#add ons to deconstructions

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Ghouls night out

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[wackywatchdotcom]

got reminded of it ... but i think about the symbolism of jax' model a lot bc i think its subtle!!! but its there

and i think the crux of it is that jax' model is very much a prey animal, something that contradicts his general tendency for reckless, mean bullshit. there could be something there about him having front-facing eyes too. and iirc gooseworx said the farm was a lie which i do take into account but also i think it helps w his generally very 'natural' or real-world-nature design components and ideas being evoked. he has clothes and these clothes are very minimal and hes a real animal fairly closely associated with farming or hunting and is very humanlike and his pocket just Has Mulch in it. even if the farm isnt real theres definitely something his design is evoking here

that and an idea ive thought of is that rabbits are VERY much animals that operate on instinct. they do a lot of things based on an immediate need, typically for survival, at least in the wild. and i dont know if id describe jax as fearful (some could argue he is in his own way, which i dont disagree with, but i think the implications can be a bit loaded- but theres many ways a person can be fearful) but he definitely operates on what he immediately wants. he wants to have fun. so he DOES. it doesnt matter what that entails. he wants control, so he takes it out on the others. it doesnt matter what that entails. etc etc. hes also running from something and i think the image of a rabbit fits that well

i think its deliberate that jax is the only design that actually revolves around an animal that we see. theres dobby and that worm on a string in the back but of the main cast its ALL humans or items, jax is the only one whos an animal (and probably still intended to be toy-like, but none of the others have distinct animals theyre meant to be). and it feels purposeful in a way i genuinely think about a lot. i cant place what its implying for certain because i genuinely dont think we have enough information on jax to fully understand his thought processes, but it does make him very connected to the real world, but in a distant way

[mystxmomo]

OC interview tag

(answer the questions for your OC as if your character were answering them)

I got tagged by @mogruith. I love being included, thank you for including me and letting me write in a character voice.

Enclave time.

== For the sake of simplicity, the interview is taking place in her preferred Tongue: High Drow. ==

Are you named after anyone?

"No. Not to my knowledge," She's quiet, though after a few seconds, she snorts and says, "Honestly, if my mother had it her way, I probably would not have been named at all. But alas. To the misfortune of everyone involved, I sit before you today all the same."

When was the last time you cried?

She does not look like she has any interest in answering this question, and in fact looks a little baffled that you asked her?

"Mm. No."

Do you have kids?

"Well, I suppose that depends! Are we limiting this to children who are alive, or will dead ones suffice in consideration?" Despite her tone, she does seem a little unsure as to whether people consider their dead children as still being... their children, and so it is clarified to her that yes, she should consider her dead children as part of this. She gives a long exhale, as though that's something rather tedious to be doing, but considers it all the same, "Ah. Well. I have had four, however none of them made it out of the underdark. Put bluntly, only one really survived until adulthood..."

She trails off, looking a little troubled.

Worth mentioning, of course, this is not considering the adopted child she has that she does not consider her child despite the author absolutely considering him her child

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

With the flattest expression imaginable, "No."

This... seems to be a joke? It's a little hard to tell.

She pours more wine into her goblet.

What's the first thing you notice about people?

"How attached they are to their weapons," She doesn't look up as she says this. It's the first question she seems to answer without needing to put much thought into it, "And how visible those weapons are, I suppose. It does not matter how kind you are when your hand sits next to your blade for most of the conversation," Enclave looks off to the side. Her own blade remains unseen, however is undeniably within reach, "I suppose I cannot fault anyone for being suspicious, though. Lest I be a hypocrite within the framework of my own standards."

Scary stories or happy endings?

"I am not really a .... story... person..." She looks a little apprehensive. Unlike the other questions she'd skipped over, she does offer this some amount of consideration, rolling the goblet between her fingers as she does, "If I had to make a choice, I would still say neither. I prefer stories grounded in reality, and reality tends neither be so kind or straightforward in the tone of it's ending."

Then, she mutters to herself, "Besides. There is nothing more irritating than a bard who dramatizes for the sake of performance."

Any special talents?

"I have many. I have none I am willing to share."

Where were you born?

"The Underdark. It does not matter beyond that."

Again, this is something she otherwise has no interest in expounding upon. Even when further pressed on the matter, she just offers a blank stare in return.

Do you have any pets?

"What? No. With the kind of life I lead, why would I?" Her lips thin in disdain and she rubs her eyes.

She does not consider the stray cat she feeds when she's in town as being her pet, even if everyone else around her absolutely would.

What sort of sports do you play?

"... I have never been the sort particularly inclined towards sport, and was fortunate enough to have the luxury to avoid those," Her idea of sports being largely influenced by her time within the outskirts of drow nobility and the bloodsports they indulged in, she seems rather concerned with the question. Even after clarification that the question probably means less "blood" and more "ball", she only offers;

"Ah.." and, "I suppose I prefer to rest when I have the chance. I spend too much time on my feet as it stands."

The pun seems intentional, though her expression does not break when she says it.

How tall are you?

".... 5'0"

What was your favourite academic subject?

"...." She momentarily looks like she's going to need further clarification on this. But she does not ask for that clarification.

"History. Not what was taught, but what was true," She traces the rim of her glass, her gaze far-off, and rather distracted seeming, "... I suppose if you wanted a straightforward answer, I was always inclined towards the arcane. A shame, really. Being so invested in the arcane continues to reflect poorly on my character."

What she means by this, we are unsure.

What is your dream job?

"Anything besides what I'm fucking doing now," She says, switching to common to answer that. Not unlike earlier, though her expression doesn't change, this also seems to be a joke. She grabs her head, rolls her eyes, and with less venom to her tone eventually finishes by saying, "... I did quite like being a teacher. I would love to do so again one day, under kinder circumstances."

...

Tagging @bluejeanne & @mmigrainee, if you want to talk about your oc's. And anyone else that wants to be included.

[jon-sedai]

Just letting asoiaf fans know that subversion does not necessitate avoidance.

Yes, subversion does not necessitate avoidance!

I repeat, SUBVERSION DOES NO- *gunshot*

[itissadbutitsmy-artblog]

Where would you advise someone to start with object shows? I know nothing but the shapes intrigue me

I’d definitely recommend starting with bfdi/battle for dream island by jacknjellify! season 1 is rougher but still REALLY funny; if you’re not vibing with it, start with season 4 (like I did) and then just go back to season 1 whenever you start wondering what they’re talking about when they vaguely mention the past.

The story has spiderwebbed out like crazy by now and i can't even keep track of it (there are only 5 seasons, and one is only one episode long! but two are running concurrently: 2 and 5, and the episodes keep getting longer). but it was the first object show, and my favorite one! most other object shows reference it, and all of them are loosely inspired by it by virtue of it having come first

some other good places to start if that's just not for you are:

It’s Time For The (which is a little off kilter and goofier but it’s so funny. it’s so funny. it's still a gameshow, it's just got a different thing going on and it's surprisingly good at writing characters despite everything)

Modern Objects, Epic Jungle Show, or Nightly Manor (none of which follow the gameshow format but all of which are very sweet, character driven stories. Modern Objects is sweet slice of life and very short, Epic Jungle Show is sort of meandering vignettes about two buddies in a jungle, and Nightly Manor is an emotional ongoing murder mystery that has yet to be solved)!

The non-gameshow ones are probably best for just jumping in without any prior knowledge, because any gameshow one (of which there are dozens on youtube. dozens and dozens) will lean on some BFDI beats and generally won't bother to sit and explain how it works (BFDI is VERY good at always explaining what it's doing and why things work, at least in the first several seasons, but shows that start as copycats generally just go "now we are doing the thing we all know about" and will sometimes even lampshade the fact that any characters or viewers who are confused will just have to deal with it.) so: if you're looking for a starting point, start with BFDI or, if it really doesn't sit with you, try one of the non-gameshow ones here! They just have cutey characters <33

gameshows are kinda the bones of object shows, a lot of times copying bfdi in very specific ways (what is an object show if it does not have nickel, pencil, and snowball in it. and a Recovery Center and Armless People! and powerful beings that show up and make you do contests for prizes! you'll see. once you watch like two shows you'll see it.) but as you can see, a lot of people made off with their own characters and did very different things with them!

There are tons of really good ones I haven't seen, and ones I like but didn't mention! Once you watch a few YouTube won't stop recommending you cutesy thumbnails, and you'll be able to get a sense of whether you want to watch it or not pretty quick into an episode once you know how they tend to go. Again -- BFDI is still like, the cream of the crop, the sourdough starter to me, it's worth at least trying it first to get an idea of what object shows started from, but if it's not your cup of tea or if you just want something different, there are a bunch of others you can dive into once you get an idea of what an object show is all about! the youtube community is pretty tightknit which makes it really good for clicking on one and then trawling through recommendations until you find something else interesting :]

[swordmaid]

astarion knowing how to sew and making genuinely nice and wearing pieces that’s both functional and actually looks good vs shri’iia who - when she gets clothes - just starts shredding it to the point that it’s barely covering anything as per drow aesthetic standards

[dandyshucks]

BASE FINISHED !!!!! :D

[therealsaintscully]

The year is 2025, and here I am, still very troubled about BBC Sherlock. Now, it's been a while since I wrote any Sherlock meta, but there's something that's been bugging me, and I’d love to get people’s input and thoughts.

I'm a screenwriter—not a professional one, but an autodidact. I haven’t had anything produced, but I have written several original screenplays. One of the most basic things you learn as a writer in general, and especially in screenwriting, is the concept of the character arc. It’s the art of starting a character off as one thing, taking them through a process of deconstruction or challenge, and letting them emerge as something different.

An exercise I enjoy is watching films or TV shows and analysing a character’s arc. I try to spot hints of how a character will change by the end of an episode, a season, or the entire series. That’s part of why I particularly love Michael Schur’s shows—Parks and Recreation, The Office, Brooklyn Nine-Nine. In the Michael Schur universe, character arcs are blatantly laid out for you in the pilot episode. There’s absolutely no need to philosophize or guess: the characters often state it themselves, or it’s clearly expressed through others.

Take, for example, Michael Scott.

In the Office pilot, he’s genuinely a terrible boss and a trashcan of a person. But we’re immediately shown his arc via one simple prop: a coffee mug. “World’s Best Boss.” That’s his journey—to become that boss, if not in the world, then at least in Dunder Mifflin.

Or take Jake Peralta. In B99’s pilot, Terry introduces the squad to Captain Holt with:

“Jacob Peralta is my best detective — he likes putting away bad guys, and he loves solving puzzles. The only puzzle he hasn’t solved… is how to grow up.”

From that alone, you know where Jake is headed. By the end of the show, he’ll still be the squad’s best detective, but he’ll also be a grown-up: a dad, a partner, someone who takes his job seriously and earns the respect of his captain.

In the Parks and Rec original pilot script, Leslie outright declares that she’ll be America’s first female president. In the aired pilot, the message is softened a bit when Leslie says:

“You know, government isn’t just a boy’s club anymore. Women are everywhere. It’s a great time to be a woman in politics. Hillary Clinton, Sarah Palin, me.”

There it is: Leslie’s arc will involve her rising through the boys’ club of American politics and becoming a truly great public servant (and maybe—even if it’s never clearly stated—the first female president).

So now that I’ve set the scene a bit—understanding how a character arc is seeded in a pilot—let’s talk about Sherlock.

What are we told about John and Sherlock in the pilot that sets up their character arcs?

Let’s start with Sherlock, because that one is spoon-fed to the audience—by none other than Lestrade. In response to John’s question, “Why do you put up with him?”, Lestrade says:

“Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think, one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.”

That’s it. That’s Sherlock’s arc. The writers are telling us outright: here’s a brilliant but emotionally disconnected man. And the journey ahead of him isn’t about intellect, but about goodness. About connection, humanity, compassion. Becoming not just great, but good. And, if I might add a bit of Johnlock, not just to anyone—but through John, with John, and ultimately because of John.

Now, John’s arc is a little less obvious in my opinion, though just as important—and it’s given to us by Mycroft, who says:

“You’re not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson—you miss it.”

To me, this says: here is a traumatized soldier who never fully came back from war. He’s unmoored, disconnected, half-alive. "Nothing ever happens to me." And the arc we should expect? A man who, over time, things happen to him and he finds peace. Who finds meaning in his civilian life—back in London, in friendship, in purpose, in (perhaps) love. Who, by the end of the series, no longer misses the war.

That’s the setup. That’s what we were promised. Or at the very least, that's what I feel I was promised.

Only��� whatever I feel was promised never actually happened.

In fact, Sherlock ends up delivering the complete opposite. In Seasons 3 and 4, the show leans into Sherlock as a mythic, near-supernatural figure—the “adult who never was a child.” This directly contradicts the idea of humanising him. The sudden introduction of Eurus shifts the focus from internal growth to external spectacle. His evolution becomes a reaction to trauma, not a conscious transformation toward goodness.

By the end of The Lying Detective, Sherlock is still fundamentally isolated and emotionally unavailable. Despite supposedly learning to “connect,” he doesn’t share emotionally in any meaningful way—not with John, not with Eurus, not with Molly. The “I love you” scene is a puzzle to be solved, not a moment of genuine vulnerability. John and Sherlock’s confrontation at the end of TLD achieves absolutely nothing in terms of their openness or intimacy.

Sherlock's arc—of becoming a good man—is never achieved. Now, we can argue about that, because Sherlock is a softie at times. He is kind. And don’t get me wrong—when Michael Scott leaves Dunder Mifflin, he’s by no means a perfect boss. But he’s loved by Pam, he’s missed by Jim, and the Dunder Mifflin team has learned to respect him in their own way.

I know some of you are itching to shout that Sherlock's arc won't be complete without S5 and in theory, I agree! But! Lest we forget, Lestrade’s “prophecy” (supposedly) comes full circle in The Final Problem:

"No, he’s better than that. He’s a good one."

This, supposedly, is the great moment of The Payoff. Here stands Sherlock, A Good Man™.

Which… always makes me scratch my head.

Is he, Lestrade? Really? What is it, exactly, in those last few days that convinces you of that? What moment between The Six Thatchers and The Final Problem gives you that impression?

