#// I know VERY little about onslaught's plot

[cagcd]

If not besties why hang together @scorpiun ??

[fanfictilltheend]

❤️‍🔥Violent Heart Part 2:  ♪Remember when I moved in you, and the holy dove was moving too ♫ (or the VERY DARK Stepdad!Mechanic!Covict!Joel x Afab!you one)❤️‍🔥

Hi I apologize that a lot of these reference pics are just of white girls. I tried to find "aesthetic" images that go with the story but so many of them are just of white people and I want to call myself out for this because in the fic's only descriptors are that she has hair and is AFAB -- nothing about race. I also realize that all of the girls in this are skinny too and Y/N's body type is never specified. Sorry fam!! These images are just to get the creative juices flowing and don't truly depict anything from the fic!!

A/n: It’s here!!!!!! 18+ Only. This took me 7 freaking months so you mofos better like, reblog, and comment. This is both my most and least personal fic I’ve ever written and it is dark and relies heavily on plot (smut this time tho!!) READ ALL OF THE TAGS DO NOT COME FOR ME UNLESS YOU DID THIS FR FR. This ones for my dark joel fangirlies(guys and NBies) and the daddy issues fam ily ❤️‍🔥 (also not me naming my fic in part after hallelujah by leonard cohen but there is a reason!!!!!!!!!!)

Summary: Part 2 picks up with Y/N at age 20 and how her relationship with Joel has changed and gets steamier.  SMUT and feelings <3 Also check out this playlist of music that’s in the fic!!!!

Tags (PLEASE READ): Afab!you, pov change, Infidelity, threats, age gap, dressing Joel up (swear I wrote this before he wore that outfit to the SAG awards — the mr.Darcy-core one), racist comment (from Y/N’s douchey boyfriend), douchey boyfriend, confidence issues, feelings, voyeurism, masturbation (m and f), kissing, penis in vagina sex — unprotected (wear a condom), lightest hint of ass play, scar worship?? kinda??, daddy issues, daddy kink, using music lyrics to move the plot, multiple orgasms (m and f), religion and god discussions, stepcest (kinda bc technically he is divorced from her mother), tagging psuedo-incest just to be safe!!, use of y/n

Word Count: ~13k

PART 1

AO3 Link

Violent Heart Masterlist

Full Masterlist of all my work

If you’re being honest, you’ve always had a little crush on Joel Miller. How could you not have? The first day you’d met him had been like some kind of fucked up yet extremely satisfying whirlwind of a daydream. He’d come in, broad and tall and strong, and saved you from your evil (though you do love him somewhere deep, deep down) older brother’s onslaught. Protected you like a knight in shining armor from his punching, beating fists. Treated and touched you so tenderly, so many miles different from how your own father did that you’d been hit with whatever the pleasant opposite of whiplash is. And the way he finally punished Aiden after years of his reign of terror, the violence of it, the justice of it. You didn’t have words for it then, but the way you looked into Joel’s eyes when he was doling out that righteous punishment became some kind of strange secret understanding between the two of you. Maybe it was the first sign of love? You aren’t sure.

As a kid, he’d given you what you like to think of as quiet butterflies. They were always there when he spoke to you, looked at you, touched you, beat the shit out of your father and brother for you, but they were faint enough that you could ignore them. It was a comforting, fluttering kind of love, a gradual understanding of your loyalty to one another. But then puberty hit and the insects became incessantly loud when you thought of, wrote to, or talked to him. They ate at your heart day after day while Joel was in prison – the longing, the missing. Aiden told you that you were obsessed with him. Your mother told you to forget him, that he would forget you. But somehow, he didn’t. You wonder if those bugs live in him too. You wonder if they are quiet or loud and if they gnaw .

You think that they are probably loud. You think this for a few reasons. The first is that you know for a fact, you can feel it in the lining of your soul, and from the evidence of his constant correspondence and care for you, that he is just as obsessed with you as you are with him. The second reason is the fact that you think but aren’t one hundred percent sure is that the last time you’d hugged him he’d gotten a little hard (you don’t want to think too much into that because he is only a man who had been deprived of touch for a long time – but still you wonder…). And the third is the way he looks at you like you are the universe like you are the last drop of nectar and he is the last butterfly left on Earth in a famine. 

That’s how he’s looking at you now in the passenger seat of his old, clunky pickup. You know that he wanted to drive, but you wanted to show him how well you could because he had never seen. Never had the chance to see how well you had fixed, maintained, and took care of his baby and of course he gave into you like he always does. He's smiling at you quietly, but his eyes contain multitudes. Right now mostly pride at your driving.

Joel is a bit different than how you remember sitting near him in the truck the last time you were together, him as a free man, you as a little girl. Somehow, even though you are obviously bigger now, he still seems massive and broad and stronger than ever. His biceps are huge – probably from all the time he had to work out in prison – and peeking out under his blue t-shirt that you brought for him, you think you see the outlines of some tattoos. You look a little closer. On his right arm is text in curvy black ink. You think it reads, “Sarah.” You smile softly at that. On his other arm is a strange orange shape that you have to squint at to understand. The edges of the object are jagged but they form a shape like a badge – and then you know what it is! It is the guitar pick you made for Joel as a child. The one that had pricked his finger and drawn blood and he stuck it in his wallet. You can’t articulate how honored you feel that Joel loved you enough to tattoo something you made for him on his body, permanently, forever. 

“ Well , the light only turned green damn near eons ago,” he complains about your driving, but you know he is just teasing.

There is hardly anything wrong you can ever do in Joel’s eyes. He grins at you a bit lopsidedly and you smile back. You also can’t help but notice the greying of his brown hair. It’s a bit longer than it used to be too and the length gives it a little bit less of a shaggy look. You think it suits him, makes him look a bit older and more distinguished than when he first came into your life twelve years ago. 

Objectively, you know it’s weird to think that your ex-stepdad who is a convicted felon is hot, but it’s just something you’ve always known and thought like that the sky is blue or that orange is your favorite color. You know it’s weird to think of someone who was? – is? – supposed to be a father figure to you that way, but it’s already second nature at this point. You’ve had a few boyfriends (luckily all of them had treated you right), but none of the feelings you’ve ever had for them have compared to the cosmic-sized love and affection you have for Joel and you’ve never known anything different. The years you spent longing, missing, loving, obsessing over, and aching for him in every way under the sun, can’t be healthy, you know this, but they have eclipsed practically every other relationship in your life. No one has ever made you feel as safe and protected and loved as Joel has. No one else has ever looked at you the way he does. No one else’s entire existence has revolved around you the way his has. The sheer devotion in his gaze is enough to make the butterflies inside you scream and beat their wings against your insides like hungry bats. 

And you especially know you shouldn’t have these feelings about another human being violent enough to be capable of taking a life – inebriated or not. You’re grown now and know the man he killed was a scum-of-the-Earth child predator, and secretly you’ve always wondered if there was more to the story than Joel told the police in the official court transcripts you’d read as an adult, maybe even something to do with you since you had been there that day in the repair shop when they met , but you haven’t pressed because you’re sure the whole thing is quite traumatic for Joel and if he ever wants to tell you, you know he will. And more importantly, you don’t really care. Drunken, violent idiot or not, you were already deeply invested and never intended on wavering in that. You’re not sure there’s anything Joel could do to get you to stop loving him and that both terrifies and excites you. 

“Okay, whatcha wanna eat?” you ask, reaching out to rub Joel’s shoulder gently. “Now that you’re free you can have whatever you want! On my mom’s credit card of course. Swear I won’t tell her.”

Joel grins.

“Deal,” he tells you. “I was thinking of a nice steak dinner.”

***

You pull into the fanciest restaurant you can find in the tri-state area and sit down to order a regal, all-American, full three-course steak dinner (though you’re both woefully underdressed – not that you care – though the host gives you a dirty look). All the while, you tell Joel about your major (psychology) and how you want to become a counselor for abused children.

“That’s sort of beautiful, sweetheart,” he tells you with a genuine smile that used to be so hard to coax from him, but now seems to float over to you so easily and gently like a kiss from something as soft as the wings of a butterfly. “Wanting to help defenseless children. You’re kinda like a guardian angel for them, ya know? Damn proud of ya! Also, these mashed potatoes are goddamn delectable!” he exclaims after taking an experimental bite. “Have I mentioned that prison food is shit?”

You smile bashfully and want to tell him that he is your guardian angel (you wonder if he thinks the same of you) and inspiration in a backward sort of way for wanting to help kids in the first place since he was so good at protecting you for the most part (though you obviously don’t believe violence is the correct answer in your line of future work). But kids need protectors. Somehow you know that deep down you forgive him for all of the violence he caused because you would forgive him for anything. And him being proud of you? You don’t think there’s a better feeling in the world than that! You burst with pride. Your real father never said that to you, but Joel doesn’t feel like your father now. He is something different entirely. Something that entirely belongs to you.

“And you’ll meet my boyfriend, Max, tomorrow,” you nod as Joel moves onto the steak and lets out a soft moan at how good it tastes. “He’s heard a lot about you.”

Joel’s face flattens.

“And who is this kid exactly?” he sneers a little, attacking the steak with his knife. 

You smile internally at the obvious jealousy he’s trying to hide from his voice.

“Hey, Max is a decent guy!” you insist in his defense. “He’s pre-law. Real smart. He’s gonna be an important person someday, I know it. You’ll get on.”

That last part is a bit of a lie since you’re not sure the two will actually like each other. 

Joel examines your face, looks deep into your eyes.

“All I know is, just because someone is important, don’t mean they’re good to you or for you for that matter.” 

You can’t help but think of your father, the most “important” man you know and how much of a degenerate he is compared to someone ostensibly average like Joel who didn’t even have a status symbol like a college degree and how perfect of a man you think he is, despite his obvious flaws. You blush a little, scrunching up your nose. 

“Just lookin’ out for you, sweetheart,” he continues, smiling at the way you do. “He ever fuck with you – he ever break your heart, you know just where to send him, alright?”

“Yeah, Joel,” you grin. “Don’t need you getting any more jail time though, alright?” “You may have made a valid point,” he concedes with a smirk. 

***

When you two enter your shitty, one-bedroom apartment it’s already dark outside. Joel actually grins when he notices his and your guitars have both been mounted on the wall. 

“We can play ‘em tomorrow,” you tell him excitedly. “If you want to, I mean…”

“Hell yeah, I do,” Joel smiles. “Wanna hear ya singing for me, honey. I missed that.”

You smile to yourself.

“You can have my bed, and I’ll take the couch,” you decide, getting back to business. 

“No way, babygirl. I ain’t taking your bed.”

“Joel, you’ve literally been on a prison mattress for eight fucking years! Can’t imagine that’s been very comfortable.”

“That’s exactly why I won’t mind the couch. That’ll feel like heaven to me. Don’t want you messin’ up your back, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth, but Joel beats you.

“And that’s that,” he insists. 

“Alright, alright,” you concede, knowing by the look on his face he’s not budging. If one thing, Joel has always been stubborn, but you like that about him. “D’you wanna watch a movie or something?”

“Actually, baby, if ya don’t mind, I’d like a quick shower. Been dreaming about taking a real, private one for ages.”

“Yeah, of course!” you nod, motioning toward your bathroom door. “Towels are under the sink.”

Joel makes his way inside and soon steam is billowing out the bottom of the door. 

You busy yourself with some homework, but just as you walk past the door to grab a glass of water, you think you hear Joel singing.

You listen more closely over the fall of the running water and make out him singing the chorus of an old ABBA song with a deeper, sadder tone to it,

♪ “ Slipping through my fingers all the time / I try to capture every minute / The feeling in it / Slipping through my fingers all the time / Do I really see what's in her mind? / Each time I think I'm close to knowing / She keeps on growing / Slipping through my fingers all the time…” ♫

You feel like such a sap, but you feel a tear forming in your eye at the way Joel must be thinking about his and your relationship and everything he missed in your life. You aren’t mad at him, but his absence hurt in a way you didn’t know you could feel. And you’ve never blamed him, really, but the lack of him for eight years of milestones really did kill a piece of you. You can’t help but imagine a butterfly at the bottom of your stomach with its wings pulled off. That’s how you felt all that time without Joel – like a butterfly without wings. A writhing worm of a human being, senseless and lost in a giant world full of forces you couldn’t control. 

You listen to Joel’s beautiful, deep voice until you hear him turn off the tap and you scurry away and act innocent. 

Joel emerges from the bathroom then with nothing but a white towel around his waist, steam from the shower floating lazily into the room behind him like precession. And oh, wow, is he ever a sight to behold. His hair is wet, dark brown flecked with grey, and starting to get curly from the moisture. You also can’t help but notice his broad chest, the expanse of it, the dark curls of hair, his bulking, muscular tattooed arms, his soft, hairy tummy, the V-shape of muscle that descends beneath the towel, his happy trail. You are overwhelmed by the soaking beauty of him. You’d seen Joel shirtless before, sure, but it had never felt like this . 

“Gon’ grab some of those clothes you bought for me and then maybe we could watch something?” Joel asks as you try so fucking hard not to stare at him.

“Sure!” you squeak, staring down at your notebook at the kitchen counter. 

You think you see a smirk from Joel, but you're not sure because your gaze is averted as he grabs some clothes to change into and disappears back into the bathroom.

When he reemerges, dressed in a wifebeater and shorts that accentuate his form, you two sit next to each other on your cushy sofa and surf the TV for something to watch. You feel Joel’s hairy knees against your jean-clad one and your heart flutters.

“Can’t believe I’m really here,” Joel says softly as you pass re-runs of Full House, a dog show. “Like I gotta fuckin’ pinch myself to know it’s not a dream.”

Suddenly you feel a large, weathered hand on your cheek.

“Missed you so much, babygirl,” he murmurs, looking into your eyes, massaging the line of your jaw ever so lightly, trying to hold your skittish gaze. “More than I even have words for.”

First, you avoid looking at him a bit bashfully, but then you stare up cautiously into those big brown eyes that feel like a familiar kind of home and you’re such a goner. You lean into his warmth, the warmth of his hand.

“Missed you too, Joel. So much,” you admit, never wanting this moment to end or him to let go of you. “More than anything.”

He leans forward a little and for a second you think…but then he’s leaning in and planting a heavy kiss on your forehead. A kiss that has weight to it – not those soft, weak ones that Max gives you haphazardly when he’s drunk or high – the only time he’s brave enough to be vulnerable with you. This kiss says something, means it so sincerely too. 

“Love you, honey,” he tells you. Then his face falls. “Sorry I…wasn’t quite there to say that to you enough in person.”

“It’s okay, Joel. I forgive you,” you insist. “I love you so much, dummy. More than you even know!”

But you truly do appreciate the sentiment. 

***

You settle on an old, black and white classic, Paper Moon, that’s playing on the TV Land channel.

Joel wraps a big arm around you and you snuggle close. You’re pretty sure there isn’t a better feeling in the world than being this close to him. Even after all these years he still smells like Joel; like home (and, if you’re being honest, a bit like your vanilla shampoo) .

You lean against him, your cheek pressing into one of his firm pecs. You begin to feel sleepy, drunk on the steady sound of his heartbeat, alive and beating against you and really here . 

You nod off.

***

At first, you don’t believe it, but you feel someone with strong, firm arms lifting you into the air, cradling your back and the insides of your knees in a bridal-style carry. The movement wakes you, but you don’t open your eyes because the safety and security you feel is too good to give up. Joel carries you to your bedroom and lays you down gently in your bed. You’re still in day clothes and shoes so Joel takes off your worn sneakers with a feather-light touch and places them at the foot of the bed – you can tell from the soft thumps it makes. He maneuvers you so tenderly under the covers and tucks you in with love and care. You wonder the last time someone did that for you and pull up a blank. If anyone ever did that for you it was probably Joel. Maybe your mom did when you were really young. Certainly your father nor Aiden ever did – your father hadn’t liked to touch you except out of anger – kind of like you had some kind of weird, contagious disease. Aiden’s hands had almost always hurt too, but not Joel’s – never his. 

He breaks you from your thoughts by pressing another kiss to your forehead. Your eyes are still closed so you aren’t sure, but you think he watches you for a second and lets out a long sigh. 

Then you hear your bedroom door close softly so as not to disturb you. You smile, you can’t help it, and drift back off into a peaceful sleep.

***

You wake up to a mumbling, grunting sort of sound. You look over at your clock and read 3:42 a.m. You sit up. You can kind of hear some muffled noises coming from outside your room. At first, you feel a little concerned – like maybe Joel is in pain or something as he is the only one who could be making the noises. The walls in your apartment are paper-thin. Like you could hear him sneeze clear as day if he were to because sound travels through the shitty walls so easily. You should have told him that. But what the fuck is he doing up at 3 a.m.? 

You creep (and you mean creep) silently to the door of your bedroom and open it the tiniest crack. The way your apartment is laid out, the back of the sofa is the first thing you see and the back of Joel’s head about six feet away. He doesn’t sound in pain the way he’s groaning and then you understand exactly what he’s doing. Of course the man is jerking off! After being in prison, stuck around people for so long of course he wanted a good, private wank. He isn’t looking at anything from what you can tell, no magazines or anything. Must be using his imagination. You wonder what he’s thinking about, if he’s gotten good at that over the years.

You should turn around, slink back into bed, and cover your ears with a pillow so the man can have some privacy. But, fuck, the way he’s grunting. His voice is so fucking deep and sexy and then he lets out a soft, vulnerable moan and you feel heat envelope your whole body. You think you hear a soft fuck roll off his tongue and your heart almost beats right out of your chest. You can hear the lewd slapping of his fist on skin getting louder and more intense. Then you hear a soft take it, fuck. And Jesus, you are so fucking wet between your thighs. You ought to be ashamed. Instead, you reach down your hand feverishly beneath the band of your jeans and soaking underwear instinctively to stroke yourself ever so slightly. You sigh in relief, but you are fucking gushing, your fingers covered in your slick. You can’t see anything besides the back of Joel’s head, technically, so this couldn’t be that wrong, could it? He lets out a soft groan, you can tell he’s holding back so as not to be heard, but the desperation in the pathetic little noises this hulking man is making is turning on every switch inside you. Oh how you want to go over there and take him in your mouth, to taste him. God you are so fucked up! You’re still touching yourself gently, not really fully going at it yet, considering the possibilities that could follow if you went over there. But before you can decide to do anything, Joel positively whines, moans, and grunts fuck, unh, and you think but aren’t sure, babygirl, and finishes.

You stop dead still in what you’re doing. Did he really say “babygirl” or was that just your horny-ass imagination playing tricks on you? You’ve never heard Joel call anyone babygirl except you. Was he really thinking of you? On the one hand, if true, mega fucked up. On the other, wow, incredibly hot. You think about going over there and asking him to finish you off or something as crazy as in all those dumb romance novels you used to read in middle school, but just as quickly as the idea comes to you, you hear another noise: loud snoring. Joel is asleep.

Typical.

You snort to yourself. That was so quintessentially Joel. You don’t want to disturb him now. The moment has passed. And only then is when you remember you have a fucking boyfriend. 

That doesn’t stop you from closing your door softly, crawling back into bed, and reaching your hand down beneath your panties to touch yourself. You stroke your clit, imagining it is Joel’s rough hand rubbing against you. Holy fuck. You haven’t been this wet since you used to touch yourself thinking about him in the past. It’s like he can reach every part of you, every layer in a way that no one else can. You know the whole thing is so fundamentally fucked up, but you can resist sinking into your favorite fantasy. The smell, the touch, the feel of him. You imagine the noises he was making so beautifully on the couch, feel heat coil through your entire body, and immediately cum hard without even sticking a finger inside yourself. 

The pleasure you feel is so unparalleled and real you have to cover your hand with your mouth not to scream out your powerful orgasm. 

Sweat drenches your whole body as you come down. 

God, you are so fucked.

***

The next morning you wake up to the wafting smell of someone cooking eggs. You emerge from your room a little sheepishly from last night’s events to find Joel behind the kitchen counter making eggs and toast. 

“Mornin’, babygirl,” he grins, his eyes shining like he’s excited about something.

And then you realize: that something is you.

You grin back.

“Good morning, Joel,” you beam at him.

