue like an offering. He could have just taken what he wanted but instead he watched you intently. Waiting.

You tentatively ran your tongue along them, and watched your papa for any guidance, but all he could offer was a “Sì…that’s it.”

His makeup was smudged around his mouth, and his tongue looked as though it might being to lap at you, but he restrained himself as you began to suckle and lick at his long fingers. Terzo’a chest began to rise and fall quicker and quicker until he was nearly panting at the sight of you. Until it was too much. “Cosa mi stai facendo, ragazzina?” He asked with no desire for an answer.

He ripped his hand from your mouth and covered it with his lips again as his large hands groped at the fabric of your habit; pulling and tugging at it until the skirt was completely up around your hips and you were bare to him. You instinctively wished to cover yourself, but you fought to stay good for him- he wanted you bare and that was what you would be.

“Forgive me, piccola bellezza…Ti prego, lascia che ti tocchi!” He panted against your tongue. Your head was so dizzy you didn’t even care what he was saying…he could have asked to drink your blood and you would have been helpless to say no. So you nodded.

The next thing you felt were his hands on your hips. One running across your stomach then the other dipped down your navel.

“Y-you’re not goi-ng to fu- um- ah!” You could barely form words as his ungloved hand crept to the edge of your panties again and snapped the elastic before rubbing down your mound over your clit to your slit where he dipped his finger over the fabric to toy with you a little more.

“Oh I will fuck you mi amor…but you know my brothers? They have been taunting me…telling me I might never taste you…and I think I will do just that…very unhurriedly…and very thoroughly.” He worked his fingers past the hem of your panties until he found your bare bundle of nerves, and began to stroke it so gently you almost wondered if it was happening at all.

His free hand came up your torso to your neck where he held your head to the side easier; his lips coming back to yours in a slow but biting kiss. His teeth nipped and he sucked at your tongue like it was an offering from Satan himself.Terzo hooked your knees over his, giving complete control over the spread of your thighs to him.

By the time your papa had finished with your clit, your hips were bucking as if you were coursing with electricity with each pet and touch. His hot breath fanned over your cheeks as his concentration began to slip from your mouth down to between your legs.

Terzo eased his finger down from your clit to the slick slit that was begging for his touch. You clenched your thighs automatically at the foreign feeling, but his legs stopped them. “Ah ah…you’re doing so well, mia dolce piccola vergine…so well for your papa.” Terzo’s breathless voice sent a shiver down your spine. His excitement was as evident in his tone as it was against your backside, pressing into you.

He stroked through your wet lips, slightly dipping in before retreating again- enjoying torturing you. And oh your sounds made it all worth it. Whining, whimpering, your needy little pleas; your hands gripping his arms as they held you and caged you.

Again and again he denied you- savouring the fact that he would be the first person to toy with you as such. He hoped he would be the last as well…though with his brothers and that cardinal who loved rats, he knew…it was unlikely he would be able to keep you to himself.

“T-Terzo pl-please- ah….” You cried, tears shining in your eyes as your body pulsed with need. You hadn’t even cum yet and you were nearly limp from arousal. Your thighs twitched with every breath of his on your skin. After so long of wanting exactly this, you were finally there and couldn’t even find the words to express what an array of passionate emotions you were feeling.

Until finally, he relented, and slipped his long finger inside you. There was a moment where all time seemed to stop as his finger filled you. It was thick, and he immediately seemed to find that spot inside you that had you gasping for air. He bullied it with the pad of his finger, over and over again he stroked it, adding a second finger to the sweet torture.

It didn’t take long before you were stalking your head. “N-no please it-it’s too much!” You managed to get out in a rush as a hot coil began to twist and turn in your guts; getting tighter and tighter until you were crying out for mercy, to which you recieved a low, pleased chuckle from the man behind you.

“Are you going to cum?” He cooed.

Your eyes drooped and your lips parted, “I-I don’t- I - ah…I’m n-not su-“ your own high pitched whine interrupted your admission.

He tsked you. “My poor sweet thing…you are going to cum…that’s what it feels like, precious. Just do as I say, yes?” His voice was a purr in your ear. You trusted him. This was your papa…and he would take cared of you.~

You nodded helplessly, knowing you couldn’t do anything but that.

“I’m going to count down for you. You will count with me, yes?” Terzo crooked his fingers inside you and your vision began to go starry.

You nodded again. “Y-ah! Yes!”

“Good…10.” He began.

“10.” You said.

“9…” He began to strike you more deliberately, and you repeated the number; albeit very shakily.

