#//not sure if this is a coherent set - but it's been in my drafts for a while and their recent interview made me want to finish it :')

[ysphcpb]

LOLFanfest2022: Krist-Singto ❶ ❷ ❸ ❹ ❺ ❻ ❼

[ay0nha]

Lament of My Heart | Joel Miller

SUMMARY: “Tommy…”  Joel let out a breath of frustrated laughter. He disappointingly shook his head, leaning over you, “That boy doesn’t know what he’s lost.”

Set pre-episode four & post-episode five w/ moments of pre-outbreak

PAIRING: Joel Miller x femme!reader

WORD COUNT: 5.1K

WARNINGS: SMUT (hand job), mentions of blood, mutual pining/slow burnish, skinny dipping (of sorts), canon-typical things, mentions of Tommy x reader, etc.

A/N: Need to post this before it sits in the drafts to collect dust. Joel is just on my mind all the time, so this is the product of that. Thank you as always @from-the-clouds​ for listening to my blabbering and entertaining all my ideas! Much love.

“No more questions, Ellie,” You reprimanded her lightly, trying to cover the warmth she was discovering you felt. “Get some rest.”

Ellie was a hard-headed person with the responsibility of society on her shoulders. She carried the weight well, but she was still human, still young. But her questions revealed her growing creativity and sharp wit.

“Not tired.” She hated Joel’s coffee, but the stolen sips still coursed through her veins. You knew it was partly due to the anxiety ahead of them. They all felt it, that tense air of the unknown. “You two don’t seem to get along, though.”

Your eyes flashed to the rear view mirror on instinct. Settled on the truck’s dirty cushions and the supplies being used as a pillow, Joel was asleep. But you weren’t sure how long it would last.

“Ellie-

“It wasn’t a question!” She defended quickly, toying with the edge of her sleeve. She’d been dying to know just exactly why you got under Joel’s skin the way you did. “Tell me about Tommy, at least.”

“Ask Joel.” Your eyes were everywhere. You checked the mirror as if there was traffic, but it was the only thing that kept you occupied. She was making you squirm.

“C’mon, you know he won’t-” Ellie’s own frustrations were building up. In her shoes, you’d be just as curious. “Please.”

Through a thoughtful sigh, you resigned, “Before-We just- We’ve known each other for a long time.” You’d been intertwined with the Miller brothers since before everything. You rarely said it aloud, and now, you struggled to put all the history into something coherent. “I met Tommy when he returned from deployment-

“In Texas?” Ellie hung onto every word, mind spinning tales faster than you could keep up with. “Were you in the military too?”

“I said no questions.”

The comment made her smile. Ellie always appreciated a good game. Loopholes were her specialty.

“Fine, then.” She settled in the passenger seat, knees to her chest as she faced you, “You were discharged with Tommy with more medals than you could count!” Her posture then changed with inventive excitement, “Or maybe a bad-ass sniper with too many confirmed kills to count.” You wished your life was as exciting as she made it sound. “You’re going to have to stop me before I start thinking you led an elite hit squad.”

“Close.” You quipped, “I worked on the military base in town.” It was the first job that hired you and offered some stability for someone your age. “I’d help get soldiers back on their feet once they returned…”

“Then you became friends with Tommy,” Ellie encouraged you to continue. She couldn’t stand the lulls.

Too many years passed for you to remember clearly how you became close to Tommy, but at the time, he considered you his soulmate. Not that either of you really knew what that meant.

“Then I became friends with Tommy.” You nodded. You kept your eyes steady ahead, adding, “Joel, too.” Glancing at Ellie, you finished,  “Then we all just…stuck together.”

Separation wasn’t ever questioned, even on the eve of all the destruction. That memory was vivid; the way your bloodied body held onto Joel, dragging him away from it all, Tommy trailing behind, surveilling every move. It was how you moved together for years, protecting each other as much as possible.  

“He doesn’t talk about it; before,” Ellie commented lowly. You knew she wished for more from Joel. But she couldn’t see what you saw in the way he softened for her.

“That hasn’t changed with time.” Your words felt too bitter. This time you indulged in a glance at Joel. Still settled. “I’m surprised he’s even talking to me now.”

You always described the Miller brothers as a whirlwind. They may not have necessarily meant it, but they had a knack for sweeping you up and consuming you. When Joel came to you with Ellie, there was no question of whether you would help or not, just when and where you were needed.

He’d never leave without you.

“Tell me something about them...” Ellie pleaded. She was a clever girl who picked up on the weight of his misery. But it wasn’t yours to share. “Before they…before this.”

Your shoulders relaxed while your hands moved to the bottom of the steering wheel as you allowed yourself to filter through only the fond memories.

“Alright, well…” You hesitated with your words. Only because you knew, Joel would tell the story differently. “He and Tommy were wasted…I mean…Absolutely hammered that night.”

Your words had their desired effect, and Ellie’s giggles encouraged you to continue. But it felt strange to make Joel’s drinking habits sound so lighthearted when you know how the habit haunted him now.

“Tommy called me.” The phone in Joel’s kitchen woke you up that night well past the witching hour. “The brothers always got into all kinds of mischief, usually Tommy's fault.” You were typically by his side, provoking him. “Always Tommy’s fault.”

“He sounds fun.” Ellie joined in. You knew in another world, the two would get up to all kinds of mischief if they had the chance.

“He can be, when he wants.” You glanced at the map on your lap. With the sun getting low, it meant you needed to find a safe place to stop soon. “That night, though, the two of them had the bright idea to pretend to be bouncers, only to get into a fight with the actual ones.”

“I knew Joel wasn’t a total hard-ass.”

As you continued to retell the story, you hadn’t realized how much nostalgia you carried with you. Nor were you able to see how you talked so warmly of Joel. Ellie knew exactly what to say to get the information she wanted. But you waited a long time to reminisce freely.

“...When I finally got them home,” You blew a raspberry at the unforgettable effort it took. The stench of alcohol and smoke still made your nose scrunch. “Thank god Tommy had enough sense left to make it to the couch.”

Ellie loved how you teased Joel’s hiccuping that he blamed it on being over-served tequila. It was hard even to imagine he had any of that humor left in him. You embellished the story just enough to entertain yourself. But the story's core provided fertile ground for understanding that nothing you added was too far-fetched.

“They remembered nothing the next morning,” You said. “Tommy found all these numbers written on his arm, said he’d close his eyes and pick which to call.”

“....And Joel, he must have been so hungover…”

“You’d think…” You reflected flatly.  “He just got up and went to work.”

From your side, you knew Ellie could sense you holding back.  She’d gotten more than she asked for, so she left it. She could see how the echo of that night still felt fresh, doubting you provided her with the detailed ending you lived.

----

“You alright?” The question was slowly processed by Joel, who was trying to steady his breathing before the contents of his stomach came up.

“Yeah, yeah…” Joel held onto you every step, arm slung over your shoulders, making you sway with him with each step to his room.

He was mumbling while you settled him on the edge of his bed. You got every few words while focusing on preparing him for the next day. The brothers had work, and doing this would save you the headache of hearing their complaints.

“B-been thinkin’...” His Texan drawl was heightened as he slurred.

“That so?” You half-heartedly replied, rummaging through his medicine cabinet. You looked for something for the morning.

“Mhmm…”

You could hear him shuffling around in his room. Assuming he’d been pulling his boots off and discarding his jacket, you were surprised to find him leaning on the bathroom’s door frame.