Nothing. Really—nothing. This, for me, is absolutely zero character arc payoff.

Now, what about John—who was supposed to come back from the war, or at most, get his adrenaline kicks chasing criminals with Sherlock through the streets of London?

Mary’s death completely hijacks John's growth as a character. Rather than showing John finding stability in his marriage and family (or with Sherlock, in whatever shape that takes), the show strips it all away. And worse, it distances him from Sherlock once more—throwing him into another spiral of guilt and rage, effectively rebooting his trauma rather than resolving it.

The finale gives John no closure. We don’t know where John is emotionally by the end of The Final Problem. Is he at peace? Are we supposed to believe that a happy montage fixes everything? Does he still crave danger? Does he still feel violent impulses toward Sherlock?

I can’t even begin to think when or how Mycroft’s seed of John’s arc—“you miss the war”—comes full circle in The Final Problem. Unlike Lestrade’s line about Sherlock, there’s nothing that brings that theme to any kind of resolution. It’s as though Moftiss forgot to give John a conclusion altogether.

I’ve sometimes wondered if Sherlock’s words to John in TLD—“We might all just be human”—were meant to gesture at John’s arc. But… why would it?

John never struggled to understand that he was human. That wasn’t his arc. That wasn’t his flaw. He knew he was human and he always craved for that humanity from Sherlock. So what, then, was that line supposed to resolve?

I can play devil's advocate here. Character arcs can be negative. A character doesn't always have to have a happy ending, and had Moftiss boldly done that, I would have appreciated it. But they hadn't- they give us a weird ass montage with John and Sherlock happily giggling at Rosie. It's just feels like there's absolutely no conclusion for John, whether negative or positive.

Adding insult to injury, Mary’s 'speech' during the final montage is actually dismissive of their "growth":

“There are two men sitting arguing in a scruffy flat. Like they’ve always been there, and always will.”

Which completely negates the idea that they’ve changed. At that point, they’re not like they’ve always been. John's quite possibly worse than when we met him.

“The best and wisest men I have ever known.”

Again—what’s with the John erasure? Let’s say, for the sake of argument, Sherlock is better now—what makes him wise? And John’s arc was never about becoming wise, so what does that even mean?

“My Baker Street boys.”

Are they? Are they still the Baker Street boys (I hate that nickname)? We’re never told if John and Rosie move back in. In fact, in a Q&A Moftiss declare John does not return to Baker Street.

And that’s just it, isn’t it?

The Final Problem finale doesn’t fail because it was mysterious or ambiguous or hilariously bad or tragic. It fails because it abandons the emotional contract it made with its viewers in the very first episode. It forgets the arcs it promised, the healing it hinted at, the people these characters were meant to become.

We didn't need a happy ending. But we did need a real one.

[pedgito]

𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄 | Joel Miller x reader — Series Masterlist (part ii)

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | The temptation with Joel is unavoidable, one consequential choice leading to several, but with time, you find that healing is easier with someone just as broken as you.

author's note | I DID NOT FORGET THEM I SWEAR. i know the first part was posted in july and i abandoned my baby i'm horrible. BUT, the writing bug is back in full force and this chapter was already halfway done so PLEASE ENJOY. i missed these two dearly.

content warning | 18+ smut, DDDNE - this is very loosely stepcest, so if that's not your thing, ignore. that's the only warning i'm giving on that, additional warnings: no outbreak, step-uncle!joel, age gap (20/late 40s), religious trauma, parental trauma, no one's making good choices here, lowkey religion kink?? if you get it, you get. fingering, unprotected piv sex, semi-public sex, mentions of deconstruction, alcohol tw, this is packed with so much stuff i'm sorry

word count —11k

PART ONE, PART THREE (tbd)

The tweed sweater is more grating than the sound of your mother’s voice as you approach the doorstep of the Miller’s home. It’s fucking itchy, scratching at your neck in desperation to strip yourself of your more modest church clothes the moment you crosses the threshold. Your mother seems to notice your fidgeting, swatting at your hand with a look of unmistaken warning.

Cut it out. 

Your hand drops to your side, fingers curling into your palm as they dig into the skin. The pain squeezes at your vocal cords, keeping you quiet. Tommy always looks slightly ridiculous when you step out for church on Sundays—starched jeans and perfectly ironed plaid button up to match, paired with an egregious belt buckle and cowboy boots. 

The thing was though, he fit in perfectly. And you couldn’t hate Tommy, it was nearly impossible.

Once inside, you’re already beelining for the attic with your shoes slipped off by the door and ready to strip down the layers of clothes to quell the sticky heat that was lingering on your skin. But, there’s a creak to your left and a voice you hadn’t heard since the night before, under…more nefarious pretenses. But, he didn’t know that. You shouldn’t either.

Your eyes can’t meet his own as he rounds the corner, damp hair dripping droplets of water onto his clothed shoulders. He doesn’t speak to you, but he does look you over. There’s a smugness in his expression, amusement at your outfit like he knows. A perfect, modest length appropriate dress with that ugly fucking sweater your mom insisted on you wearing. You hate it, it was smeared all over your face, lips pulled into a tight line as your mother began barraging both of the brothers at once.

“She’ll come with,” You attention focuses back on the conversation halfway through, sneaking a small peak at Joel’s tired features, scratching at his beard with his other hand settled against his hips, so desperately wanting to escape the conversation, “I don’t need her being a nuisance while Joel’s trying to sleep.”

“She lives here,” Tommy points out, “I’m sure she can keep quiet. Do you wanna tag along?”

“No,” you respond with evident distaste, but there was also the creeping worry of being alone with Joel again, unsure how to approach your unfavorable behavior with him, “I’d really rather not, if that’s okay.”

Tommy offers a shrug to your mother, reminiscent of a told you so, before he’s cracking a joke at Joel’s expense, who still hadn’t spoken a word.

“Keep this loner some company anyways, he needs it,” Tommy jests.

“Well, we’ll be out until the evening,” your mother adds, almost like it was a bad thing which wasn’t nearly the case, in fact—it was a heavy weight off your chest, “so call if you need anything and sweetheart, mind your manners.”

“She’ll be alright,” Joel interjects suddenly, “ain’t never caused any problems with me.”

Your mother nods despite her inclination to make a comment or prove a point and after a tense goodbye and a hug that was far too tight, she’s dragging Tommy out the front door again and it shuts with a deafening click as Joel still remained in his previous position, eying the floor for a time before his eye meet your own as yank at the buttons of your sweater and shrug it off your shoulders.

The events over the past few weeks were clawing at your gut, that nervous and fluttering feeling driving you to silence—girl, always testin’ me—it was a constant echo in your head. That, flurried with his grunts and the sight of his hand gripping his cock. And your teasing words were no better, inviting him in and welcoming the temptation.

You had to cut the cord—this wasn’t you. It was wrong, sinful, the shame sitting on your tongue and bitter to swallow. It didn’t matter that it didn’t feel wrong, factually, it was. You would be shamed, frowned upon, rejected by your own mother if she even caught a whiff of your advances toward Joel. But, he’d lied for you when he didn’t have to and that was more confusing than it needed to be. 

Joel clears his throat, “I’m gonna head to bed, worked a fifteen hour shift and I’m barely standin’ right now,” Your gaze flicks up as you kneel on the couch, settling into the cushion but leaning yourself slightly over the arm, “you gonna be alright?”

You nod silently and watch as he returns the motion and turns on his heels, the floorboards creaking under the weight and there was no chance like now—say it, just apologize.

“Joel,” you say louder than needed, but it does the trick, “I—you lied for me to my mother, you didn’t have to and I’m…sorry for the way I’ve been acting. I know that doesn’t change anything, but I—”

There’s a flickering of guilt across his own face that you’re familiar with, knowing he’s dreamt of you in the exact ways you’ve suggested and while he doesn’t audibly admit it, his thoughts almost project, eyes racking over your chest for a beat to long as they press together under your thin top and peek through the deep cut in your shirt.

“No harm done,” He lies, his eyes noticeable flicking back up toward your gaze and you don’t react, neither does he, “no sense in pissing her off more than she already is with you all the time, right?”

“Right,” you mumble dejectedly, chewing at the inside of your cheek as you settle into the cushion more permanently, “just…thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies assuredly, knowing he’d done you a favor with the expectation that it might absolve him of some of his own guilt about the entire situation—but just as Joel was being disingenuous, he suspected you were too.

Save your own ass and all that.

It didn’t matter and Joel knew it was better to move beyond it entirely.

Except his dreams are invaded with the sight of your tits, pert and perfect as he squeezed them under his grip and he swears he can feel the warmth of your skin, your smell, but the deep slumber quickly pulls him under.

-

There’s only so much to occupy your day, having made a few snacks for yourself and wandered aimlessly around Joel’s home, even managed a short nap amongst his soft snoring from his cracked bedroom door, occasionally looking around the corner or over your shoulder to find him sleeping deeply. By high noon, you’re restless. It was hot. Wicked summer heat. You decided to change into your swimsuit and head outside, grabbing a towel and a bottle of newly purchased sunscreen.

There’s a few reclining lawn chairs on Joel’s back deck luckily, snagging one as you drag it toward the lawn and into the sun, squinting at the blistering UV as you bring your sunglasses down your face and allow them to make home on the bridge of your nose. The neighbors have their sprinklers going, giving their gardens a much needed drink during the non-stop dry spell that Austin seemed to be under, the spray hits your skin gingerly as you settle into a good spot and take a seat, spreading the sunscreen out sparingly over your arms and legs, resigned to the fact that you wouldn’t be able to reach your back appropriately, but that didn’t matter. 

You untied the back of your top, both at your spine and neck and reclined the chair out completely before resting on your stomach, eyes closed to the quiet hum of afternoon summer and kids playing a few houses down, the soft buzz of dragonflies and bees amongst the foliage.

It was the simple luxuries you enjoyed that weren’t possible with your mother hovering around you, but that was why you had so much appreciation for Tommy, keeping her busy beyond her means and knowing that she was happier when occupied with other things—like him, or the possibilities and expectations that would come with their new life when they did find a place together.

You knew you weren’t going with them, but that was another mountain to climb trying to explain to your mother, knowing it wouldn’t bode well and would end in an all out brawl if you dropped it on her now—in due time, you think. 

Your tendency to fastrack through missed opportunities and experiences were your own downfall, but the newfound freedom was exhilarating, breathing in deep as you closed your eyes and relaxed, several minutes passing before you heard a creak at the backdoor. 

But even then, you don’t move.

You know it’s Joel when the grill lid whines in protest, utensils clinging behind you. 

He doesn’t say a word and forces himself to keep his eyes on the dirtied grill as he scrubs it down ignoring your occasional fidgeting and the soft creaks of the reclined chair, his eyes catching the soft skin of your back, the curve of your breasts as press out at your side, squeezed against the towel you were laying on and the strings dangling toward the grass that Joel had neglected for the past couple weeks and he’s only realizing his wandering eyes when his hand slips through the slit in the grill and drops the sponge into the ash, cursing loudly to himself.

“Was I being too loud?”

Joel tosses the sponge to the side and opens the tray to dump out the remaining remnants of  ash from their last cookout, walking toward the dumpster near the gate leading to the front yard, no further than a few yards from you as he mumbles a quiet, “No. Wasn’t you.”

Weird. Your brow furrows for a moment before you reaching for the bottle of sunscreen, taking advantage of the extra pair of hands as you offer the bottle to his empty ones, the plastic cap hitting his stomach as you press it against him, hands pressed tight over your swim top to keep your breasts covered, despite how much the material failed to hide.

“Just my back,” you explain, “I can’t reach it. Well—I can, but I’m definitely missing some spots.”

Joel’s fingers curl around the bottle but he doesn’t pull and your fingers haven’t left either, grazing against the denim at his waist and you sigh in subtle frustration. 

“Joel, it isn’t a trick,” you promise, “besides, with your hands it’ll take like, two seconds.”

He makes a face at that, halfway between amused and mortified. You shove the bottle deeper against his stomach, insistent as you raise your eyebrows.

“Oh, come on,” You beg, “It’s sunscreen, get over it.”

There it was. The snark you couldn’t hide, like second nature with him. He snatches the bottle with his tongue slipping under his top lip as he snaked it over his teeth and popped the cap with his thumb, flashing a content smile in his direction as you settle back on your stomach, pushing down at the strings of your bottoms slightly to offer the full expanse of your back.

Joel, poor Joel, swallows around the lump in his throat and tries indefinitely to ignore the everlasting bulge that grew in your presence, a side effect of inappropriate thoughts and your sharp tongue. He’s pathetic and he knows it. 

He kneels down between your split legs, one knee on the cheap plastic and his other foot planted firmly in the grass as he hovers. It was as close as he could allow himself, a few inches forward and he would have his thigh pressed against your center, the swell of your pussy grinding against his jeans and he wouldn’t be able to resist, pulling at the loose ties and diving into the sweet divine. 

You clear your throat, turning your cheek to rest against the back of your palm as you wait with the cold tip of your cross necklace snug between your lips, a self-satisfied smile growing on your face as the warmth of his hand contrasts the cool sunscreen, a broad stripe up your back from tailbone to neck as his fingers fold over your shoulder and drag against the chain before he’s tossing the bottle into the grass to make use of his other hand, spreading the sunscreen out evenly on the full expanse of your back.

A pseudo massage masked in the way his thumbs rub along the center of your skin, fingers rubbing in the sunscreen along your side, just along the curve of your hips before they’re back up at your shoulders and the muscle is being squeezed gently under his grip.

“You’re tense, kid,” Joel notes, pulling away to wipe his cream covered hands on the towel, catching your gaze.

“With a mother like mine, wouldn’t you be?”

Joel pauses briefly, a silent acknowledgment as he stands, vehemently ignoring the way your legs slip together and your ass pushes up into the air slightly as you reposition yourself.

He grimaces at how sticky his hands feel still, reaching for the spout on the siding and gripping the hose in his hand as the water pours out, hot for a moment as it slips out before it rushes out ice cool, wetting his hands generously.

