Also, reasons why you buy the physical copy of the album & have a CD/DVD drive on your computer. Stop playin around & go support the muscians outright by BUYING THE ALBUM!!
Bandcamp lets you pay the artist once and download the MP3/FLAC files directly to your hard drive. Don't let the corporations convince you that a streaming subscription app and using a CD drive in 2026 (how is a niche artist supposed to sell their music on CD?) are your only two options.
This has been my main argument against "AI" from the very beginning.
OpenAI scraped the entire web. All of which had been a labor of love from humans. Wikipedia is the backbone of a lot of LLMs, and that was volunteer human labor. They stole it and now they're selling it back to us.
And worse, they're trying to destroy the free sources that they stole from. It's destruction of human knowledge on an unprecedented scale. The burning of the library of Alexandria has nothing on this.
Clark couldn't believe it. Even as Bruce's pretty pink lips pressed against his he still couldn't help but think he was dreaming. The pretty boy came to Smallville three weeks ago. Coming to the country side for summer vacation and within those three weeks Clark's heart was completely enraptured in the being that was Bruce Wayne.
He wanted to kiss the pale boy ever since he saw Bruce through his bedroom window. And when Bruce kept Clark's secret, let him practice flying and train his powers in the expansive yard of the Wayne property Clark became even more infatuated.
Bruce loved him too. Or at least Clark hoped. Why else would Bruce let an alien freak come over to his house if he didn't like him? Why else would Bruce be kissing him?
"Hey, farm boy, come back to me." Bruce says.
Gosh, the sound of Bruce's voice rough after kissing sounds so good.
"Wh-what?" Clark stutters.
"I said, we've been kissing for so long. Don't you want to try something different?"
The tall boy gulps. "Differen' how?"
Bruce smiles. The curve of his lips reminds Clark of a mischievous kitten. He bets if Bruce had a tail the end would flick back and forth playfully.
Bruce catches Clark unaware, grabbing his hips firmly and pulling him close. Their hips grind against each other and Clark sighs as he feels his blood run hot.
âFeels good, right?â
âG-gosh.â Clark gasps. âW-we shouldnât be doing this!â
Clark removes Bruceâs hands, retreating from the tempting dark haired boy with three large steps back.
âWhy not?â
âB-because,â Clark stutters. He throws an arm over his face to cover his blushing and avert his gaze from Bruceâs pretty face.
âBecause weâre boys.â He admits shamefully. Bruce speaks, his voice cold.
âClark.â
âI-Iâm sorry Bruce. But Iâm already a freak as it is I donât need this too.â
âYouâre right, Clark.â Bruce says bitterly. âI wouldnât want to make you more of a freak.â
Clark flinches at the other boys tone. He stays silent as Bruce gathers his things and leaves. For the rest of summer he stays away from the large yard of the Wayneâs property.
james potter fucks this, james potter dom that, babygirl listen to urselfâŠ. james potter is a slag who enjoys laying back and make the most pathetic noises a man can make while getting ridden. thatâs what james potter is.
Fuck yâall know bout the Kryptonite Cockring âąïž
The title is bait for my freaky Superman propaganda.
With Clark being the freak in the relationship it only makes sense he has a couple of thoughts on the usage of Kryptonite in the bed room and all of them involve a small piece on Bruce.
Did I also mentioned this might be sub top leaning. Just a little. Most bedroom acts involve Clark seeing something, realizing it wouldnât work and then remembering his boyfriend, husband or whatever not only has enough Kryptonite access to fill a large vault but also something that can actually cut and shape it without breaking it. So, imagine Bruceâs face everytime he comes to him to shyâll explain this fun thing they could do in the bedroom.
âBut that wonât work on you.â
âNot if itâs made out ofâŠKryptonite.?â
He always just makes the thing for them to use but heâs always a little surprised. He loves doing these things for Clark though and he wouldnât stop unless Clark came to him and told him to stop.
Itâs very sweet even if you think about it because more times than none maybe a ring with this tiny piece of Kryptonite in it while going at it feels a little scary if you didnât know that Clark was the one suggesting and whimpering over it like a dog. Just about 99% of the time Bruce is going to say YES.
Bonus points if both Metropolis and Gotham reports now do actively begin to gossip with each other because:
âHow does some boyscout reporter tame Brucie Wayne??â
âThe Bat and Superman are starting to do alottt of calling on each other huh?â
Edit: The attention grabber title also may or may not just be a really funny way to say to say that it is exactly what heâs asking for in this ambiguous scenario lol
Edit 2: Clark is very sweet and shy about it at the end of the day even if heâs basically saying âI need you to put a little Kryptonite in a collar and make me wear it while you ride me.â
It doesnât help his case because he loves feeling weak and pliant in Bruceâs hands because itâs the only place heâd want to be when weak. Clark whimpering and desperate and Bruce ever so in-love canât bring himself to not indulge him.