“Then you’ve been hanging around Tommy too much.”

“Tommy…” Joel let out a breath of frustrated laughter. He disappointingly shook his head, leaning over you, “That boy doesn’t know what he’s lost.”

You still held love for Tommy, but you had mistaken it for something that it wasn’t. The two of you functioned better as friends; you were his confidant and partner in crime. Neither of you would change that for the world.

“And you do?”

Your relationship with Joel had a natural ebb and flow that could be but never got to the point of being volatile. But that didn't stop you from stepping on each other's toes, constantly being on the brink of an argument that neither of you knew the point of.

“Darlin’...” You melted his resolve, helping him the way you were. Joel’s eyes flickered down. Nothing about your outfit was seductive, but the way his eyes loitered told you maybe it had been. Covering his tracks seamlessly, Joel continued, “...The things you deserve.”

Your laugh bounced off the bathroom walls, resonating deep within Joel’s chest.

"What?" Joel asked lightly, his smile starting to mirror yours, but not understanding why, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

“Shit, Joel,” Your laughter lingered, “You must be really drunk.”

“C’mon now.” He tried to stop you. He wasn’t sure he could handle any level of ridicule from you.  

But you pushed passed him, drawing his sheets back for the night to be over, “Let’s just get you to bed.”

He stumbled to you willingly, but you could see his mind turning. There was something he wanted off his chest, but you knew you weren’t ready to hear it.

“Come on now, Miller,” You tried again. “We’ve both got work in the morning.”

“What is it you do again?” Joel’s words played with chords of tension. “Besides eat all my food and sleep on my couch.”

"Get by." You joked more for your sake than his.

Joel’s eyes shifted between your own, pupils entirely dilated.  Blaming it on the alcohol helped settle your stomach.

“I know y-you don’t stick around for my benefit.”

"God forbid we enjoy each other's company, Joel." Your eyes burned into his. You enjoyed your ability to make him bashful in his stupor. Just a look, and he was crumbling.

You saw it coming. You could have stopped it, but it wasn’t even the length of a decent kiss. It was soft and fleeting because you pulled back to never speak of it again. You doubted Joel remembered, but you could never be sure what he’d admit to.

----

“Did you ever-

“Ellie…” You said her name slowly in warning.

She retracted fast, “Joel and you-

“No.”

Your answer came off harshly. You knew where she wanted to go; she’d circled the topic for hours.

“Can I ask one question?”

“That was a question.” You looked at her again pointedly, “Shoot.”

“Why’d you stay in Boston?”

Sitting with the statement, you focused on the road. Most around you was barren and destroyed but offered an unconventional peacefulness. Sometimes you imagined if you’d be better off in isolation than in a QZ. But you could never bring yourself to just disappear like that.

“As hard as you might try,” You started, pulling the car to the side, “You can’t be alone in this world. With a purpose or not, it just doesn’t work.”

The sudden sway of the car disturbed the sleeping figure in the back. Joel attempted to hide his jolt as he sat up but was already looking out the window for trouble.

“We stoppin’?” Joel’s voice filled the car while the engine cooled.

Joel looked to you for reassurance. Ellie pointed that out to you, the way he valued you despite his resentment.

“We’ve gotten far enough today.” You tossed the keys back to him. “We need food and rest.”

“Alright.”

Your exchanges were clipped.

Yet, you valued the journey with Ellie. Selfishly, the task provided a reason to see Joel again. It had become easier to spend time apart. It became a habit. But even with a quiet meal shared and conversations led by Ellie, it felt good to be with him again.

The pressure shifted. No longer were ration cards on your mind, nor were the curfews you struggled to follow. Something about the night felt freeing despite the heavy responsibility that it meant. Maybe it was the privilege of feeling safe with Joel since he created a protective bubble, sacrificing his rest for yours.

You heard Joel get up when he thought yours and Ellie’s breathing steadied. You were going to leave it, but sleep was hard to come by with your mind racing.

Joel saw your shadow first. But the hand that brushed between his shoulder blades still made him flinch. He spoke in hushed tones, looking to ensure that Ellie was still asleep, “I hope you didn’t come over here to tell me we’re safe.”

“Didn’t say that.”  You frowned. He knew you well; you wore your concerns on your face. You just wished he didn’t hold such defiance for them.  “But we’ll be alright for the night-

“Don’t.”

Joel wanted to be in control of everything down to the smallest detail.

You knew it was a way of coping, his way, but it never sat right with you. Especially now, as you watched Joel scrutinize the area you chose, you could feel the criticism he was holding back from the moment you parked the car.

Did you even survey the terrain?

Too much open space. No clear route out.

You know better than this.  

“We’re the perfect targets.”

“Joel-

“We know how this works,” He voiced over you. Even with you there, his surveillance didn’t change as he remained on a swivel.  “It was exactly what we did.”

Joel’s emotions were catching up, but he still held onto a forced restraint. He was expecting resistance, an argument from you. But you heard what he said, how Ellie needed to hear it, to believe him.

No one’s gonna find us.

It was a promise. Something Joel was determined to control.

The wind was picking up the later the night became, and any rustle was faced with a gun barrel.  It caused chills to litter your arms out of apprehension. You tried to comfort yourself with your arms tucked to your chest, but it only shifted Joel’s attention.

If you tried hard enough, you could guess what he would say to you. We need to stay sharp. You could feel Joel’s hesitation, though. It happened every time he pushed you away.

There was merit to your diversion, but Joel only allowed it for so long.

“Get some rest.” He nodded toward his forgotten sleeping bag, “No good if both of us are tired.”

----

The car was gone. The brief companions too. Your heart felt permanently caught in your throat. Adrenaline replaced everything. But it was wearing you thin.

“Where are you going?” Respite clung to Joel’s question as his eyes followed your figure up from his crouched position.

Like a cat, you stretched until something deep within your spine popped. You moved towards the shore of the small body of water you all settled by.

Time was at the forefront of Joel’s mind. Time was no longer on your side, meaning the sooner, the better pressured every minute. Daylight became the most valuable thing. And by the looks of it, you were on your way to wasting it.

“We smell, Joel.” You state as you discard the knife strapped around your waist. You were meant to be cleaning them in the water, preparing them for the next fight the way he had.

But your body was sore. You could imagine the pain Joel felt was much worse, physical or not. He put his body first rather than having you or Ellie be the brunt of it all.

Mornings were sacred to you. It was when the birds sang at dawn because the crisp, moist air carried their songs and their meanings farther through the same air that filled your lungs in fluid refreshment.

 You pulled your shirt over your head and looped your thumbs in the waistband of your pants as you wiggled them over your thighs and down your legs.

For the moment, Joel’s eyes lingered. He looked for bites. He knew he wouldn’t find anything, but he had to be sure. Instead, Joel found deep hues of bruises still healing from Kansas City.

Almost wholly above the horizon, the sun highlighted the mist rising off the body of water. It veiled your body the closer you were to where the water and the rocks met. Yet, Joel watched on until your arms maneuvered behind your back, searching for the clasp of your bra.

As if the sun was directly in his eyes, Joel looked up, avoiding seeing something that wasn’t meant for him. Except, it didn’t stop him from passing along a warning, “Don’t go out far.”

The dirt from the past days felt like a second layer of skin had embedded into your own, suffocating you. You finally waded into the freezing water to rid yourself of it.

But not before throwing a comment over your shoulder, “Join me, then.”