You were so afraid things would feel awkward after what you heard last night, but nothing ever feels awkward with Joel. In some ways, he’s still just your average dorky, friendly old ex-stepdad, convicted felon. In other ways, everything about him sets your heart on fire, but it would be stupid to ruin what you have with him because you think it’s remotely possible he might be interested back. You know this is dramatic, but if he flat-out rejected you, you think you might die. Truly. Like those butterflies inside you would beat their wings so hard they’d burst your heart.

“‘Membered you liked ‘em poached,” he nods, breaking you from your thoughts. 

He scoops two poached eggs onto one of your plates and grabs a piece of toast from the toaster which he smears with butter like how you used to eat toast as a kid. You can’t believe he remembered.

“Thanks so much,” you tell him.

He grabs a few eggs and toast for himself and sits beside you at the counter. 

“Nice to be able to cook me ‘n you some real food,” he remarks. “If I eat one more cup o’ noodles in my lifetime I swear to God Almighty…” he trais off.

He’s looking at you like you put the goddamned sun in the sky. Your heart melts as you stare at his features, the faint curls in his hair. Oh, how you want to reach out and touch him. But that just isn’t how you operate. You won’t ruin what you already have.

The butterflies in your chest howl. 

***

` You lay out the day’s schedule to Joel. You have plenty of time to hang about (you see him eyeing the guitars), and then you need to go shopping for some actual clothes for Joel since the things you brought for him don’t constitute a proper wardrobe. Then you will go out to dinner and meet Max. 

Joel grunts a nod at that last part. He doesn’t seem too thrilled.

“Wanna show me what you’ve been playing?” he asks hopefully as he gets up to put both of your plates in the sink,

“‘Course!” you nod enthusiastically. “Max says I need to work on my fingerpicking so I can’t promise it’ll be all that good.”

Joel rolls his eyes.

“Show me what you’ve got.”

***

You sit down on the couch right next to Joel, each of you holding your respective guitars in hand, across your laps. 

Joel looks ecstatic to have his guitar back in his hands. He fiddles with the tuning and finger-picks a faint melody.

“Haven’t played one since the prison band. But then some dumb motherfucker clobbered another sorry son of a bitch to death with a saxophone so that ended our music privileges,” Joel explains. 

“Jeez,” you reply.

Joel is sitting so close you can feel his body heat. You just want to hear him sing, but he insists on hearing you.

“Joel,” you try as innocently as possible. “D’you remember how to do an A-flat? I forget and I need it for my song.”

“Sure, baby. Lemme help ya. Now put one finger on this bit of the 4th fret here,” he begins, snaking a big arm around your shoulders so he can maneuver your fingers to the correct position. 

His touch is electric. He feels so good and warm. You feel the intense urge to climb into his lap and embrace and stay there forever. His big caloused hand full of scars places your fingers correctly for the chord. The same hand that must have jerked himself to completion last night…You can’t help but wonder how much cum there was…The truth is, you know how to make an A-flat. You just wanted to feel him.

He backs away and you whine internally at the loss.

“There we go,” he says soothingly, reaching out to rub your shoulder. “That one can be tricky. Now where is my performance?”

Your nerves are squirming around inside you but you begin to play and sing to the best of your ability. 

You look into Joel’s eyes.

♪“ You've got a heart on fire / It's bursting with desire / You've got a heart filled with passion /  Will you let it burn for hate or compassion?” ♫ you sing. 

Joel watches you intently, sitting up straighter. 

♪ “What's the point with a love / That makes you hate and kill for? ♪

You sing as best and as seriously as you can. You look up and think you maybe see a tear in Joel’s eye.

When you finish, it’s clear Joel is finding it hard to select the right words to convey what he’s feeling. 

“I–” he tries. “That was…well, let me just show you how I can answer that if anyone ever could to a performance as beautiful as that.”

You blush. 

He begins to finger-pick a familiar tune, Instantly, you are transported back to eight years old in the back of Joel’s old pickup truck, listening to one of his many cassette tapes. It’s “I’ll Never Find Another You” by The Seekers. The original version of the song is pretty happy and upbeat, but the way Joel sings it slowly in his deep and weathered voice makes you feel sad and achy inside. The emotion behind his voice is palpable.

♪ “But if I should lose your love, dear / I don't know what I'd do / For I know I'll never find another you / Another you / Another you…” ♫ he trails off.

It’s your turn to tear up a little. It’s crazy to know he means every word he’s singing too. He sings like every word is his last breath. When he finishes you are crying a little.

“You oughta record an album,” you sniffle, leaning into his shoulder, throwing him a side hug.

“Wanted to be a singer,” he replies with a small grin, leaning his head against yours. “Back when I was young.” 

You sit back up straight.

“You did? I never knew that.”

“Don’t tell nobody really,” Joel replies, looking a bit sad you left his immediate proximity. “Just a stupid dream ‘n all that crap.”

“‘S not stupid,” you tell him. “You really have a beautiful voice, Joel. It’s like if I could take it, hold on to it, and keep it forever in my chest pocket next to my heart, I would.”

“That’s where I keep you, baby,” he tells you honestly.

He reaches up a big hand to yours and guides your own to place it right on his heart over his plaid shirt. You can feel it beating steadily below your palm to the rhythm of something as delicate and ferocious as the beating of butterfly wings.

“Right here.”

***

You take Joel shopping. At his insistence it is nothing fancy, just the local department store. That doesn’t stop you from dressing Joel up in ridiculous outfits of your choosing. You make him try on a Hawaiian shirt, some golf polos like your dad liked to wear, a pinstripe suit and he lets you because saying no to you has never been in his vocabulary. He acts grumpy on the outside, but you can tell he is amused. You know in the end, you’ll just end up buying every flannel shirt and jeans combo they have in the store, but it’s just fun anyway. You watch the fabric hug his torso, his tummy, the slight bulge at his waist. At one point he comes out shirtless and you try very hard not to swoon as you stare at the hair lining his chest and his adorable little tummy that you for some reason have the urge to bite. The band of his Hanes boxers sticks up past his jeans and he looks so good. He even lets out a genuine smile. The middle-aged sales attendant who is helping you even takes a good look at him which makes the butterflies inside you swarm possessively. 

Finally, you make him try on a proper white-collared button-down shirt and black dress pants with matching black shoes and he looks so good you’re actually at a loss for words when he asks you what you think. They hug the curves and lines and planes of his body so nicely. All you can do is ask him to put on a black tie to match and he does at your behest following some customary griping that he would never wear such a monkey suit in the first place. The effect that a fully dressed-up Joel has on you is not one to be reckoned with. He might as well be wearing the men’s version of lingerie for how it makes you throb and ache between your legs. He looks like a force of nature, commanding and tall. It makes you weak. All you say is,

“Looking good, old-timer.”

He snorts.

When you finally ditch all the fun clothes and grab the essentials, Joel offers to go pick up the car while you pay. He tries to give you his eight-year-old credit card, but you insist on treating him on the condition he buys the “monkey suit.” After a bit of prodding, he gives in and you go to the sales attendant to pay at the counter. 

“Your dad is really cute,” the sales attendant giggles to you as she rings up the pile of clothes. 

Your cheeks go a bit red. You don’t really care enough to correct her.

“He’s my guy,” is all you say absentmindedly as you fish out your wallet from your purse.

The sales attendant hands you the receipt and on it, you see a scrawled phone number.

“For If he’s single,” she explains. “I’m Barb from sales.”

You look her over. She’s close to Joel’s age and conventionally pretty with long brown hair. The exact kind of woman Joel should be dating should he choose to get back in the game. Your stomach twists and the butterflies howl inside you.

You take the receipt, thank her, and join Joel back in the car (who is more than happy to be driving this time). 

“What took so long?” he asks casually. “You two writing a novel in there?”

You think seriously about what you should do. You consider letting the bugs have their way and tearing the receipt with Barb’s number on it to shreds. But you want good things for Joel. The chance of you two ever being together the way you wish is so far-fetched that you know you shouldn’t even be thinking it. A literal pipe dream. He was your stepdad for christsakes. He literally fucked your mother! (Gross!). Barb is exactly the kind of woman Joel should be going after if he’s up to dating right now. You hand him the receipt begrudgingly. 

“Sales Lady likes you,” you sat flatly. “Name is Barb.”

“Oh,” he says softly like he’s a bit flattered. 

He looks back at her through the glass door of the store and she waves at him. He waves back politely. You feel your stomach twisting into knots. 

“You think…you think you’re gonna call her?” you finally ask as casually as humanly possible, dreading the answer. 

Joel looks over at you, his gaze sweeping over you. Then looks back at Barb through the window. He looks her up and down.

“Nah,” he says with a smirk, looking back at you. “She ain’t my type. Only need one girl in my life right now anyways,” he winks.

Was that Joel flirting? With you?

Regardless, you smile back and then sigh in relief and grin to yourself as you two drive away. 

Much to your satisfaction, Joel crumples up the receipt and throws it out the window for good measure. 

***

You get ready for dinner, to go to a nice Mexican-Japanese fusion restaurant that Max picked out. You wear a red dress that accentuates your figure and matching heels and to your shock, Joel reemerges from the bathroom in the white button-down shirt and black dress pants you picked out for him (you had been sure flannel would be part of his ensemble). God, he looks good. A part of you wants to ditch Max and just stay here with Joel forever. He looks you over, his dark eyes sweeping over your frame. You think there is a tinge of possessiveness in his voice when he says,

“ Christ, you look beautiful, babygirl.”

***

You arrive before Max and sit down at the fancy white table-cloth-covered table next to Joel, a booth facing you. Max finally makes an appearance a half hour late and sits down across from you, sweeping his hair out of his face, sliding into the booth. Joel is frowning and the butterflies beat their wings inside you nervously.

“Sorry I’m late,” Max announces, puffing out his chest a little and smoothing out his collared shirt as he looks down at his watch and then over at Joel. “Hey, baby,” he says to you. Then, “And, uh, nice to meet you. Joe, was it? Heard a lot about you.”

“Joel,” Joel replies flatly, eyeing Max.

Max is a good-looking guy, everyone says so, but he looks more like a little boy than you’ve ever thought as he squirms uneasily in his seat under Joel’s unrelenting gaze and launches into a tirade about his frat’s inter-mural lacrosse team practice and how his team should have totally won the scrimmage and that’s why he’s late. And of course, he was the one to score the most goals.

“And the taxi cab driver was a nightmare. Only spoke Spanish. It’s like, if you come to this country speak fucking English, am I right?”

You notice Joel’s jaw tighten and his fingers clench. 

“Max, that’s so rude!” you tell him, frowning. “We’re at a fucking Mexican restaurant!”

“Anyway,” Max continues, rolling his eyes at the interruption like he barely even heard you, smirking. “Where’d you go to school? What do you do for work, Joel?  Besides making license plates, I mean. Kidding!” he insists as you stare daggers at him. 

Joel leans forward ever so slightly but you slip your leg over his to hold him back and he calms down a fraction. It’s like when you touch him, everything tense in him melts away. 

Joel sits up straighter in his chair and looks at you, stretching his arm across the back of your seat protectively like it’s a casual thing and not an unconscious sign of possessiveness.

“I’m a mechanic,” he grunts unceremoniously to Max. “I mean, I was anyways…Didn’t go to school.”

Max frowns ever so slightly. 

“You didn’t go to college? You must’ve gone to trade school at least?”

“Nope. Picked up what I know over the years. Not everyone gets a free ride from their parents,” Joel smirks.

“Free ride?” Max snaps. “I’ll have you know I spend every summer interning at a law firm!”

“Yeah, your dad’s,” you can’t help but snicker.

Max’s cheeks turn a bit pink.

“At least I’m not a psych major,” he shoots back. “I mean, no offense, babe!”

“What’s wrong with psychology?” Joel snarls, his eyes darkening. “You ought to be proud to have such a thoughtful and intelligent girl like Y/N studying such a topic.”

It’s your turn for your cheeks to go pink. 

“Joel–”

“Who said I wasn’t?” Max sneers. 

That makes you feel a bit better. 

“I’m just saying, she could have inherited the second-best law firm in the tri-state area from her pops if she was pre-law like me,” he smirks.

Your smile fades, used to hearing this kind of shit from him. He knows you and your father don’t get along at all, but not the full extent of it. He also knows you don’t have an interest in pre-law. But you swallow down how you really feel.

“It’s fine, Joel,” you tell him, placing a hand down on his thigh.

It’s not that you enjoy the way Max has been talking to you, but you are so used to it from the men in your life that it feels like the common denominator must be you. And sometimes it feels like maybe they have some kind of point. And fighting back only makes things worse. You’ve learned that over the years the hard way.

“It’s not fine!” he snaps like he’s trying to get you to see sense, looking deeply insulted on your behalf. Your heart thunders in your chest. “This boy has never worked an honest day in his life and he’s telling you what you ought to be doing? Bet his hands are soft as a baby’s ass. He doesn’t know shit about you, babygirl.”

You may not know the hardship of labor that Joel has taken on in his life, but your hands are not smooth. They are full of scars. And Joel is right. Max’s are soft like silk. You look down at the most prominent, ugly scar on your middle finger. You don’t even know which man in your life gave it to you. But you do know it means something. Shows you survived something. Survived your stupid father too, not that Max seems to care.

But Max never loses. 

“Whatever,” he smirks dismissively. “Sorry I’m not some, like, common blue-collar worker. But I guess I should be taking advice from someone who became a fucking convicted felon ‘cause they drank too much one night,” he shrugs with a terrible sneer.  

You know it’s over then.

But Joel surprises you. Doesn’t immediately strangle Max like you thought he might. Simply stands up tall and silent over Max’s frame which has suddenly begun to shake ever so slightly in obvious fear, his blue eyes widening. Joel’s fists are clenched tightly at his sides. 

“Wouldn’t mind them sendin’ me right back in, ” Joel growls low. “Drunk or not.”

You shiver and Max positively cowers. 

“Got something to say? Don’t wanna take it outside?” Joel leers, smirking ever so slightly at the trembling boy before him. “I’d even let a little boy like you take the first swing.”

“Your stepdad’s a freak, Y/N,” Max stammers, not taking his eyes off of Joel. 

“Joel, it’s fine, okay?” you growl, not wanting him to actually hurt your boyfriend. Let alone in public! “Shouldn’t talk about Joel like that though, Max! Jesus!”

“Babe, I’m sorry, okay?” Max tries, eyeing back and forth between you and Joel. “I’m just trying to look out for you. I don’t get what you see in him with a real Dad like yours! Your dad has so much to give you!”

Look out for you? So much to give you? What could he possibly give besides a stupid law firm and two black eyes? 

Max looks a bit desperate. Him apologizing for anything is actually a new concept for you. Your heart twitches ever so slightly. He must actually like you a lot. But Joel would never do anything to hurt you if it was in his power. At least not intentionally, unlike your real father. 

“That’s it. I’m leaving,” Joel snarls moodily, turning around. “Don’t want to do things I might regret to Mr.Future-Corporate-Lawyer over here. Have fun with him .”

Joel looks deeply hurt. Like you are choosing Max over him or something. That’s never what this has been about, has it? Doesn’t Joel know you’d do anything for him? That the hurt on his face hurts you more than anything you’ve ever felt. Ever.

“Joel, wait!” you decide and disappear after him, leaving Max behind at the table.

“Babe, what the fuck!?” Max yells, but you don’t care. “Come back here!”

***

You ride back in silence, Joel’s hands turning white against his grip on the steering wheel. 

When you break through to the front door of your apartment, Joel finally snaps, the anger on his face directed at something that feels like you for the first time in your life.

“You really love that little son of a bitch, don’t you?” he sneers, uncharacteristically harshly towards you. 

“So what if I did?” you shoot back, a little shocked. “It’s none of your business, Joel. What the fuck?”

“It is so my business,” he snaps back. “That kid is no good for you, Y/N. He doesn’t understand you. You deserve someone much better than that who will actually go to the ends of the earth for you. He wouldn’t do anything for you.”

There is a desperation and vulnerability in Joel’s words and tone that you’re not sure you’ve heard before. He sounds like he had been waiting the whole car ride to say this, maybe even his whole life. You aren’t sure.

“Max does give a shit about me,” you try to convince yourself, getting angrier. “I mean at least he was there for me while you were gone.”

Joel flinches.

“How do you know what’s so good for me and what’s not when you dipped out of my life for eight years?” you continue harshly. “Because why? It wasn’t because you were drunk, was it? It was because you couldn’t control your anger. You never could.”

He stares at you.

“I controlled it for you,” Joel says so quietly you almost miss it. “ You are the only reason I did any of it.”

“What?” you stammer, not sure you want to hear more. “W-what do you mean, Joel? Any of what?”

A million thoughts begin to run through your mind, but you push them aside. Theories about the case and your ideas of Joel’s true nature all threaten to drown you but you push them away.

“Do you want to know why I really killed that sick son of a bitch?” Joel asks dangerously after a long moment of silence. You stare at him, your body frozen. He looks down at his hands, flexing them like he can still feel them punching or around that disgusting man’s throat. “Why I killed him all those years ago? It was no accident, I’ll give you that. Manslaughter, my ass. I killed that scum of the Earth because he threatened you . To do terrible things to you with those disgusting hands of his. So I broke each one, but it wasn’t enough. I killed him because I didn’t want you to get hurt and because I didn’t want you to live in fear of him. I was tired, Y/N. Tired of being afraid for you in a world that doesn’t let you do shit except fight back. I loved you so much, Y/N, it hurt me. It scared me, but I couldn’t let him hurt you. I’d die before I let anyone hurt you again, not him, not your father, not Max, not anyone. You have to understand. I love –” 

And then it’s all over. You’re not sure who moves first, but you think it might be you. The butterflies are rustling and thundering and screeching inside you and you kiss him. And Joel kisses back, devouring your mouth in his. You grab the back of his graying brown hair and pull him as close to you as you think is humanly possible. He cradles the back of your head so gently you almost lose your breath. And you are kissing and kissing and kissing and kissing. There is nothing else in the universe except this kiss. You have never felt anything like this in your life. It is like every butterfly inside you has gone silent. It is like the world has stopped just for you and something new is forming inside you.

Joel killed that vile man for you. To keep you safe. Like he always said or showed that he would. He gave his life away for you. He did the unspeakable for you.

He bites down on your bottom lip and all your brain can manage to coherently think is: more, harder .

But then Joel is breaking away from you slowly.

NO! your heart cries out, the delicious pleasure and pain draining away from you. The butterflies swarm dangerously inside your chest, worse with every inch he travels from your lips.

“Joel,” you whine. “What? You…you don’t want–”

“Don’t even say that, Y/N,” he growls dangerously. “Of course I want you. How could I not? I have spent my entire life wanting you in some capacity, baby, but I ain’t no good for you either, alright? I…” he says slowly like it takes every inch of his body to agree to say this. “I am not a good man, Y/N. I never have been. I’ve done wrong in every chapter of my life. You deserve someone much better. I don’t want to hurt you. Physically or mentally. Our history… The damage I’ve done…” he trails off.

“You don’t understand,” you swallow, tears forming in your eyes. “You have already loved and hurt me more than any human being on planet Earth. And yet somehow there is nothing you could do that would keep me away from you, don’t you get that? The Joel Miller I love is not a good man and I don’t care. I want all of you. All of the pretty and crooked pieces you try to hide away from me. You killed a man with your bare hands, arguably one of the worst things a human can do, and I don’t care. I still want you, Joel. Maybe even more because of it. No one has ever loved me the way you do and that is the love I want and it terrifies me.”

A single tear falls down Joel’s right cheek. You reach up to wipe it away, but Joel grabs your hand on the way reflexively, so you help him wipe his own tears away. 

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I would move the Earth for you,” Joel whispers back.

“I know,” you nod. “I’ve always known. I–”

But he is kissing you again before you can say another word, like a man starved. You hold onto his cheeks, your fingers caressing his stubbly beard. 

“ Joel,” you whine when you break for air.

“I wanted this so badly,” he says softly, grinning a lopsided grin. “Can’t believe this is real.”

“Me too,” you giggle.

You have to lean up a bit, but you press your forehead to his gently.

“Oh, baby,” Joel smirks. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive, ya know that? You like

it when I go a little rough, honey?” he smirks down at you in satisfaction, reading your mind.

You have to stop yourself from getting lost in the warm pools of his brown eyes, your panties soaked.