“Can’t stand getting a little messy, can you?” You tease when you hear the water run behind you, lifting up on your forearm to peer at the older man, his face still frozen in a tight grimace but his eyes briefly turning up toward you.

What a little shit. 

His thumb slides over the opening on the hose and transforms the flow into a forceful spray as he lifts stream and at the chair you were lounging in, forcing you up in a matter of seconds while Joel rendered you drenched, top forgotten as you slip your arm over your breasts in attempt to retain some decency.

The cause of action only dawns on Joel in the aftermath, watching you sopping wet as you stomp toward him and attempt to yank the hose from his grip, the option for turning the spout off forgotten—it couldn’t be that simple.

Joel quickly extends the main end of the hose from your grip with a tug of a smirk and you huff, hard through your nose as you twist and press your back against his chest as you wrestle for his arm, in a wrestle for the hose his arm finds home against your chest and you gradually fall to your knees, tackled by Joel in a manner that is surprisingly gentle despite your frustration.

But, somehow you end up chest to chest and none of the effort is worth it, even as you turn the house on him and the water soaks his clothes and your chest, hose slapping into the grass as you toss it aside, breath catching as your heart raced from the exertion.

Joel makes the mistake of shifting to move, his knees hiking behind the curve of your ass and pushing his clothed cock against your core, only separated by a couple layers of clothes, his denim against your think bikini tied lazily at your waist and his eyes drag down by pure coincidence as he tries to find his grip against the grassy surface.

There it was—his eyes on your chest, your eyes on him, and his cock hard against your cunt in an unignorable way. 

Joel quickly scrambles to his feet with a frustrated clear of his throat, ignoring you like a quick spreading plaque as he left his tasks behind to disappear as quickly as he had resurfaced and you reach blindly for your top, draping it over your chest hastily as you tried and failed to piece together what the hell had just transpired. 

It was like a shot of adrenaline in your bloodstream as you sat up, the world spinning in a way that made you woozy—you turned toward the back door, slightly ajar from the force Joel used to shut it, slamming against the frame before it popped back open.

He could deny you all he wanted, but his body couldn’t lie—wondering if he was running off to finish himself like he had the night before, almost daring to chase after him.

But instead, you hide.

Decisive and calculated, you’d wait him out.

Like meek prey, he’d seek you out if the hunger struck. 

—

After a swift shower you barricade yourself upstairs, the murmuring voices below lulling you to sleep as you skip dinner—you couldn’t speak to Joel, wouldn’t. 

He lies for you, despite knowing that your avoidance of dinner was entirely his own fault.

Sort of.

It was a double-edged sword, both parties responsible.

 But, Joel feels the guilt faster, easier, and he drowns it away in a six pack of beers Tommy brings home as he and his brother, and his soon-to-be sister in law enjoyed a quiet dinner, the occasional complaint slipping from your mother’s lips as she ate.

“She wasn’t feeling too good,” Joel fibs, wiping at his mouth with a napkin, crumbling the flimsy material in his fist, “I can bring her a plate up later, after I clean up—”

“Oh, please,” She holds her hand up to interrupt, politely refusing, “we’ll clean up, won’t we?”

Tommy squints, eyeing the table full of dirtied dishes but nods regardless. 

Always the yes man. Joel smirks, a flippant chuckle under his breath.

Joel tips back the final bottle of beer and swallows it down, having learned to manage his alcohol well after years of casual drinking that had slowly morphed into a crutch. He gets the buzz, the warm and fuzzy feeling in his chest but otherwise it was undetectable, aside from the hasty decision making to find a reason to bother you after the wrestling match that afternoon. 

He quietly piled the food onto a plate, working around the kitchen and squeezing past the other two bodies before he’s yanking at the cord to the attic stairs, your body lunging up at the sound, nearly jumping out of your own skin as the light peeks through and the hard, heavy footsteps follow.

Joel hears the both of them, Tommy and your mother, as they finish up in the kitchen and trail off into their own respective room in the house, pulling at the handle with his unoccupied hand to seal out the creeping light from downstairs. He slides the plate of food on the dresser shoved against the nearest wall before his head is turning toward you, watching as you rubbed at your eyes, faking the grogginess from a deep sleep you never managed to fall into, running both hands through the front of your hair before they’re flattening out against your duvet, wondering which one of you should speak first.

Both hands shoved into his front pockets, he turns to you fully. He’s changed from earlier, denim traded for a soft cloth; sweats, paired with his usual dark washed shirt.

Relaxed. He looks…relaxed. His eyes are undeniably softer, too. His lips rubbing together tight before his tongue slips out to wet them and he’s still standing, waiting—for what, you’re not sure.

“I’ll eat it later,” you appease his lingering presence, taken aback as the words seem to bring him back to life, socked feet soft against the wood floors but the intent is heavy and intimidating, “I will, I promise—“

You weren’t lying, you would. 

But, then the bed creaks as he takes a seat and your legs widen to make room for him, the blanket slipping down your thighs and revealing bare legs under a long t-shirt, having changed out of your damp clothes too. 

Closer, you can see the flush in his chest. Cheeks warm and hot, you’re sure if you touched him it would be confirmed. Drunk? It didn’t seem likely, but he had definitely been drinking, a deep but quiet sigh coming from his chest before he spoke.

“Don’t apologize,” you began before he could get the words out, “god—don’t, just…”

“I was gonna ask if you’re feelin’ alright,” Joel begins, turning toward you hesitantly, a fist curled and stamped into the mattress, watching the muscle of his bicep and forearm flex with the action, core clenching at the sight of it.

You nod lazily, “How was dinner?”

He knows you’re not asking about the food.

“Typical,” He responds lightly, “your mom loves carryin’ the conversation, doesn’t she?”

“She just enjoys the sound of her own voice.”

Joel chuckles quietly, hand unfurling and his fingers grazing against your knee. For a moment, you think it could be an accident, but as you find a surge of confidence and drag your fingers over his own, pulling his hand up to your face curiously, making a show to smell his hand with a light quip thrown his way.

“Got all the sunscreen off finally,” You joke and the stretched out glimpse of you flashes through Joel’s mind, his fingers pulling at tied strings, the nylon falling against thick blades of grass, “did you enjoy your shower?”

Joel quirks his brow, curious.

Right, he didn’t know. A momentary lapse of judgment letting the words slip.

“You know, was it…peaceful? Nice?” 

No additional expletives groaned out under the steady stream, fist wrapped around his cock? Selfishly your eyes wandered toward the no longer tented material, having caught quite the eyeful earlier—and felt it just the same.

His hand slowly drops to the bedsheet, thumb grazing the cream material while the rest of his fingers curl over your knee, your own hand placed atop it, an unspoken but welcomed touch.

He was losing his mind, surely.

He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t have sat down. 

But, Joel lied for you and that was the first mistake.

“I lied for you, again,” He comes clean, emphasis on his final word as his eye flicks up despite his downturned gaze, watching your thumb rub into the spot between his own and pointer finger, “makin’ habit of it, it seems.”

A soft breath mingles between the space, tight and tense, too intimidated to confront him head on now, shaking your head at his words, “You were the one who said my secret was safe, remember?”

His large hand flexes around yours as he presses the back of your hand into the sheets, held prison under his grip, “You know I never meant it like that—“

“Didn’t you?” You counter, turning your eyes up toward him cautiously, daring him to confess.

Our secret, alright?

It was the gateway—one small lie unfolding into many and soon it would be like breathing, second nature. 

“Why are you still here?” There’s a softness in your tone that beckons a confession, but Joel’s hard-headed. 

So, he retaliates.

“Why haven’t you asked me to leave?” His eyebrows raise, a subtle smile pulling at his lips that was brought up by the inhibitions of alcohol, mostly Joel but there was something lingering.

The words float through your head, climb up your throat, but you can’t force them to leave your mouth, eyes softening under his gaze as a warm, careful hand caresses up your thigh, fingertips grazing your clothed cunt, the wet heat undeniable as it seeps through your underwear.

You can smell the beer on his breath but it doesn’t stop your hand from clawing up his chest and behind his neck, allowing him to pull your leg over his lap, spread wide on your bed as he fit between them, “You’ve been drinking,” it was obvious, but Joel shakes his head, tongue licking at his bottom lip as his left hand squeezes at your calf, “haven’t you?”

“That bother you?” He wonders—he’s mostly unaffected, you can tell. The creeping flush to his face a mix of the alcohol and you, he’s just as in his right mind as you, the inside of his palm reaching further to cup your cunt, rubbing gently with the heel of his palm.

A breathy sigh and a head shake in return as your legs spread wider, hips canting into his touch as your hand falls to your side, exposing your clothed chest to him, breasts peeking through the sheer fabric of your top while your other hand grips Joel’s neck harder, blunt fingernails digging into the skin.

“What are you doing?” You ask carefully, not wanting to startle him. 

It doesn’t even seem to phase him, though. His hand moves forward slightly to push your shirt up your stomach before it slipped beyond the fabric of your underwear and against your bare skin, two fingers sliding between your folds to press into your sticky slick.

“Giving you what you want,” Like it was obvious; the constant taunting, ill-mannered behavior, his own resolve finally breaking and the guilt he was feeling disappearing in an instant now that he has you like this, a clandestine sight, “—s’what you wanted, right?”

You nod, a subtle jerk of your head.

At the notion, his hands are in two different directions—one hand is tracing the chain that wore like armor, a dainty necklace your mother had gifted you when you were young that was the only significance you had to show for with her, your undying faith. He slips the necklace around and between your shoulder blades, out of sight. His other hand slips between your thighs until they’re finding home against your cunt. Absent fingers drifting deeper between your shoulder blades, delicate touches tracing along your spine over soft skin until he’s back at the nape of your neck and squeezing, determined fingers rubbing slowly at your sensitive clit, a stuttered and quiet gasp falling from your lips.

He’s not the first man to touch you like this, but he was skilled. No fumbling hands and hesitant touches, there was surety in his movements and his gaze that didn’t shy from yours in embarrassment or lack of care.

Joel Miller was in the mood to watch you fall apart for his own entertainment.

“Shh,” He reminds you, a soft command, “don’t need them gettin’ curious.”

You shake your head in agreement, a plethora of sins being committed in the act of one greedy and selfish desire, “Mo—More,” You plead, feeling his fingers slide down the center of your cunt before they’re breaching your tight hole and pressing inside. Joel grunts as you pull at his short curls, his tongue resting wanting over his bottom teeth, yearning for a taste.

“Take it off,” He demands, “wanna see those pretty tits, darlin’.”

Your skin prickles with anticipation, separating from him briefly to pull your shirt over your head and Joel, in a moment of blind lust, takes the advantage of you on your back to yank your panties down your ankles and balling them up, thrown haphazardly near the top of your bed as he settles on his knees between your outstretched legs—

God, he’s going to hell.

And you want to kiss him, the feeling so strong it sends an ache down your core, releasing a shaky breath as he squeezes at your thighs before his fingers continue, dipping inside of you with ease. Luckily, with this position, he’s got a free hand to rub at your clit, thumb pressed firmly against the nub and drawing soft, mewling sounds from your lips. 

It’s intoxicating, the subtle smell of barley and fresh soap. He’s speaking to you in some far off, distant place, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as he sets an inescapable pace. They’re goading words, encouraging and bordering the line of patronizing but you can’t commit them to memory, only coming as another soft command falls from his lips.

Because he sees your fingers itching, needy, “Touch yourself,” He murmurs, his touch somehow more tender as his fingers pump inside of you, thumb working quick circles of your clit as you hands drag feather-light of your breasts, a tickle at the center of your chest before you’re squeezing the flesh under your grip and moaning louder as he changes the angle of his fingers inside of you, deep and undeniably precise. Thick fingers keep you full and satisfied.

He can hear your breath quickening, a silent warning when your brain wasn’t catching up with the rest of your body, words a complete loss. His fingers slip out of you, wet slick smearing over your mouth as he leans forward to muffle the unintentional cry that falls from your lips as he pulls you over the edge with a mere motion of his thumb, your eyes squeezing shut as you come.

The pleasure blooms inside, teeth digging gently into the skin of his palm as you selfishly savor the feeling, Joel only moving away when your eyes fall back on him—back to reality.

“How’s that for a mess?” Joel doesn’t miss a beat, turning your earlier jab back on you as you notice the gleam on his fingers, thin strings of slick hang between his fingers as he separates them and you pull at his wrist, knowing that Joel would follow through the rest of the way, pressing his fingers to your lips as you clean him, tongue dragging along the digits diligently.

You swear you hear Joel groan, but it was muffled by your own squeak as Joel grabbed at your chin, flesh pinched between his fingers, “Eat your damn dinner,” He demands, but you quickly muffle him with the fabric of your underwear, shoving it into his mouth before you move dangerously close to his face, still under the stern grip of his hand.

“No problem,” You appease him, “and a suggestion—”

Pulling the fabric from his mouth, you aren’t amiss as he pockets it, his eyebrows raising in question.

“Double check your doors next time you decide to jerk off to me.”

Because if anything, you wanted him to be more deliberate.

Joel’s flush deepens, shame flashing in his eyes for a brief moment before you break out into a playful smile as you sing softly, “Goodnight, Joel.”

Joel’s never had a harder time falling asleep, night creeping into dawn before the slumber finally takes him, riddled with a guilt that is indescribable. 

–

Breakfast is quiet.

Too quiet.

You pick lazily at the fresh blueberry muffins your mother had baked that morning, watching as Tommy conversed with Joel across the living room, both of them nursing steaming cups of coffee. Your mother notices your trailing gaze, mistaking it for you spacing out as she perks up, speaking from beside you as she pours more orange juice into your empty glass.

“I was thinking we could do something in town today,” She begins, “all of us—Joel, too. Tommy mentioned they’ve got a fair going on downtown—food, music, plenty to keep you interested.”

You slip the blueberry beyond your lips and chomp down, “What’s the occasion? Big news? Don’t tell me your pregnant—”

Your name comes out as a stark warning, the plastic bottle of orange juice crunching under her grip, “That is not—no, I’m not. But, Tommy and I…may have put an offer down on a house, if you’re that curious. We were gonna drive by on the way there and show it to you.”