Your words were like an idle threat that was only met with silence. You knew he was contemplating the offer. Always thinking.

The water was cold, goosebumps littering your skin within minutes and creating peaks where Joel refused to look. He scolded himself for the way his cock twitched at just the idea.

You leaned back so you were nearly floating on your back. Above, a bird glided hypnotically in a wide circle.  It seemed you weren’t the only one seeking to rid yourself of a sense of weariness. The cool water swallowed you whole, caressing your skin and relaxing your muscles.

“Someone’s gotta stay with Ellie.” Joel voiced his decision. It was an excuse, what he was supposed to say.

There was no point in fighting it. Instead, you submerged yourself completely; the water consumed you. The longer you stayed under, the closer Joel edged to the water, ensuring you’d come up for a breath.

When you finally reemerged, you held a wicked grin.

“Don’t do that.” Joel frowned at your teasing. His eyes remained downcast, avoiding your eye. The rocks seemed more fascinating than how you became more siren-like by the minute.  “I’m gonna find Ellie.”

“She deserves some privacy.” Despite her continuous puns, you were receptive to the fact that she was still impacted.

You all were.

Hyper vigilance became the enemy that threatened to consume Joel whole. Sleep was no longer negotiable. Every movement dragged worry, invited agitation, and controlled his violence. Joel’s chest was tight, and breathing felt hard to come by. He was moments away from unraveling.

“...There won’t be another invitation, Joel.”

Joel’s loaded gaze burned right through you as he took off his clothes. While he was busy shrugging out of his shirt, you took the opportunity to tread out further. Your back was to him, but you heard the swishing of disturbed water.

You reveled in the way your skin burned for him. He’d seen you naked years ago. But not like this, never like this.

----

Joel’s eyes followed the curve of your body. Your chest swayed as you moved around freely. His pounding heart clocked how too much time had passed for him to sneak out. He was frozen.

“You’re not Tommy.” You let out a breath of relief despite your surprise.

The lace rode high on your hips, accentuating your natural curve. Your chest was perked at the sudden attention of being caught so bare.   Regardless of the incessant ringing in your ears, you stayed stone still, giving him a chance to say something.

Yet, he shook his head, backing out the door he’d come through, mumbling expected apologies.  Joel used the key under the fern and let himself in.

For days he’d been asking Tommy for his tools back. And now, they were forgotten with each hurried step.

You threw on the closest shirt, chasing after him. “Wait!”

“I didn’t mean to-

“Joel, let me explain-

“No, I shouldn’t have-I-I’ll just-”

You found a way to stand before him, blocking his escape route perfectly. “Let’s just slow down…” Your hands were up in defense, mirroring his own. “It’s not what you think.”

Of all people, you wanted Joel to hear you. But the silence was heavy and lacked a proper explanation. You could see the flush that took over his coloring. It was sweet in a way, but you were too mortified to know what to make of it. It wasn’t exactly taught how to handle these sorts of things in school, so you stalled.

“Can I make you some coffee?” An invitation to linger.

Joel looked at you and saw your bare feet moving toward him with hope. He hadn’t meant to, but his eyes scanned your bare legs; the picture of the intricate fabric underneath the oversized shirt made his skin prick. It took him a moment to realize the shirt was his, one Tommy most likely nicked under his nose.

Doubting you knew what that did to him, Joel shook his head, “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“One cup.” You promised.

The air was tense when you made it to the kitchen. You insisted on a fresh pot, but the drops felt like they took ages to fill it enough for its purpose. The hem of the shirt skirted the boundary of indecency, but you thought nothing of it. Your focus was on the longing stare Joel was giving you.

“Tommy and I…” You started with a shaky breath. You were sure Joel knew all about the drifting relationship. “I thought maybe this would…” It felt strange explaining yourself the way you had. But you wanted it to be known that even to you, it felt out of character. “He doesn’t look at me the same anymore…”

Your words feigned a sense of yearning. But neither you nor Tommy could keep up the act. Your words seemed heavy, but it was so alleviating to say aloud. To be listened to.

But the smell of coffee pulled you back, reminding you to be a good host. Filling the mugs just below the brim, you broke the small barrier of the kitchen island. You held the mug close to your chest, the warmth working as emotional support while Joel toyed with the ceramic handle.

You lifted the mug to your lips, blowing lightly over the piping-hot coffee, “...But neither do I.”

“I can talk to Tommy if you…” No matter how much it made Joel regret the offer, Joel said the right thing. He couldn’t meddle where he didn’t belong. “I’m sure he’d understand.”

You laughed into your mug. “I’d rather this stay our thing.”

“You say that like this is going to happen again.”

“Joel Miller.” You said his name after a pause. He looked like a child in trouble. “Are you flirting with me?”

“No, no, I-

“Joking.” You cut in just as awkwardly as he flushed.

You wanted the mood to lighten, needed it to.

But there was clumsiness in every movement, between your ongoing jitteriness and Joel’s restless fidgeting.  So, you moved to the window. On the sill held your half-empty carton of cigarettes, the ones you were trying hard not to touch these days.

With a soft glance back to Joel, you asked, “Mind if I?”

Joel could spot the influences of Tommy in you. Or maybe you had passed along your habits. Either way, it was your home of sorts. Who was he to tell you no?

You had such dexterity with the process. It was like a ritual how you rolled the cigarette over your lips before lighting it. Then after a deep exhale, you utilized the perpetually open window to tap the beginnings of ash.  

“I don’t mean to drag you into all of this…”  You trailed off through an exhale of smoke through your nose. Joel could see the appeal now. “I just don’t-…Tommy’s my friend, and if I…I don’t know what’ll happen if we’re not…”

The end of something always hurt everyone around you. You all were just playing your roles in delaying the inescapable. But the questions of the future haunted you. You weren’t sure if you were ready to let it all go.

“I’ll let you leave…” You toyed with the lit cigarette that was on its last limb as you spoke. Joel’s silence was becoming deafening. “Promise I won’t hold you up any longer.”

You were sure he had more pressing matters than to comfort you through an inevitable breakup.

“Tommy’ll get over it.” Joel sat back with more relaxation now that he spoke his mind. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

----

Joel kept his distance deliberately. He made the venture into the water seem like another task. In and out.

“I don’t bite, you know.”

He knew you wouldn’t be able to stay quiet for too long. He knew what it meant to join you, but he made an effort to seem detached.

“Just giving you some privacy.” Joel echoed your words.

“Right.”  Your frustration was clear. You carried it with you for the handful of days that passed. Your frustrations didn’t lie with him like Joel chose to believe.

Instead, guilt filled Joel’s chest. It had been gnawing at him since he left Boston. He should have left you there if he were as reliable as everyone claimed he was. You’d be without bruises. You’d be without his burden. Leaving without you meant there would be no return.

But you knew Joel. You had to remind yourself.  You knew what he was thinking, what he wanted. That’s how you knew moving towards him would benefit the both of you.

You moved gradually, leading the interaction by brushing his hair behind his ears. The greys of his hair darkened with the water you carried on your fingertips.  He looked younger. He looked like your Joel.

You reached for him, pulling him through the cool water to you. Joel was stiff when your chest met his warmly. He thought of pulling away, but you felt so peaceful that it swallowed him. Your arms wrapped around him with comfort. Your body settled in front of his, gently pressing your hips against him, giving him only an ounce of pressure to entice him.