“8.” He murmured, steadily fingering you in and out, not wanting to rush a single moment.

“7.” Trying to remember the number he had just said was difficult, but again you managed to whimper out the number.

“6….you can do it.” His grip around your waist was growing tighter, and you briefly wondered if he might crush you.

“5.” Halfway there and you felt as if you were holding on for dear life. You couldn’t even form words any longer, and thus resorted to tapping your finger five times on his forearm.

“4.” His voice was getting rougher with each second.

“3…” You knew you were close. Your legs began to shake and your moans refused to calm.

“2……” Terzo licked a long stripe up your neck, all the way to your ear.

“1.” You both said one in unison and it was as if he could play your body like an instrument; the next moment your papa was holding you like a lifeline. It was all too much for you mind and body alike, and you had not choice but to come apart in his arms.

“Ahhh there you go…well done.” He praised you, slowing his movements down to stroke you through your orgasm- the first of many. The sheer thought alone had him nearly bouncing with excitement. He would be the one to make you feel so perfectly.

He stilled his hand inside you, your gently little sobs were enough to tell him you were finished and overstimulated.

By the time Terzo was done with you, you had asleep in his bed instead of retiring to your chambers like you were supposed to. Not that Terzo minded, in fact he was considering keeping you there permanently for his own enjoyment.

His sweet little pet.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

[leikeliscomet]

“But We Love Martha Jones!” - The Doctor Who Fandom’s Selective Memory of Racism

Chapter 3 - Martha vs Bill

Moffat took us to a Bristol university in 2017, to meet the bright, friendly, chip-serving Bill Potts, the first Black lesbian companion of Doctor Who. Bill’s entrance wasn’t met with sunshine and rainbows either, with complaints of “PC agendas” and the accusation of her sexuality being “shoved down our throat” following her throughout Series 10. She was often called annoying and accused of being too angry. Her outbursts at Twelve weren’t fully well received, despite them only happening as a response to being emotionally manipulated and being shot and converted into a Cyberman against her will. Overreactions, right? That being said, Bill seems to have a more positive reception than Martha did and this can be pointed towards the writing. Moffat decided S10 would focus on Bill’s race and had the 12th Doctor bravely punch Sutcliff after his anti-black comments about her. This was mostly well received by the fandom and the Doctor was praised for taking initiative. How I feel about this scene and how Doctor Who handles race can be explained in way more detail for later but I can sum it up by saying I didn’t hate the scene: but I don't love it either. The racism Bill receives is barely mentioned again apart from a small comment in Oxygen, plus I see this scene constantly used to shut down any valid criticism about how race was handled in the Moffat era. Twelve is centred in this scene, not Bill. The fact this scene is referred to as “Twelve punches the racist” and not “Bill experienced racism” speaks for itself.

Leading back to Martha, a weird parallel is made between her and Bill. Yes, RTD and Moffat are different people who wrote different people but a parallel is there regardless; A brown-skinned woman expected to defend and save her white male incarnation whilst barely praised for it and constantly compared to her blonde white female predecessor, versus, the light-skinned woman who was actually defended by her white male incarnation. It's not the best look. The show set up the parallel by having Bill reference Martha’s butterfly effect conversation with Ten and the fandom carried this on. As much as I love Bill, her being held up as the Black companion “done right” has always felt wrong because not only are there critiques to be made about Moffat’s handling of Black characters too (Danny Pink anyone?), it reinforces Martha as the “failed” Black companion. “Moffat wrote Bill to do XYZ whilst RTD wrote Martha to do ABC” became “Bill did this and Martha didn’t so Bill was better Black representation!” Bill spoke about racism and Martha didn’t (even though she did in Shakespeare Code and Human Nature/Family of Blood), Bill wore her natural hair and Martha didn’t (even though Freema didn’t control the costumes), Bill did everything right (as if Martha did everything wrong).

Bill being placed on the pedestal of the “perfect Black companion” not only erases the antiblackness her character also experienced but reinforces how her darker counterparts, Martha, Mickey and Ryan, “fail” in comparison and “fail” in their Blackness, over reasons the characters nor actors themselves had any control over. It really begs the question of how different Bill would��ve been treated if she was darker, but I guess we’ll never know. If we’re gonna praise and uplift POC in Doctor Who, specifically Black characters, we need to uplift them in all shades. Only supporting the lightest person in the room whilst saying they’re better than the darker ones is not the anti-racist serve this fandom thinks it is.

<- Chapter 2 Chapter 4 ->