You shake your head nonchalantly, “Joel was actually going to take me to that cowboy museum a couple towns over—I forgot to ask, but you don’t care, right?”

Joel perks up at the mention of his name, his conversation with Tommy stalling.

“I mean, I’ll be with Joel,” You remind her, “I’ll be safe, won’t I?”

Your head turns over your shoulder, catching Joel’s surprised expression and watching as it slowly morphs into understanding, silently following the path you had so carefully constructed as he approaches the counter at your side, pressing his mug into the counter.

“I shoulda mentioned it,” He lies through his teeth, “slipped my mind, but it’s alright with you?”

She swallows. Tense. 

Tommy interjects then and chuckles, clapping a hand over his brother’s shoulder.

“History of cowboys?” He asks, “Oh come on, sweetheart. Let ‘em go, they can always meet up with us after.”

She folds for Tommy, of course. Flashing an apprehensive smile that you knew too well, eyes flitting toward the pair of brother’s with a cynical regard, catching Joel’s tight expression for a brief moment. You had lied, big deal.

 It wasn’t the worst thing you’ve done as of late, watching the leisurely swagger of Joel’s walk as he steps toward the coffee pot, offering a sturdy goodbye over his shoulder as the lovebirds make their escape, leaving you both under the thick cloud of unspoken tension.

With disregard, he walks past you and sips noisily at his coffee, taking a seat on the couch with the low hum of the morning news as your sock covered feet pat softly against the floor. Your thigh presses against the arm hanging over the couch as you squeeze by, but you’re stopped by Joel’s foot pressing into the coffee table, blocking your path.

“You make plans for somethin’ I’m unaware of?” 

You huff out a soft laugh through your nose before you shove at his foot gently, knocking it to the ground before you’re climbing over his lap, mug screeching against the table as Joel scrambles to place it down, his hands falling against your hips instinctively as you settle over him, tight shorts crawling up your thighs and settling in the crease of your hips.

His touch is intimate—and warm, god his hands were always so warm. Your fingers scratch testingly at his patchy facial hair, a delicate touch that extends to his mused morning hair, untouched and still riddled with sleep. Then he’s inhaling hard as your lips press to his without preamble, his mouth opening in a quiet sigh and your tongue find the opportunity and slips beyond his lips, dragging over his teeth as it swipes against his own tongue and for a few minutes he melts into you, returning the kiss back feverishly.

But, like a fragile tower—the moment snaps and collapses in on itself as Joel shoves you away, a large hand pressed against your collarbone as you yelp at the sudden movement, slightly disappointed as you frown.

“Stop,” he breaths out harsh, his hand fisting in your shirt as he peers up you through a half-lidded gaze, “you—we can’t keep doin’ this, kid.”

“No one’s here,” you murmur, pushing at his hand but it doesn’t budge, so you settle for his thighs, cotton material smooth to the touch as you fingers climb until they can settle near his groin, rubbing your clothed cunt against his hardened cock, a noticeable tent in his pants, “if you worried about getting caught.”

“I know you’re doing this to get back at your mother,” Joel begins, but he never gets the chance to finish.

“And if I was doing this for me?” You counter, “Because I want to? What would you say then?”

There’s a long beat of silence, Joel’s hands pressing into your hips again to keep you still, frozen in place and unable to chase the pleasure you were so desperately after.

“Naive,” He offers, “childish—downright stupid, if you think about it. I’m twice your age and if the other reason wasn’t obvious, well—“

“We’re not blood related,” you argue, “it isn’t nearly the same thing and you know it.”

You lean forward, crowding into his space once more, the ghost of his breath across your lips as he eyes follow, his head leaning back as you move in, hesitant. 

“Besides, I think you’ve ruined all other men for me,” You goad, a salacious grin spreading across your face, “your fingers—Joel, they’re—“

At a loss for words, you sigh, hips dropping against his groin pointedly, he grunts and you can see the hard line of his jaw as he clenches his teeth.

“I’m not the one, darlin’. You can’t compare me to them—I’m old, I’ve lived. Don’t think you gotta settle for me.”

Joel has sequestered himself to loneliness—after his separation from his wife, the loss of his daughter, he was content being alone. Living alone. Dying alone. 

Drowned out by bad decisions and alcohol, he’s found himself regretting his choices once again, but not for the reasons he had hoped.

He didn’t regret you—his actions with you, but how the repercussions would affect you if your mother found out, his brother. There was no coming back, no explanation that could justify his actions.

But you’re sitting, pouting in his lap as your finger twirls around the string of his sleep pants and he knows that look—more, give me more.

Nothing would satiate that hunger.

“I’m not a virgin, you know,” you add as if it may magically heal things, but the next words out of your mouth have Joel squeezing at the flesh of your hips, words that make his cock pulse under his clothes, “I think you enjoy corrupting me, too. My mom put me on birth control the second she was able, afraid I’d turn out like her.”

Luckily, you hadn’t. She’d never let you live that down.

You press in further, a hand climbing up to press against the column of Joel’s throat, lips sliding against his as you whisper, “Do you wanna ruin me, Joel?”

All you get in response is a growl, deep and intense as he surges forward, kissing you soundly to shut you up.

It was a weight off your chest, a sharp breath as he slips his tongue into your mouth as you part your lips as his fingers pull at the base of your scalp, a sharp sting of pain drowned out by pleasure.

“Upstairs,” he ordered, mouth down your neck hungrily, “in your room, now.”

The heated, dark look in his eyes tells you that you weren’t going alone, his footsteps trailing behind you.

-

He splits you open with his thighs, already bare underneath him as he’s stripped himself of everything but his pants, sans his underwear he definitely wasn’t wearing, an unreadable expression on his face. Pinched, his brow furrowed as he lingered around you, hands pressing into the mattress but not you, careful that his hands didn’t stray too far again.

“Should I say my morning prayers?” You tease, your pointer finger trailing down the center of his chest, both of your eyes following the digit until it hooks into the waistband of his underwear, “Absolve you of some guilt?”

“It ain’t guilt,” Joel retorts, dark eyes flicking up toward you, “you really think all that prayin’ actually works?”

You shrug, “I dunno what I think anymore—what do you believe in, Joel?”

Joel chuckles lowly, ignoring your hand as it slips beyond the material to touch him, his cock heavy in your hands, feeling the surreality of the moment hit you all at once as his hips keen into the touch, a subtle gesture as his fists settle into the space beside your head.

“Ain’t never believe in nothing,” He responds quieter, “easier that way.”

You hum softly, nodding absently to his response as you force the final piece of clothing down his hips, his eyes never really leaving you—wandering, maybe, but you have his full attention.

“Come on, Joel,” You squander, giving his cock a light squeeze before your hand trails up his chest, fingers forming to the lines of his jaw as your fingers glide over his scruff, “Easier?”

“You’re brainwashed,” He admits, pausing to slip his hand between your bodies and drifting over your cunt before he slips two fingers inside of you without warning, a gasp ripping from your throat but quickly settling as his fingers work inside of you meticulously, dragging with gentle pressure against your walls, “can’t think for yourself without feelin’ guilt, can you?”

He’s making a mockery of the beliefs you’ve been under for years—you get it, you do. But, it seems to strike a nerve when you dig deeper, unsure why, amongst your building pleasure the taunting scripture slips from your lips in an attempt to rile him further.

“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just—” Your voice wavers as Joel’s attention snaps to your soft words, eyes locked on his unreadable expression, “ and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousn—”

A tight squeeze at the cross around your neck does him in.

A familiar sound slips beyond his lips, a hungry and deep set growl as he breaks from you, manhandling you with force onto your stomach and in an attempt to muffle your antics and silence you, a hand pressed against the back of your neck, face pressed into the soft fluff of your pillow as his voice rumbles behind you.

“Ain’t gonna listen to that shit,” Joel gripes, his free hand binding to your waist as he lifts your hips up, back arched and ass up, breathing out a soft noise of protest as he squeezes at your skin, “—you done?”

You shake your head weakly, a small laugh bubbling from your chest as the full expanse of his hand slides over your cheek, pressing your face deeper into the pillow, his thumb tracing along the corner of your mouth.

“There’s no savin’ yourself from this, sweetheart,” Joel acknowledges, a vague but somehow crystal clear way of checking in, assuring there was consent to follow through—that you wanted this.

“I know,” You mumble around the finger that glides over your lip, a calloused thumb against soft, fleshy lips.

Joel presses inside of you with a low groan, mixed with a tight hiss as you clench around him instinctively, your eyes drifting shut as his cock fits inside your tight walls, both hands drifting to the pillow under your head and gripping tight as he begins a slow, steady snap of his hips in utter silence, forceful exhales coming from his nose as he fucks you from behind, noting the way your lips drift apart when he presses just a little too deep, the skin between your eyes scrunching up at the bridge of your nose.

His thumb presses inside of your mouth, against the inside of your cheek before pressing against your tongue, effectively silencing you, “Go on,” Joel taunts, “keep prayin’.”

Your eyes roll back as the hand gripping your waist travels over your stomach and toward your cunt, his middle finger drifting featherlight over your clit in slow circles, your grip in the weak cloth fabric growing tighter—you make an attempt, unintelligible mumbles around his thick finger, followed by a deep snicker of amusement from the man behind you, inside of you.

“Don’t try and convince me you believe that shit,” Joel tells you, “not when you’re beggin’ me to fuck you like this—’ve never been a saint, either.”

Eventually, your mind goes blank, a welcomed numbness as Joel fucks you into the mattress above a squeak boxspring in a home that didn’t belong to you, in a room that has only been yours for a short time, giving in to a forbidden temptation with a man who’s challenged every belief you’ve ever known.

He notices your attention drifting, removing his hand from your mouth, smearing the saliva over your breasts as he jostles you upright, your back pressed tight against his chest as you move against him lazily, feeling the deep, full snap of his hips as he breathes hot and heavy into your neck.

“Just this time,” He promises you, “no more teasin’, or lying—”

The preaching to you was rich, given his own actions. He must be speaking to himself, committing himself to it aloud. You nod regardless, knowing now that you’ve learned his weakness.

Because, like you, it was the unavoidable temptation.

“Another secret?” You tease, feeling the crest of your orgasm building in your gut as he squeezes at your breast, his soft groans evolving into throaty moans, a boisterous surprise to somehow who’s always so forlorn, an empty house with no reason to hide his deep and selfish need for pleasure, you giggle quietly through the force of your orgasm as you both collapse on the mattress, Joel’s hands barely catching himself to avoid the weight of his body pressing into you as he pulls out of you slowly, the bed creaking underneath the movement.

You feel candescent, shirt barely covering your body as you haphazardly drape it over yourself, watching as Joel pulled his sweatpants back up over his hips, his eyes catching on you in a way you’ve never witnessed, his come literally dripping down your thighs and he senses the shift in your expression, immediate guilt flushing your body and showing in the way your body curls in on itself, avoiding the eye contact he was offering. 

He sees it, the way your brain is programmed to feel immediate guilt, shame, and as much as he’d like to think of a way to fix it, he knows that was something you had to work through on your own.

A shower would work for now, though. 

Wash away the sin until the inevitable happens.

-

There is some normalcy that returns to your life as your classes resume, finding that time away from the Miller household was refreshing in a way. Tension with your mother was unavoidable, the wedding on the horizon and the impending truth threatening to come to light—your mother had done an excellent job as sheltering you, brainwashing you, and scaring you into behaving out of fear that you might be stuck down. 

It all seemed small and finite now, that craving to break Joel down for your own pleasure, seeing the shell of a man he was now.

And he, of course, couldn’t even follow through with his own promise to himself.

Though, as you return for the short weekends, he doesn’t always seem like…Joel.

He drinks more, itching toward the end of September soon and a couple months back at school and when you aren’t buried in the sheets of your twin bed or locked away in the darkness of his room when you’re both home alone, he reeks of alcohol and silence.

He doesn’t seem angry or upset, but the sadness is like a wave.

It makes it easier to keep your distance, something Joel acts like he wants, but then he’s seeking you out in the dark again, bourbon on his tongue and you return the messy kiss he presses to your lips, trying to silence your own thoughts by occupying yourself with him.

But, he does sense your hesitancy.

“I’ll go,” He speaks into the darkness, a hand cradling your head as he squeezes at the base of your neck, a comforting gesture despite the cloud that shrouded him, “if you want me to.”

You’ve barely seen him all day, both of the brothers overwhelmingly forlorn, but you don’t pry.

“No, no,” You insist, hushed against his mouth as you seek out his eyes, glossed over and hooded, his shoulders twitching when your fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, “you just—you seem tired.”

It was a loaded word, one that Joel doesn’t touch or elaborate on. But, he was tired, physically. Taking on more shifts before the holidays approach, begging to keep himself occupied alongside his brother who was stressing for his own reasons. He’d come to you seeking a weird dichotomy of comfort and it made you feel warm inside, but a tinge of warning couldn’t be ignored.

“Just sleep here,” You suggest, “I’ll wake you early, before they’re up.”

Without protest, he nods.

You can’t explain how easily your bodies mold together on the too small mattress, like this was something you’ve done for years, staring up blankly at the ceiling as Joel snored quietly beside you.

–

“Hey, kiddo,” Tommy boasts from the kitchen counter as descend the stairs, making your pass through the fridge before you’re gone for another week, “school treatin’ you alright?”

“It’s fine,” You shrug noncommittally, ripping a banana from its bunch and reaching for the half empty jug of orange juice, pouring half a cup to sate your stomach, “how’s mom?”

Tommy feels the heaviness around the question, tensing as he sips at his coffee, “Stressed over the wedding, all the planning, ya know—“

“Yeah,” It’s lazy and short, but Tommy knows your relationship with her is less than favorable lately, sensing your desire for freedom and answers, truth rather than careful lies your mother has constructed around you for your safety, “uh, can I ask a question, actually?”

Tommy nods, hearing the faint creaking of the floorboard somewhere distant in the house. 

“Is…Joel okay?” 

Tommy seems surprised, but he masks it quickly.