He reaches an affectionate hand down to rub your side softly.

“This okay, babygirl?” he coos, massaging his hand down your torso.

“I’d let you do anything to me, don’t you know?” you snicker. “Pain or pleasure, it’s all the same to me. I like all of that. I just want you so bad.”

“Think a safe word is in order,” Joel grins, leaning down to kiss your neck. “How about ‘butterflies?’” you suggest. 

“Sounds good to me, baby,” he grins, looking genuinely happy for the first time in hours. 

He leans down and places a calloused hand around your throat, not squeezing (yet – you hope) and plants soft kisses and bites down your expanse of skin. 

“All mine,” he mutters into your skin. “My beautiful babygirl.”

You feel his erection pressing against you through his black dress pants which makes you moan softly.

His hand trails over your crotch and he starts rubbing over the tight fabric of your red dress.

“That okay?”

“Yes,” you whine. “Want more, Daddy.”

Oh shit. You don’t mean to say it like that! You know it is about ten levels of fucked up to call Joel that, but how is it your fault that in every fantasy that’s how you think of him? You figure you’re probably past the point of weird and every other standard of decency, but you’re still afraid.

“Sorry…” you mumble. “I–”

“No, no, baby,” Joel says quickly. “It’s alright, you can call me whatever you want. I don’t mind, sweetheart.”

“You think it’s weird,” you mumble again, further stupid tears forming in your eyes.

He snickers. 

“Baby, I think we’re beyond weird at this point. Let me show you how turned on it makes me.”

Joel takes your hand and places it on his crotch. He takes your left hand, the one with the scar and you cringe a little, but he is rock-hard.

That’s good because you’re positively drenched.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. Daddy likes that more than you know, alright?”

You take your hand back, smiling, but you cover your scarred finger, shocked he will allow this fantasy for you.

“Whatcha hidin’ from me, baby?” he asks, noticing the positioning of your hands.

“I hate that scar on my finger. ‘S so ugly,” you admit.

Joel looks flabbergasted. 

“That’s the last damn thing I think of when I look at you. Ugly? Who in the fuck told you that?”

“How it got there is ugly. It’s marred skin, looks gross,” you mumble.

Joel moves to take out his cock, and when you nod he unzips and unbuttons his dress pants, pulling out his length. You have fantasized about his cock for god knows how long so you are more than excited to see it. He reaches to place your left hand with the scarred fingers around the length of his dick, which is thick, but longer than you expected. The leaking head is almost purple and your mouth begins to water as you stroke him gently.

“It’s part of you,” Joel tells you, his eyes connecting with yours. “I love it. It shows you survived. Gonna jerk off to it, Daddy loves it so much. And when I’m done you’re gonna love it too. Swear I’ve got so many over the years I can barely even count ‘em. Even got a few on my middle finger. Maybe even one from a certain guitar pick you made me. Nothing like that could ever make me stop wanting you, ya know that, right?”

You smile and take your time stroking him, wanting to show him how much you love and care for him, scars and all.

He grunts softly, closing his eyes, but then shoos your hand away with a feverish kind of want. 

“Yeah, touch yourself now, baby. Daddy wants to see how wet you are for him. With that scarred finger. C’mon, now. ‘S gonna make you feel so good.”

You do as you’re told and reach down underneath your dress and begin to touch yourself, especially with your middle finger. You stroke your clit and then your dripping wet slit. You moan softly as Joel’s eyes rake over you, taking in every sigh and groan you emit. The butterflies are forming something big inside you, which presses against the inside of your tummy and ribcage.

“Daddy,” you whine.

“Enough, little one,” Joel whispers. 

He takes out your hand and begins to suck the slick off of each of your fingers, groaning deeply, making intense eye contact the whole time.

“Fuck, angel,” he moans, having a tough time keeping himself together, you can tell. “Taste and smell better than like how I pictured. Like you were fuckin’ made for me, I swear.”

He reaches a hand of his own down to stroke himself and his moans become more desperate. Finally, he sucks on your middle finger covered in your slick and groans so deeply you feel like you might cum untouched. He stares into your eyes. 

“ Mine, ” he growls possessively. “Oh, shit! Gonna–”

Then he takes your left hand and leads it to meet his throbbing cock. You stroke him, harder this time, fisting his thick length, moaning softly and that does it for him.

Joel cums all over your hand, oozing white globs of cum over your fingers, once, twice, three times. 

“Fuuuuuck, babygirl,” he groans. “Oh, shit, I’m so sorry! Couldn’t help it. Yeah, suck it off, baby. That’s it,” he commands, and you do, licking up all of his cum, even the part that got on your middle finger. 

When Joel comes down he still looks half-crazed with desire.

“Sorry about the, uh, early release. It’s been a while since anyone touched me,” he babbles in embarrassment, his cheeks flushed pink. “But I don’t wanna hear shit about your gorgeous hands ever again, you hear me, babygirl?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you nod, snickering. 

He looks like that one word has set his entire universe back in order again. You honestly don’t care at how fast Joel came. You love how much it shows he wants you. And his heady taste is making you weak. You could taste him for days and days and never get tired, you’re sure.

“Can still get you off though, don’t worry. Shoulda let you cum first, but I couldn’t help it with the things you do to me. Goddamn. Can Daddy eat your pussy, baby?”

You grin, but then your face falls. 

“Didn’t shave,” you admit, feeling dirty. 

Max hates your hair down there.

Joel looks at you in confusion.

He laughs, his face scrunching up.

“Oh, sweetheart. You think I care about that? Only little boys give a shit about things like that. Not men.”

You shiver.

“Really?”

“Of course I don’t care. Didn’t ya hear what I just said? C’mon now. You can lie down on the couch.”

You follow instructions, pulling your dress over your head to reveal white lace panties and no bra. 

You move to take the panties off, but Joel stops you, staring at the lines and curves of your body. 

“Jesus, fuck,” he growls, taking you in.

You think you see his cock twitch ever so slightly. He palms his softening length instinctively.

“Beautiful,” he snarls, pushing you back on the sofa. 

You happily fall backward. 

He lies on top of you, his white button-down shirt pressing against your naked body tantalizingly. 

He bites your lips roughly and you groan against him.

“Daddy’s mouth,” he commands against you.

“Yeah, duh, Daddy,” you snicker.

As if he even needs to say it! 

He kisses down your neck expertly and you begin to shiver and whine, your pussy aching with need and neglect.

He stops at your breasts, sucking and biting each one.

“Daddy’s tits,” he declares, snaking a finger over the lace panties that protect your clit. “Of course,” you respond, moaning softly, grinding needily against him.

He continues lower, licking down your breasts and over your tummy which he plants with kisses that tickle and then one hard bite on your hip that leaves behind teeth marks.

“Daddy’s body,” he impresses upon you.

“Yes, Daddy. Only yours.”

“No more of that little shithead, Max,” he snarls, an inch above your clit.

“No more Max,” you repeat as he presses kisses down your pussy, still covered by soaked white lace panties. 

“Only Daddy.”

“Only you.”

“Good girl,” he growls.

He finally removes your panties and begins to eat and suck your clit and pussy so hard and enthusiastically, swirling his tongue around your bundles of nerves that you grow exponentially closer by the second.

“Joel,” you whine. “Oh my God.”

It doesn’t take long. The second his calloused hand is pressing a finger and then two inside of you it’s over. You were so needy for him that you could have even cum from just his mouth alone, but his hands are what send you over the edge. And something different happens as orgasm crashes down upon you. The butterflies all join together and transform into something bigger and softer, caressing your insides, cooing. It feels like a breathing white dove is spreading its wings inside you, the tips of its feathers brushing against your rib cage. And you cum harder than you ever have in your life. 

Pleasure engulfs you in currents, facilitated by the gentle flapping from deep

inside your body.

“ Joel,” you moan. “Oh my God. Daddy, pleaseee–”

“Please what, baby? Make my princess cum again? I would eat that pretty little clit and

pussy every day for the rest of my life if I could, fuck. God, so perfect and you’re so fuckin’ tight. Look how fucking hard you make me, angel.”

He takes one of your hands and places it on his half-hardening cock. Not going to lie, you are partially shocked at his recovery, but another part of you seems to know that if there was anyone in the universe that could do that to him it had to be you. 

“Never got hard again from anyone I’ve ever fucked before…” he trails off dreamily like he can read your thoughts. “You’re so gorgeous, babygirl.”

“Not so bad yourself, handsome,” you tell him lazily, pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth as you pull him closer to you. 

The heat from his body keeps you so warm and tender and for a moment you lie on the couch, Joel’s still-clothed body pressed to yours.

“Can you fuck me, Joel?” you ask, squirming against him needily.

“You can’t say that shit to me, baby,” Joel groans, his cock getting harder. “Not quite ready yet.”

“Lemme help you out,” you offer, pouting. 

You reach down and stroke his half-hard length and then bend over and press a gentle kiss to the tip of his cock.

Joel swears, staring down at you with so much adoration it pours off his face. No man has ever looked at you like that before. You’re certain. Perhaps no man ever will again? Not like that.

“Shit, baby,” Joel babbles stupidly, his eyes threatening to swallow you up in that beautiful shade of umber. “Never gonna forget this moment,” he grunts as you begin to suck his cock properly, feeling it slowly get hard enough to throb between your lips with each thrust of your head and gluck of your throat. 

You stare up at him, your eyes wide and wanting and Joel lets out a soft, vulnerable moan as you begin to really suck him and take him down the walls of your throat.

“ Unh , babygirl, fuck,” he whines and you have never quite heard Joel so desperate before. “Gotta pull out or I’m gonna cum. Holy fuck.” 

It sounds just like it did the night you accidentally spied on him jerking off. 

“You’ve been thinking about me a lot, huh, Daddy?” you ask, releasing Joel from your mouth like he wanted, though his hips buck forward ever so slightly with desire, the tip of his cock just barely scraping against your mouth. He grunts.

“Maybe so,” he replies, looking a little guilty. “Don’t know how not to these days.”

“Heard you on the couch last night,” you whine yourself. “Had to touch myself ‘cuz of it, Daddy. I’m sorry.”

Joel reaches out a hand to cup your crotch and rub against your slick pussy.

“That’s so fuckin’ naughty, baby,” he groans. “Look how wet that made you. All for me.”

You steal a glance at his cock and find that the tip is weeping too. And he is so fucking big compared to the size of your hand. Fuck!

“You were thinking about me, weren’t you?” you whisper.

“All about you, baby,” Joel nods in agreement, his hips twitching ever so slightly. “‘Bout touching you just like this.”

He slinks two big fingers inside you and you moan deliciously, the feathery wings of the newly-formed dove fluttering against your insides. 

“Gotta stretch you a bit more,” he grunts into your throat, pushing in a third finger. “Daddy’s so big and you’re so tight, angel. Don’t wanna hurt ya. Not too bad at least. Not yet…That’s it, pretty girl, fuck,” he grins when you slide back on his thumb in pleasure which had traveled to the rim of your asshole “Good girl, so good for Daddy. So naughty too. Don’t think Daddy won’t punish you.”

“Want you to hurt me, Daddy,” you moan. “When you fuck me. Please fuck me hard. I want all of you – pain and pleasure. One hundred percent Joel. Joel, please, I need–” 

And Joel does stop for a moment.

“Never hurt you in a way you didn’t beg for,” he tells you seriously. “You know that right, baby?”

You stop your rutting against him and look into his eyes.

“Are you kidding? You would protect me with your dying breath. I know that, Joel. Never been afraid of you since I’ve really known you. Not once. I mean: fuck; you gave up your whole life for me. To keep me safe, for fuckssake. In every word you say and don’t say to me I can feel how much you love me.”

 “I do love you so much, babygirl,” he whispers, nuzzling your forehead. “If I had to, I’d do all of it all over again if it meant I’d get you. I’ve made mistakes, big ones, but protecting you, loving you was never one of them.” 

Warm tears trail down your cheeks, but Joel licks and kisses them away. 

“Wanna feel me inside you?” he asks. “Don’t wanna go too fast, but I need you, baby. Needed you for so long…Sweet little pussy’s just cryin’ for Daddy, huh? Gonna fit me just like a glove, I just know it — if you wanna…”

“Yes, please, fuck me, Daddy! Please, Joel Wanna feel you—ah!” you moan as Joel shoves his entire length into your pussy in one hard thrust eagerly. “Oh my God, please fuck me harder!” you moan, reeling from the deep blend of pain and pleasure of him sinking inside you, clenching down around the thickness of him. “Joel, please!”

He pauses, sweat glistening on his brow, sneering.

“You really want harder?”

You shiver. The way he says that makes your heart beat wildly in your ears.

“Because babygirl, I would treat you like porcelain if you want it so. I will never hurt you, my angel, my gift from god, my goddamn sweetest heart please know I will break my fucking hands before they would hurt you, before I would ever hurt you in a way that you didn’t want, no matter how much it hurt me. Do you understand me?”

“Of course, Joel. But you want it too,” you smirk. “You aren’t innocent in this, are you?”

“Fuck, of course i’m not innocent. I want you, babygirl. In every way there is to want another. Want every inch of you, inside and out. Wanna mark you up so the world knows you’re mine, honey. Want everyone to smell me on you and know I marked you, moved in you, darlin’, please, see, I’m no fucking Hemingway, I didn’t go to college, I’m not like you with words, but I need you to understand that I mean this with my whole chest and heart. Really, I’m not a big talker, never was, babygirl, but I need you to understand I—”

  “I do, you dumbass fucking fool!” you shout, giggling at his desperation. “I’d understand you even if you were speaking another language. You’ve made your intentions loud and clear. I don’t want a Hemingway, I want Joel Miller!”

You pull him in for a kiss and he thrusts in you again a second time and you end up moaning clumsily in his mouth, but you can feel him smiling , smiling like some dumb idiot against you and maybe you called him the correct insult because he is a dumbass fucking fool for you. And it turns out you must be one as well because you are smiling like an idiot for him too.

“ Joel,” you moan as he begins to move inside you, hitting deep places that Max or any of your previous exes never went. Pleasure is tracing itself along the line of your stomach. “Oh my god, I love you so much,” you babble and you’ve never meant that more than you do now.

You can feel Joel coming apart above you, plowing into you, sighing deeply. His grunts and moans and thrusts spur on the intense pleasure. 

“More!” you moan. “Oh my god. Harder, please, I need–”

Joel plants rough bites on your neck and kisses too like he’s trying to consume every inch of you. 

He places a large hand around your throat questioningly and you nod.

“Beg for it,” he commands in his deep, sexy voice — the voice that’s been in every wet dream you’ve ever had. You think you might just pass out from the sound alone. 

“Choke me, Daddy,” you whine as pathetically as you possibly can, batting your eyes. “Oh, please, I could cum from just this, but I want more. More of you. All of you.”

“As you fuckin’ wish, baby,” he snickers in amusement. “Bet no little boy ever fucked you like this, huh?” he growls, continuing his rough pace, slamming against your walls, his eyes growing wild.

“They don’t compare to you, Joel. It’s always been you. In every orgasm. Fuck, never felt like this! Shit! Shit!”

Joel reaches out his large scarred hand and applies gentle delicious pressure to your throat. You know even something like this can be dangerous, but you crave that feral look of violence in his eyes and the power that comes with it. You want him to own you completely – every inch of you. You want him to mark you just like he said he wanted to because he is yours and you are his and has it ever really been any other way? You can’t remember properly from the pleasure rushing through you, the white dove inside you spreading and fluttering its wings, cooing softly. You think it’s only ever been what you feel now.

“Joel, Joel, fuck!” you scream, orgasm building in you.

“I know, babygirl. I know,” he coos himself into your mouth.

He pulls you closer, presses his nose to yours, his lips to yours, biting and kissing like a starving man possessed. He looks into your eyes and it’s there! That look of pure predator closing in on its prey, that look of ownership but also the most intense love you think you’ve ever witnessed. You would recognize that look anywhere. Your starved brain cries out for oxygen beneath his iron grip. 

“Gonna cum again, angel,” Joel growls. “Gonna make you cum so hard you’re never gonna forget who you belong to. Whose pretty pussy this is.”

He is pounding so hard against your cervix and his dick is so big inside you and the pressure of his hand squeezing around you is so overwhelming and the scent of him could make you faint straight then and there, but you let go and feel yourself cumming in enormous waves as you squeeze down around Joel’s prick, the pleasure more intense than any single bodily experience you’ve had.

“ Daddy ,” you whine breathlessly, tears trickling out of your eyes. “Oh my god!”

“You’re mine, babygirl, always have been–FUCK!” he shouts into your throat, collapsing on top of you.

And then you feel him starting to empty himself inside you, painting your sensitive insides with trustful after trustful of hot cum. You’ve never felt so helplessly full and sticky in your life, the brilliant pleasure billowing through every inch of you. You want to feel like this every day, stuffed full of Joel’s cock, so close to him you can feel his heartbeat against yours, the one true place you belong. 

“So beautiful, babygirl,” he whispers in an exhausted type of awe.

When your words come back you reply,

“Shut up, you’re the hot one,” through a snicker. 

You look down at your body, covered in purple bite marks and bruises forming like galaxies across your body. 

Joel snorts. Then he sits up on the couch and you lean your cheek against him. You lean up to kiss his cheek and he blushes ever so slightly.

“I said a lot of stuff, Y/N, but I want you to know that I meant all of it,”

“Yeah, you probably said more in the last hour than you’ve ever uttered in your entire life,” you tease, sitting up.

“I’m serious,” he snickers.

“I am and was too,” you nod. “I’m so glad that you’re here with me — that we did this. I know that our…origin story is weird and unconventional and some might argue straight up wrong, but I need you, Joel. I don’t care about that or think I could go back to pretending to be what we were.”

“You think I’d want you to act like that?” he asks incredulously. “You think I want this to just be a one-time thing?”

“Of course not,” you smirk. “But as close as we are I can’t actually read your mind. I mean…how are we going to be together realistically?”

“I’m not sure,” Joel admits, frowning a little. “For now it has to be a secret unless you want your mother or brother in jail for murdering me this time around. But someday, I dunno. It’s dumb…”

“What?”

“I just have these thoughts sometimes about you ‘n me. I…” Joel’s cheeks turn a bit pink. “Had a lot of time to think in prison, you know? And I’d Imagine us living on a ranch somewhere quiet out in the country with a flock of sheep. I could work at the tractor and auto-body repair shop that’d be out there, you know, in this dream of mine, and you could be a counselor at a local school if that’s what ya wanted. I don’t know, l know it sounds silly, but nobody would know or bother us there. But I want you to finish school and have the best life possible, babygirl. I’d wait a thousand years for you, but if you didn’t want me anymore the way we are now, I’d respect that. And if you’d allow it, I’d still be there for you just in a platonic sense — or just there for you however you want because I can’t imagine my life with you in it. I’d do whatever it takes, brokenhearted or not. I just can’t be separated from you like that again. A day longer in prison and I could’ve keeled over and died. And it’s crazy how much I mean that.”

“I don’t ever want to be separated from you again, Joel,” you agree. “I know the original plan was for you to find work and get an apartment of your own and I would love for that to still happen, but with you being intimate with me in every way – even if it has to be a secret. I don’t pretend to know what the future holds, but I need you in mine. I’ve never needed something more than I need that. Understand?”

Joel pulls you into a hug and leans his chin on the top of your head. He kisses it then your forehead. You lean up and plant a kiss on his throat and then his Adam’s apple.

“Don’t mean to get too ahead of ourselves now. We can take things a day at a time,” he mumbles into your skin.

You yawn contentedly, the tiredness clawing at your eyes, so unbelievably spent.  

“I like hearing about your dreams and I’d go anywhere with you, Joel. But I am kinda dead from how good you just fucked me. Take me to bed?” You ask exhaustedly into his chest.

“Of course, babygirl,” he smirks down at you.

***

You don’t let go of Joel all night long, burrowed up against his chest, his heartbeat against your ear. And he doesn’t let go of you either. After the most intimate night of cuddles and snuggling you’ve ever experienced as well as the deepest and most restful sleep you’ve had in ages, you wake up to Joel gone from the bed. You frown, having wanted more than anything to wake up in his strong arms. Fear grips your insides as you wonder if he finally realized last night was a mistake and that you were never meant to be together in the first place (what you fear more than anything). A stupid vulnerable tear comes to your eye, but then you cock your head and hear music playing. Guitar music. 