He noted every twitch. Shyness wasn���t questioned; that barrier was broken years ago. It enabled you to trace his face. Every detail was already committed to memory.

You imagined what he’d say to you all those years ago—anything to make a smile crack.

Careful, now.

All you’re gonna find is a whole lot of ugly.

The scar above his eyebrow marked when your feelings for Joel first latched on. You were blinded by anger then, but the blood scared you. He promised you it was a graze and that he still had his life. But that wasn’t enough proof for you.

When your thumb traced over the faint line, Joel finally found his voice again, “Your shooting’s still sloppy.”

The look Joel held was intimidating, scrutinizing, but you knew he was trying to be witty.  

“See now, when you say things like that…” You whispered softly due to the proximity, “I don’t regret shooting you.”

He hummed, appreciating your touch that ventured to his shoulders. You could feel under your hands the tension he held. You wanted nothing more than to provide relief.

“Joel.”

Just his name made your desire clear. He wanted to touch you all those years ago, but he’d never betray his brother like that. But now you invited him to you without any barriers. There was hesitancy in the hold Joel found on your hips. His mind wandered; wavered between the need and the want.

Starting at the swirl of hair on his chest, you followed the trail down until Joel’s breath hitched. Joel felt like he was about to lose it when your hand wrapped around him.

“This feel okay?” You moved your hand against him, slow and soft.

Water dripped from his nose to your shoulder as he nodded eagerly.  His groan rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating against your own. You tread in dangerous territory but recognized the privilege of his trust.

This was for Joel. You needed this just as much as he did. You didn’t worry if it functioned as a thank you for keeping you alive, an apology for the trouble you’d caused him, or a confession of your own.

It didn’t matter when you indulged in your own lust.

“Do you think of me when you’re on your own?” You asked, fingers wrapped around his shaft, squeezing him until you felt his pulse in your grip.

“Oh- Fuck-” He cut himself off before he let a pet name slip. Joel’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips, imprinting his touch into your skin, burned to your very bone.

“Hmm?” You edged him further. Gently, you continued to pump him and move your thumb over his tip.

Joel’s ragged breath fell on your pulse point with each moan as you continued to pump him rhythmically. His hand came up to your throat in a tender hold. His lips hover over yours but refrained from connecting.

It would be too intimate if you had.

“Do you want me to?” The hold gave him dominance even as he shuddered under your touch. Always desiring control.

The water around you rippled with your continued movements. With his free hand, his thumb rubbed gently at the sensitive skin that was near the pebbles of your breast, but he made no effort to touch it just yet.  His words and touch were a deadly combination, the kind that made you ache.

“Would that be so bad?” You spoke on his lips, feeling the tickle of his mustache. The more you worked on his release the more you felt his warm pants turn into deep moans. “Come on now, Miller,” You coaxed softly, moving up and down his length with a lively pattern, teasingly and tauntingly. “Tell me.”

Joel’s words were caught in his throat as ecstasy flowed through his veins as the pleasure crashed. His hips jerked against you as his breathing became ragged and his moans became filthy.

He sighed with relief, abandoning himself. He groaned into you, nuzzling his nose in your neck as the aftershocks made him tremble. He could feel your hand threading in his hair, keeping him in your tight embrace.

“Yes.”

[bitletsanddrabbles]

Stolen Child: A Much Needed Screaming Fit

Okay, so, as I said earlier - I'm fine. The story's fine. I'm not angry at anyone about anything or shouting at or accusing anyone of anything or any of that sort of thing that I might come across as somehow because I'm shouting and only sort of semi-coherently. I'm just shouting because I need to shout.

Basically, I've been feeling increasingly just…tired and tense? The temperature spike this weekend did not help at all, since I am not a heat person and it narfs my sleep. And my brain finally phrased last month as "I didn't have a single day off in August because every time I wasn't at work I was some stripe of not-feeling-well", at which point the rest of my mind and body went "YES EXACTLY!" and doubled down on the exhaustion and anxiety. I also have another routine medical appointment next Tuesday and something going on with my hand that looks kinda like ringworm, but doesn't act like ringworm (and how would I have picked up ringworm there?), which I will need to make another appointment for. Which means I really need to have a good, old fashioned, overstimulated three-year-old level melt down about something I care about, but that is not ultimately important to the universe and then go…I dunno. Maybe eat some ice cream and take a nap. Definitely with the napping.

Since Stolen Child is kinda the Big Craft Community Craft Thing right now and ranting about it could, conceivably, generate some useful dialogue which always results in Happy Brain Chemicals (useful right now!), we're going with that one. So if you feel like reading through the flailing mental health fail rant and giving advice, observations, feedback, or just patting me on the head and saying "Don't forget to breathe, dear. Air is important", go right on ahead. If you don't, eh. Not your job. Feel free to keep scrolling.

And now! Here we go! Ready, set - MELT DOWN!

This right here? Is a great comment. It's a lovely comment. I love informative comments like this! There's only one problem with it:

I SERIOUSLY NEEDED THIS INFO BACK WHEN I WAS PLANNING THE ORIGINAL STORY!

See, back in 2017, when I was first plotting this whole thing, my plan was to have him wind up…not heir. I seriously think he'd be happier doing like Tom and Henry and living at Downton, but running a clock shop somewhere and letting Mary run the estate and George be the heir. Thing is, I didn't know that was possible just like that. I hadn't made any of my UK fan-friends at the time (heck, I don't think I had this account yet?). As I have mentioned a million times, I fail at research, although I have been slowly getting a bit better with help. So at the time I thought that an Earl's son became the heir, no questions asked, and no options unless they abdicated which was fully what I intended on having Thomas do after a bit of trying and getting a headache and having him and Mary both unintentionally-but-avoidably stomp all over each other's toes. Then I started rewatching (didn't make it through season one because I have officially hit the 'can't really watch things on my own' stage) and was immediately reminded that Matthew didn't have a choice but to be heir. Oh! Oops! Guess Thomas can't abdicate! Which is how we wound up with the current draft.

And this comment.

Now, I have no reason to disbelieve the statement that they don't need to recognize Thomas, but I can't think of why my UK friends wouldn't have pointed it out at some point, except that I did always call it the Thomas-as-Heir fic which could have lead to the concept that heir was my desired end game. Or perhaps it was one of those things that just didn't get questioned because subconsciously they thought it was my desired end game. Or maybe something else perfectly logical! I mean, there are reasons it could have happened, but my brain is not braining good right now, so. Point being, I didn't know and I'm still not sure and this firmly falls outside of my 'things I can comfortably research'. If it were modern, sure! But history?

Seriously, my researching lessons in school extended to 'go to the library and read a book' and stopped. There was nothing about how to gauge how trustworthy the book was, or if there was, I didn't learn it because I moved through three school districts (five if you count college and uni) and wasn't in the right district at the right time. Given how obvious it is that there are a lot of history books out there that straight up lie (and I don't just mean the school texts. I've tried to teach myself history in recent years and wound up straight up calling bull shit on several books), this leads to massive trust issues. I asked at my local library if they had a research librarian on staff and bless his heart, the fellow I was talking to didn't even know what that was. There's another library nearby that is bigger, but I keep forgetting that it's part of our library system now and honestly I don't even know how to drive there and don't like driving in that area anyway and I'm not even sure the busses will take me there in a reasonable manner given public transport in this area. I know I've heard of a couple other tricks over the years that I've carefully noted down in places I've forgotten about so that I could reference them later.