“Oh, he…usually gets…worse around the anniversary of Sarah’s death,” Your eyes wander, clearly missing crucial information but your eyes drift toward the closed bedroom door that was vehemently off limits, always wondering but never questioning, “shit—we ain’t mentioned her to you?”

You shake your head.

“She died about five years ago, raisin’ her alone had always been tough on Joel but her dying…it’s been hard.”

“His daughter?”

He had a daughter.

I’m old, I’ve lived, the words echoing in your head.

“He…never mentioned her, you’ve never…”

“He won’t,” Tommy tells you, “can’t even bring her up to him most days—I thought I’d mentioned it to you but it must’ve slipped my mind, I’m sorry, kiddo.”

“No, don’t…don’t apologize.” You assure him, taking a sip of the tart juice and peeling slowly at the peel of your banana, “I guess that explains the bottles on the table when I come home every weekend.”

And the alcohol on his breath when he kisses you.

Tommy notes the way you so easily call the house home now, smiling slightly. But, he’s always been aware of his brother’s…problem, not sure how to help or fix the situation without an implosion happening.

In the distance, you can hear your mother calling out for Tommy, his eyes drifting toward the sound.

“Have a good week,” He pressed a gentle kiss at the crown of your head, squeezing at your shoulder before leaning over to speak under his breath, “—you should talk to your mom before you plan on taking that offer, by the way.”

Your attention perks up, his finger drifting toward the envelope hidden under a stack of placemats on the kitchen table before he’s interrupted by another shout from your mother, “I can handle the fallout for you, kiddo. Don’t worry.”

Tommy retreats and eventually, you do too. Snatching the letter up and stowing it away in your bag, you aren’t able read through it until later that night, Joel’s unsaved number lingering on the phone screen in your missed calls.

It was an internship at your dream job in Dallas, a flat rate pay out with six months of lodging covered while you got on your feet—but more importantly it was an escape. 

You should be upset at Tommy for prying, opening the letter before you had a chance to peek at it yourself, but he’s sensed the tension for months. He loved your mother, but he cared for you, even in the tumultuous months he’s been around you both. 

You were strong, independent, and far better off blossoming on your own without the hard grip of your mother and her undying but fickle faith. 

The second call from Joel startles you back to reality, answering with a shaky finger.

“Didn’t say goodbye this morning,” Joel greets, only sounding slightly bitter.

You’re quiet for longer than Joel is comfortable with and he almost speaks again, apologizes, but you cut him off.

“Sorry…my mom, it seemed like she was already on her reign of terror and I didn’t…she’s hard to be around anymore.”

“I’m just messin’ with you, kid,” He replies, letting out a soft huff as he sat down in his worn-in recliner.

“Are they home?”

“Left about an hour ago, they’re movin’ stuff into the house, I guess? I don’t know,” Joel sounds disinterested and you share the sentiment, but then there’s a distinct snap of a bottle cap that you try to ignore.

Joel hears your lips part on the other end, “It’s been a long day,” It was the first time he’s outright acknowledged it, which was a step, but not what you needed.

“Tommy told me,” You blurt in frustration, “about her.”

“Listen, I don’t need you judgin’ me either. I get it enough from Tommy as is—“

“I’m not…I wasn’t,” You respond, confused, “I just, I wish you’d mentioned her, at least. Not that you owe that to me…but—”

Joel clears his throat and the bottle scuffs the table, undrank as he settles back into his seat.

“I got my own baggage, ain’t no sense dragging you into that,” Joel defends, “not with all you have going on.”

“If you can fuck me, you can talk to me too,”

It silences him effectively, “I’m not a child. I’m not your child. I’m an adult—“

“Where is this comin’ from? I’ve never said that—“

“I don’t know,” You sigh in exasperation, “It’s been a long day, Joel. I’m gonna head to bed, okay?”

You don’t wait for his response, hanging up on him with a frustrated finality, mad at yourself and him, reasons unclear—you haven’t prayed in months, but you find the urge as the guilt creeps in, wondering if Joel was the corruptor your mother had always warned you about.

They’ll come at your weakest and test your faith, and if you break, you’re just as feeble as the rest of the world without faith to guide them.

-

The week drags and you’d much rather be somewhere else, but you find yourself turning the doorknob to the Miller home and a Happy Birthday balloon floating into the open doorway, a contorted look of confusion on your face as your eyes land on the three adults in the living room.

“Are we celebrating early?” You look at your mother, who’s birthday is approaching in a couple weeks, but she’s quickly shaking her head.

“It’s Joel’s birthday, honey.”

“Oh,” Your eyes glide over the three of them until they land on Joel, “Happy Birthday?”

Joel hates the attention, clearly. 

The next few hours are spent together at a fancy restaurant Tommy decides to treat everyone too, a nice gesture for his brother’s birthday, but it doesn’t dissipate the underlying frustration.

And Tommy, being a pushover for the sake of allowing his brother to enjoy his birthday, drinks alongside him—four beers down and a couple shots later, dinner finished and skipping dessert, everyone is heading back to the car in silence, though Joel does look considerably lighter in his expression, his normally furrowed brow now relaxed.

Your mother is quick to drag Tommy to their shared room when you’re home, giving you a gentle hug that you haven’t felt in months, strange and unsettling to your psyche. Joel relaxes onto the couch, kicking his boots off toward the edge of the rug before he’s searching around blindly for the remote, thumbing the button to turn on the television.

It illuminates the dim room and you find yourself standing there, unmoving, suddenly feeling completely out of place in a home you’ve grown comfortable in.

“You’re quiet,” Joel notes, not looking at you while he fumbles with his watch, twisting in on his wrist as he places a sock covered foot against the coffee table.

“And you’re drunk,” You retorted, the again unsaid but implied.

“Believe it ‘r not, I can handle myself. I know my limit,” Joel responds, “I’ve been cuttin’ back, I don’t need you tellin’ me what I can handle. You’re young, you wouldn’t understand anyways.”

“Guess so,” You reply lamely, stripping off your shirt down to the thin spaghetti top, the thick September heat seeping inside the Miller home, even as the sun set—and you can feel Joel’s eyes on you before you look at him, eyes lingering longer than they should.

There were often moments where he would fend off your advances, quiet moments at home alone when you would slip into his lap or behind him and he’d let you down easily, but he wasn’t always that strong—a weak man with temptation dangling in his face. He’s always been in the wrong from the beginning, allowing any of this to develop and further.

But, you’re feeling vindictive tonight—upset and angry at yourself, angry at Joel—no, frustrated. 

And with Tommy and your mother turned in for the night, absolutely no sign of them resurfacing until morning, nothing was stopping you as Joel’s eyes bored into you and the slow rise and fall of your chest.

He’s always been cautious and safe, never while the house was occupied, only in quiet and enclosed spaces that he could lock the doors—that in the chance you might get caught he could lie or evade and not face the consequences, but even as you grow closer and climb into his lap, he doesn’t stop you.

Your hands grip his hair immediately, yanking his head back as you press your ass into his thighs and bring your lips to his jaw, mouthing against the line of his neck and around, pulling at the collar of his shirt to nip at his chest, nothing but his shallow breaths and the soft hum of the television to fill the air, the solid press of his hard cock against your inner thigh a warning sign.

You could end it here, leave him with the guilt that continued to grow within him. 

You could drag him to his room, ride him over his sheets like he desired, a clandestine sight that would have any man on his knees—or so he’s told you. 

Or, you seduce him here.

He was already nearly there, reaching for you as he leaned forward when you pulled back, pressing a hand into his chest, “I’m leaving, after the wedding,” Joel pauses, the furrow in his brow returning faintly, “I got an offer for an internship.”

“Well..that’s good, ain’t it?”

His hands squeeze at your sides as they travel and settle there, ignoring the obvious danger that the two could walk out at any moment, focused solely on you. It shouldn’t make you feel good, but it does. You shouldn’t want this, but you craved it.

“No, like—I’m leaving that night. To Dallas.” A long pause follows and Joel waits, watching as you glance down the hall, “I don’t know how to tell her.”

“Do you want to?” Joel asks.

You sigh softly, playing with the hem of his collar, “No, I don’t. Tommy told me he could deal with the fallout, but—”

“Tommy knows?”

You look at him with a tired roll of your eyes and a faint smile, “Yes, he does. He snooped and read the letter—he’s known I’ve wanted this opportunity for a while.”

“I didn’t think you two talked that much,” Joel replies honestly.

“We don’t, not always,” You admit, “not with my mom around—and he told me, about your drinking problem.”

Joel huffs quietly, scratching at his cheek as he looks away.

“I just—this isn’t…like, it isn’t also because of that, right?” You ask, “Does drinking make you feel less guilty about it?”

You know it isn’t the entire reason, but there is some suspicion. Given the constant lingering taste on his lip after the first instance together and the several that followed, a burgeoning problem of his own melding with the dangerous secrets you’ve been trying to keep.

“There’s no guilt,” It was the most confident you’ve heard Joel to be…ever. Not an ounce of hesitation in his tone, “We’re adults, we made a choice. But, I think there is a point where we have to realize this can’t work.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

Joel awaits quietly, not giving you a nod but his eyes turn up in wait, his thumbs slipping under the fabric of your shirt to press into warm flesh.

“If they weren’t together—if your brother wasn’t going to be my stepdad, would you have thought twice? If we had met at a bar or something?”

“I don’t know,” Joel answers, unsure.

You sigh deeply, leaning into his eyeline to capture his lips, an unexpected kiss that grabs his attention, his hands climbing higher under your shirt in search of skin.

“I think you do,” You mumble against his mouth, “I also think you were vulnerable and you saw that I was too and you wanted to feel a little less lonely.”

Joel can’t find the words to respond, feeling like you’ve seen straight through him.

“So, let me help a little more,” You soothe his rapidly beating heart with your sultry tone, unbuttoning your jeans with slow movements, only removing yourself from him briefly to strip your jeans and underwear off before you return to his lap.

You wait until he finally got with the program and unbuttoned his own jeans, shifting them just far enough down his thighs that they’re out of the way, grabbing for the blanket draped over the couch to wrap around you and you almost protest, but the concentrated look on his face as returns your gaze short-circuits your thinking, fisting his cock as he slides it between your wet folds, pressing inside of you slowly, your slow breaths mingling together in each other’s mouth.

“Quiet,” He reminds you, “we have to be quiet.”

Easier said than done, you giggle against his lips.

“Says you,” You tease, lifting your hips slowly as he follows the movement, allowing you to lead, your hands pressing into the back of the couch, “I like hearing how bad you want it,”

Joel’s hand dwarfs your mouth as he covers it, eyes narrowing at your pointed choice of words and he snaps his hips into you harshly without warning, forcing out a yelp into his palm as your hands tighten into the cushion, canting your hips as you lift them in time with his thrusts.

He’s got his teeth digging into his bottom lip in an attempt to silence himself, eventually grabbing for your hand and covering his own mouth in desperation, wrapping his free hand around your back and pulling you to his chest, foreheads pressed against each other as you meld together, different emotions swirling as he commits this feeling, and your body, to memory.

Joel feels the familiar, cold touch of your dangle chain necklace, plain silver cross interlocked at the center of it, at this angle it nudges his nose with every thrust, a dainty piece of jewelry that he always took the time to tuck behind your neck—he’s never seen you without it.

He thinks for a moment, considering his action before he’s reaching to tuck it behind your head.

But, your hand stops him, placing it back center before you’re reaching behind to unclasp the necklace from your body, dangling it over the empty cushion beside you.

“It’s okay,” You can sense Joel’s confusion, worry— “I’m starting to figure things out for myself,” It’s intimate, the way you’re talking to him now, voice barely above a whisper as his hips rock gently to keep a slow place, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, “besides…the things I want you to do to me, it’s blasphemy, really.”

Joel snorts at that, finding the sudden burst of energy to snake his hands under your thighs, lifting you up slightly as he scoots himself further down the couch, feet planted flat on the ground and allowing you proper leverage to use his body just the way you desire.

It takes very little time to work him up, a deep growl suppressed behind clenched teeth as your fingers dig into his cheek where your hand is still tight over his mouth, riding him with a clear determination, his eyes softening and pleading—he’s right there and you can see it.

His eyes flutter, hand squeezing and kneading at your thigh in silent prayer. 

Rich, you think. Maybe you’ve been worshiping wrong your entire life.

Your climax comes slowly, alongside his. It’s quiet, a long moment of drawn out sighs poured into each other’s skin, his achy groan a light reprieve to the moment as you climb off of him.

“Staying or going?” He asks after you’ve stood, blanket wrapped around your body.

“Depends,” Your finger dangle in front of his face, watching as he works his jeans back up his thighs, belt sitting unbuckled in his lap, “your room or mine?”

Joel nods with a smile, nudging you toward the hall.

–

Joel’s dangling the silver necklace in his hand as you exit the bathroom, hair damp and dressed in only a shirt—his shirt, climbing onto his bed while he approaches with an extended hand.

You take it silently, passing it off to his bedside table without a word.

“So, when do we have the talk?” You ask curiously, ripping the bandaid off immediately.

“Not tonight, if you don’t want to.”

Your brow pinches together as he slips under the blanket beside you, throwing the cover back to beckon you underneath. You oblige, sliding onto your knees to lean against his chest, forearm covering his abdomen as you rest your chin on your arm.

“I was thinking about starting deconstruction therapy,” You admit, scratching a fingernail at the patchy and fading emblem on his shirt, “It’s…silly, I know. But, I think it might help. I’m doubting—well, everything. I just need someone to talk to. A professional, I mean.”

“That really what you want?” Joel asks curiously, his fingers wrapping around your wrist gently, rubbing his thumb into the skin, “It ain’t because of me, is it?”

“I think I’ve been questioning things long before you, or even Tommy. I’m telling you because—I don’t know, I guess I want to hold myself accountable. So I don’t chicken out. Besides, you seem pretty good at keeping secrets.”

Joel shakes his head slightly in amusement, heaving out a long sigh as his eyes turn toward the ceiling, still favoring your touch as he continues to rub slow circles into your skin.