Vampirism would never be Voldemortâs preferred form of existence, but needs must.
Itâs unfortunate that the Ministry seized his body for examination instead of burying him â or even putting his corpse on display, he merits at least that much. But alas, when his back-up plan finally kicks in (well, the horcruxes were his initial back-up plan, but hardly the only one. One can never be too careful when it comes to ensuring oneâs continued survival), heâs on an examination table surrounded by Aurors and Unspeakables. Not ideal for making his escape, especially when heâs weak and disoriented.
He manages to latch onto the nearest mage and drink enough of their blood to mount a defence and get to the exit, but being a vampire is different enough that heâs taken down before he makes it more than two steps through the door. How humiliating.
So now, here he is, tucked somewhere in the bowels of the Ministry with guards posted just out of sight, interrogated frequently on such matters as who his Death Eaters are, the extent of his crimes, what he knows (far more than these dunderheads can comprehend), and on and on. He gives them nothing, unless it doesnât matter anymore and will just frustrate them to know. Then he provides more detail than they would ever want. Their methods of information extraction are laughable, anyway.
They only try to starve him to death once. After he rips through the wards and bars containing him and drains one of his guards dry, they donât try it again. Now, they bring him some kind of blood in pouches once every few days. It sustains him, but thatâs about all that can be said for it. He doesnât feel hungry, per se, but too long without blood makes a headache pound behind his eyes and worsens his already irascible nature.
Heâs certain he could escape this cell if he wanted to, but itâs taking him far longer to adapt to being a vampire than he had expected. His magic functions differently, his senses are heightened and inconsistent, and heâs unsure what his reaction to sunlight will be. (Or even regular indoor lighting â itâs kept quite dim in this corridor.) Heâs willing to be patient and make his move when the time is right.
(ă(âąÌᔄᔄâąÌ)ă)
Itâs during one of the Ministerâs occasional visits â as though he has any respect for the position and will give up his secrets more easily â that he appreciates his intensified sense of smell for the first time.
(His guards could stand to brush up on their cleaning charms. They donât appreciate it when he shares this knowledge with them.)
Itâs enticing, the fragrance, and strong enough that it almost feels visible, wafting down the corridor from the open door. He feels himself drawn to the scent, only stopping when he hits the bars. It takes a fair bit of self-control to resist pulling them apart and pursuing the delicious smell. âWho walked by just now?â
âThat isnât of any concern to you,â Shacklebolt says flatly.
One of the Aurors snaps, âWeâre asking the queââ
âBring them here,â Voldemort commands. âOr weâll find out exactly how well these new wards will hold up against me.â
His ability to enthral the Aurors guarding him might be limited by the amulets they wear, but the fact that it still affects them at all seems to terrify them more. One looks to the Minister, hands shaking; he races off once he gets the nod.
Shacklebolt attempts to stare him down, which would be more impressive if heâd been able to do it before Voldemort had his metaphorical wings clipped. Once he realises Voldemort has no intention of engaging in a childish staring contest, the other man chats quietly with the remaining guards.
The Auror returns, looking pale and pinched. âEr, Minister ShackleboltâŠâ
âWho is it?â
The Auror slides his eyes over to Voldemort before returning to meet the Ministerâs gaze and shaking his head.
The look is telling. He makes an educated guess and calls out, âHarry Potter.â
After a brief pause, the tense, angry silence is shattered by the thud of footsteps rapidly approaching before the boy skids to a stop before Voldemortâs cell, panting for breath and looking horrified and enraged by what he finds.
âWhat the hell is he doing hereââ
âHarry, waitââ
âHeâs alive?!â
âLetâs go talk about thisââ
âHello again, Harry Potter,â Voldemort cuts in. âSo kind of you to finally visit me.â
âHow in Merlinâs name did you survive?â Potter shouts, sounding a touch hysterical.
âCome closer and Iâll tell you.â A rather transparent ploy, but the scent of the boyâs blood has his head reeling. And, well, Potter has never needed a sophisticated touch to lure him in.
Shacklebolt snarls at him and quickly raises the silencing barrier that prevents him from being heard beyond the walls of his cell. What a pity.
He says, âIâll see you soon,â ensuring his mouth moves deliberately enough for the message to get through even if it canât be heard. Potterâs brows furrow at him, eyes aflame, before he follows the Minister down the corridor, irately demanding to know everything.