…yeah.

And if it is true (which I have every reason to believe it is), what then? I've already set up the entire story to have Thomas be recognized as heir! I mean, I could put it on hold and rewrite the ending. There are a couple of scenes that would be easy, but others would be straight up impossible. I'd also have to lose at least three scenes that I've been looking forward to sharing and that people would love, and I don't know what I'd replace them with, and I'd have to rewrite the dinner scene (*straight up cries at the thought*), and I am a slow writer, so I have no idea when it would be done! I kinda hate the idea of telling everyone "We're going to be a chapter a week!" and then three chapters later going "Haha, just kidding! Indefinite hiatus while I fix the entire plot!" Especially since right now reader comments are definitely my primary 'happy chemical' source and I need that! On the other hand, I really, really love the idea of this being a one shot and not having to figure out what happens next! But it might not get done for another ten years if I try that!

If I do stick with him as heir, it seems like people would know that not recognizing him was an option, so I'd still need to do some rewriting to explain why he winds up heir! And why would he? The only thing I can come up with given my current setting is Cora pitching an ever loving (dignified, restrained) fit over the idea of not acknowledging him and he and Robert just going "OKAY OKAY WE YIELD!" which will still take some rewriting, but a lot less (I think I can keep the rewrites ahead of the posting schedule for the most part maybe?), and will still leave me figuring out where we go from here, but might work as a decent compromise?

Either way, I have to figure out what I'm doing before I post next week's chapter! And all my brain wants to do is melt into a puddle of goo for a month! The idea of trying to research or plot or anything like that just makes me want to sit in the shower and cry! I WANT A MONTH'S VACATION FROM LIFE, DAMN IT ALL!

Edit: I now have an appointment to have my hand looked at this Wednesday.

[my-rose-tinted-glasses]

Rose Recaps Rose Tinted Glasses It's been three months since I made a post thanking this community for being a place for me to share my love of BL.

And since then, every day I feel a little bit more comfortable here.

This place is so special to me for so many reasons and the fact that I found it is a small miracle. I was talking with my friend Neely about something BL related and they told me that they think I'm doing much better since I came here. So thanks again.

I was never a part of any online fandom. And before BL I never really felt like I was missing something. Maybe because I always found someone irl that I could freak out about whatever I was watching I never really felt the need to go look.

And the people here are exceptionally kind. Before, I made a point to never engage much online, except for certain support groups, because of the hate that sometimes exists in certain spaces. So I was very much surprised by the kind humans that exist in this bl fandom in this corner of the internet.

Also. There is some serious brilliant people here. Look giffing is not easy, it takes a long time, sometimes you spend so much time with a set only to hate it by the end and never posting it. And sometimes you post something and you're really proud and crickets. And sometimes you post it just so it doesn't go to waste and all of a sudden it explodes. It's all part of the magic.

I keep my sets pretty simple so I'm in awe of how some people make these beautiful art pieces with layers and colouring and typography. It's incredible and I applaud your creativity and patience.

Speaking of brilliance, I'm constantly in awe of the meta writers. That shit is not easy.

It takes way longer than we think, to make it neat and readable, adding gifs or shots to illustrated a point, sometimes wasting so much time finding the gif you want in the mess that is the gif search (I understand it now, cause yesterday I was on the hunt and it would've been quicker to make the damn gifs), and reviewing it before posting, changing it in the process, sometimes leaving it in drafts because the idea is not completed. I'm tired just thinking about this. I'm not able to do that. Sure I can talk for hours about this stuff but actually organize my ideas into a coherent point of view and writing it down. Nope. Not me. So bravo meta writers. I applaud you.

And of course all the people that share the stuff that really matters. Like the colours, the wardrobe, the places we see, the news about what's coming, language nuances, pictures of the pretty people in sometimes ridiculous or beautiful outfits, sometimes the pretty people before shirts were invented, and some of the funniest commentary I ever encountered.

I don't wanna single people out by tagging them because truly there are way too many. So I just want to thank some people that helped me navigate this place and made this time so enjoyable. First and foremost. @twig-tea You were the first person I talked to here and you were so kind and patient with me and my awkwardness and lack of knowledge of how this place works. She also writes great meta and is brilliant and everyone should be following her. @lurkingshan because of the Sahara-Sensei post that you tagged me in and made me feel so seen. @pharawee because IFYLITA just wouldn't have been the same without your sets. @respectthepetty because she helped get the colour coded subs right and she appreciates the bokeh in all its glory. @itsallaboutbl for screaming with me in portuguese. @mikuni14 Because she's been so incredible kind to me. @iguessitsjustme because of many reasons. And If I ever reblogged anything from you, consider yourself tagged in this post. All of you are amazing. And finally...

@blmpff for a lot but mostly for the most unexpected and incredible moment I experienced in this short time. The day that a bird took over my dash. Khun Feathers was such a treat and this masterpiece was the highlight of the day.

image by @blmpff It's been a wonderful year and I look forward to see what happens tomorrow. Wishing you all a happy new year!💜

[seredelgi]

So lonely they coul die.

fandom: Elvis Presley/ Elvis (2022)

pairing: Elvis x Fem!Reader or Austin!Elvis x Fem!Reader

summary: Reader is a good Christian girl whose family has passed when she was 15, she was then raised by her mama’s best friend, Gladys Presley, alongside her son, Elvis.

rating: Mature, 18+

warnings: stepbro!elvis, a bit of angst, a bit of smut, dubious consent, he’s a bit controlling, but he does it ‘cause he’s in denial, reader is pretty much sexually frustrated, kind of innocent, bit of a “good girl” complex, cheating, as in reader cheats on her bf with EP, let me know if it needs more warnings.

word count: 4.3k

a/n: ok this is has been sitting in the drafts for a while because I was too nervous to post it. Also, I have no idea if it will have a part 2. English is not my mother tongue so it may contain errors but hey, I’m learning.

tags: @eliseinmemphis @galaxygirl453 @powerofelvis​

"So... When can I see you again?" he whispers softly while holding your hand in his, looking at you with a charming sly smile, his big blue eyes sparkling languidly in your direction.

You're blushing fervently beneath the arch of your flat's front door, shooting a quick glance towards the kitchen, where Elvis should still be, and then meeting his eyes again.

You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, biting your lower lip, pondering if maybe it's a bit early to set up another date.

Mike Weaver's one hell of a guy, that's for sure. You've been seeing him now for about six months, and you can tell he's got it just as bad for you as you do for him. It's in the way he looks at you, in the way he smiles when you're around, and in the revering sweetness of his touch.

Like right now, for example, he's gently caressing the back of your hand with his thumb as he waits for your answer. It's the kind of thing that just makes your heart flutter slightly as you try to focus on something remotely coherent to say.

" Why don't you come by tomorrow during my break and we'll set up a date for this weekend?" you murmur.

For some reason, you don't want Elvis to overhear your conversation. It's not like you're saying anything malicious, but still, you've seen how he's gotten with the men you've dated in the past.

This time tho, even he seemed to like Mike.

You have to admit, you were terrified when your boyfriend came up with the idea of this dinner, but unexpectedly, Elvis behaved. He laughed at Mike's jokes, complimented his handshake, and exchanged what seemed to be a genuinely nice conversation about who knows what football team.

You could feel it. He was the one.

After all, you've been dating him for a while now and you're both about the right age to start to think about settling down.

If he'd ask, you know you'd say yes.