You think of your apartment as shitty, but truthfully you care deeply about your little private space and one of the things you do actually love the most about it is the tiny balcony that overlooks a measly courtyard and part of the city. That’s where you find Joel in the deck chair holding his guitar, strumming it lazily.

“Mornin’, beautiful,” he says, fingerpicking a melody that scratches at the back of your mind with familiarity. 

“Morning, handsome,” you tell him softly, plopping your smaller hand down on his shoulder. 

The city hasn’t woken up yet, the soft glow of morning shining beams of light onto you and Joel, filling you with warmth. You sit down in the deck chair next to him, bathing in the sunlight.

“Whatcha playing?” you ask curiously, crouching to sit up on your knees.

“You know the song ‘Hallelujah’ by Leonard Cohen?” Joel asks in that beautifully deep voice of his. 

He isn’t even singing yet but you could listen to him forever. 

“‘Course,” you nod. “It’s a classic. You used to play it for me once in a blue moon.”

“Know what the word ‘Hallelujah’ actually means?” he asks. 

You think about it for a second.

“It’s about praising god and all that, right? Why d’you ask?”

He pauses, both his words and fingerpicking. 

“Babygirl,” he begins and you can tell he’s about to say something serious. “You know I’m not too good with words, but I need you to know this: I’ve never had much to thank god for in my life, except for Sarah, you know? But then He took her away…”

You place your hand on Joel’s and he looks at you sadly, but appreciatively. He flips it over and holds it in his giant paw of his own marked-up hand. 

“And I was so fucking angry. Nothing left in me. The only good part of me gone. I was a broken man. And I hated Him. But then He, despite the shit I’ve done…He gave me you . And I know our road hasn’t been easy or fair, and the pain you’ve felt and I have felt but…I guess what I’m trying to say is you are the reason I believe that any type of…goodness— of holiness— can exist in this universe. And I’m not a religious man, I don’t believe in most of that dogmatic type of shit, and I don’t think you do either, but I do think someone or something is up there and I wanna thank them for you. Does that make sense? Do you wanna hear what I mean? I just feel so damn grateful.”

A tear you hadn’t noticed was there rolls down your cheek. 

“Of course it does and of course I do,” you tell him.

You think perhaps this is the closest thing he can do to bearing his soul to you. 

And then he leans over and kisses the tear away and begins to fingerpick the familiar melody.

♪ “I heard there was a secret chord…”♫

You listen to his deep weathered voice as the sun grows higher in the morning sky, casting both light and shadow over Joel’s wrinkled, handsome face. The light trails over you too. You feel the dove inside you cooing contentedly, dusting its wings gently against the edges of your insides. 

♪There's a blaze of light in every word / It doesn't matter which you heard / The holy or the broken Hallelujah…”♫

When he finishes he places his large, scarred, calloused hand in yours and you hold it between your own scarred fingers.

“Thank you, Joel,” you tell him, meaning every word. “I think there’s hope for us, you know? I don’t believe in hippie-dippie type stuff, but something in this universe did bring us together. And I’ll be forever grateful for that too, ya know?”

Joel squeezes your smaller hand, his big fingers engulfing yours as the dove coos louder inside you.

“Babygirl, you know that I ain’t a good man, or a rich and educated one like maybe you thought you’d end up with, but I am less of a broken one because of you and I’m never letting you go. If we’re together, I think we have a chance.”

A/n:PLEASE COMMENT LIKE REBLOG IM BEGGING IM PLEADING IM CRYING DID THE SMUT LIVE UP TO YOUR DREAMS????

PART 1

PART 3 (coming soon)

Violent Heart Masterlist

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[violetsiren90]

New Rules | Don't pick up the phone.

Table of Contents: Teaser (Prologue); Don't pick up the phone;

Pairing: f*ck boi!Jisung x f!Reader; Jisung x Minho

Genre: choose your own adventure; drabble/vignette series; angst and smut; f*ck buddies; college/post grad

Summary: Jisung has had you wrapped around his finger for the last half-decade. You know good and well that it's time to move on…but you can never seem to follow your own rules long enough to shake him.

*Based on the lyrics of "New Rules" by Dua Lipa

Content warnings: 18+ (minors, dni) Explicit smut; toxic relationship; partying (alcohol and marijuana usage); characters commit sexual acts while partaking in controlled substances; sexual frustration; masturbation; fantasizing; flashbacks/backstory; lust and resentment; possessive Minho; dom Minho/sub Jisung if you squint; voyeurism; hand job; orgasm

Word Count: ~1600

Author's Note: Well, here we go! This is gonna get messy. Thanks to your poll responses (thank you so much for voting!!) we have a Minsung plot line. The next poll will be at the end of the drabble. I hope you enjoy this sinful little indulgence! ❤🔥

As always, if no one has told you today, please know that you're loved, and worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

You know he's only calling 'cause he's drunk and alone.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you watch your phone buzz beside the stove. A groan escapes your lips as you let your head sag between your arms, outstretched to clutch the cheap, white tile of your kitchen countertop.

You’re wet just from seeing his name scroll across the caller ID.

Pushing away from where the device continues to ring out, you press your fingers to your temples and screw your eyes shut.

No. This has to stop.

The sudden phantom sensation of a pussy drunk tongue laving lazily over your swollen clit has you shuddering violently. As your eyes snap back open you shake yourself, stripping off your sweatshirt, suddenly hot.

The phone begins to buzz again, but you retreat into your bedroom, shutting the door as you lay against the cool softness of your comforter. You know what needs to be done…or rather, you know who absolutely cannot be, and your dominant hand has already begun to breach the the waistband of your leggings. You can feel him, smell him, taste him. You chest heaves.

You hold the onslaught of unholy memories at bay as your fingers brush over your mound.

Unfocused gaze aimed at the blades of the ceiling fan as they cycle hypnotically, your mind reaches for an image you’ve recalled and pushed away countless times. Your lips part as your fingers find your warmth. It was the moment that had sentenced you to the madness, an erotic and hollow awakening. You could see it now, as if three years hadn’t passed.

…Jisung.

Han Jisung was a fruit that hung from the tree in the center of the garden. One that many thirsted to taste. You ran in very different circles when you first met, sophomore year of undergrad. He was living life in the fast lane and you were diligently working your way through a six-year education plan. And yet, you became something like friends in the minutes between two and three pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He would drop by the student success center for assistance with business economics, though you rarely talked about that, and amongst the textbooks and index cards and vending machine nourishment, you discovered him.

You found him to be different than he presented in a crowd, especially his typical one. He was shy and sweet and silly with an unbelievable amount of intelligence that he carried around like a key he hadn’t found the lock for - something that kept him awake at night and brought his nails between his teeth. When he wasn’t subdued by a quiet reserve, he wielded his boyish good looks and a charisma that could be harnessed at will with nearly total recklessness, and you fell no less a victim to his cheeky charm than the rest of the student body.

Of course, you’d known of him before he’d sat down at your tutoring desk that first day. Everyone did - and not a few in a way that had earned him a specific brand of notoriety. You’d seen them time and again, the passersby who waved and giggled with their friends at the recollection of a mouthful of his cock.

And you’d taken it for another part of his restlessness, the promiscuity - an easy outlet for all of that vibrating, frenetic energy. Until that night.

Jisung was in a punk rock group, and a good one for being so amateur. The five of them, The Maniacs, had established a fair amount of celebrity on campus. He was close with his bandmates, especially one in particular who you’d taken for his best friend - Minho. He talked about him constantly.

Lee Minho was another fruit on the tree in the center of the garden. Devastatingly handsome, his eyes and lips held a kind of cold cruelty that only seemed to sharpen his beauty, and he sang with the voice of a fallen angel. The senior was The Maniacs' front man and walking lingerie department, considering the sheer number of lacy underthings that had been tossed in his direction. Jisung worshiped him, and it wasn’t unusual to see the pair sharing a cigarette in a grassy corner of the quad, casually draped over one another like two cats in the sun.

Jisung lived in his world, and you in yours. Your circles turned with earth and the moon, intersecting and deviating in natural course. And then, on the Thursday before spring break that year, he did something he’d never done before - he invited you to one of his gigs. It was a house party at the vacation home of an old-money alum. You surprised yourself by saying you’d go. Uncharacteristic of you. You didn’t expect to know a soul aside from Jisung, and it meant calling out of your shift at work…but recently, you’d begun to fantasize.

You’d begun to dabble in dangerous and preposterous daydreams in moments between your encounters, and created a little monster he’d fed just enough with the invitation. You were a sensible person as a rule, and tonight you felt like being reckless. Like being indulgent. So you went.

You dressed the part. Did yourself up. Drenched yourself in your roommate’s perfume.

You showed up on the late side, and the band had already been playing when you arrived. He looked glorious strapped to a guitar in a fitted tank top and distressed skinny jeans, glinting silver hoops catching the light at his ears. You smiled at him when he found you in the crowd and he waved. Then, after the set, he found you, handed you a joint, and told you with a wink to save it for after the show.

Your heart pounded the rest of the night.

You watched him tear up the room with the rest of the band. You cheered uproariously. You danced with your drink raised over your head. If it was a dream, you were sleepwalking for all you cared. The more buzzed you became the fuzzier the lines between reality and fantasy began to appear.

You stayed late into the night, as you’d promised. And sometime after midnight, when the majority of the guests had dispersed and those who remained were locked in bedrooms or passed out on cushioned furniture, he found you. He took your hand and tugged you towards the backyard.

From the couch in the sitting room, sprawled out and sweating with smoke wisping from his lips, Minho watched.

Jisung led you out to the pool, and you both sat on the edge - you with your calves dipped into the cool water as he sat cross-legged beside you. He lit the joint, and you passed it back and forth as you talked. You talked like you always did, but with something new hanging in the air, an energy that had you humming with anticipation beside him. He was so relaxed. You wondered if it was the weed. You hoped it was you. And then he looked at you like he did in your daydreams and his eyes dropped to your lips.

Then his phone chimed.

Glancing at it he sighed and ran a hand through his hair as he stood and told you he’d be back in a minute. So you waited. And waited. Then you pulled your feet out of the pool, picked up your heels, and went to find him.

You didn’t have to look far.

The moonlight was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the wall facing the expanse of the yard and across the sitting room, casting the bodies of sleeping party-goers draped over chairs and loveseats in the cool marble of its illumination. Everything was silent and still - so the soft, desperate groan from the couch on the far side of the space was enough to pull your eyes to its source.

You sucked in a breath, your lips parting and mouth going dry as the scene before you seared itself onto your retinas like an obscene tattoo.

Minho was seated low on the cushions, the black leather of his shapely legs splayed wide to accommodate Jisung. The younger man sat in his lap, his back to Minho’s chest, skinny jeans pushed down his thighs while the older man methodically stroked his exposed cock. Jisung’s eyes were screwed shut, his features contorted in ecstasy - mouth hanging open as he whimpered and gasped.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away…and then you saw his. Minho’s. 

Gleaming and dark and full of a lustful wickedness, they locked you in their gaze over Jisung’s shoulder. As he watched you he began to twirl his wrist, tugging Jisung’s cock in torturous circles as he twisted and pumped so that it began to weep from its tip. Minho’s lips curled up in a sensuous sneer.

You should have run. You should have turned around and shut the door on everything. But you were hazy on weed and liquor and you swayed, frozen where you stood, as you felt a sticky dampness gathering at the gusset of your panties. It was the most arousing and gutting thing you had ever seen.

Minho’s left hand raised to snake around Jisung’s throat, two lithe fingers pressing at his pulse point. Jisung jerked and twitched over him, as if trying to restrain himself from writhing under the ministrations of Minho’s fist. It was intensely lewd, how naked he looked in all his clothes with his belly and cock and the tops of his thighs exposed to Minho’s touch. The zipper on the sleeve of the singer’s leather jacket kept time like a tinkling pornographic metronome as he jerked his bandmate closer and closer to oblivion.

Your pulse pounded in your pussy as you watched your friend’s face twist in carnal euphoria, hips jerking erratically as his white cum surged over Minho’s hand to drip over his bared tummy and hips.

You watched Jisung. Minho watched you.

Your eyes snap open and you pull your sticky fingers from your folds, crying out in frustration as your climax eludes you. Rolling over, you rip open your nightstand drawer to grasp for a vibrator.

The toy buzzes you brutally over the edge.

Your phone has stopped buzzing in the kitchen.

~To be continued~

[frightenednymphthigh]

　　　　　　　　AU where Baelon Targaryen survived

” It's a boy, Aemma. I'm sure of that. I wasn't so sure of anything. My dream was so distinct. Our son was born in the crown of Aegon. I heard thousands of horses stomping and shields cracking under the onslaught of swords. My heir will take the Iron Throne, and the bell rings, dragons roar like one dragon ”

When watching the first episode, I was discouraged by the scene of Aemma's childbirth, and then I involuntarily thought, what if Baelon  survived? How would he cope with all the difficulties and sit on the Iron Throne? What would his dragon look like? What kind of relationship would he have with Rhaenyra? In truth, I have a lot of questions.

First option AU: Baelon survives and everything goes on as usual, he grows, gains strength, learns, rides a dragon and… prepares to become the heir to the Iron Throne.

Second option AU: Baelon survives, but our contemporary is in his body. Yes, yes, this is what you thought. Isekai into the body of Baelon Targaryen.

And although Baelon did not live a day, I have a lot of ideas and thoughts about him. As the only and long-awaited son who probably looks like Aemma, he would have received that love and recognition from Viserys that other children were so lacking. I don't know if Alicent will love him (most likely not, because Baelon is a guarantee that her sons will not ascend the throne), but Baelon himself would most likely be warm to his non-native mother. What if the dragon's hot blood in him will be no less than kindness and love for all members of his family? From father and Alicenta to older sister and her children. His heart is full of love and if he could, he would give it to every resident of the Seven Kingdoms. He would not join the feud between black and green and would rather try to bring peace back to the family. Fanfiction can have peiring at according to your desire

Baelon can be your key to what you want to change in the plot of the series, such as giving Aegon, Aemond and Helaena a caring older brother, prevent the enmity of the greens and blacks before it turns into a bloody massacre and much more

The whole description of this idea turned out to be very chaotic and delusional and maybe I will delete it a little later or leave it in drafts

[physalian]

8 Signs your Sequel Needs Work

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

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

1. Your vague lore becomes a gimmick

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The established theme becomes un-established

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5. You walk back character development for ~drama~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

[sw-33-ts-stuff]

Hey! I really love your writings!

Can I request a Wednesday X reader where r has telepathy powers and Wednesday develops feeling for r and r reads her mind and asks her "do u wanna tell me something" butttt heres a little plot twist that Wednesday doesn't know what powers r has and weems didnt disclose it too.

U can make it angst or fluff or anything lol would love to read this idea.

A/N: feel like this is ass but I tried my best 😅😭

Your POV

Your head began to pound as the onslaught of voices filled your head. You desperately rubbed your temples hoping to ease some of the tension.

The amount of thoughts flooding your mind always a nuisance but even more so when you'd hear just how vapid and shallow most of them were.

Most of the guys just thinking about getting into the girls pants and most of the girls either caring far too much about looks or popularity. There were some minds you did take comfort in.

Eugene, for example, was currently worrying over hive 309. He feared that he'd miss the right moment to harvest their honey. He was also worried that he was showing too much favoritism and making the other hives jealous.

There was Enid, who while sometimes ditzy still held a great amount of optimism and purity that you couldn't quite find in anyone else.

Which was the complete opposite of her roommate, one Miss Wednesday Addams. You remembered the first time the goth had set foot here in Nevermore. Much like everyone else you were enamored by her looks, fearful of her history and excited at the thought of her bringing a change to your school. She was very much in a class of her own. Her thoughts were very much dark but you couldn't deny the truth they held. You admired her outlook on life, her intelligence and her whit, her thoughts almost always mirrored her words. Not quite an open book but not someone who wears a mask.

Said girl sat next to you, voice low as she whispered to you. "I have more clues towards our investigation."

The feeling of her lips grazing your ear sending a chill down your spine. You nodded quietly, eyes shifting towards Xavier's as his thoughts began to shift from admiration to jealousy. It was no secret he harbored feelings for Wednesday even the girl herself knew of them but she wasn't focused on relationships, she was focused on saving the school from a monster.

Perhaps she chose you because you didn't dismiss her when she'd said she had seen Rowan mauled by a monster. Or because you never seemed to push her past her own comfort zone. You had pledged your allegiance to her one night in the woods. She had saved you from dying so you felt you owed her. She had patched up some small wounds and even taught you some self defense.

"I refuse to have an incompetent partner."

She, as well as most of the school knew nothing of your powers and the fact that she saw you as an asset without it made you feel...special. She trusted you as her partner and you would

do anything to keep it that way. You were both currently in the coroners office looking for more evidence as you caught Wednesday staring at you.

"Is something wrong?" The goth blinked once before turning back to the task at hand. Your eyebrow furrowed as you focused on the girls mind.

....you're being ridiculous.

You shook your head before getting the body prepped, your eyes catching something the police failed to report.

"Wednesday look he's missing his left foot." The shorter girl stepped closer her shoulder brushing you as she did so. Her eyebrows raising slightly as Thing began tapping, catching both of your attention.

Wednesday shoved you on a gurney before climbing on top of you Thing closing you both in as he clambered his way into an empty skeleton.

The smaller girl pressed to you in the tight space made you nervous, your breathing growing heavy as you heard voices from the outside. She looked to you making a show to breathe quietly through her nose. You tried to do the same but your chest was heaving, "relax" she mouthed. You nodded trying to listen, her thoughts were imitating her words but the sudden addition of more people coming into the room increased your panic.Wednesday gritted her teeth before pulling you closer her dark eyes boring into yours.

You felt your breathing grow calmer the longer you stared. You tried to focus on the details of her face as her eyes never left yours.

She has freckles and long eyelashes.

Your eyes flicked down to her lips before they go back to her eyes. You leaned a bit closer making her eyes widen but she remained still.

A knock echoing through the crawl space as Thing opened the door indicating the three of you should leave while still undetected.

You both remained quiet as you went back to the school and to your dorms. A quick goodnight falling from your lips as you couldn't meet the smaller girls eyes.

For a few days following, Wednesday had avoided you, not like the plague as she'd probably enjoyed it but more so like rainbows or puppies.

You were currently eating in the library alone as you sensed a dark presence enter. You tried to slide further down your seat to seem smaller as you'd noticed the raven looking for something in particular.

I wonder if Y/N- Enough.

You watched her seethe and grit her teeth as she continued to scan the isles.

You need to get yourself in order. You don't need y/n they're just a distraction.

She'd repeat the mantra before she'd be distracted by something that would make her think of you. You found yourself pushing yourself away from her mind and running to your dorm.

Thing had tapped Wednesdays shoulder pointing in your direction. He had signed something that made the girl glare at him.

"I do not like Y/n." She spoke through gritted teeth. "And I don't need help."

The appendage fell back exasperated as Wednesday tried to keep herself focused. Once your face popped back into her mind she'd grow frustrated.

A sharp realization hitting her like a bolt of lightning.

The goth threw down her book and stormed her way to your dorm.

A thud had interrupted what you were doing hands shaking as you'd realize Wednesday Addams had stormed into your room.

"What are you?" The harsh tone and fury clear in the ravens eyes as you stared back confused.

"I never asked your power, yet somehow you always conveniently know when I require your assistance," she began as you felt yourself grow more nervous. "You always know when I need a tool, book, or item without my asking and-"

For some godforsaken reason you fester my thoughts.

"You seem to know how others are feeling without-" your hand shot out a single black dahlia. Wednesday felt herself stop short as she stared.

"Your favorite." You spoke softly as you stood up moving closer to her. "Wednesday I -"

You had to pause and clear your throat as you were unable to decipher the emotions swirling in her black irises.

"I like you. A lot. Your extremely intelligent, and while some may see it as arrogance I admire your confidence and bravery. You don't treat me as an outsider and make me feel important."

You took a deep breath as the girl still had yet to move, her thoughts around you for once completely silent.