“I…also think you should get some help,” You add gently, “talk to someone about Sarah—doesn’t have to be me. I mean, Tommy is terrified to mention her, and thinks you’ll blow up on him. You’re…you’re an alcoholic, you know that? My mom was too, before she met Tommy.”

Joel keeps quiet, chewing at his bottom lip. It wasn’t a horrible sign, so you continue.

“She hid it really well, you…not so much.”

“So, holdin’ each other accountable then, huh?” Joel inquires, eyebrow raised.

“I can forgive your lapse in judgement when it came to me—the sex is…good,” You pause, considering your words, “really…really fucking good, but I think we’re using it to avoid things.”

“Think you can fix me?” Joel asks, with a tone of honesty in his voice, “Sweetheart, I’ve been broken for a long time.”

“Mend,” You emphasize, “you can heal—so can I. I think we both owe it to ourselves”

His hand engulfed the side of your face, the hot press of his skin against your cheek as you smiled against the touch, watching as he slowly returned the gesture.

“I think we do, sweetheart.”

I’ll try, for you—he thinks silently but doesn’t say. It doesn’t matter that his fatal attraction had turned into something of lasting admiration, because that would never work. 

But, for you, he’d try.

[guardianspirits13]

Ok. I’m still trying to gather my thoughts and settle my hyperfixation after episode 3 of the Percy Jackson show, but one of my conclusions is that this is one of very few adaptations that actually understands the term ‘adaptation’ and furthermore what makes one successful.

On a fundamental level, understanding and respecting the source material is a must. You need to not just know the bullet points of the story, but you need to know the ‘why’s’- why does this story need to be heard, why do people like it, why does it stand out from the others in it’s genre, etc.

Second, you need to deconstruct the source material and piece it back together in a way that makes sense for the new format. Copy-pasting almost never works, since there will inevitably be discrepancies between the readers’ imagination and the adaptation that can distract from immersion.

Third, you need to provide something new. Why does this story deserve to be told in a different format? What can this add to the original themes of a story? What can we change to make the message come across more on screen? Will this dialogue really be as funny when it’s said out loud?

We’ve seen a lot of terrible “adaptations” of animation and books and musicals into movies/tv shows, and I think even among the better ones there is a dissonance between the desire to stay faithful to the source and the desire to make a good adaptation, with whatever changes that may necessitate.

I think while we’ve watched the casting of this series, the hints here and there, and final the premiere with bated breath, they’ve been playing the long game. They cast Walker as Percy before he was in the Adam Project. Many people expressed…unsavory…feelings when Leah was cast as Annabeth, but those of us that trusted the team behind this project- including the author himself- did our best to welcome her and were repaid tenfold with her performance in this episode particularly.

Most of the scenes in this episode were not at all how I imagined them in the book, but I adored it. They took what they were given and expanded on it. They created a mini-arc for the trio learning to trust each other. They gave Medusa a labyrinthine lair. Annabeth is a 12 year old walking into a convenience store for the first time in 6+ years with $200 in her pocket, of course she’s gonna buy as much as she can carry.

The love and care and artistry that went into this single episode brings me so much joy and gives me so much hope. Like I was already excited for a faithful adaptation, but seeing these characters come to life on screen, once you see their chemistry with each other and how they speak and push and pull at each other’s emotions, it has never been more clear to me the amount of care and foresight that went into this show.

Rick said that these kids are the characters he created and for like 2 years I’ve trusted that that was true, but today it was proven beyond the shadow of a doubt.

I am just…in awe.

[the-irreverend]

Observing how Noelle is the only one to notice how Kris is not themselves has got me thinking that she will be the one to reveal the truth about our control and be the one to save Kris from it. If that's the case, then it's another ABSOLUTELY GENIUS way the Snowgrave Route subverts traditional gender norms/tropes/cliches we're all familiar with (and sick to death of)!

We're all familiar with the cliche of "brave knight saves helpless damsel from mortal peril" and what makes Deltarune brilliant is it defies that cliche by making Kris (who plays the role of the knight) and Noelle (who plays the role of the damsel) BOTH THE SAVIOUR AND THE ONE IN NEED OF SAVING!

Although we see Kris do knightly things like "venturing to distant lands" and "saving the day from evil," what ultimately makes them also the one "in distress" is that it's not happening through their own agency. They're not imprisoned in a tower or dungeon, but IN THEIR OWN BODY, and we are the one holding the key!

(Not to mention, Kris's non-binary identity adds to the subversion/deconstruction since the "knight saves damsel" cliche is founded upon restrictive and toxic gender roles, and Kris is outside the gender binary, us forcing them to play within these toxic roles is causing great harm to both them and Noelle.)

Speaking of Noelle who although is at the mercy of our actions as much as Kris is, her understanding of Kris and the relationship she has with them help her recognize something is horribly, HORRIBLY WRONG, and that gives her the most potential out of any character to rescue both Kris and herself from the roles we have imprisoned them in.

[covenbeyond]

wrong place / wrong time

pentagram m.list | next chapter

vampire!141 x human!reader (victorian era au)

series tags f reader, slow burn, poly 141, victorian vampire au, angst, eventual smut, kyle is whipped immediately, creating insane lore for no reason, no use of y/n, no reader description except boobies, violence and blood warning, will probably add more <3

word count 5.4k

December 29th, 1899.

The streets of your quaint little town are as busy as they’ll ever be, with folks running around in a haze of post-Christmas joy and pre-new years excitement.

Looking up, you note that a storm is approaching, snowflakes cover the streets in white as the winds blow harshly and the temperature drops.

There are rich couples with snow covering their fur coats, rushing about to leave this tiny town. With Christmas over, winter holidays have come to an end. They’ll return to their luxurious estates, to celebrate the new year amongst their other rich friends.

The locals are buying and selling festive supplies for smaller prices, tinkling laughter of children and shouts of people bargaining bounce off the cobblestone paths, filling the market with ambience.

And you, you’re helping your cousin deconstruct his stall, pulling down the tarps as Alex dismantles the plywood beams. With the end of the Christmas sales, he will return to his travelling, and you’ll miss him terribly.

“It’s a cold one, today.” Alex gripes, moustache twitching below his nose, damp from snowflakes.

You snort, “Yes, you would almost think it’s Winter.”

Alex gives you a look, shaking his head. “Instead of playing the comedian, could you take those tarps over to Daisy? I’m almost done with pulling these poles down, and I’d like to leave before dark.”

“So grumpy.” You laugh, darting away from him before he can pull down your hood in retaliation for your cheek.

Collecting the folded tarps, you swiftly walk over to Alex’s horse Daisy, and her adjoining wagon. She neighs tersely at you as you approach, her hide covered in snow. Her tale swishes angrily, explicitly showing her disdain for the weather.

“I know, pretty girl.” You chuckle, your breath leaving you in clouds, “Almost done, then you can head home.” You pile the tarps into her cart, patting her neck affectionately as you leave her side.

You understand how she feels, your cheap clothes have been fighting against the harsh cold of the oncoming blizzard. Having bought an entire outfit to combat the ever decreasing temperature, you would have thought you were prepared for this.

However, it would seem your boots are no match for the winter, as a patch of black ice on the stone floor catches you out, your weight shifting forward and sending you stumbling.

You shriek, feeling the world spin around you as you fall backwards. You clench your eyes shut as you brace for the impact of the floor-

But it never comes. Warmth surrounds you, and you open your eyes, finding yourself looking at a… very handsome man.

“Are you alright, miss?” He asks, voice smooth and words enunciated. A Londoner, if you were to guess. A very, very handsome Londoner.

Who you’re currently embraced in the arms of.

“Oh!” You gasp, face flushing, “Quite fine. Just… gravities worst enemy.”

The man chuckles, lifting you upright and helping you find your footing. His hands remain on your biceps, keeping you steady against the brutal winds.

“I wouldn't say gravity. Though, perhaps ice has it out for you.” He jokes, a dazzling smile on his face.

He finally removes his arms, and you immediately miss the weight of them, even if they offered little warmth. Probably due to the thick layers he’s wearing. An immaculate navy suit under a thick, fur lined black coat.

He adjusts his fedora, shielding his honey brown eyes from the sun. He flashes you a pearly white smile, and you believe you’re done for.

“Perhaps I could learn the name of my saviour?” You ask, offering your hand to shake.

He stiffens for a second, tilting his head at you in a contemplative manner, before taking your gloved hand in his own. He leans down to press a chaste kiss to the back of it.

Perhaps it really is gravity that hates you, for you feel like the world is spinning once again.

“Kyle Garrick, miss.” He says, rising again to offer another one of his dazzling smiles, “At your service.”

Service me, please- you shake your head, fighting a blush, and give him your name, “A pleasure.”

He smiles again, “The pleasure is all mine-”

“Gaz!”

The both of you jump as a loud, deep voice calls out. Looking around for the source, you find another man standing a few feet away, looking between the both of you.

Like Mr Garrick, he is dressed impeccably, deep green three-piece over a matching heavy coat, with a unique hat and a fierce moustache. And like Mr Garrick, he’s very handsome. God forbid.

The man raises an eyebrow at your Mr Garrick, who sighs loudly through his nose.

“Gaz?” You ask, letting out a confused laugh, “What’s a gaz?”

“It’s a, uh, nickname.” Mr ‘Gaz’ Garrick explains, smiling at you bashfully, “Not one that I’m overly fond of at this moment.”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow, “And why is that?”

“Because it means that my time with you is being cut short.” He says apologetically.

“That’s a shame.” You say, your disappointment evident in your downtrodden expression.

Garrick gives you a somber smile, once again leaning forward to take your hand in his, pressing another, lingering kiss. He stares deep into your eyes as he bids you goodbye, “My lady.”

“Mr Garrick.”

With that, he turns and strides over to join his comrade. The moustached man remains still as a statue, staring directly at you, eyes narrowed, deep in thought.

You’re so focused on watching him and Mr Garrick as they look at you and begin to converse, that you don’t notice your cousin arriving at your side with the rest of his belongings.

Alex clears his throat, giving you an odd look when you jump in surprise.

“Y’alright?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at the two men. Mr Garrick and his friend take their leave, disappearing amongst the throngs of people and vanishing like ghosts.

“Always.” You smile, hiding the disappointment of losing sight of the pair, “Now, let’s get Daisy out of this god awful cold.”

“And you as well. Are you feeling alright?” Alex inquires as he packs up his cart, soothing a whinnying Daisy.

“Perfectly fine, why?”

“Your face is awfully red.” He smirks, “Unless that has something to do with the man I saw leaving your side?”

You send him off with a smack to his arm, ignoring his teasing laugh.

Alex waves to you as he clicks his tongue and sends Daisy on her way. You watch with a sad smile as your cousin is swallowed by the crowd, before looking back to the devious patch of ice that Mr Garrick had to save you from.

Perhaps you are blushing, just a little bit.

Who could blame you?

On the morning of December 30th, your neighbour's baby wakes you up with the sun.

The cottage you live in is small, gifted to you in your will by your late aunt. It was homely, made so by you, but often lonely. The sound of the weeping child, the soothing voice of his mother, the older children playing in the snow as their father laughs at their antics, reminds you of what you do not have.

A family of your own.

Your parents long gone, no siblings, your aunt recently passed. Your only living relative is your cousin, but he is always travelling, a wild soul who seeks a life of opportunity.

And while he’s asked if you would like to join him, you’re not one for adventure.

So you’re left alone. No husband, no children, no real clan. Just four walls and dusty floorboards, the sounds of your neighbours and the life you wish you had.

It presses down on your chest, forcing you out of your bed and readying for the day far earlier than you usually would.

Maybe today you’ll stock up on firewood like you've been meaning to, you tell yourself as you don your coat and boots. A quick walk around town will make you forget your isolation, surely.

And it’ll be a completely coincidental benefit if you happen to run into a certain Mr Garrick…

The town is less chaotic this morning. Only a few farmers and their sons wander about with their goods, and an old couple walking arm and arm to avoid slipping on the snowy paths.

Though the snow has ceased to fall, it has generously left behind a thick layer of fluffy snow across the walkways and roads, thick enough to reach your shins. You hold your skirts up to jog to the local shop, taking long strides to avoid larger lumps of snow.

What a sight you must look, bouncing through the snow like some wild thing.

A tinkling bell announces your arrival as you enter the general store, and you’re met with a much appreciated warmth. Your teeth are chattering, your gloved hands rubbing your arms to regain some heat.

“Morning, Mrs Thompson.” You greet the woman behind the counter, who looks up at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Good morning, dear.” The elderly lady says with a smile, “What are you doing out in that weather?”

“I needed more firewood.” You explain, “The old house does not magically warm itself.”

“It should be ashamed of itself.” Mrs Thomson says before returning to her chores.

You huff out a laugh, nodding at her as you walk deeper into the shop.

While the shop constantly changes the places it organises supplies, it’s small enough that you can find whatever you need rather easily. But firewood seems to be evading you, forcing you into the dark, back corridor which stores the recently re-supplied goods.

As you search, a startlingly familiar voice echoes down the smaller hallway, and you feel your heart beat quicker when you recognise the deep tone.

“...ridiculous. We’re too out in the open in this town, we can’t just… disappear like we did back in London.”

It’s Mr Kyle Garrick, whispering to someone else.

“Aye, no’ with all these small town folk gossipin’ about every new face they spot.” A Scottish voice responds to him.

Looking around for the sources of the voices, you see two, tall shadows lingering at the end. They're leaning close, talking animatedly.

As you approach, Garrick continues muttering, “I can’t understand why the captain would insist we come here. And why not tell us? Soap, I can’t help but worry-”

“Mr Garrick?” You smile, interrupting them and announcing yourself, worrying about eavesdropping.

Two heads snap to look in your direction, two pairs of bright eyes finding you in the darkness. One cerulean blue, the other golden brown.

Recognition fills the latter, and Garrick’s face lights up upon seeing you, “Miss? What are you doing here?”

“Just a bit of shopping.” You smile, looking between the two of them.

“Oh? Buying anything of note?” Garrick asks, taking a step closer and subtly shielding his friend from view.