" As the lady wishes" Mike grins at you, and if possible, you redden even more than you already had, the circles he's tracing on your hand with his thumb sending little shivers along your arm.

" Alright then, you better go, I still have to clean up that whole mess in the kitchen" you suggest, not sure to be able to take one second of this tension between you two.

" Not even a goodnight kiss?" he pouts, squeezing your left hand ever so gently.

You can't help but chuckle at how cute he looks with his bottom lip sticking out like that, and you cover your lips with your right hand as you turn to the kitchen to check if Elvis might be on the watch.

Coast clear.

You look at your boyfriend again, his lips now perfectly shaping a swooning smile, and you lean in to kiss him briefly, chastely but tenderly.

The sudden contact has your heart racing so fast you know you can't take any more of it, and with a last quick farewell, he makes his way down the hall, leaving you alone with Elvis once again.

Gosh, what a night.

You are in seventh heaven. You've dreamed about a man like this your entire life, and even if you had lost hopes when Elvis seemed to be set on denying your hand to every single last one of them, you find Mike. Mike who made him laugh three times in the course of just one dinner.

You sigh ecstatically, making your way towards the kitchen, still thinking about the brief kiss you two exchanged.

You feel so silly blushing over a peck on the lips, but with the poor amount of experience you've got up until now, it figures.

You know it shouldn't be so relevant, but you really can't wait to be able to be more intimate with him. It's embarrassing how little you've been able to do, but you're simply not comfortable smooching your boyfriend around town, so you two may have properly kissed two or three times now.

You certainly couldn't hope to bring him home, with Elvis and all, and honestly, you weren't even certain you wanted to.

You know what happens when a couple is home alone, and even if Mike seems very respectful about you wanting to wait until marriage, you're not sure you can trust yourself alone with him.

Your mother raised you a Christian girl, a good girl. You believe in the sanctity of marriage and that's why you decided only one man would have you. You were okay with that, until it became unbearably difficult to find one that lasted longer than a few months.

Now, you don't wanna blame Elvis alone for that; some of them simply revealed themselves to be pretty crappy, but the rest, he couldn't deal with for no good reason.

You know you're supposed to make your own decisions, that you shouldn't care what he thinks of your boyfriends, but you love him too much.

You were only fifteen when your parents and your older brother died tragically in a car accident, leaving you in the caring hands of Mrs. Presley, your mama's dearest friend.

Elvis was three years older than you, around the age your brother was when it happened, and he was one of his best friends too. You two were raised side by side since then, and you've always absolutely adored him. Back when you two were little he was your hero, always defending you against anyone that dared to make fun of you.

Before you became part of the Presley family, you were ashamed to admit you had a huge crush on him. You had to force yourself to grow out of it, of course, since you two became practically family.

He turned into a fine man, the best you've ever known, and he probably set your standards way too high for anyone to ever meet them. It also didn't help that he was impossibly protective of you. No one was ever good enough, no one met his expectations.

Maybe you were guilty of giving way too much importance to his opinion on the matter, but for some reason, as soon as Elvis expressed the way he felt about them, they instantly became unattractive to you. You could only see those flaws he pointed out so easily.

You were growing frustrated with the search, and with yourself. You found it was quite lonely at night, having no one to warm you. You wanted to do more than hold hands and kiss once or twice. Hell, you wanted to be touched, to be loved.

So that's the reason you just couldn't stop smiling that night, even while entering the kitchen, finding your so-called "step-brother" having already cleaned the table and standing cluelessly in front of the sink.

Damn, he's always been handsome when he dressed in all black. It made his sparkly blue eyes shimmer even more intensely than they usually did. How on earth he was able to remain a bachelor this long was honestly beyond you.

" Leave it to me" you say while approaching him slowly, your yellow bell skirt brushing swiftly against your ankles.

He stands back, letting you handle the rest of the work.

You really don't mind doing the dishes, you've always found it very relaxing.

" Thanks for handling the rest" you add, shooting him a bright smile.

" 'S okay, it's good to do this stuff once in a while" he jokes, his big smile making your heart flutter for just a second.

He's always had this effect on you, at least since you can remember. You don't think nothing of it, it's just the way he is.

Effortlessly magnetic.

" So is he gone?" he bluntly asks, taking you kind of aback.

" Yeah" you try to hide the blushing you still feel pervading your cheeks as you think of that sweet moment beneath the arch of the door.

Luckily, he doesn't seem to notice.

He's unexpectedly quiet tho, and it's starting to unease you.

You're done with the chores pretty soon, and as you turn around from the washed dishes you find him there, leaning against the wooden table's surface, his feet crossed.

He's lost in thought. You know because his index finger and his thumb are almost nervously playing with his bottom lip, and at that, your brows furrow.

"Elvis, are you okay?" you approach him cautiously, so as not to startle him. Sometimes he got so deep lost you didn't know if his senses would take notice of your presence.

As predicted, no answer.

You chuckle slightly and take place in front of him, bending a little to meet his eyesight. And there he sees you, smiling playfully up at him, your hands clasped behind your back.

" Mh?" he simply goes, raising his chin, straightening up again, and you follow.

" Are you okay?" you tilt your head to the side, confused.

He looks at you so intensely now you're practically squirming in your place, feeling a mixture of concern and discomfort overcoming your previously acquired serenity.

His eyes are so captivating you're suddenly very aware of your proximity to him, but before you can take a step back, he speaks again.

" I don't like him"

Your heart drops in your stomach, your hands fall at your sides, a sigh of exasperation suddenly threatens to let go of your throat.

" What?" you manage to breathe out instead.

He stands up and looks at you, his blue eyes now clear of any residual doubt.

" Mike. I don't like him. You should probably stop seeing him" he says nonchalantly while making his way towards the fridge.

That, he had never said, ever. It was way too much, even for him.

" I beg your pardon?" you raise your voice, a sudden rage getting a hold of you.

You're so shocked you can do nothing much than stand there, wide-eyed, looking at him as he fetches himself a cola, uncorks it, and takes a good fiery sip before putting it down on the counter aside from him.

As he's done, he finally meets your eyes again, even more tranquil than before, or so it would seem.

" He's not good enough for you, honey" he explains, shrugging.

" Well, what a shock" you let out before you could think about a proper response.

But honestly, you couldn't care less. To hell with proper responses, he is being absolutely unnerving this evening.

" What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, brows furrowing, his damn bedroom eyes suddenly looking hurt.

You wish you could've held onto that anger a moment longer, but seeing him staring at you so cluelessly just breaks your heart.

He's not being mean. He genuinely believes you're better off without Mike, that you're too good for him. And as much as his previous words had threatened you to simply let the discussion go downhill, you knew you could reason with him.

So you sigh heavily, recollecting your thoughts to be able to put them into words correctly.

You look at him, your eyes begging him to see reason.

" It just means" you start again, slowly approaching him "that you're very protective of me, and as much as I appreciate it, I don't know if I can go on dating like this without it ever leading to something serious"

You're standing in front of him again, your hand on your heart, hoping he can understand your perspective.

" You mean you wanna marry him?" he asks, sounding surprised, looking vaguely disappointed.

You can't help but smile shyly at that, looking over your shoulder for a second, then back at him " Why not?"

" Well, he's a carpenter"

You roll your eyes amusingly, knowing if he had to resort to that excuse, you were sure he got your point.

" It's a family business, it's all gonna be his someday" you smile " he's got money saved up, he's a smart man, a family man"

Elvis shakes his head.