No matter. If Shacklebolt thinks Potter wonât find a way back here, he doesnât know the boy at all.
(ă(âąÌᔄᔄâąÌ)ă)
It takes four days before Potter skulks out of the shadows around Voldemortâs cell.Â
Voldemort knows from the moment he enters the corridor, even if he canât see the boy getting closer. Wild, black hair and a lumpy jumper emerge from under an invisibility cloak directly in front of his cell, just inside the sound barrier. Clever boy.
âCome now, youâre not afraid of me, are you?â he taunts. âIâm no danger to you from in here. You can step closer.â
A vampireâs power of suggestion works just as well as the Imperius does against Potter. Heâd expected it, but the boyâs mental resilience remains irritating.
âDid you seriously think that would work?â Potter says incredulously.
âI have so little entertainment, Iâm not in a position to be picky,â he mockingly laments. âIn any case, congratulations. Youâve exceeded my admittedly low expectations of you.â
âTosser,â the boy mutters, before demanding, âWhat are you doing here?â
He raises a judgemental, nonexistent eyebrow. âWell, when the Ministry offered me room and board in perpetuity for the low cost of my freedom and privacy, how could I refuse?â
If looks could kill, Potter might actually have a chance at putting him in the ground permanently. âYou know thatâs not what I was asking,â he snaps. âHow are you here, alive?â
Voldemort observes the boy for a moment. Deep bruises under his eyes, still too skinny â no one at home to notice if he goes missing.
âI propose a trade,â he says, moving ever so slowly closer towards the bars. âI have something you want, and you have something I want. Surely we can come to a mutually satisfying agreement.â
âWhat could I possibly want from you?â Potter grits.Â
âIsnât it obvious? Your curiosity, Harry Potter, would put the proverbial cat to shame. You have questions.â Voldemort reaches out and wraps a hand around one of the bars. âAnd I have answers, if youâre willing to barter for them.â
Potter considers this, looking torn. Voldemort is confident the boy's need to know will win out. And he's correct.
âWhat do you want?â
âSomething that I am certain will answer at least one of your questions. Come closer and youâll find out.â
That nets him an unimpressed look. âIâm not stupid, you know,â Potter says.Â
âNo, you arenât, but you are rather gullible at times,â he replies with a grin.Â
âYou are such a prick,â the boy says, almost wonderingly. âFine. How are you alive? I saw you die. I checked your pulse, even.â
âYou want to know how I am alive,â he says mysteriously. âHow do you know that I am?â
Potter gives him a flat look. âWell, the whole walking and talking thing kind of gave it away.â
âAnimate and alive are two different things,â he corrects.
âYou pedanticââ the boy begins cursing, before pausing and considering the words more closely. Voldemort smiles and ensures his fangs are visible. âYouâre a vampire,â Potter concludes quietly.Â
âThirty points to Gryffindor,â Voldemort mocks.
Potter is still staring at him, and he can almost see the dots connecting in the otherâs mind. âWhat you want is the answer⊠You want my blood?!â
âOh, well done, Harry Potter. Weâll make a scholar of you yet.â
âAbsolutely not,â Potter says firmly. âYou really must think Iâm stupid, if you think Iâd let you bite me.â
âWhereâs your sense of fairness? Iâve answered some of your questions, but you wonât keep up your end of the bargain?â
âYou want to kill me!â
âNot anymore,â he maybe-lies. Heâs fairly certain the prophecy lost its relevance once he died at Hogwarts. If so, heâs not particularly fussed about what happens to the boy now.
Potter shouts, indignantly, âLike Iâd believe that!â
And, well, he canât blame Potter for his scepticism. He has spent the better part of eighteen years repeatedly attempting to kill the boy. But thatâs neither here nor there.
âYou made a trade with me,â he reminds the boy. âItâs hardly my fault that you failed to clarify the terms of the deal beforehand.â
âFuckingâŠâ Potter tugs on his hair, looking frustrated. âFine. But youâre not allowed to kill me.â
Voldemort gives him an indulgent look. âI swear.â
âI canât believe thisâŠâ the boy mutters. âHowâŠ?â
âGive me your hand.â Heâs close; heâs so closeâŠ
Looking like heâd rather be anywhere else and giving Voldemort a warning look, Potter slowly slides his left hand between the bars. Voldemort pulls the boyâs wrist towards his mouth, ignoring the wary glare boring into the side of his head, and bites down.
Finally.