You pretend not to notice; “Firewood, very exciting stuff.”

Garrick laughs, “Riveting.”

His accomplice eyes you, looking you up and down with appraising eyes. He steps out of the darkness, the lamplight flooding his face. Handsome, just like Garrick. Less clean cut, with a stubbled jaw and various scars, both unable to hide his rugged good looks.

What’s with all the beautiful newcomers?

“Are ye lookin' for it lass? Saw the owner moving it towards the rear window this mornin’” The new man says, offering a large grin.

Not as warm as Mr Garrick’s, more… wolfish. Hungry. You can see your acquaintance giving his friend a look, something darkening his pretty brown eyes. But when they turn back to you, they regain their kindness.

“I beg your pardon, my lady.” He smiles, “This is my colleague, John MacTavish.”

“Colleague?” Mr MacTavish grumbles indignantly, earning a light elbow to the chest.

“Behave.” Mr Garrick bites.

You chuckle, “Well, thank you for the help, Mr MacTavish. My name is-”

“I know, lass.” MacTavish interrupts, before practically purring your name, “Gaz told us all about you.”

“Oh.” You say, blinking. A shiver runs through your body, your arms wrapping around yourself protectively. What a strange thing to say…

Mr Garrick clenches his jaw, side eyeing his friend with another deadly glare. Mr MacTavish seems unfazed, merely grinning and crossing his arms in a confident stance.

With a rough clearing of his throat, Me Garrick steps closer to you, “Here, miss, let me show you where the firewood is.”

You force a smile on your face, trying to internally wave off the anxiety you feel, “That would be very kind of you, thank you Mr Garrick.”

“Very kind of you, Mr Garrick.” MacTavish parots.

Garrick ignores him as he leads you out of the corridor, further into the warm light of the store until you see the firewood piled up.

Before you can say anything, Garrick begins grabbing a few, piling a hefty stack in his arms.

Lord, he’s strong.

You can feel your face burning as you fight the sordid images playing in your mind, all of which display Mr Garrick using that strength for other means.

He insists on carrying the logs for you, even after you’ve paid and left the shop, not allowing you to hold a single one. Your heart races at the prospect of him carrying them to your home.

As you linger at the shop's entrance, you catch the tail end of a nearby man talking to the butcher. “-wouldn’t believe such gruesome sightings near these parts.”

“Nasty business.” The butcher agrees, voice grim.

The two stare at a small group in the centre of town, and you find yourself studying them too.

You recognise one of them as Mayor Shepherd, and he’s animatedly talking to a stranger. A leering blonde man, with cold eyes and a smirking face.

Their conversation is hissed, but a word cuts through the air, unmistakable.

“...Vampires...”

Your blood goes cold.

Vampires. Creatures of the night. Monsters disguising as humans, slaughtering and drinking from their victims.

In larger cities, it is more common to see them. They hunt in groups, or gangs. Vicious killers lingering in the dark, luring the weak into their nests to feast.

The stories are whispered by drunks in dark pubs, or chattering old ladies fearful of their own frailty, or parents warning their children of what hides in their closets.

But you’ve never heard of them being in such a small town like yours.

The man mayor Shepherd talks to seems at ease. His dark clothes and crosses give him the appearance of a priest. But his gait, his daggers, and his shadowed lackeys grouped behind him like a pack of wolves, they all scream vampire hunter.

Are there vampires nearby? You’ve seen no such beasts, never heard of anyone you know having seen one in person.

God forbid they're lingering in your quaint town.

Garrick follows your line of sight, his eyebrows furrowing. His face seems to have darkened, and he looks around before spotting a teenaged boy with a horse and cart.

He whistles him over, handing him a few coins, “Take these logs to this ladies house, would you?”

The boy is quick to nod, looking down in shock at the shocking amount of money held in his hand.

“Mr Garrick?”

“I must leave you here, my lady.” He says, voice deadly serious, “I have urgent business I forgot about.”

“Oh… alright, well-”

“Good day, my lady.” He tips his hat, walking away swiftly.

You watch him leave, utterly confused and a little bit (only a little bit) disappointed. But you shake the feeling away, leading the young man with your pile of firewood towards your humble home.

Unbeknownst to you, a large, forboding figure watches you from a distance.

The winds are rageful tonight.

The gate outside bangs loudly, thunderous and repetitive. It’s driving you mad.

Escaping your cocoon of blankets, you wrap two shawls around yourself under your winter coat, braving the elements to shut your goddamned gate.

It’s even worse than you thought, your teeth chattering as you carefully walk down your garden pathway to the end of your lot. The stones are icy, shiny and black like a river below your feet.

The gate taunts you with its incessant banging, swinging back and forth and colliding with your fence in a heartbeat like melody.

You curse it internally as you grab it with shaking hands, pulling it closed and latching the hatch.

“And you stay shut.” You gripe, “Bloody useless hunk of wood-”

A yowl.

You startle, eyes wide as you look up. The woods behind your street stare back at you, dark and infinite. The snow topped trees sway with the howling wind.

The noise could be that of an animal, perhaps a wounded fox or a lost calf. Perhaps a wolf searching for food in the unending

But then it comes again. A pained, weeping noise, longer than the first yelp. It’s a wail, full of agony, full of desperation. And it sounds like the cry of a person.

You grit your teeth, concern swiftly overtaking your fear. It could be a traveller calling for help, or one of the neighbours children lost and cold and succumbing to the elements.

How could you live with yourself if you didn't look?

You curse yourself as you open your gate, closing it behind you as you take slow, tentative steps into the dark unknown.

The woods you know well, in the Summer days. You took strolls with your father when you were a child, you walked the neighbors dogs for a fee when you were sixteen.

But you don't recognise them now. In the dark, in the cold. The moonlight casts shadows through the trees, thin fingers from the branches, grabbing at your ankles.

The cry comes again, and you keep walking.

It’s not bravery that pushes you forward, nor is it curiosity. Perhaps stupidity, or even nativity, or maybe even the delusion of believing oneself is invincible.

Truly, though, it’s something else.

A pull. An invisible string drawing you close, grabbing you by the neck and dragging you forward, until you see the howler themself.

Leaning against a tree, heaving and whining like a wounded animal, clawing at the bark beneath it’s sharpened fingers. Skin clammy in the moonlight, eyes scrunched and head repeatedly slamming back against the tree trunk.

But even still, he’s unmistakable.

“Mr Garrick?” You call, “Mr Garrick, are you alright-?”

His eyes open, his head turns to you.

Your heart drops.

His eyes are glowing, golden yellow, pupils a mere dot in an ocean of colour. Full lips pulling back to reveal lines of sharp teeth. He snarls, pushing himself off of the tree, strong legs prowling towards you.

His gaze is hungry, inhuman, and dead set on you.

Vampire.

You stumble back, your foot catching on a root, your back colliding with the ground.

Garrick stalks forward, a deep, rumbling growl clawing through his throat. Fangs sharp like knives, saliva pooling from his mouth, rabid in his monstrous desire to kill.

Moving on your hands, pushing yourself backwards, you’re unable to look away from the man approaching you. You feel tears falling down your cheeks, warm against your cold skin.

All you feel is fear washing over you, as you look at the once handsome face of Mr Garrick, now the feral expression of a monster.

Your back collides with something solid, and you look up.

A skeletal face.

You scream, before the face lunges for you, and you brace for death to take you.

But strong hands grab you, pulling you up with inhuman strength. The ghastly figure pushes you behind him, catching Garrick as he rushes forward.

They clash, Garrick’s clawed hands slashing at the strange man, who pushes him back with inhuman strength. Garrick howls, fighting with ferocity, desperate to get to you, to devour his meal. The mysterious ghoul holds him back, snarling behind what you can now see is a mask.

His head snaps around, black eyes look directly at you.

“Run!” He shouts.

And you do.

December 31st, the sun has risen. You haven't slept a wink.

Once returning home, you locked and barred your door, pushing your kitchen table against it with shaking hands. You knocked over books and broke knickknacks climbing atop your bookshelf to grab your father's rifle, clasping it to your chest not unlike a child would its teddy bear.

You collapsed to the ground in a mess of sweat and tears, shaking and weeping, knuckles turned white against the iron of the gun.

It took hours before you could finally take a full breath, when your heart began to slow as the first rays of sunlight.

You moved in a daze as you prepared coffee. You dressed like a machine, completely automatic as you wrapped yourself in your coat and scarf and left your home.

Where were you going? You had no idea.

But you find yourself standing in the centre of town, looking at the spot of black ice that caused you to meet Mr Garrick in the first place. Traitorous spot of ice, sending you careening into a confusing nightmare.

Someone knocks into you, startling you from your reverie.

You jolt, looking up, expecting the worst. But instead, you meet the eyes of the same blonde man mayor Shepherd was speaking to yesterday.

“Excuse me.” He says, an American accent evident, “My fault.”

“Graves.” One of his men urge him on, and Graves gives you a lingering look as he continues on his way.

You shiver as you watch him leave. Could he know? About your dealings with Mr Garrick? About the vampires you now know linger in this town?

Uneasy, you allow your feet to carry you down the street, leaving the heavily populated areas and now traipsing down the narrow alleys.

Your mind is a mess, thoughts spiralling and imagination running wild. So much so, that when you see him at first, you think you may be imagining him.

Mr Garrick.

Standing at the other end of the street, dressed well and looking human again. He turns to face you, and you halt, realising that he is not a figment of your imagination.

All of a sudden, you’re terrified.

His eyes fall on you, his face dropping into a devastated expression, mouth opening to call out to you.

You turn, running away. Footfalls echo around you, heavier and faster than you. You flee down a smaller alleyways, trying to lose him.

Until you meet a dead end.

“My lady-” Garrick calls out, his figure joining you in the shadowed backstreet.

“Stay- stay away from me.” You beg, trying to push past him, panicking like a caged animal.

“Please, please, listen to me.” Garrick begs, reaching out for you.

“No!” You yell, turning and slamming right into a solid chest.

Craning your neck, you find yourself looking into black eyes. Pale eyelashes, a scar running down a pale temple, a black mask covering the lower half of a face.

Those eyes… the skull from last night…

You swallow as you step back, looking back at Garrick, as he’s joined MacTavish, appearing from the shadows.

A third man stands guard in front of the exit next to the masked man, his eyes equally harsh and his presence commanding.

The moustached friend of Garrick’s, with the strange hat and eery glare.

“Price, she means us no harm.” Garrick says, voice tight but stern, glaring at the hatted man.

“If that's the case, then we don't mean her no harm either.”

“Unlikely.” You bite, unable to stop yourself.

MacTavish whistles lowly, “Birdie’s got some bollocks on ‘er.”

“Johnny.” The skull warns.

“What you saw last night…” Price says, trailing off.

He needs not say more. He’s talking about Mr Garrick, his transformation, his monstrousness and your near death.

They’re all a part of it.

“I know what I saw.” You insist, “He’s a-”

“Mind your tongue, girl.” The masked man warns, voice deep and brutish.

You look at him, “You were there too. You stopped him, with your bare hands. There's no way you could have done that if you… you’re…”

Looking at all of them, you understand.

“You’re all…” vampires…

Price’s moustache twitches as his lips purse, a display of annoyance at having to have this conversation. The others look between you and him, seemingly awaiting his verdict.

He’s the leader. The 'captain', that Garrick mentioned in the shop. The reason they're here.

“We won’t deny what you saw.” Price finally says, “But I would advise you to keep it to yourself.”

You blanch, “Or what? You’ll kill me?”

Price stares down at you, his lips a thin line under his bushy facial hair. His expression is cold, unfeeling.

Your eyes fall, landing on his wide, unmoving chest. Swallowing, you clench and unclench your hands, finding comfort in the strain of your muscles, adrenaline fuelling your entire body.

But it’s not like you could fight them, it's not like you have any choice.

“I won't say a thing.” You say, “Just… leave me be.”

The group is silent for a moment, and though you dare not look up at them, you can sense their eyes on you, before they shuffle.

The large, foreboding figure moves, as does Price. The group splits in two to allow you to leave down the alleyway.

It almost surprises you, that these supposed monsters, allow you your freedom.

But who are you to question it?

You keep your head down as you take a tentative step forward, testing the waters. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, for them to cackle and renounce their generosity.

But they do not. They simply watch as you make your exit.

You take another step, when a hand presses to your bicep, ever so gently. You look up slowly, to meet the eyes of Garrick.

His pretty brown eyes, so sad now. Remorseful, you would think, if you allowed your feeble heart to win over your brain.

“Please…” Garrick says softly, “Do not hate me.”

How could you not? Yet, how could you?

With traitorous hesitation, you pull your arm free, barely sparing the four men a final glance before turning on your heel, and swiftly walking away.

Two hours till midnight, the world around you is celebrating, but your mind is in shambles.

The turn of the new century, and it’s the last thing on your mind. All you can think about is the four vampires you've unwillingly become acquainted with.

Mr Kyle Garrick, with his good looks and manners, his kind eyes juxtaposing the sharp fangs he hides in his maw. His Scottish friend MacTavish, also known as “Soap”, for some unknown reason. His wild grin and sparkling eyes, an air of recklessness surrounding his firm form.

Then the leader, Price, the captain as Garrick called him. So commanding and dangerous. Strange hat and facial hair, with tall stature and strong body. Even when looking into his cold, callous eyes, your heart fluttered with strange desire.

And the most mysterious of them all. The unnamed one, the most frightening. Too tall, too broad, his eyes too dark and his voice too deep. But he had protected you, an innocent, a nobody, from his ravenous friend.

Why?

You want to know why. You want to know all about them.

Oh, I’m a fool, you think to yourself, as you stand in the shadows of your back garden, A fool for a pretty man.

A pretty vampire, you remind yourself as you open your gate, walking out towards the dark woods in search for the vampires.

Death has never had someone make it so easy for it.

The owls hoot and the neighbors dogs howl. There are distant echoes of laughter and chattering from your neighbors, that grow quieter with every hesitant step you take.

The woods seem tense, now. A thick, invisible fog lingers, a force pushing you back, warning you off. But you push through, ears straining for any indication of the men you search for.