"I catch myself thinking about you all the time and when you're not around it feels wrong. I know you're not big on romance but I-"

The smaller girl cut you off hand lifting as she placed a palm on your cheek. You felt your shoulders sag in relief that she didn't slap you.

"Emotions are for the weak but if I were to pick a spouse you wouldn't be the worst choice."

You felt a grin make its way to your face as her thumb began stroking your skin. You gulped as it hit you.

"Uh Wednesday I-" The shorter girl looked at you, the usual cold glare a soft gaze as she waited to hear what you had to say.

"I have telepathy." Her hand dropped from your face as her eyes widened.

For the first time in her life Wednesdays cheeks grew warm and her usual pale complexion had a tint of pink to it.

Shit.

Taglist: @alexkolax

[leejenowrld]

hiiii could you please write some fluff and cute stuff of jeno cuddling y/n and it’s such a sweet moment bc he’s very touchy and he cares sm 🥺🥺💗💗 i love your writing btw

heyyyy!! ok so i did write smth really quickly, i rushed it so idk if it’s the best and i’m sorry :(( im actually at the airport rn lmfao waiting to board so i just wrote a cute little scene. it’s not just them cuddling, you’ll see ;) it’s got a bit of a plot. request more things you want me to write though!! if you enjoyed any of my text posts and want me to write anything from there as a prompt or a mini one shot, lmk !!!

word count - 1k

genre - just pure fluff

Sprawn out on the sofa, you're held captive by the relentless onslaught of a pounding migraine. The room spins with a cruel dizziness, each movement exacerbating the wave of nausea that threatens to engulf you. Shivers course through your body, amplifying the discomfort of your aching head.

In the grip of an unforgiving cold, you find yourself caught in a symphony of sneezes, hacking coughs, and occasional bouts of vomiting. The once serene environment is now scattered with discarded tissues, a testament to the tumultuous battle your body is waging.

A hesitant glance in the mirror reveals a disheveled version of yourself, the pallor of illness etched across your features. The cascade of tears in your eyes mirrors the internal storm wreaking havoc on your well-being, leaving you feeling exposed and, in your own harsh judgment, utterly unappealing.

Yeonjun and Heejin stand over you, maintaining distance, Yeonjun shielding himself, their faces etched with a combination of concern and fear as they watch over your decaying form. Fully aware of Jeno's protective nature, you issue a lighthearted yet earnest warning, "Don't tell Jeno." The mere thought of him witnessing your current state intensifies your embarrassment.

You recognize Jeno's tendency to be overprotective and concerned, characteristics that, in certain moments, transform his usually calm presence into something that feels formidable and intimidating. You’re on the verge of explaining this to them but suddenly,

You're on the verge of explaining this when suddenly, the door swings open. Jeno enters with an armful of pharmacy bags, his eyes scanning the room until they lock onto yours with unmistakable concern. He pays no attention to Yeonjun or Heejin, bypassing any formalities as he swiftly makes his way over to you.

A mixture of panic and surprise flashes across your face as you take in his appearance. Clad in his work uniform, Jeno appears both determined and caring. You stammer, "How did you—" before he cuts you off with a calm yet reassuring response, "Yeonjun told me that you were dying."

“I’m okay -“

“Baby, you look a mess.”

With a tender touch, Jeno places a hand on your forehead, checking your temperature. You can’t help but pout up at him, and in response, his expression grows more serious. However, there’s a softness in his eyes as he gazes into yours. He leans down, planting a quick peck on your lips.

He proceeds to cover you with blankets, ensuring you’re cocooned in warmth. As you pull him into a hug, he reciprocates, his embrace offering comfort and a sense of security. His fingers stray away baby hairs from your face, a gentle caress that makes you melt into his tenderness. Soft kisses rain down on your cheek. You find solace in Jeno’s presence, his actions speaking volumes about the depth of his love for you.

In the midst of the tender scene with Jeno, a sudden, immediate shift occurs—like a 360-degree turn. While concern paints his face, to anyone else, it might seem like anger. However, you know him too well, recognizing his unique way of expressing care.

Jeno starts scolding you in a way only he can. "I told you to cover up in this weather," he starts, his voice a mixture of frustration and genuine worry. "I told you to wear more layers underneath your coat. I told you to take your vitamins and medicine."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you hiss at Yeonjun while Jeno tuts, calling your attention.

As Jeno looks at you with disappointed eyes, you can't help but pout, attempting to defend yourself. "I just have a poor immune system," you explain, attempting to justify the situation. "It happens every time." The room hangs heavy with the weight of his concern, his reproach a manifestation of his love, albeit in a scolding tone.

Silence settles in the room as Jeno, without uttering a word, scoops you up into his arms. With effortless strength, he carries you to your room, the concern etched in his expression palpable. Gently, he lays you down, and as you settle into the bed, his features soften.

Without hesitation, he showers your face with tender kisses. "I love you," he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm. "I'm just worried about you," he explains, the edge of his voice softened with genuine care.

"I know, but it happens like every six months," you justify, attempting to ease his worry.

He counters, "It still hurts me when you're in pain. I wish I could take it away."

Cuddling together, your head finds a comfortable spot against his chest, syncing with the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat. His warm arms envelop you, and in that embrace, you start to feel the early tendrils of comfort. Your eyes meet his, falling into the warmth they radiate. “I love you.” You whisper, leaning into his palm as he cups your face.

Jeno has gone above and beyond, having cooked for you, helped you shower, changed, and even brushed your teeth. Each action speaks volumes of his love and care. As he feeds you the prescribed medicines, you can't help but feel that the true medicine is the love he showers upon you. In the quiet moments of vulnerability and care, you find solace, and the pain begins to dissipate under the gentle touch of his love.

In the soft glow of the room, Jeno smiles as he watches you peacefully sleep. He finds you truly beautiful in the comfiest of clothes, wrapped in tranquility. The steady rise and fall of your chest, the occasional smiles, and even the gentle giggles that escape your lips—all of it is a nightly routine he's come to adore.

Having shared countless nights together, Jeno knows your sleeping habits like a cherished secret. Amidst the soft moans from sleep apnea, he's discovered the endearing side of you—those precious moments when you smile and giggle in your dreams. To him, you're a portrait of cuteness and warmth, even in the depths of slumber.

You’re a victim of tired talk. Nonsensical words spill out in the realm of deep fatigue. Unfazed, Jeno nods understandingly, his love evident as he softly kisses you, telling you to ‘shut up,’ with love of course. He gently cradles you in his arms. In this cozy haven, your tired ramblings become a lullaby, and the warmth of his embrace is the sweetest melody that lulls you both into a peaceful night's rest.

authors note i know i changed it around a little bit but send an ask again and i will solely just write jeno cuddling yn, maybe it can be a post sex moment? i just wanted to respond to your ask as soon as i could!! i will definitely write jeno and yn post sex aftercare as a cute one shot if you want it!! just send it

[lazulian-devil]

As promised to @maidofdarkness23, here is the first of several breakdowns on the villains of Skulduggery Pleasant.

The Villains of Skulduggery Pleasant

We start at the beginning, in Phase 1, Book 1 (which doesnt have a subname as far as I know, its only titled Skulduggery Pleasant).

Ready?

Nefarian Serpine

Certified best villain ever (I am not biased).

Alright, so first of all:

We are talking about Book 1, the beginning of the series and a book that (in comparison to all the others) is still working with a world that hasnt been established, ideas that arent entirely fixed yet and vibes that are still a little different.

Nefarian Serpine - for all his flaws - embodies this hard. He is almost larger than life in the first book, a reputation that he doesnt really hold in his other Leibnitz dimension appearances. In comparison to every other villain of the week, he lives in an ellaborate, gothic castle filled with hollow papermen and everytime the castle is described, the accompanying thunder and dark clouds are implied.

He never has much screentime, but Dereks perspective style writing lends him just enough depth that his cartoonishness turns sinister and plotting. His interactions with Bliss showcase a man that is deeply aware of his wrongdoings and yet consistently smiles into the face of distrust and hatred. This man knows how to play the game. He is too sure of himself, which makes reading about his movements and actions so full of dread. The question is not only "What has he done in his past?" but the much worse question of "What is he actually doing right now?"

How far will he go, surrounded in his castle by papermen, alone, twirling a wine glass.

In essence, Serpine is a silly villain, so cladden in clichés and stereotype that he is almost larger than the sum of his parts. His shadow is bigger than his body.

The first book establishes that he alone is the reason for Skulduggery Pleasants misery, loss of wife and child, as well as skin and body. A traumatic position that (afaik) no other villain even so much as came close to. The stakes are - of course - world saving level, but they also hold a personal pain that very few following villains in Phase 1 come close to.

In terms of atrocities commited against Skulduggery, hes probably second to none. Even China just followed his lead and never actually plotted or - worse - put them into motion.

The interest in most other villains comes down to

A) saving the world.

B) some kind of moral or ethical conundrum about the world of sorcerers.

But very rarely

C) literally facing the root of your trauma (for Skulduggery) or establishing a root (for Valkyrie).

(Quick Sidenote: Serpines death signifies both Skulduggeries "closure" with his old self and Valkyries acceptance of her new self. Once again, Serpine is not only a foil but also a catalyst).

It is also a great setup to reveal Skulduggerys less heroic sides: His wrath and his care for Valkyrie and Valkyrie alone. The two things that would, throughout the whole series, stay consistent.

Serpine is foil to Skulduggery in even more ways than that, revealing that the same cocksureness and self importance is an incredibly annoying feat in literally anyone else. Going up against Skulduggery must be infuriating, because going up against Serpine definitely is.

And hes also funny.

Have I mentioned how fucking funny Serpine is? Wanting to turn Skulduggery into a piano, absolutely able to hold his wit against the onslaught of insults and quibs exchanged.

Its also important to distinguish this Serpine from the Leibnitz Serpine. His Leibnitz equivalent foils a Skulduggery and Valkyrie that are much further along on their way to madness - he acts just enough like his original (after all, its only been like, what... Six? Seven? books?) but there are still some differences. I'll get to that. Someday.

Back to OG Serpine.

What do we have so far?

Serpine is an almost cartoonish assortment of tropes (the hand, the castle, the general vibe) but somehow, it works. Hes just a little "more" than his tropes, alluding to a three dimensionality he doesnt actually posess, but we have enough to believe it to be there.

He is clearly a product of the series not being established, which explains his constant later downplays (him being the weakest between Vengous, Vile and Serpine for example is only established long after Vengous and Serpine are dead).

He is the most personal villain that the Duo - and especially Skulduggery - face and its hilarious, that its literally the first book.

He is in so many ways exactly like Skulduggery. Full of himself, magically skilled beyond sense, insane (Im looking at you, Faceless Ones Dimension), obsessed with his own aesthatics, also literally a former Mevolent Higherup/Endboss/what do you even call that, witty, sarcastic, smart and able to plot etc. Etc.

He is both the door finally closing for Skulduggery and the door being blasted open for Valkyrie.

We'll come back to him, dont worry. His weirdass villain castle is used by Scarab and Billy-Ray in another book and he plays a passive role even after his death (like the opinions of the Dead Men, China Sorrows trauma, etc.) and even an active role as his Leibnitz replacement.

Solid 10/10 villain.

Im sorry that this got so long and I hope it made any sense and/or provided new insight to literally anyone.

I wrote more of this: Heres Part 2 with Baron Vengous and heres Part 3 with Batu.

[valthevalkyrie]

A Twist of Fate (1)

A beautiful young woman struggles after trading her life for her father's. When left in the care of a beast she becomes plagued by erotic dreams of a handsome prince. She tries to make the most of her situation but eventually comes to find out the hard way that a happy ending is never guaranteed.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x f!reader (addressed by nickname Belle)

Word Count: 9.6k

Series Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, NONCON/DUBCON, dark fantasy, dark fic, named reader (nickname Belle), blood, monsterfucking, smut (wet dreams, masturbation, fingering, piv, oral sex), angst, unwanted advances, language, degradation, humiliation, possessive behavior, imprisonment, psychosis, major character death, takes place in France like original version, vampire/incubus thing, it admittedly takes a while to get to the dark stuff

A/N: this is for @boxofbonesfic Once Upon a Time... Challenge in celebration for a much deserved 10k followers. This was a lot of fun to write. I did so much research for this, looking at as many versions of beauty and the beast as possible. This grabs a lot of the plot points from the original Villeneuve version. I've written smut like maybe 3 or 4 times and have no real life experience, so please have mercy on me. I had grand ideas for this and hopefully I am able to execute it well.

Once upon a time, there was a man named Eliott. He was once known to be a very lucky man. 

It was hard to pinpoint exactly when Eilott’s luck had turned to shit. 

It could have been when his beautiful and loving wife passed, leaving him to raise six children all on his own. 

Or when his fleet of trade ships were lost at sea, ending his fortune as a merchant and forcing him to move his family to their small summer cottage deep in the woods. 

Who knows. What he did know was that after spending years forcing his entire family to work for a living wage, he’d received word that one of his ships had returned to port. 

He was sure his luck was about to turn for the better. How naive he’d been. At the port, he had been notified that the ship’s cargo had been seized to pay for his debts. And now, on his trip back home, he’s been caught in the middle of a vicious storm. Just his luck. 

The rain was coming down in thick fat drops, pelting his skin and surely leaving bruises on his poor balding head, the blustering winds regularly throwing him about. Eliott had been trekking through the storm for quite a while, having lost his horse and small wagon what felt like hours ago. 

Unbeknownst to him, his horse was on its way home thanks to his innate sense of direction. Eliott, on the other hand, was traveling farther and farther away from his little cottage. 

He slugged through the mud and rain for ages, sustaining scratches and tears on his skin and clothes. The cold ache in his bones from the freezing rain was overwhelming. It was almost a guarantee that every other step was going to be a slip on the uneven ground and every other breath would be full of water thanks to the onslaught of rain. The farther he went, the more gnarled the forest got around him, branches leafless and twisted. 

Just when he thought there would be no end to the storm and he would surely perish in it due to his waning strength, there was a break in the wood. As soon as he breached it, he could just barely make out the faint shape of what must have been an abandoned castle if the overgrown grounds meant anything. 

With deliverance from the storm at his fingertips, he felt a newfound energy surge within him. His gaze was firmly locked on what he could only assume was the door, and he happily ignored his missteps and bumps along the path and through the gate.

Fumbling his way up the ivy overgrown stairs, he raised his hand to knock, out of habit. Just before his knuckles hit the door it opened a smidge all on its own. Startled, he stood there for a moment wondering if maybe it was a result of the wind before the door swung all the way open. Eliott hesitates for just a moment before a crack of thunder sounds and he rushes in. 

The door closes on its own, leaving him in darkness. All is still and quiet until a tall candelabra lights up near the center of the room. He approaches cautiously, rightfully so, for when he is but a foot away it goes out once again. As he debates sleeping in the entryway outside, regardless of the downpour, another candle in a sconce on the wall to his left comes to life. A bit of fear strikes him, for who could be controlling the fire? He approaches that one as well, and as he gets closer it goes out and then another candle farther away turns on. And so the process goes, through hallways and echoey rooms. 

Just when Eliott believes the candles are leading him nowhere, he sees a strip of light at the end of the hallway. Not just the faint aura of candle light, but the glow of a fully lit room. He rushes forward, hoping to meet someone on the other side who could perhaps answer the questions rising in him.

Now that he’s closer to the light he can hear the tinkling of cutlery and he can’t quite figure out what scents are flooding his senses but whatever they are, they’re making his mouth water. 

The shockingly cold doorknob quickly adjusted to his body temperature and an unexpected warmth burst from the room as he opened the door. Very quickly, the tinkling noise of cutlery stopped and all was still in the sizable room. 

The first thing that grabbed his attention was a long black dining table with a feast spread out on top - roasted pig, steak, lamb, cakes, pies, fruits, you name it. Eliott’s knees almost gave out.

Even at his richest, he’d never seen so much food in one setting. He quickly looked to the head of the table closest to him and found no one, the same with the one on the other end. Although he knew it wasn’t proper etiquette, Eliott took a seat to rest his weary feet while he waited for the host. 

While he waited, he took in the decor of the room. It was a bit dark for his tastes but beautiful nonetheless. Everything was black and gilded, the intricate gold decor warming the otherwise foreboding color scheme. The feeling the room gave was still off, as though the glitter of the gold were to distract one from looking too closely at the imperfections all around the room. 

He’d been waiting all of five minutes when a voice spoke up, “monsieur, you are free to eat as much as you please.”

Looking around for the source of the voice, he asked, “and what of the host?”

“Unfortunately, he will not be able to attend but know that he hopes you enjoy the meal.”

“All of this is for me?” 

“Yes, although I suggest sitting closer to the fireplace so you can warm up.”

Eliott does as he’s told and takes the seat right in front of the fireplace. As he gets comfortable he looks at the assortment of food in front of him trying to decide what to eat first. A bowl of grapes catches his attention and as he pops one in his mouth, he realizes just how hungry he is. 

Once he starts eating he can’t stop, can’t seem to get enough. He gorges himself on the food in front of him, juices and grease dribbling down his chin, but he can’t bring himself to clean it up. Never before in his life had he had such horrible table manners, and he couldn’t even bring himself to care. Everything he grabs is rich in flavor, quite literally the best food he’s ever eaten. After what feels like ages he’s finally full and he leans back in his chair, chest heaving as though he’d done a tremendous amount of exercise. 

He doesn’t fight it once he starts to doze off, stomach full and the heat of the fire at his back. 

“Did you enjoy your meal, monsieur?” 

Eliott startled at the voice. “Oh, very much so. Thank you.”

“If you would follow me, I would show you to your room so you can rest for the night.”

A door to the far right opens and an older man is suddenly in the doorway. Eliott knows a butler when he sees one (having had many of his own at one point) and he’s relieved to have some company after spending so much time alone in such a dark and grand place. Rising from his seat, he tries to clean his face a bit before heading towards the strange man. 

Once he was close enough, Eliott could see the flaws in the butler’s appearance. Not only were his clothes faded and worn, the edges of his sleeves were eaten away by moths. After the feast he was presented with, he’d expected someone a bit more put together.

One by one, the candles came back to life as they passed through hallways and up the stairs. Eliott tried to look around and see the condition of the rest of the castle, but it was too dark.

“This is where you will be staying,” the butler said as they stopped in front of a door. “There will be a change of clothes on the bed. You mustn't leave the room until morning, Master’s orders.”

Eliott nodded and made his way into the bedroom. Before he could turn to ask the butler something, the door closed behind him. He shrugged and went about changing out of his wet clothes. While old and worn, the clothing provided to him was comfortable and the bed sheets soft. 

As soon as his head hit the pillow, the events of the day caught up to him. A drowsiness like he had never felt before overtook him and just as he drifted off he couldn’t help but think his luck might be turning for the better. By the time his bedroom door opened, he was fast asleep.

Eliott was overcome by dark and carnal dreams. Dreams he’d not had for ages. Usually when he had dreams of that variety, he’d conjure up his beloved wife in a loving setting. Now, he was dreaming of a handsome young man with long curly hair, deep brown eyes and a penchant for biting. 

When he awoke, all that remained of his dreams were flashes of skin and feelings of pleasure. When he threw the covers off, he found a mess in his lap. Overcome by embarrassment (for he’d not done such a thing since he was a budding young man) he rushed to take off his clothes. 

In doing so, he took note of all of the cuts and bruises from the trek through the storm the night before. He found a large pair of puncture wounds but shrugged it off as probable wounds from his many stumbles. 

Nestled and folded on a chair near the door to the room were his clothes from the day before. He didn’t remember folding them but shrugged it off as poor memory from being so tired. As he put them on, he took advantage of the sunlight and looked around the room. How odd that the outside of the castle looked so abandoned and forgotten while the inside looked mostly dusty and unused. Much like the dining room, the bedroom was gilded except instead of black, the room was a dark and deep blue. 

The butler was nowhere to be seen when he opened the bedroom door. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Eliott walked around the castle, absorbing as much as he could. He took note that the rest of the castle was similar to the dining room; black and gilded, furniture grand and elegant. 

He found his way onto a balcony overcome with vines of ivy. From his position, he could see a forgotten gazebo surrounded by what seemed to be an overgrown garden. 

A memory sprung to his mind at the sight of the garden. 

“When I return from my journey, what would you like me to bring you,” he’d asked his children. 