" That don't mean he's good enough for you"

" But he is" you reach out for him, taking his hand in yours, so close his face hovers right above yours "Oh Elvis, he takes such good care of me"

He looks at your hands, as if surprised you'd get so close to him, then his languid eyes dart back and forth between yours two, and he frowns again, his hand taking a hold of your left one.

This gained proximity has your heart fluttering silently underneath his gaze as you inhale the scent of his cologne.

You gifted him that very fragrance. The year before, while shopping for Christmas gifts, you came across this magnificent scent and instantly thought of him. It suited him perfectly: elegant, yet masculine.

" I take good care of you" he breaths hot upon the skin of your cheeks, squeezing your hand as to emphasize the weight of his words " I can buy you anything you like. Dresses, flowers, jewels" he chuckles as his other hand reaches carefully for your hip "you name it"

This time, it's awfully hard to ignore the wave of warmth his hand spreads within you, but you make no link to it with the sudden quickening of your breaths.

Damn, he's handsome.

Tanned skin, full lips, and the most beautiful pair of sparkly blue eyes you had ever seen. Sure, Mike's weren't bad, but they weren't Elvis's either.

You smile along with him, and he tightens his grip around you ever so slightly, letting your right-hand rest on his chest casually. But not so casually that you don't feel the consequences of it.

The warmth you had felt spreading in your lower abdomen has suddenly lowered, prickling faintly between your thighs.

At that, your smile fades, your cheeks redden furiously, and you gulp nervously.

You had managed to stop thinking about him like this, tried so hard to keep at a distance from him all these years, knowing very well the fine line between what you two are and what you're supposed to be for each other.

He's not your brother, but he's been one for you throughout the years.

And yet you can't stop thinking about the weight of his hands upon you right now, and you suddenly wish they could travel along your skin with less restraints.

Not even Mike had ever been able to awaken such thoughts in your head, not anyone.

You look at him again, trying to regain a shred of your lost focus.

" That's not the kind of care I'm referring to" you admit, lowering your gaze.

And that's all you should let yourself allude to, right at this moment, pressed against him like that, feeling things you should lock away. But your heart is racing faster than ever, and you can't really think straight right now.

" I am a woman now, Elvis. I have needs, I wanna feel loved" you can't seem to look at him while you say this, so when he speaks, you simply feel his breath grazing the skin of your ear.

" I love you"

As you feel a shiver running down your spine, you ask yourself if whatever you're feeling now is right.

Could you ever cross that line without feeling as if you've lost some type of family?

The only one you still had left.

You smile and gain all the strength buried within you to meet his eyes again.

" That's not what I meant" you sigh, looking down briefly before finding the courage to look him in the eyes " I wanna be kissed, passionately. I wanna be touched, and-"

You can't say more, because his eyes have darkened, and somehow it took your breath away, made your heart skip a bit, and your thighs squeeze together.

He squeezes your hand and presses you even closer to him, his warmth spreading within you, his breaths mixing with your own.

" I can do that for you" he purrs upon your skin, so huskily you feel your legs weaken.

But you must have heard wrong.

Whatever you're feeling, it's a fluke, and he cannot feel the same.

" What?" you wished you didn't sound so breathless.

" I can kiss you" he says, leaving no space for misinterpretation.

Your heart misses another beat.

He's playing with you, he's just teasing.

" Elvis, c'mon, be serious" you chuckle nervously.

And even if you shouldn't, some deep secret part of you hopes with all yourself he's not joking. 'Cause right now, looking at his lips, you can't help wondering how they might feel against yours. You can bet they're softer than Mike's, and you desperately wanna find out if you're right.

" I ain't playing with you honey, I'm dead serious" he smiles charmingly and tears his right hand away from yours, reaching for your cheek, looking so deeply into your eyes you can't help but surrender to the moment.

His thumb grazes your lips carefully, parting them as he lowers his gaze upon them, and you wish you had the will to tear yourself away from his arms, to stop the storm that his sweet words had gotten going on in your heart.

You feel like crying,  and yet you don't even think about stopping him as he slowly comes down upon your waiting lips.

" Let me love you" he whispers upon them before you can feel his kiss, humid and gentle, softer than you had imagined, tearing apart every last shred of your resistance.

He kisses you carefully, almost experimentally, as if you could break away at any second.

You've got enough time to adjust to the feeling, and start kissing him back as he holds you close to him.

You shouldn't do this. You shouldn't indulge in this inappropriate behavior, and your hands most definitely shouldn't grip at his shirt so helplessly, silently encouraging him.

At your gesture, he tightens his grip on your hip, as to let you know that he wants you close as much as you do, even if he's being impossibly gentle in his kiss.

You're glad he's doing it because you can't imagine what your heart would do if he only-

His left hand suddenly brushes from your hip to behind your back, and you let a soft, involuntary moan escape your lips.

At that, it's like he awakens abruptly. His grip tightens almost violently around you, he slips his tongue inside your mouth, and you feel it clashing against your own, hot and overpowering.

Gosh, this can't be right.

And yet it feels so inexplicably good it hurts inside.

You fear you've longed for this for too long. That his protective ways, his undivided attentions had awakened an intrinsic need for him you couldn't deny yourself any longer.

At that exact moment, as you began to taste him inside your mouth, you decided you wouldn't resist him any longer. That anything he would have wanted to do to you in that kitchen, you would have let him.

You didn't realize how tense you had been until you melted in his arms, letting him deepen the kiss even further and enveloping his arm around you, backing you towards the kitchen table.

Anytime he parts away from you to catch his breath, you surprise yourself leaning against him, asking silently for more.

" See?" he mumbles in between kisses " I can kiss you passionately"

Anytime he moves an inch of skin against your own, you feel it burning as if it had caught fire.

You realize with shame that you're easy to moan against his lips, feeling an explicable need to let him know you're loving it.

Suddenly he reaches down for the hem of your bell skirt, and you feel his hands traveling underneath its thick fabric.

As a shiver runs down your spine and you let a whimper out of you, you're pervaded by a sudden fear. It doesn't tame the high nor the excitement that his kisses have unleashed within you, but it makes you somewhat more self-conscious.

He's got his hands up your skirt, grazing the skin of your bare legs and thighs, making you feel impossibly hot in your panties.

No one has ever done it. You've never let a man this far before.

" Wanna be touched, hon?" he pants upon your lips, and when you meet his eyes, you feel as exposed as if you were laying naked beneath him.

You can't help but nod in his direction, your nose brushing his, your heavy breaths mixing with his.

Your heart skips a beat, and as he starts kissing your neck, leaving your lips alone for a minute, you realize they're quivering both in excitement and distress.

" I can touch you" he breathes.

You should shove him away. That's what a good girl would do.

A good Christian girl would not let a man grab her ass as he's doing now, wouldn't let him lift her up upon the table, and wouldn't certainly open her legs to welcome him closer, moaning his name in his ear as he bites her neck.

You feel so vulnerable now. Sitting on your kitchen table, your legs open for him, your skirt up your stomach, your panties on full display, and your core just a shred of fabric away from him.

He brushes his hand along your thigh, down towards your centre.

Something inside you knows that if you really wanna put a stop to all of this, here's your chance. 'Cause you know he's going for that spot no one's ever touched, the one you saved for your husband-to-be.

But you're too lost in the fever of the moment, too dazed off to fully care.