He feels like heâs been starving for years â a feeling made all the more intolerable by the complete lack of hunger heâs felt since his bodily resurrection. Slaking his thirst for the first time is revelatory â if heâll experience this transcendent feeling each time he drinks, he finally understands why vampires accept the troublesome aspects of their nature.
He drinks deep, revelling in the euphoria coursing through his veins. On the periphery of his awareness, he can hear the boy making noise, but the wards will prevent the sounds from escaping. He feels Potterâs other hand pushing at his shoulder, his face, and wonders whether he should kill the boy here and now.
But heâs not so lost in bloodlust that he forgets how disappointing the Auror was when heâd drank from her. The taste of her blood was barely different from the blood bags they give him. Perhaps, much like the scent of his blood is rare, the intoxicating taste of Potterâs blood is equally uncommon. He can survive with the blood of others, butâŠ
Existence is so much more enjoyable with little luxuries to break up the monotony.
So he stops before the boyâs blood levels fall dangerously low. Potter will even be able to walk out of here, if a little unsteadily. If this becomes a regular thing (and he hopes it will, until he makes his escape and can steal the boy away to feed on as he pleases), heâll have to recommend Potter bring blood replenishers.
He floats back down to earth slowly, enjoying the warm, effervescent feeling filling his body and mind. When he opens his eyes again, he sees heâs not the only one affected.
Potter is leaning heavily against the bars, left arm limply hanging from Voldemortâs grasp, and panting like he canât catch his breath. His face is flushed â though the unflushed sections of skin are decidedly paler than usual â and his body keeps twitching. Perhaps heâd taken too much blood. Or the boy is having an adverse reaction.
Voldemort licks the bite wound to help speed the healing â canât have his portable meal bleeding out, after all. As his tongue slides across the boyâs wrist, Potter whimpers. Needily.
Hmm.
That recontextualizes the boyâs other physical cues.
âWhy Harry, did you enjoy that?â he asks, exhaling an unnecessary breath over the damp flesh of Potterâs wrist. A low, soft moan and a glassy-eyed glare are his only response.
This could be entertaining.
He passes Potterâs hand back through the bars and watches the boy straighten up on wobbly legs.Â
âMay I offer some assistanceââ
âNo!â Potter gasps, pushing away from the bars, though his hand remains firmly gripped around one to hold himself up.
âVery well. I appear to have taken more than was fair for the questions you asked, and youâre in no state to ask any more at the moment,â Voldemort says smugly. âIâll be sure to answer a few extra queries for you next time in exchange.â
âNext time,â Potter says, a slight rasp to his voice. From the frown on his face he means it to come out angrily, but the breathiness makes it sound more like a promise.
Voldemort reaches through the bars to take the boyâs invisibility cloak from his pocket and fasten it around his neck, pulling the hood up as he says, âYes, next time. Until then, Harry Potter.â
Potter lingers outside his cell for a minute, likely gathering himself for the walk back, before Voldemort hears his slightly unsteady steps moving away.
He starts to think of all the avenues this opens to him â and all the fun he can have while he waits for the opportune moment to leave here.
Something something... Marine biologist!Robby who works on merman/mermaid research and Jack as the geumpy old merman with a torn fin from a boat accident who has been in Robby's care for like 15+ years.
Jack has a beautiful bay to swim in now that is still safe as he isnt so fast anymore with his injury, and Robby lives in a cottage next to the bay and keeps an eye on Jack while working other projects and he makes qay too many jokes about how they are growing old together.
He is also very aware that Jack sees him as mate, that the shells and rocks and fish he brings Robby is courting behavior and okay maybe they make out on the regular but like... for science, yeah?
Then either Dennis joins as student and Robby is a little jealous Jack seems to like the kid so much and is quite easy around him (aka not as much of a grumpy ol' fish) but Dennis is a good student who clearly cares as much about merman wellbeing as Robby.
Alternatively, Dennis is a young merman found malnourished and tangled in fishing nets and after the main merman population in the rehab facility was pushing him around too much, Robby decides to bring him to Jack's bay.
Jack complaining very loudly about having to share his bay but when robby says he will relocate Dennis then, Jack is quick to argue it would be too stressful and he better stay... he secretly loves having the younger's company and is vedy set on "fattening the kid back up"
And then smthn smthn smthn... turns out Dennis can get pregnant and is carrying Jack's guppy now
baby Ilyaâs tiny angry Russian ranting when Irina wonât let him stay on the ice and his cheeks are all bright pink and his little nose is wet and heâs plopping down onto the ice and crossing his arms and yelling NYET NYET NYET.
Across the ocean at the exact same time, the exact same thing is happening to a very exhausted Yuna Hollander.