It was something he used to do before, back when he was a successful merchant. He would leave on business for a while and return with gifts for all of his loved ones. While they were all adults now and working on their own, he wanted to perhaps revive an old tradition since it appeared his once lost fortune was at his fingertips. 

“Papa, Papa,” his eldest daughter Elyna cried. “Bring us the finest clothes you can buy.”

His second daughter, Anna added, “we’re tired of these rags.” 

He laughed and turned to his boys, Matheo, Gabriel, and Raphael. 

“We wouldn’t mind newer clothes, Père. If you are to regain your fortune, we would like to look the part as we once did,” Matheo, his eldest, said. His brothers agreed. 

Finally, Eliott turned to his youngest of the six, his little beauty. “And what would you like, ma belle?”

“I just wish for your safe return, Papa. It has been a very long time since you’ve made the journey and we know not what dangers may lie ahead.”

He brushed her off, “oh, nonsense. I will be fine. What would you like?”

“Really, that is all I desire.”

“Belle,” he said sternly. “I would like to bring you something physical. Please do me the favor of picking something, anything.”

“Fine,” she sighed. “I would love a rose. It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen one and you know they don’t grow on this side of the country.”

Eliott smiled and tapped her nose. “Very well, then. A beautiful rose for ma belle.”

His little beauty. One would think he’d find Anna the most beautiful of all the children, considering she took after her mother physically, but she was mean spirited and vain, much like Elyna. The boys had a good mix of their parents and were hard working and intelligent, like him. His youngest, though, was well read, kind hearted, grateful for all she had, and had the best features of both her parents. Not only was she beautiful on the outside, but she was beautiful on the inside. She didn’t make him feel like a failure of a parent, and that made her his favorite. 

Eliott quickly made his way down to the garden, searching high and low for a rose. The bushes of flowers bled into one another, making it difficult to see where one type ended and the other began. He was just about to lose hope completely when he had almost reached the gazebo and not found a rose, but then he caught a flash of red inside the gazebo. 

Once inside, he felt happiness bloom in his chest. He’d not been able to get the gifts for the others, but he would be able to bring a gift to one. Better something than nothing at all. 

“Good morning, monsieur. Please follow me to the dining room so you can break your fast before your journey.” The butler was fast approaching the gazebo with a panicked look on his face. 

“Just a moment, I’m going to pick a flower.”

“Oh, please do not. My master-”

“He won’t notice, it’ll just be the one.” 

Mindful of the thorns, he plucked a rose. Seeing just how perfect and shapely it was, he decided to pluck a few more to make a bouquet. He had scarcely plucked the plumpest buds he could find when he heard the butler shout. 

It was as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs when he turned, for there was a beast in front of him. It looked like a bat, but it was twice his size, piercing eyes staring right into his. A hand grasped the front of his shirt and lifted him out of the gazebo. He looked down to find a pair of black, leathery arms connected to the giant bat’s torso and he’d been lifted high off the ground. 

“Is this how you show your gratitude after I show you hospitality? By stealing from me,” it shrieked. Eliott flinched for the beast’s yell had a hint of a high pitch under the strong timbre and it pierced his ears.

“I didn’t know! I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” Eliott cried.

The beast hissed at him. “Humans now are so ungrateful. I should have drained you dry when I had the chance.” He growled, arms bringing Eliott closer to his face all the while ignoring the man’s pleas for his life.

“Please, spare me. I assure you, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I meant no disrespect.” A pair of sharp fangs and equally menacing teeth come into Eliott’s line of sight and he struggles to free himself. “Please, I was just picking them for my daughter!”

The creature ceases all movement. “Daughter?”

“Yes! Please, my children need me. I’m their only living parent.” Tears and mucus run down his face, hands trying to break the hold the beast has on him. Eliott feels himself be lowered.

“Tell me of your children.”

He speaks quickly of everything that comes to mind when thinking of his children. He speaks of his dead wife and all of the work the children have done to help him run the house, the most helpful being his youngest. He tells the beast of the gifts he promised to give to his children when he came back from his trip. 

The beast lifts a hand to stop his rant. “Very well. You may live.” 

Eliott expels a sigh of relief.

“As long as you give your word that one of your children will take your place.”

Eliott feels his face drain of all color. “But how am I to choose? What will you do to them?”

“The first living being that greets you upon your arrival will be the one to take your place. They must be under no illusions or misconceptions about the reason for their stay. And you need not worry about their fate. I will take better care of them than you did my roses.” He turns to his butler. “Prepare him for the trip back. And be sure to get him a change of clothes, he seems to have soiled himself.”

And so it went. The creature was kind enough to send him off with a new horse and wagon with chests full of finery, jewels and wealth. 

Eliott encountered no storms on his way home and spent the entire trip stressing over who would welcome him first. He tried to think of all the pros and cons of each child being forced to live with the beast and could think of no one he would rather send away. The biggest pro of all was that his luck had definitely turned for the better. To be confronted by a beast and then sent off with riches galore? If that was not the definition of luck he did not know what was. The only thing he was sure of was that he wanted his youngest daughter far away and deep in the woods upon his arrival. 

A sweat began to build up and his breathing quickened when he recognized the well worn path to his little cottage. Eliott kept his eyes peeled as he approached his home. From this distance, he could see a couple of heads bobbing about in the small garden out front and his family dog sleeping in the doorway. The closer he got, the clearer their faces became. 

Raphael and his youngest were working in the small garden. Oh, how Eliott prayed that Raphael would notice him first. 

As his luck (that fickle thing) would have it, his youngest daughter noticed his arrival and waved at her father. She quickly set down her tools and hurried over.

“Papa! You’re safe,” she squinted from the sun as she looked up at him. “We were so worried when Phillipe showed up without you.” She raised a calloused hand in greeting at the horse he rode, “hello.” She turned back to him with a stern look on her face. “Where have you been?

Tears quickly filled his eyes and he said nothing as he searched the bag next to him for the rose that set a curse upon his family. Eliott handed it to his daughter and discreetly wiped the tear that fell down his cheek. 

She softened. “Oh, Papa. You shouldn’t have.”

“You’re right,” he sighed. “It came at a great cost.”

Her eyes widened. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Gather your siblings. I have news about where I’ve been.”

She did as she was told and soon enough everyone was gathered in their small dining room, chests from the wagon on the table. All but one child chatted and speculated over what was in the chests. His youngest instead kept a close eye on her father, for she had noticed his somber disposition.

“Before I tell you where I’ve been, why don’t you open that up and see what I have brought home.” 

Elyna was the first to put her hands on one of the chests, snapping off the latches and swinging it open. She shrieked in delight at the sight of the beautiful gown laid out on top. “Does this mean the fortune really came back? Will we finally be rid of this place?”

Eliott shifted on his feet and swallowed deeply. “Perhaps you should all take a seat.” 

He told them of his journey to port and how everything on the ship had been seized to pay for his debts. The trip back home and the storm that disoriented him. The castle and the sentient candles. The grand feast that was presented to him and the room he slept in. The garden out back and the rose he picked. The beast who appeared and demanded he sacrifice a child to save his life. He told them how he’d have to go about choosing which child would go in his stead. 

Anna stood up and pointed to his youngest. “Do you see what happens when you are greedy? Look at what you made happen! You should be the one to leave and right your wrongs. You were the first to greet our papa and the one who landed him in this mess. Now you sort it out.”

Her brothers were quick to defend their youngest sister and even quicker there was a shouting match between the six. 

“Enough,” Eliott slammed his hands on the table. 

“Worry not, Père, for I shall slay the beast and ensure our little belle’s safety.” Matheo stepped forward. As usual, his brothers agreed.

“No, no, no. I forbid any of you going anywhere near the beast and his castle. We shall continue on as though nothing has happened. I will invest the small capital he gave me and ensure the return of the family fortune.”

“Papa, I do not think that wise.”

“Ma belle,” he placed his hands on her cheeks, ”I will not sacrifice your life for mine. I made a mistake, like we all do. Now we learn from it and move on. Do you understand?”

She was quiet for a moment, and he saw a flash of defiance in her eyes before it died out and she nodded. 

Later that night, long after everyone said goodnight, Eliott was sitting on the couch contemplating his next move. He knew he had to move his family far away, somewhere the debt collectors and the beast would not find them. Perhaps another country. 

As he sat there pondering the possibilities, he heard a thump from somewhere outside the house. Not a moment passed when he heard one of the horses neigh. Worried that it might be the beast, he grabbed an iron fire poker from the hearth and ran outside. 

He turned the corner of the house to the small stable they had, arms raised and ready to strike when he saw his daughter struggling to get the new horse under control.

“Shh, shh. I won’t hurt you,” she whispered. “I’m going to take you back home.”

“You’ll do no such thing, Belle.”

She jumped in fright and turned sheepishly. “I was hoping you would be asleep.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” He took the horse’s reins from her. “Did I not forbid you from going to the beast’s castle?”

“Papa, I won’t allow you to put our family in danger. We have no idea if the beast will come after us if we don’t send someone in your stead. He might take back everything he gave you, leaving us poor once more.”

“You need not worry about that. I have a plan.” 

“Papa, you gave your word to the beast. He spared your life. You taught me that giving your word was a serious thing, that you must always follow through.” 

It was at this moment Eliott hated the fact that she had her mother’s eyes. To have them staring at him so intensely in a moment where she was basically calling his character into question was not something he enjoyed. 

But she was right. He taught his children better than the example he was giving them. 

“Fine. We head out in the morning. I’ll take you myself.”

She smiled wide. “Thank you. I promise to right my wrongs and keep the family safe.”

Her father had just been dismissed from the castle. They’d been greeted with a feast, much like Eliott’s first night there. Unlike his first night, the beast decided to join them. 

To say fear ran like ice through her veins would be an understatement. Just before reaching the castle, she had tried to cheer herself up by thinking of her situation like a big adventure. Upon seeing the creature, she realized she was not ready for such an adventure. 

Throughout the entire meal she’d felt the beast’s eyes on her. She had not the courage to meet his gaze, having spent much of the meal picking at her steak and watching the blood ooze out. 

She’d been led into the sitting room to wait for the beast. While she waited, she reflected on her last day of freedom.

Eliott had made sure they broke fast as a family one last time before she had to leave. After many attempts to talk her out of it, her brothers accepted her decision. Her sisters, on the other hand, did little to hide their glee. That hurt her, since she loved her family unconditionally. She knew of the jealousy and contempt her sisters held towards her, but she had hoped they would at least pretend to miss her. 

The journey itself had been a long one. It took them a few days thanks to the storm they encountered halfway there. Her father took it as an omen for what was to come. She knew it just got rather stormy this time of year. The relief she felt when they reached the castle was great, if only because that meant she would not have to be jostled around so much. The meal was long and awkward and her father left far too soon. 

She remembered the worried look on his face when they departed. Tears were filling his eyes and he’d been sniffling. 

Making sure her last words to him were something positive, she reached for his hand and said, “it will all be fine, Papa.”

Then he’d been sent off with a reward for following through with his word. 

“Tell me your name.”

She startled at the sound of the beast’s voice. She looked around the room, finding its figure casting a shadow in the doorway. 

It was massive, ten feet tall at the very least. Yes, at first glance it looked like a bat, but a mutated one-half man, half bat. It’s ears were large and pointed, eyes dark and small, muzzle large. A voluminous ruffle of dark brown fur adorned it’s neck like a fancy collar, a small trail of fur going down it’s naked torso until it reached his waist and covered his body in fur once more. It had a pair of bat-like wings and she could only imagine how grand the wingspan would be. Settled just under his shoulders lay another pair that led to leathery human looking arms, one of which was holding a rather large goblet. It’s legs were long and had talons at the end of its feet.

“Your name?”

Her voice quivered but she complied, “although my father calls me Belle.”

“How fitting,” it hummed. 

“What do I call you?” She may be frightened, but she was not rude. She could not possibly imagine calling him a beast to his face. Who knew how he would react. 

“You may call me Kas.” He ventured further into the room, gait slow and full of purpose. “You know why you’re here?” Stopping in front of her, he took a sip from his goblet.

Shifting nervously from the intensity of his stare, she cleared her throat. “Yes.”  

“And do you accept your fate?”

“I would do anything to save my father’s life.” Any trace of hesitation faded from her voice and she saw a malicious gleam enter his eyes. 

“It would do you well to remember that.” With that, he trailed a finger down her cheek, lingering on her bottom lip. 

Her eyes widened. She had no clue what he meant by that. 

“I need to set some ground rules before your stay truly begins.” He lets go of her face and begins to pace. “You are free to do as you please, I care not how you spend your time. I sleep during the day, so I ask that you not make too much noise. You may not, under any circumstance, go into the west wing.” His pacing stops and he turns his head to look at her. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sir,” he hums. “I quite like that.”

A knock sounds on the door frame. “Master, the lady’s room is ready.”

“Very well, then.” He stops her as she rises from her seat. “Just one more question before you go to bed.” His wings shift as he brings himself into her personal space once again. “Will you marry me?”

She blinks once. Twice. Three times. “Pardon?”

“Will you marry me?”

“I cannot, for I hardly know you.”

His eyes darken, and she can tell he’s not pleased. The beast says nothing and takes a long drink from his cup. He does so sloppily, and when some dribbles down his chin she can tell it’s blood. 

A bolt of fear strikes through her and she rushes over to the butler. Her hands shake as she tries to settle herself on the walk to her room. 

Blood. He was drinking blood. It was fitting for a giant bat creature but where did he get it? Was it from people who stumbled upon his castle like her father? Did he get his blood drawn when he stayed here? Was it from his prisoners like her? Although he said she was free to do as she pleased, did that make her a prisoner or a visitor? The thought of possibly just being a visitor for a while helped calm her down a bit. But the thought of being drained of her blood filled her with anxiety once more. 

“Here we are, mademoiselle.” The sound of a key turning a lock took her out of her reverie.

The door swung open to an opulent, dark green room. The candles were already lit, the glint of the gilded decorations reminding her of fireflies. Everything in the castle had a faded and worn look to it, all covered in a thick layer of dust from the lack of use. This room looked recently cleaned, not a cobweb in sight. 

“Is this room for me?” She dared not step foot in it. Dirt and muck from her journey caked her shoes and she did not want to ruin the rug that spanned the room. 

“Yes ma’am.” He gestured to her small trunk of belongings sitting at the foot of the bed. 

“Oh my,” she muttered. Carefully, she took her shoes off and tiptoed into the room. She heard the door start to close and she quickly turned to the butler. “What do I call you?”

“You may call me Munson.” He gently bowed his head.

“Good night, Munson.” 

A small smile graced his face. “Good night, mademoiselle.”

When the door closed, she took a deep breath to center herself. After carefully placing her shoes next to the door and off of the rug, she turned to face the bedroom. 

Being the youngest in the family, she did not remember much of their life before their wealth was lost. She could only remember glimpses of a past her family were so fond of. Flashes of her mother’s face and toys galore, a pretty pink room. For the majority of her life, she lived in the small cottage in the woods. It was cramped and a bit uncomfortable, but it was home. Everything else felt like a dream. 

Especially now, being in a room as fancy as the one she was given. Never before had she seen such extravagance, none that she could remember. It should be a thrill, she should feel giddy. 

Instead, she felt dread. She knew not what would come tomorrow, or the days after. All she knew was that she was a prisoner in an abandoned castle, trapped with a beast. She hadn’t the faintest clue of his intentions, other than the bizarre marriage proposal. 

Why would a beast want to marry a human?

The events of the past week caught up with her. First, her father had gone missing only to come back with news of a beast and the conditions of his release. Then, there was the long trip, on which she barely got any rest. It was all very emotionally and physically draining. 

She dug through her trunk, looking for her nightdress. When she began to strip, her skin began to tingle with the feeling of eyes on her and eventually her own went towards the glass doors that led to the balcony. The curtains had not been closed. She knew no one besides Munson and the beast lived anywhere near, and she wasn’t on the first floor, but she couldn’t help but feel like someone was watching her. 

Naked, she went to close the curtains. Stopping when they were almost completely closed, she peered out into the darkness. 

She watched, as the wind rustled the trees and their leaves fluttered off the branches. What little moonlight shone through the clouds illuminated the gardens below. In the distance she saw a gazebo, most likely the one from her father’s story of the incident. A chunk of movement in the bushes caught her attention and she felt herself leaning closer to the window as if it would give her a better look. 

She just about had her nose pressed against the glass when a wild boar burst out of the bushes, making her jump back. Before she could catch her breath a large dark mass dove from the tree closest to her onto the boar. 

She shrieked in fright and shut the curtains. 

Her hands shook as she pressed one to her chest in an effort to slow her racing heart. The mass was huge and she’d seen nothing near the castle that size other than the beast. Kas. If it dove from the tree nearest to her room then she was right, someone had been watching her. She vowed to keep the curtains drawn every night from now on. 

Deciding she would much rather sleep than deal with her situation or the meaning of Kas’ peeping, she got her nightdress on as quickly as possible. 

Much like her father in his time there, as soon as her head hit the pillow she was out like a light. 

She could not control the volume of her moans nor the rolling of her hips, the pleasure so unfamiliar and great she just had to chase it. A whine escaped her lips when a hand stilled the motion of her hips. 

“You need to stay still, mon trèsor. I cannot properly enjoy my meal if you keep moving.”

Leaning back on her elbows she looked down to the mess of curls lying between her legs. A pair of the roundest, deepest brown eyes stared up at her glittering with mirth. 

“Please,” she begged.

“Please, nothing. You promised you would let me eat to my heart’s content, that you would stay still, that you would be a good girl. Are you going to break your promise?”

“No,” she pouted, “but-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tutted. Gently, he trailed the tip of his tongue through her slit and circled her clit, humming at the sight of her eyes rolling into the back of her head. “If you stay still for a while longer, I will let you finish. Deal?”

Her breath stuttered as he resumed. “Deal.”

She fell onto her back the moment he thrust his tongue inside her, curling it deliciously. Her toes curled as he circled her bud with his thumb while his tongue made love to her cunt.

Gentle waves of pleasure caressed her senses, building up in intensity as his thumb sped up. Soon she was adrift in mindless pleasure, moans increasing in volume as she tried to hold back her physical reaction to his ministrations. 

The size of the waves increased, crashing against her and she felt her body stiffening as she felt an indescribable heat and pressure build up at her core. As the intensity grew, she struggled to catch her breath.

The pressure increased and she was about to ask him for something, anything, when he murmured, “let go, my sweet. Come for me.”

She wasn’t quite sure what he meant but she felt herself ride the waves as they crested, creating a feeling of bliss she had never before experienced.

Her mystery man continued to lap at her folds despite her thighs clenching down on his head and he only stopped when she twitched from over stimulation.

He kissed one thigh while his hand caressed the other. “You did so well for me, mon trèsor. Such a good girl.”

A shiver wracked through her body at his praise. “I feel lightheaded. What was that?”

The warmth of his quiet laughter against her skin tickled as he began to kiss his way up to her. “That was an orgasm.” He pauses at her breasts, biting gently at one of her nipples before soothing it with a kiss. 

She gasps in pleasure. “What is that?”

“That, mon trèsor, is the epitome of pleasure.” He nips at her other nipple, this time biting a little harder. He smirks against her skin as she moans. “Oh, you like that, do you?” 

Making sure to nip and suckle all across her chest, he takes his time exploring. He makes sure not to leave any marks, just biting hard enough for her to feel something. Eventually he makes his way up her neck and it isn’t until he reaches the spot just under her ear that she grabs at him and he smirks just before he leaves a love bite. 

One of her legs curls around his waist and she presses herself up against him and he groans as her heat brushes up against him. “Please.”

“Please what?” He runs his hand up the length of the leg curled around him, grabbing a handful of her ass and grinding himself against her. 

“Please, I need-” she moans as his tip bumps against her bud. She whines loudly and writhes against him. 

“Calm down,” he chuckles. 

The hand on her ass makes its way between her thighs, teasing her clit once more. He dips his finger into her core to gather slick and groans when he feels how wet she is. Quickly, he drags slick up to her bud and begins rubbing circles into it. 

When her hips start undulating, he whispers a few words of encouragement in her ear before slipping a finger into her sex. A broken moan escaped her lips at the foreign feeling and she grabbed at his wrist.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Her brow furrowed. “N-no?”