You catch a voice. Hushed, muffled by the dense trees and flurry of snow.

Someone talks, and another responds, and you draw closer to the conversation, as if you were a sailor following the call of a siren.

The clouds open for a moment, and the moonlight illuminates the path ahead. Clearly now, you see a man, stalking through the shadows.

“Mr Garrick?” You call out, a mix of misguided hope and instinctual resistance.

Another silhouette moves across a tree, twigs snap underfoot as someone circles you.

You take another step, approaching the man you watch, “Mr Gar-”

Something collides with you.

Another man, his hands grabbing you, slamming you close to his own body.

The quick tear of fabric, and a sharp force pressing into your chest. Your blood has cooled, a gasp in caught in your throat. Your vision is hazy, blinking and swimming, and staring into unfamiliar eyes..

Blue, but stormy, dim with malice. And angry, until they’re not. Turning into surprise, roving over your face before looking down.

“Oh, God...” An American voice.

But you barely register his words, your chest feeling numb. Your eyes drift down, confused when you see his hand, bloodied skin pressed against the cloth of your bodice, his fingers wrapped around the base of a wooden dagger.

“What-?”

You choke, drool escaping your lips. No, not drool. Blood. Red dribbles down your chin, leaving you in spluttered coughs like cigarette smoke as you let out a cough.

The man pulls the dagger out, and you sob in agony, feeling red hot pain shoot through your torso.You stumble back, your legs feeling too light and your head feeling too heavy.

You’re falling. It draws out, as if you were swimming through tar. The winter leaves cushion your fall, but you barely feel it through the chill that is slowly enveloping your body.

More voices surround you. Shouting, panicked, confused. You look at the man above you, still holding the stake he had lodged in your chest. You recognise him now, though you seem to be seeing two of him, swaying back in forth.

It’s Graves, the vampire hunter.

But I’m not a vampire, you want to say, why would you do this to me?

Words cannot form, choking on your breath. You feel like your chest is too small, not allowing your lungs to work properly. You touch your chest, bringing your hand back to look at your shaking fingers.

Stained with blood now, it looks so dark in the shadows of the night. It doesn't feel real, so warm and so thick. Your blood, it belongs to you.

I want it back, you internally plead, it’s not supposed to be out here, falling onto the snow. It’s supposed to be keeping my body alive.

What will happen to me when it’s all gone?

“We leave her here.” Graves says, loud enough for you to hear, to cling to the sound of a voice that isn't your own, “We return in the morning, and tell Shepherd we found her. The vampires did this. Yes?"

An uneasy silence falls between his men, only interrupted by your chokes and whimpers and mumbled questions that no-one seems to hear. Are you talking inside or outside?

“Yes?!” Graves yells, and his men shout in agreement, stumbling over one another as they begin rushing away, shadows growing smaller and smaller until they’re gone.

I don’t want to be alone, your voice echoes inside your head, I don’t want to die like I lived. All alone.

Snow couches below feet, and Graves crouches beside you, grimacing at your appearance.

“Your death will aid the fight against the living dead.” He says, looking you up and down, “May God be with you.” before turning and disappearing into the darkness.

So this is how it all ends?

What was the point of all of this? Being born covered in blood only to die same? Alone, this time, with only the sound of your frenzied breath and racing heart to keep your company…

Your heart sounds like the galloping of a horse. It sounds like rushed feet running through the snow. It sounds like someone saying your name gently, as a hand cups your cheek.

A hand so cold it makes you cringe, gurgling out more blood instead of words. And when your eyes focus, a face is looking down at you.

Honey brown eyes, full lips turned down into a frown. A handsome face warped with concern.

“Oh, my lady.” Kyle Garrick says, “What have they done to you?

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 2025 covenbeyond — do not copy, translate, repost or modify my works on any platform.

beautiful dividers by @uzmacchiato !

[sukeruton-san]

A Coffee Heart pt 4

First Previous Next

Red Robin found the apartment building his twin brother has been staying at with his adoptive parents. he is on the third floor, Apt 307, window is also unlocked.

He heads inside too investigate, he doesn't expect what he walked into.

_______________________________________________

Today has been a good day. No attacks of any kind against his person. Not to much destruction with his parents fiddling and he got a shit load of caffeine in his veins. So, it has been a good day.

" Danny-O look!!!" His dad holds up what looks like a death ray on steroids, he said so as well.

" I call it 'The Fenton Ecto-destruct' it's suppose to deconstruct ectoplasmic-entities into more of a liquid substance so we can get to the core Evan easier!!" So it is a death ray on steroids but worse because it's for the already dead.

"Cool, cool hay have you seen the plates I can't find them "

" I think there in with the ghost equipment I'll go get them!!" Dad sets down Fenton Ecto-destruct and hurries of to the makeshift lab in the spare room.

"And make the trip long" he mutters under his breath before picking up the device and takes it apart,rearranging some parts, and adding somethings aswell. Then he puts it together again placing it down where it was before.

"Found them!!" The plates get handed to him " now to test The Fenton Ecto-destruct!!!" He pulls the trigger

.

.

.

" Aww, it doesn't work, maybe I need to add more wires for the energy output!" Putting the ray in his pocket he heads back to the lab

" Don't think it will work at all with what I did to it" chuckling to himself he puts the plates in the cabinet before heading to his room for the time being half way there he feels like something isn't right

He looks around spotting an ajar window, tensing he closes it. Feeling movement to he's right he throws the nearest object to him, which is a box cutter, into a wall next to the sheepish face of Red Robin

" Ancients, you scared the shit out of me"

"Sorry, my bad "

Crossing his arms" Mind telling me why your here"

" May have over heard you conversation with your dad and got suspicious about it. Your quick with your hands it took you 10 minutes tops to rearrange the ray your dad built"

" Thank you, and sorry for disrupting your patrol or whatever you were doing " he rubs the back of his neck " you don't happen to know of places that dispose of lots of metal and equipment that don't interfere with rogues and or criminals do you, I don't want my parents interacting with anyone like that here with our stay but also don't want them in public."

The vigilante ferros his brows before stating" there's one in downtown Gotham that doesn't have much activity going on with it. Also are you okay your parents sound like rogues already and I Don't like it."

"They haven't killed anyone so far, so their fine for the most part just don't want them nere thing and or people that can make them worse then they already are."

" You haven't answered the first question tho also 'so far' isn't as reassuring as you think"

" Their fine, really" there was a ominous thump in the background " I am going to check that out, you have a good day" he hurries of too the destination the sound came from leaving a worried vigilante behind

_______________________________________________

The situation is worsening by the minute first he hears and sees the conversation between Danny and Mr. Fenton about something that can vary well kill Danny if the thing misfires. Next Danny's ability to deconstruct and rearrange or build upon things in fast pases hents that he has to do that often which means there are lots of potential weapons and or devices that can harm Danny or others aswell.

Third is that Danny knew that he was here and acted accordingly to the situation. he almost got my head with that box cutter if he didn't dodge in time. Fourth is the aparint need to keep his adoptive parents from rouges because they might learn from them when he is positive they already are rouges.

Last and most noteworthy is Danny's avoidance to answering the question if he was Okay.

He has a lot to unfold and first is the implied lab that the Fenton's are working in.

[lucillebelle]

LaD as Dads

Xavier

Scenario: The Nap Battle

Your toddler is full of endless energy, while Xavier… is not. You find them both in the living room, your child bouncing on the couch cushions, and Xavier asleep, a soft snore escaping him, a crayon still in his hand from earlier. The two had been drawing “space cats.”

When your child climbs onto his chest and declares, “I win!” Xavier cracks one eye open and, with a rare, soft smile, murmurs, “You win… but only because I let you.”

Then promptly falls asleep again, your child giggling like it’s the greatest game ever. Later, he wakes up long enough to finish the cat drawing, lets your kid color it purple, and tucks them in with the same care he used to reserve just for you.

Zayne

Scenario: The Dissected Sandwich Incident

Your child walks into the kitchen, holding a peanut butter sandwich that’s been taken apart piece by piece.

“Dad said deconstructing things helps us understand them,” they say proudly. Zayne, completely unfazed, is standing behind them with a clean scalpel and a napkin tucked into his collar like it’s a surgical bib.

“I was demonstrating the anatomy of snack architecture,” he says smoothly, barely hiding a smirk as you try not to laugh. Later, when tucking your child in, he gently brushes their hair aside and adds, “No one else will ever understand you the way I do… but that’s a good thing.”

Rafayel

Scenario: The Glitter Uprising

The art room looks like a sea of glitter exploded.

“I only turned away for five seconds,” you say in disbelief, looking at your sparkly child and an even sparklier Rafayel, who’s holding a glitter-drenched seashell like it’s a trophy. He shrugs, brushing some sparkles off your child’s nose and kissing their forehead.

“Art doesn’t ask for permission. It demands to be messy.” He later convinces your child to title the chaos “The Cosmic Storm” and frames it, glitter and all. You’re still vacuuming sparkles out of the furniture three weeks later.

Sylus

Scenario: The Power Game

Your child is playing chess against themselves. Sylus sits nearby, sipping tea and watching like it’s a high-level political negotiation. “Daddy said if I beat myself, I win both ways,” they say proudly.

Sylus smirks, voice velvet-smooth. “A valuable lesson, sometimes your greatest opponent… is the weaker version of you.” You give him a look. He grins wider. Later, your child runs to you, holding a paper crown Sylus crafted from a luxury food wrapper.

“He said I earned it,” they beam. Sylus catches your gaze and adds softly, “I’ll raise a ruler. One who takes what they deserve and never bows.”

Caleb

Your child refuses to go to bed without "official orders," something Caleb apparently started.

He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, his voice low and commanding, “Operation Pillow Fort is a go. Mission: Sweet Dreams. Any resistance will be met with tickle fire.”

Your child salutes him and dives under the covers, grinning. Caleb turns to you with that boyish smile you still remember from Skyhaven and whispers, “Too easy. You should’ve seen my negotiation skills during nap time.”

Later that night, he sits beside your sleeping child’s bed, one hand protectively on the edge.

“I’ll protect them… just like I protected you.”

Little note: This is how I imagine them to act with their kids.

[sublimepoliticsmusicbiscuit-blog]

Another reason I'm obsessed with My Beautiful Man, they completely deconstruct the whole Tsundere trope and make it better.

Kiyoi's harsh attitude is used masterfully to not be seen as vulnerable and he even convinces himself that he's not as emotional a person as the rest of those around him. And Hira's worship of him just adds to this. But Kiyoi is greedy for Hira, even as he can't bring himself to accept just how much he has come to need Hira to love him.

This is why Hira and his insecurities while heartbreaking to see, never make me angry, because if this were every other romance then Hira would keep trying to make Kiyoi love him. But Hira limits himself, cause he's so genuinely respectful and hates the thought of doing anything Kiyoi wouldn't like. And Hira doesn't believe himself worthy of love so the Tsundere!Kiyoi has to break out of his own protective shell to be vulnerable!

Kiyoi can't live in denial about who he wants. His abrasive behaviour, which is a defense mechanism, has consequences! The man he loves just pulls further away. His inability to communicate his feelings verbally leaves Hira without an understanding of what Kiyoi feels. And so Kiyoi is unable to live in denial and is forced to accept repeatedly just how much he cares about Hira, just how much he wants him.

Kiyoi even tries to repeatedly let go of Hira in typical Tsundere fashion, which is a call for attention. But in this case it doesn't work! Kiyoi doesn't get to be chased as his ego demands! HE HAS TO DO THE CHASING!

Kiyoi has to learn to be honest with himself and with his lover. And that's why they're soulmates! Only Hira could have pushed Kiyoi into smashing out of his shell. Just as Kiyoi is the only one who can motivate Hira to grow and fight to overcome his own shell.

I know it seems like I'm obsessed with Kiyoi, but I'm actually completely in love with Hira and don't know how to verbalize my thoughts on that man. He's insane and completely amazing.

[silverskye13]

im OBSESSED with you saying Xisuma's fatal flaw would be arrogance, i never would have thought of it and it tickles my lizard brain. could you go into more details about that vibe?

It's a couple things! Granted, I haven't watched Xisuma regularly in about a year, so I've atrophied a bit when it comes to him and his personality. Take what I say with a grain of salt.

I want to note that I don't mean arrogance in the sense that he thinks he's inherently better than people. He tries really hard not to do that -- I've listened to a few of his vods, and a lot of them have to do with deconstructing his worldview, changing assumptions he's made about people and politics, walking back and forth down a line of thought until eventually he settles somewhere on that road.

But during those reconstructions, I noticed they generally came from very heavy assumptions first, things he says with his full chest, and then has to walk back. There is a certain amount of arrogance in assuming you know what you're talking about, when you have only a handful of facts and perspectives at your disposal. This makes the vods interesting. He can talk back and forth with his audience about something he's learning about, and it becomes entertaining watching people discuss with him, and watching his opinion on that thing actively change. But that doesn't change the fact that he tends to start with: "So I saw this thing recently, and I think it's good/bad/morally ambiguous, and here is why."

There is a certain amount of arrogance in assuming you know something correctly automatically.

Which is, actually, my second reason for choosing arrogance. It seems like a lot of Xisuma's "derp" moments, his simple and silly mistakes that he makes when making machines or doing building, etc, stem from moments of arrogance. He assumes he has done something right, doesn't double check it, and then later when it breaks, he figures out something small and simple has gone wrong. Most of the time, this is funny. Look, Xisuma has made a silly mistake again! But sometimes these simple mistakes add hours of frustration, cause complete rebuilds of parts of a structure or machine, or inconvenience other people. It gets harder to justify, then, that little moment of, "No I'm sure it's fine. I won't double check."

There is an amount of arrogance in assuming you know something correctly automatically.

He is very proficient. He is very good at checking himself when the moment strikes him. But he often forgets to make that check, or dismisses the need for that check, only for it to come back for him. And, if we're talking about Fatal Flaws, the idea that there is something you do repeatedly that builds, until eventually it's your undoing, I think it would be those small moments of assumption and arrogance. One day, they come back around.