“Do you want me to keep doing this,” he gently began to thrust his finger in and out. 

“Oh,” she sighed. “Yes.”

“I thought so.” He resumed kissing at her neck before deciding her breasts were a better place to be.

She didn’t know what to do with herself. Never before had she experienced sensations like these and a part of her (the part that knew doing this before marriage was wrong) wanted to stop. But that familiar heat began to stir in her loins and she wanted to experience that high again.

Soon enough, the one finger wasn’t enough and she begged him for, “more.”

The man complied, inserting another finger. When she grew accustomed to the feeling, he curled them, sending a delightful quiver throughout her body.

“Again,” she demanded. She felt his smile upon her skin as he obeyed her command.

If she thought the one finger was enough to fully stoke the flames of her desire, she was not ready for a pair of them scissoring inside her. 

Her back arched, hips chasing the pleasure his fingers were providing. She was fast approaching that peak once more and her moans grew desperate. 

“Do you want more?” His voice was low and sultry in her ear.

She hummed in agreement.

“Use your words, mon trèsor.”

“M-mo-ah, ah-more.”

“Very good.” 

He thrust his fingers faster and made sure to put more pressure on her clit. Her legs began to quiver and she felt her eyes roll. The feeling of his thick fingers inside of her was overwhelming but felt so good. She gripped his wrist tighter and chased his motions with her hips. Soon she felt the heat and tingles burst throughout her body. 

“Just like that, ride it out.” He continued to thrust his fingers until she stopped clenching around them. 

She let out small giggles as she tried to catch her breath. 

Finally, the man’s face came into her line of sight. 

He was beautiful, nothing like the men she’d seen in town. Big, brown eyes, an endearingly bulbous nose and a plump bottom lip. Long, curly hair draped over his head, coming down like curtains and putting them in a space all their own. 

“Enjoying yourself, are you?” 

“Very much,” she breathed. She could not help the smile that came across her face. “I’ve never felt anything like that in my life.”

“I’m glad I was the first to give it to you.”

She stares at him in wonder. “I don’t even know your name.”

“You need only ask,” he teases. When she says nothing he flops down next to her, resting his head on his arm as he lays on his side. “Go on.”

“Um.” She draws a thin sheet over her chest. He tries to and fails to hold back a smile at the action, causing a cute little dimple to appear in his left cheek. “What is your name?”

“My name, mon trèsor, is Edward.” He puts out a hand in greeting. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Timidly, she shakes his hand. “A pleasure indeed.”

They both break out in giggles. 

When she wakes the next morning, it’s to a stickiness between her legs. Thinking she’s started her monthly, she throws the blankets off. But when she gets off the bed, no blood is to be seen. She feels something begin to trickle down her thigh so she hurriedly places her hand down there to check what it is. Surprise colors her face when she sees a clear viscous liquid coating her fingertips. 

Surely she had not wet herself, she’d not done that since she was a babe. When she checks the bed for wet spots, she is baffled to find none. How odd. 

Distracted, she goes about her morning, making her bed, opening the curtains, getting dressed. When she opens her door, she is surprised to see Kas waiting for her in the surprisingly dark hallway. 

“G-good morning, bea-Kas. Can I help you with something?”

He says nothing, instead slowly trailing his dark eyes over her figure, lingering between her legs.

Immediately, something in her core tells her something is wrong. There’s a tingle at the base of her neck, goosebumps rolling down her arms. 

Slowly, so as not to alert him, she begins to close the door in an effort to have something between them. He continues to say nothing, instead watching as she closes the door enough to hide the interior of her room. Both of her shoulders are out of sight, the majority of her body in the room, head leaning out.

“I actually do need your help with something.” His voice is low and he speaks slowly. It freaks her out. 

“O-oh?” She tries not to make it obvious that her hand is scrambling to find something to grab. A weapon of some sort. “With what?”

Kas takes a step closer. “I have a hunger that I cannot satisfy.”

She managed to grab hold of a candelabra on the table that was situated next to her door. “Oh? I’m sure I can cook something up for you if Munson is not able to at the moment.”

“I’m afraid Munson will not be able to help me. It is a very particular kind of hunger. One could call it a thirst.” He takes another step closer, inhaling deeply, eyes rolling as a distinct scent hits his nose. “But I can tell you have exactly what I need,” he rumbled.

Alarm bells rang throughout her head when he took another step and she brandished her candelabra. “Don’t come any closer.”

He huffed. “Silly girl. Do you really think that will stop me?”

She threw it at him as he closed the distance just to see it bounce off of him. While one hand covered her mouth, the other held her by the waist and lifted her up. One of his wings shut the door behind him and he walked her to the bed.

She struggled and tried to scream, but she could hardly breathe with his big hand blocking her nostrils. She kicked and punched as hard as she could but her strength was no match for him. 

He laid her on the bed, wings surrounding them both, cutting her off from anything other than Kas. It was dark and hot and he still hadn’t removed his hand from her mouth. She felt herself get lightheaded and the amount of fight in her diminished.

Kas caught on and quickly shifted his hand, allowing her nostrils clarity. The other hand let go of her waist and was rucking up her dress. He ignored her muffled shrieks and struggles, instead choosing to focus on getting to the apex between her thighs as quickly as possible. 

When he reached it he groaned, for she was still wet. “I knew it.”

She sobbed when his finger put pressure on her clit. Thanks to her dream she knew where this was headed and her attempts to fight him off grew stronger. He merely laughed while his finger rapidly drew circles on her clit.

She jerked in his hold. As much as she did not want to, her body began to respond to his actions. Compared to her dream Edward, Kas’ movements were much too rough and hurried. She could feel herself getting wetter by the second and the sounds she let out were starting to turn into moans.

His breathing was heavy in her ears and she could feel her own begin to match it. Against her will, her hips started to move with his finger, chasing the pleasure he was provoking. 

“Look at you. Acting so disgusted, but you like this. You enjoy my touch.” With that, he flicked her clit and laughed when she squealed in pain. 

She was surprised at the spark of pleasure she felt from the pain and it caused the familiar heat from her dreams to bloom. She tried to squeeze her thighs hard enough to cause his hand to slip out from between them, but in doing so it just made the pleasure hit differently.

When she felt herself being to clench around nothing she panicked, for she knew what that meant. Trying to fend off the increasing pleasure, she found herself holding her breath in concentration. But in doing so she felt the pleasure swell and it continued to build and build until she thought she was about to climax.

Kas withdrew his finger and laughter sounded in her ears as she came back down. “Oh, my pet, you truly are a sight to see. The loveliest creature I’ve set my eyes on in decades.”

With no warning, he shoved his finger inside of her, rumbling in pleasure at her scream of pain. He gives her no reprieve, no chance to adjust to the size of his finger (so much larger than what Edward had felt like in her dream) and begins to rapidly thrust it. 

Stretched beyond belief, she thinks she may just die from the pain when sparks of pleasure begin to flicker once more. Slick makes his passage easier and she cries at the sound of his cruel laughter. 

“Look at your cunt, so hungry for my finger she can’t help but pull it back in.”

And it was true. No matter how hard she tried to fight it, her body seemed to thrive under his rough ministrations. Her hips began to chase his movements once more and instead of clawing at the hand covering her mouth, she held on for her life. With every other thrust, his finger came in contact with a distinct spot inside of her, giving her a jolt of pleasure each time.

The pleasure mounting this time around was much more intense than her dream climax and she sobbed at the uncontrollable feeling. Just as she felt herself reach that peak again, Kas withdrew his finger once more. 

She cried out in frustration and disgust. Why did he keep stopping? And why did she want him to continue his assault?

Quickly, Kas moves down her body, wings following him. She squints at the abrupt change in lighting and has barely adjusted to it when she feels something wet touch her folds.

She begins to lift her head to look between her legs, “why are you doing this?”

“You said you would do anything to save your father’s life.”

Suddenly Kas’ tongue thrusts into her, curling as it did, coming into contact with that particular spot he had just started to explore with his finger. She felt full in a different way, in an honestly much preferable way. His finger had been rigid, his tongue (thankfully) much more pliable. 

She couldn’t help but to compare it to how it felt when Edward explored her with his tongue. Kas was reaching places Edward had no ability to. Whereas Edward took his time and was gentle, Kas would thrust viciously and without mercy.

He would alternate between jabbing his tongue in her and slurping up the excess slick from her folds. His snout would brush against her clit while his hands held her legs open. Without his hands covering her mouth, her noises filled the room, a mixture of crying and moans. He relished in the inconsistency of her begging.

“‘Yes, yes. No, stop it.’ You just don’t know what you want, do you?” He grinned salaciously. “It’s alright. You don’t have to know. I know what you want and I am all you need.”

With that, he doubled his efforts to draw her climax out of her. Soon her cries for him to stop diminished entirely and all that was heard in the room were her begs for more. 

And more he gave her. The heat in her core surged, continuing to rise and rise until it engulfed her entire being and she fell apart on his tongue. He didn’t stop until he had his fill, causing her to climax two more times. 

By the time he finished she had passed out, energy spent and body weakened.

Kas gently rearranged her on the bed, righting her dress. 

“You are exactly what I need.” He trailed a finger down her cheek. “Mon trèsor.”

When she wakes hours later, the shadows in her room tell her it’s about noon. In a daze, she rights her bed and goes looking for the candelabra in the hallway only to find it sitting on its table, making her wonder if the events of the morning were a terrible dream. The soreness between her legs tells her otherwise.

After some time, she looks for the kitchen hoping for some lunch. She’s lost for only a moment before the candles lead her to the kitchen doors, the sound of tinkling cutlery bleeding into the hallway. When she entered, she could have sworn she saw a broom sweeping in the corner, but when she turned, it was against the wall. 

She makes a small plate of the leftovers from breakfast. In the end she struggles to finish her meal, too distracted from the morning’s events.

Eventually, she heads out to the gazebo, book in hand, and notices the very roses that doomed her. She barely clears the debris off the bench before sitting down. In the distance, she can hear the sounds of different animals and the buzz of insects.

For hours, she reads the same few pages, not absorbing a single word. 

“It is time for dinner.”

Munson’s voice makes her jump and she hurries out of the gazebo, avoiding his eyes.

Kas is waiting for her in the dining room. When she goes for a random seat she hears him grunt. When she meets his gaze, he gestures to the seat next to him. She hesitates for a moment before sitting next to him. 

Dinner plays out almost exactly as it had the night before. She is much too distracted to enjoy her meal and Kas is busy watching her. 

They both reach for their respective goblets at the same time when she notices the scratches she left on his arms and the size of his hands. 

While she knew his hands were big (she could tell when they were all over her) she hadn’t realized just how big they were. She took a sip of her drink as her mind drifted uncontrollably. If Edwards fingers were thick and long but his member even longer and thicker, then how big would Kas’ be? 

At that thought she choked on her wine, sending her into a coughing fit. Kas reached out a hand to pat her back but she jerked out of his reach. 

“No! No,” she calms down. “I’m fine.” 

His dark eyes narrow in suspicion but he says nothing. 

When dinner is over, she attempts to rush out of the room but Kas’ voice stops her. 

“Before you go, I have something to ask you.”

She nods in acknowledgement.

“Will you marry me?”

Her nose scrunches in confusion. Had she not answered this question the night before? Did he really think she would say yes after what happened that very morning?

“No.”

His reaction was much like the night before and he dismissed her without saying a word. 

When she got to her room, she made sure to close her curtains before getting ready for bed. It was rather unrealistic, but she hoped to experience the same dream again. She would much rather be in a wonderful fantasy with a handsome dream man than in the newfound nightmare her reality had become.

Unfortunately for her, she did not fall asleep as easily as the night before, but once sleep grabbed hold of her she went with it willingly.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

She sat up in her bed and looked around. The room looked mostly the same except the colors were much brighter. The walls were a pastel green instead of the dark, almost black green. Everything was still gilded and she could see little paintings of flowers scattered all around. The room had an overall brighter tone and lighter feel to it. 

Sat on the little couch near the balcony was Edward. He was dressed in a white shirt and unbuttoned trousers. There was a smirk on his face as he sat with his legs crossed, an arm spread out on the back of the couch. 

Noticing she was naked, she pulled the sheet up to her chest. “Edward?”

“The one and only.”

Dragging a hand down her face, she muttered to herself, “what kind of dream is this?”

“The best kind of dream.” He stood up from the couch and made his way to her. “The kind where your worries come to fade away,” he sat next to her on the bed, “and where only light is allowed.” He grabbed her unoccupied hand. “As long as I am around you will never not feel safe here. That I can promise you.” Staring into her eyes, he tenderly kissed the palm of her hand.

She swooned. Who was this man? How in the world had she conjured him? He was incredibly handsome, had introduced her to a new kind of pleasure, and now he was promising to keep her safe.

“Who are you,” she sighed. 

He grinned. “We’ve gone over this, mon trèsor. I,” he placed a hand on his chest, “am Edward. Although my close friends call me Eddie.” He nods at her. “You can call me Eddie.”

“I would hardly say we’re friends, I barely know you.”

Smirk on his face, he bumped shoulders with her, “I would say most friends don’t know each other as intimately as we do.”

Her jaw dropped in surprise at his statement. It was a crass way to do it, but when he put it that way, she couldn’t help but agree. Perhaps they were friends. 

He put a finger under her chin, shutting her mouth as quickly as it opened. “Close that up, before you give me any ideas.” Then he jumped off the bed. “Come,” he clapped. “Get dressed, I have much to show you.”

She did as he asked, wondering how a dream could feel so lifelike. It was almost enough to distract her from what had occurred that very morning. She decided to take it in stride, accept it for what it was. Given her circumstances, she would need all the friends she could get, no matter how unorthodox their introduction. 

It was a shame the only way she could make a friend and feel safe was in her dreams.

A/N: There it is! The first of most likely two parts. There are much darker things in store for our sweet Belle. I have a lot planned for this story, so hopefully you stick along for the ride. I hope you enjoyed it, please let me know if you did 💕 If you want to see my fics and just the fics, go check out @valthevalkyrielibrary

[corvidcrossbow]

hihi ! i just read your intruders fic and it was so good, do you have any tips on how to write Daryl properly?

Hiii!!! For one, thank you 😭🫶🫶 You're so sweet (this is a little lengthy, the nerd got out)

As for writing Daryl; one of my favoritest things is media analysis, especially in regards to the structuring and development of characters: so when watching shows/movies/etc., I try to pay a lot of attention to major and minor details in the plot and a character's mannerism, actions, dialogue, etc. since I not only find it fun, but I think it really helps in giving and understanding the depth of characters writing (yes there's a lot of reading into things too much & overanalyzing, but in this house we assume everything happened for a reason and was meticulously planned ‼️) (except for when we ignore canon because sometimes writers don't know what they're doing) (*cough*, Leah)

It's pretty straightforward; it helps in learning how a character behaves, reacts and would handle certain situations (since you're essentially studying how they do it). I generally get to a point where I know a character well enough that I can see something and just be like "oh yeah they would/wouldn't like that" or "*this* is how they'd do that" (still I am guilty of indecisiveness in headcanons 😔🤞)

But beside all that, turning to other people's interpretations is also really helpful! Norman Reedus himself is obviously a good resource; listening to and reading the extra things he's said about Daryl in interviews and stuff (and what other cast/crew say too) Then of course other fan content (fanfics and headcanons are a key ones. I also end up on old reddit comment threads pretty often with people discussing episodes) I'm on his Fandom page all the time (occasionally the Survival Instinct/Onslaught specific one too, but take that one with a bigger grain of salt cause there's always gonna be inconsistencies)

I also used to be a really big role player so pretending to embody Daryl or put yourself in his shoes might also be useful(?) (I think I do this subconsciously 🗿), and I find Daryl to be very relatable so that inherently aids

I think Daryl in particular can be a more challenging character to feel like you've written "properly" (in a way that feels in character) because of how complex certain parts of his personality are (like most characters or people with years worth of trauma), and the way he handles things is very dependent on his relationship to the those involved, what it is, what period of his life it's in (like how he's much harsher and hot-headed in the early seasons, but shuts down a lot in mid seasons, but towards the last ones we get to see more of who he actually is; so his behavior is gonna vary a lot depending on context)

But don't let feeling ooc hang you up! The more you write for Daryl (or any other character), the more you'll understand him, and subsequently the better you get. No matter how long I've loved a character or how well I feel I understand them, I'll still always be having sort of realizations or developments in my thoughts

OH THIS IS A BIG THING; imagine him as a real person, blissfully ignore the word "fictional" – this helps me connect to him way more and on a deeper level because I'm viewing him as someone that genuinely exists and has experienced these things (am I little out of touch with reality?... maybe)

His thoughts, emotions, inner monologue, how all these things had an impact on his development in childhood and adulthood, etc. Eliminating the idea of him being fictional might help you see him as a fully rounded person rather than bits of writing and acting we watch and read.

Think about how real world events & circumstances would've affected him (I view him as being born in 1975, so raised post-Vietnam war, lower income in a conservative area, redneck and white trash, War on drugs, 9/11, etc.) (Some of these aren't that important in writing him, but they might help in formulating ideas about who he is/ again, understanding him) – that idea in general is important though; theorize about how certain events/ scenarios (big world things or more mundane ones) would affect him/ how he'd react to them — all this wraps into the first things I said; about analyzing his character.

Okay maybe I'm rambling now, but overall just go for it and have fun with it! As I said, the more you do it, the faster it'll come to you, and the more solid idea of Daryl you'll formulate. Everyone has different interpretations of things and I love to see how others view characters compared to my own!

[stewblog]

Mission: Impossible - Dead Reckoning, Part One

It’s time to fully acknowledge the Mission: Impossible series as one of the great achievements in action cinema, and with it Christopher McQuarrie as one of the medium’s great action directors.

Knowing what little I do about McQuarrie as a person (via podcasts and various interviews), it’s a label he would likely brush off, content to merely cast himself as still a novice. And while such modesty might be expected given he only has five directing credits to his name, the visible results of his talent and proficiency at the art of crafting kinetic, white-knuckle action sequences speaks for itself. He might claim he’s merely paying homage to the works that inspired him and standing on the shoulders of the cinematic giants who came before him (and he wouldn’t be wrong), but the ways in which he has raised the bar for blockbuster action filmmaking simply cannot be ignored. His latest opus, Mission: Impossible - Dead Reckoning, Part One, all but sets this in stone.

Before Dead Reckoning, I was certain John Wick Chapter 4 would run away with the title of “The Year’s Best Action Movie.” Now I’m not so sure. Because while Wick 4 unquestionably contains a cornucopia of stunts, shootouts and car chases (sometimes in the same scene), it lacks the grandness and the overall scope of Dead Reckoning, which also is no slouch when it comes to punching, shooting and driving. Wick 4 lacks a jaw-dropping fight atop a speeding, runaway train in the Swiss Alps. Nor does it have one of the most creatively handicapped vehicle chases since Tomorrow Never Dies. And while Keanu Reeves has proven himself beyond capable at being a fully convincing action hero, there’s truly something to be said for the raw audacity of Tom Cruise’s death-defying antics as he quite literally throws himself into the wind to perform stunts that few people in the world (much less in their right mind) would do.

All of that to say, Dead Reckoning Part One is a symphony of action filmmaking that has nearly everything you could want out of a four-quadrant crowd-pleasing blockbuster as this now-familiar team of secret agents trots across the globe and does what they do best: Navigate their way through white-knuckle mayhem and save the world. And they do it with the flavor of classic action cinema fully spread across its surface. This is McQuarrie once more pushing the boundaries of practical stunt work while keeping his mind set firmly on the genre-defining works that came before. There are moments here that would make John Frankenheimer, Buster Keaton, Steven Spielberg and William Friedkin equally proud.

But for as much as its action is rooted in the past, the thematic core of the film has its gaze dead-set on the near future. If Top Gun: Maverick was Tom Cruise’s defiant stance against the aloofness of digital visual effects and its proliferation in the medium, then Dead Reckoning Part One is him standing against the threatened onslaught of artificial intelligence usurping the role of writing and design. And it does so in a much more blatant manner. Top Gun: Maverick communicated this stance through a few lines of dialogue. Dead Reckoning makes it the entire plot.

Dead Reckoning is less a spy movie and more an international chase sequence. It’s not unusual for Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise) and his crew to be chased by agents of his own government, but it’s a little different this time since they’re not just out to keep him from doing something crazy. They’re out to stop him because the people at the top of the food chain want control over the very fabric of truth. The artificial intelligence entity known as, you guessed it, The Entity, threatens to eradicate the lines between fact and fiction, throwing the world into chaos unless it can be controlled. It probably can’t, but that’s not stopping the U.S. government from trying and they’re not about to let Ethan Hunt get in their way. The twist, though, is that The Entity has become self-aware and has enthralled an acolyte to serve its interests: Gabriel (Esai Morales).

Gabriel is one of nearly half a dozen newcomers and he almost immediately establishes himself as Ethan’s most formidable nemesis of the series. This is augmented by Morales’ confident performance, making Gabriel suave and slick and charismatic, but in a subdued, dangerous manner. Hayley Atwell’s fast-fingered thief, Grace, is the other major standout. She quickly finds she’s in way over her head after stealing and re-stealing the film’s MacGuffin: A key that grants access to The Entity. She becomes entangled with Ethan and the team, who are then pursued by a pair of government enforcers played by Top Gun: Maverick’s Greg Tarzan Davis and consummate “That Guy” character actor Shea Wigham.

The ensuing mayhem is, effectively, a nearly three-hour long chase that spans the sands of Abu Dhabi to the canals of Venice to the mountains of Switzerland. It’s breathless and exhilarating and moves so fast I was actually shocked to find out its actual runtime. McQuarrie has paced this one to near-perfection, transferring the blistering momentum he so superbly captures in his chase sequences and infuses it into the film writ large.

If there’s a chink in the armor of the film, it’s that the freewheeling process that McQuarrie and Cruise employ in crafting these films threatens to buckle under the weight of the approach. The pair are notorious for rewriting characters on the fly as filming goes on, often abandoning whole arcs or concepts entirely in favor of a new approach inspired by a cast member’s comment or line delivery. The collaborative nature of the approach is laudable, and on the whole it works far better than it should given how roundly entertaining McQuarrie’s entries have been thus far. But there are specifics at play here that can feel muddled, particularly in regards to when certain characters know what or how, that is either confusing or outright nonsensical. Thankfully, McQuarrie, the cast and crew are nimble enough to never fall through the cracks, but the cracks show perhaps more than in past entries.

But for however many cracks do show, the strength of what is accomplished far outweighs nits to be picked from the details. In a macro sense, this is one of the most impressive, thoroughly entertaining tentpole blockbusters of the last decade, easily, and I can’t wait to see how it all comes to a final head in Part Two.

[ratralsis]

An Uncontroversial Take

So I think we pretty much all agree on this, right? That the song that plays in Mega Man II when you first enter Wily's castle is the best song?

It's a game about an old man who wants to take over the world using an army of killer robots led by eight REALLY STRONG robots while he hides in his castle protected by SEVERAL OTHER STRONG robots, and another old man who's going to stop him by sending out the VERY BEST STRONGEST robot, and you play as that robot, who is a little boy with the last name "Man" and a gun that shoots solar-powered energy bullets, and the little boy robot blows up all the other robots, all of them, with his gun because he is the strongest robot that there is, and the old man who wants to take over the world is reduced to begging for his life in the face of the little blue boy's unstoppable onslaught.

It's the sequel to a game with the same plot. It has a lot of sequels with the same plot.

It has the best song. It's sort of tucked away towards the end, but not at the very end.

I know we all know all of this already, but sometimes I think it's important that I say things that are true instead of just making things up all the time.

[findroleplay]

Oh, look! It's another boyfood plot dump for Hellaverse! Please, 21+ is required, but 25+ is preferred. I still can't reply to likes or reactions, so if you're interested, add me directly on discord at: boyfood. I'm begging with the biggest pleading emoji for you guys to please say more than, "hey," when you reach out! Tell me a little about yourself as a roleplayer; I'm looking for confident and compatible partners who know what they want and aren't afraid to squeal with me over their interests too when it comes to plotting. Let's absolutely obliterate our muses with feels, drama, and a generous serving of angst, with a side of fluff for dinner. Lmao, seriously, hit me up if you like having your muses fucked up. 💗

🎭Helluva Boss I'd like to write Fizzarolli.

one: Quitting Mammon initially seemed like the best idea ever, that is until his newfound freedom and lack of purpose prove to be detrimental to his relationship. Not to mention the constant onslaught of lawsuits draining Fizzarolli of a pretty significant chunk of his earnings over the years. Teetering on new lows, Fizz turns up on the doorstep of the only other person he can trust. Blitzø. But it's been years since they've reliably been around one another, and with their rekindled friendship still being so fresh, it's uncertain if this will be another not great idea. And the kicker? It's either curling up on the sofa with Blitzø, or a pallet on the living room floor.

two: Fizzarolli is a porn star, more specifically, Asmodeus' highest earner. He's making waves, the biggest imp in the business and still climbing. It's why Asmodeus is reluctant to tell him about a recent card game with his biggest production rival, Valentino. He doesn't lose too much, but there's a pretty big obligation on the line that Fizzarolli is expected to fill. "Nothing too crazy, you just have to film a movie for him." Valentino, much to his disgust, seems intent on humiliating Asmodeus and his biggest star by having him record with a random imp off the streets. His sadistic glee only grows when he realizes there's a history between them and a negative one at that. Unfortunately, Blitzø needs the money so saying no isn't really an option. Besides, it's just two weeks of shooting together, two very... long... weeks...

three: Omegaverse! Except, omegas are at the top of the hierarchy, praised and valued for their ability to give birth to all three castes. More importantly, they're the only caste that can give birth to alphas - a dying breed after an uprising against their oppressive system. One day, Fizzarolli comes to Blitzø with tears in his eyes and slick on his fingertips. He presents early as an omega, which likely means if Blitzø doesn't present as an omega as well, they'll probably be separated. While I'm open to this being relatively NSFW, I'm pretty adamant about heavily investing time in exploring the impact of this revelation and how it affects their friendship. I'd also really enjoy switch dynamics - even If there's a lean - when it comes to NSFW for this plot. It's not required or mandatory, I just personally enjoy it and the potential to bitch an alpha. That'd be nice. I have so many omegaverse headcanons, and I'd love anyone interested in helping me flesh out a world for it. Potential for: 🍪but it isn't required.

four: If Blitzø had known that he'd end up in a mental asylum fresh out of foster care, he probably would have tried harder with that last family... The thing is, he's not crazy. He really is best friends with an imp that visits him from Hell, he didn't kill his dormmate because he was flunking out of college, and he definitely doesn't want to know what that forked tongue feels like wrapped around his co-- Too much? Whatever, the point is none of that stuff is true! Too bad it's so fucking hard to prove it. I'm also open to reversing the roles of the characters and having Fizzarolli be the one in the asylum.

five: Blitzø and Fizzarolli are lifelong best friends and young, broke roommates just barely making rent. On the hottest day of summer, the air conditioner dies a pretty traumatic death. One filled with sparking and the underlying threat of combustion. They stick to their sofa, dripping sweat and bitterly tossing back-and-forth ideas to make some quick money. OnlyFans comes up more than a few times, only when it comes to shooting, they're incredibly awkward looking. For one, Fizzarolli keeps trying to make eye contact and Blitzø is pretty sure he'll die if they do. Then there's the whole kissing thing - they can't seem to figure out if they want to include it or not, and it leads to a lot of headbutting. Surprisingly enough, it takes off in a way that makes them consider doing it again. The trade-off? The confusing feelings that keep welling up. I'd love it if Blitzø's prior feelings were ambiguous, whether he likes him or not. I enjoy a good slow romance burn.

So that was a lot! Thanks if you stayed with me for the whole thing, and hopefully you saw something interesting! A few last things! I'm more than open to people bringing their own plots! And while I pretty clearly have a soft spot for Blitzø and Fizzarolli, I'm honestly open to writing other Fizzarolli ships. Gimmie an Ozzie, a Striker, shit, even a super cringy ass goofball loser like Chaz(or, like, idk, mob boss Crimson investing money in an up and coming star?). Let's figure something out together! Toss me your favorite OCs, no need to double! And remember, I can't respond to likes, so add me directly on discord: boyfood. Just make sure you tell me who you are or a little about yourself as a roleplayer, or, fuck, even what you're looking for!

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[noblechaton]

honestly kind of commend Impossible Astronaut/Day of the Moon for going as big as they did. the scope is kind of crazy compared to where the show was back in say series 2. but I can't say I liked it all that much either

very much suffers from too much going on with more and more elements being weaved in throughout as if they were afraid the audience would fall asleep if they stopped adding things in as it went and I'd argue that it's not even that hard to follow everything so much as it is just unsatisfying given that there's almost no real resolution to anything and won't be in some cases for entire series from now. they resolve this huge dangerous cliffhanger through a fuzzy flashback and just don't really touch on anything that actually happened - they know their enemy now, in a way, somehow, and that's it

it's just sort of exhausting to watch after a point. it doesn't pick up all that well from series 5 and worries too much about setting up the big sci-fi plot for the rest of the series rather than establishing arcs for like. any of the characters lmao. once again I see how it's fun to watch but if you put any thought into any given element you're likely to start losing interest bc it's just an onslaught of questions that just do not get answers and when they finally do later on, they range from decent to insulting

and again I'm yearning to see more of Amy and Rory as people. of their home lives. what do Amy's parents think about all this? do they know where she is? where's Rory's family in all this? what had they been doing between series? what's the Doctor been doing? everyone still feels kind of shallow. Amy in particular has just sort of solidified into her archetype of loud stubborn redhead with little else going on while I can't fault Rory for being a bit insecure about his relationship with her given that his now wife tried to make out with another man on their wedding day

it's loud, bombastic, breathless and pretty fun to watch but also kind of annoying and actively boring after a certain point. the layers of ongoing story get to be too much and it's just sort of going and u either are on for the ride or zoned out. Ari said it's mentally taxing and I definitely agree with her. not confusing, just taxing

and needless to say we are definitely at the Moffiest it gets I think

[northsalpha-archive]

i  will  have  a  proper  carrd  and/or  verse  page  one  day,  but  until  then,  i’ve  finally  done  some  rough  drafts  of  the  ones  living  rent  -  free  in  my  mind  :

main  verse.      this  is  based  heavily  around  everything  outlined  on  his  stats  page.  to  ensure  his  survival,  esther  resurrected  ansel  using  an  amended  version  of  the  original  vampire  creation  spell.  this  brought  him  back  with  original  qualities,  including  being  harder  to  kill,  meaning  while  he  did  die  in  klaus’  arms  when  son  killed  him,  he  only  appeared  as  such  until  body  later  healed.  he  now  continues  to  remain  in  new  orleans  /  re  -  building  his  pack  /  attempting  to  connect  with  his  eldest  /  protect  the  family,  etc.  lives  in  a  little  cabin  in  the  bayou  woods  that  he’s  mostly  built  with  his  own  hands  after  finding  it  abandoned  and  falling  down.

past  verse.      set  in  canon  past  timeline  /  before  the  originals  became  the  originals.  ansel  is  a  much  -  respected,  powerful  chief    &    alpha  to  the  north  east  atlantic  werewolves.  you  know  the  rest!

other  side  verse.      set  throughout  the  thousand  plus  years  ansel  spent  on  the  other  side,  generally  spent  watching  over  niklaus.  not  likely  to  be  used  often,  but  could  be  fun  to  explore,  especially  during  those  times  the  barrier  went  down.  

hybrid  verse  i.      suspecting  what  would  happen  when  their  son  was  reunited  with  ansel,  esther  didn’t  only  resurrect  ansel  using  the  original  vampire  creation  spell.  she  also  ensured    (  unknowingly  to  them  both  )    he  came  back  with  klaus’  blood  in  his  system.  this  meant  when  klaus  inevitably  killed  ansel,  he  returned  as  a  hybrid.    ⸻    and  needing  elena’s  blood  to  complete  the  transition.  open  for  plotting  /  affiliate  with  canon  divergent  elena’s,  or  main  go  -  to  is  that  esther  kept  a  supply  of  her  blood  ever  since  the  mikaelson  ball.  this  was  also  an  attempt  from  esther  to  keep  ansel  dependent  on  her,  but  that  def  didn’t  last  long  after  he  got  what  he  wanted.  

no  emotions  verse.      some  point  after  his  resurrection,  either  the  pack,  klaus  or  hope  became  in  danger,  and  ansel  made  a  deal  with  an  ancient  witch  that  would  help  them.  in  exchange,  the  witch  demanded  he  sacrifice  what  mattered  to  him  most.  believing  this  would  be  his  wolf,  ansel  agreed.  it  was  worth  it  for  them.  in  doing  so,  the  witch  realised  he  cared  more  about  them  than  he  did  his  wolf,  and  instead,  took  his  ability  to  feel.  he  now  continues  to  live  but  is  completely  detached  from  the  things  that  previously  made  him  who  he  is;    his  loyalty,  his  love  and  his  bond  to  family.  it  is  technically  the  equivalent  to  a  vampire  switching  off  their  humanity.  he  feels  nothing,  but  exists  nonetheless.

hybrid  verse  ii.      after  a  life  -  threatening  injury,  hope    (  nklsdttr  )    turns  ansel  into  a  hybrid  using  her  blood.  there  is  really  only  1%  chance  ansel  would  willingly  agree  to  be  a  hybrid  /  part  -  vampire  because  he’s  such  a  proud  wolf,  but  turns  out,  that  1%  would  absolutely  be  for  hope  because  that’s  his  grandchild.  

au  verse  i.      a  really  simple  didn’t  die  verse.  this  isn’t  fleshed  out  a  whole  lot  because  it  feels  like  it  could  be  plotted  /  affiliated  more  with  others,  but  the  general  idea  is  he  survived  mikael’s  onslaught.  he  was  there  when  klaus  arrived,  and  has  been  by  his  side  since.  very  actively  worked  to  try  and  help  his  son  break  the  curse.  sorry,  folks.  

au  verse  ii.      another  didn’t  die  verse,  but  for  whatever  reason,  klaus  and  ansel  became  estranged.  similar  to  his  behaviour  on  the  other  side,  ansel  still  stayed  klaus,  watching  over  his  son  from  afar.  in  both  these  verses,  ansel  lived  this  long  through  magic    &    the  loyalty  he  earned  as  chief  from  a  powerful  line  of  witches.

the  hunger  games  verse.      ansel  won  the  41st  annual  hunger  games,  aged  15,  representing  district  7.  though  he  wasn’t  raised  in  a  career  tribute  district,  he  might  as  well  have  been,  kept  locked  away    &    forced  to  endure  severe  training  by  a  father  determined  to  make  a  winner  out  of  his  son.  by  the  time  he  was  reaped,  the  games  were  almost  an  escape.  he  then  went  on  to  be  a  mentor  to  blight,  and  possibly  johanna.  as  he  grew  older,  he  became  a  respected  figure  amongst  the  district,  as  their  local  blacksmith  and  chief.  though  he  wasn’t  mayor,  due  to  a  strong  dislike  for  politics,  he  was  perhaps  considered  more  the  people’s  leader.  recognising  his  ability  to  gain  people’s  trust,  ansel  became  one  of  the  many  victors  put  out  for  sale  amongst  panem’s  wealthiest.  during  a  visit  to  district  two,  ansel  met  and  fell  in  love  with  their  head  peacekeeper’s  wife,  fathering  a  child  named  klaus.  he  later  returned  to  his  own  district  and  married  himself.  the  pair  had  several  children.  the  bigger  his  family  got,  the  harder  snow’s  demands  became  to  meet.  in  the  end,  ansel  refused.  as  a  result,  head  peacekeeper  mikael    (  who  always  suspected  the  affair  )    was  sent  to  murder  ansel’s  family.  it  was  supposed  to  inspire  ansel  to  never  rebel  again.  instead,  it  only  encouraged  him  more  and  he  became  the  first  to  engage  when  war  started,  leading  the  people  of  district  7  in  their  rebellion,  as  well  as  providing  hand  -  crafted  weapons.  

supernatural  verse.      ansel  is  the  elusive  /  never  seen  alpha  werewolf,  aka  the  first  werewolf.  i  really  don’t  have  anything  else  here  yet,  but  that’s  the  long    &    short  of  it.

[the-merry-librarian]

Set in an apocalyptic, mythical future, after the death of the gods and the Collapse of the world, Threads That Bind is an intriguing, layered mystery. Io Ora is moira-born, a descendant of the three Greek goddesses of fate, and as the youngest of three, she is representative of Lachesis—or, more colloquially known, a cutter: a severer of the threads between people. Stumbling across the scene of a violent and unexplainable murder, Io is drawn into the teeming underworld of half-sunken Alante, and into a conspiracy that changes everything she knows about her life and her family.

Genre: Fiction, Fantasy

Target Age Group:

Grades 9-12

Justification:

I love Greek mythology. This is probably something that people can intuit about me very quickly, just sort of based on the kind of person that I am. I grew up with D’Aulaires Book of Greek Myths and devoured the Percy Jackson series as a middle schooler, so when I read the synopsis of Threads, I was captured immediately by the premise—descendants of the gods with peculiar, miraculous powers. As for how I found it, I was browsing the BookRiot list of Best Books for Teens 2023. (Pretty prosaic.)

Evaluation:

For this review, I will be evaluating characters, plot, and setting. I’ll admit, it took a while for me to warm to the characters in this book. In the beginning, Io feels a little generic; she’s the typical troubled YA protagonist, with powers that ostracize her from others, and her personality felt muted and a little too understated. However, as the novel went on, more facets of her personality were revealed—her humor, her compassion, her strong senses of loyalty and justice. Other characters are at first presented a little one-dimensionally and could be summed up with brief titles: The Love Interest. The Mob Boss. The Older Sister. By the end of the novel, though, all of these characters have a little more depth to them. Edei, the love interest, is a lovable but quiet boy, with his own demons to face; Bianca, the mob boss, is more than a swaggering threat; Ava and Thais, the older sisters, offer their own unique brands of familial love and betrayal. While each of the cast has room to grow, I think that Threads reaches farther than many YA novels in their characterization, and allows further development in the sequels (one of which is already published; I anticipate a trilogy). The plot is also more ambitious and far-reaching than many YA novels I’ve read. It’s a mystery that begins with a murder, but it’s far more than that—Io finds herself hip-deep in a conspiracy from over a decade before, the consequences of which are still rippling through the city. Without giving away too many spoilers, I found the plot of Threads to be genuinely engaging. Intrigue didn’t have to be manufactured, it was simply generated by every new fact and twist that we discovered through the protagonist. The only aspect I didn’t immediately enjoy was the romantic subplot, although I suspect that’s a matter of personal preference: I’ve never been a huge fan of the soulmate trope. Finally, the setting of this book absolutely blew me away. Hatzopoulou’s description of this postapocalyptic world is rich and riveting—a moon that shattered into three, continents drowned under tides, cities that flood in the onslaught of neo-typhoons, isolated city-states that jealously guard resources, swarms of chimera-like beasts that crawl from the seas, and wars over the last clean water in the form of icebergs… and that’s everything that’s talked about in any kind of detail. There are references to parts of this world that haven’t even been explored in text, such as the Flying Orchards, but Hatzopoulou does such a good job of establishing the state of the world that once the Orchards are mentioned it’s easy to guess what they might be. The existence of other-born, humans with some kind of ancestry from a god or goddess, is almost unremarkable when compared to the rest of the world; it’s just a part of this new world, one that Hatzopoulou clearly put just as much thought into as the rest of it. I really enjoyed this book. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t hooked right away—it did take me a while to get into. But, I think, if one can get past the first fifty pages or so, it’s worth finishing. I absolutely recommend it to fantasy-loving teens, readers of mystery stories, and anyone interested in new interpretations of mythology.

References:

Doherty, A. (2023, October 5). The 20 best books for teens: 2023 picks. BOOK RIOT. https://bookriot.com/best-books-for-teens-2023/ Hatzopoulou, K. (2023). Threads That Bind. Penguin Young Readers Group. Penguin Young Readers. (n.d.). Threads that bind by Kika Hatzopoulou. PenguinRandomhouse.com. https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/713492/threads-that-bind-by-kika-hatzopoulou/