However, as his hand lands splayed on your pussy, you whimper, your heart dropping in your stomach.

" Elvis" you mutter, sounding breathless as ever.

He doesn't answer tho, and you feel your heart pounding in your throat as he starts feeling you out through the material of your briefs.

They're soaked. You can feel it. And it's downright shameful that you're letting him know like this. Everything is happening is. It's no ladylike behavior.

How are you ever gonna absolve yourself from all of this?

You call his name once again to try and stop whatever he wants to do, but it comes out so distorted by lust that it sounds like a plead.

He detaches from your neck and meets your eyes, wanting to see what you'll look like as you're being touched for the very first time.

You feel his fingers tasting you through your panties, massaging your entrance, making you feel so flustered and hot you think you could pass out.

He's not even properly touching you and you already feel on fire.

All worries and doubts have escaped your mind, which is simply high on pleasure.

You suddenly feel desperately empty inside.

You've never felt this way, as if your whole life depends on feeling him slide inside of you, filling you up as you know he wants to.

Fuck it. He's too far away.

You wanna close that distance he'd put between you two to be able to look at what he was doing to you. You kiss him in a way you would have never dared to think you were capable of.

You're messy and needy, and you make so many sounds you don't recognize. Hell, you can barely recognize yourself right now. You're blinded by the need of him.

Your hand reaches for the spot where he's massaging you, and as if possessed by this sudden hunger for him, you move your panties out of the way, baring yourself completely to him, ready to feel his blissful touch upon your dripping core.

You've never wanted anything more. You had never thought intimacy would be so terribly frustrating.

And it's even worse when he suddenly stops.

He breaks the kiss and backs away slightly.

You open your eyes to look for his, finding them frozen upon you, wide with horror.

Your heart drops right in your stomach.

The stinging hint of anxiety starts pervading your skin with furious pricking.

" Fuck" he swears, and his head drops down. His right hand, the one that had just given you the best pleasure of your life, now reaches for his forehead, massaging his eyebrows towards the centre.

You're frozen on the spot. Wide-eyed, messy hair falling on your flushed cheeks, and your shoulder strap fallen down your arm, exposing your new baby pink bra.

As you try and focus on what is happening tears start to threaten to run down your face.

He stopped. He realized what you two were doing and stopped himself.

Not you, the good Christian girl whose man just walked out the door; but him, the one who never even liked Mike in the first place.

You're appalled by your behaviour.

You just acted as if you had no control over your instincts, whoring yourself to a man you considered as family.

He steps back and turns around almost fully from you, sighing.

And for an unknown forsaken reason, this breaks your heart into a million pieces.

All of a sudden you feel cold.

" I'm so sorry Y/N" he breathes, his hands still holding at the centre of his eyebrows, eyes closed.

You open your mouth to say something, but you can't. Every word you think of just dies in your throat.

He can't even look at you. He must be so disappointed.

You can't help the tears to start running down your cheeks.

You wanna cry, you wanna hug him out, tell him that you liked it, that you wanted him. That you're not really his sister and he didn't take advantage of you.

But you simply can't.

[katkat030]

you 🤝 me

not being normal abt the dbhc au

YEAH. LITERALLY. Define normal because I sure as heck am NOT it. My gosh is the DBHC Ethubs brainrot strong.

sooooo as promised, quotes from my DBHC Ethubs wip :D (Edit: yeah so uh. that got a bit out of hand)

I’m the most happy with these and they probably won’t change too much when it comes time to put together the “donefinalfinal2.0take3” draft as I’m prone to naming things lol

#1

There’s a fond tilt to his lips as he cards his fingers through Bdubs’ hair, the sensation of the strands slipping through his fingers and the weight of the head pillowed on his chest grounding. It feels right, just so, a surety that seeps into his bones and nestles there. With Bdubs curled up on the grass beside him, face turned outwards and the sleepy smile tugging at his expression just barely peeking out from beneath the arm thrown over his eyes, the irony isn’t lost on him.

Dbhc Etho isn’t human, as much as he’s feeling and acting like one ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ so there’s a little nugget of angst there.

for context, they’re lying in the sun - it’s set around early season 10, maybe around when Bdubs plants the forest around his area. Seeing as Etho was made for terraforming and gardening, it would only make sense for him to be helping Bdubs out with it.

Anyway. Spending a long day in the heat to dig holes, place saplings in them and cover them over again is pretty physically intensive. So Bdubs, being Bdubs, is tired and just wants to lie in the sunshine for a bit. Who’s to say Etho doesn’t join him (he does) (Bdubs ends up lying his head on Etho’s chest)

(there’s some serious angst potential here. Bdubs missed his uh, friend, when he wasn’t around before redeviating. Maybe he cries about it. Maybe Etho has some feelings about that)

#2

“Hey, you,” Bdubs murmurs, nose crinkling as his face stretches into a yawn, shifting the arm thrown over his eyes to open them for a few seconds and squint up at where Etho stands, blocking the rays of late-afternoon sunlight.

“Hey yourself, ‘Dubs,” he replies, unable to help the amusement creeping into his tone. Unregistered emotion detected, the notification flashes, which he ignores in favour of stuffing his hands into his pockets, raising an eyebrow at where Bdubs lies spread-eagled on the ground by his feet, well-worn soil stained gloves discarded and cast off to the side. “What ‘cha up to?” 

An incoherent “Mm” is all he gets in response, and it’s a conscious effort not to huff with laughter. The half-hearted glare from Bdubs proves the challenge impossible.

He could absolutely make a game of annoying Bdubs, Etho decides, mentally noting the thought and storing it to contemplate later. “I finished fixing your saplings,” is what he opts for instead, this time receiving a longer and slightly more coherent mumble he takes to mean as a thank you, and not a get your shadow away from me as it was likely intended.

“What was that?” He teases, putting a hand to his ear and leaning down slightly, blocking the sun further. “Is it past your bedtime?” 

Bdubs scowls as a breeze sweeps past, and had Etho been human he’d be completely caught off guard as the other reaches up to yank his arm. As it is he makes a show of stumbling, catching himself before using the connection to pivot and flop down besides Bdubs on the grass, greeted by Bdubs blinking blearily up at him, one eye open and the other shut against the brightness once again unobscured by Etho’s figure. 

“If you’re going to sit here, at least lie down, for goodness’ sakes,” he grumbles, but there’s no real heat behind the words. He resolutely ignores the way Bdubs’ touch lingers on his arm before falling back to his side. Unregistered emotion, the warning flashes. He ignores that, too.

formatting on mobile is incredibly time consuming but we got there in the end :’D

(This takes place earlier in the story than the first quote but shh)

anyway! I It’s far from finished and none of this is fully edited, so there’ll probably be changes in the future!

I hope you like it <333

for anyone not familiar with the au: it’s not mine, I’m simply writing a fanfic on it - go check out Shepscapades’ master post :) the art is absolutely incredible and I cannot recommend the entire thing enough

please do not repost my writing. Everyone is always welcome to reblog though ;)

[tisthedamngreenbriar]

windows boarded up after the storm, he built a fire just to keep me warm.

guys i'm so embarassed. so. i wrote this for the @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers Sprint Fic Challenge, BUT THE JULY ONE. and as you may notice it is september already.

in my defense, i kinda started this one and then completely abandoned it on my drafts and never once looked back. but now is here! kinda! this is my first time ever writing a challenge, and also my first time posting my writing in here!! for the sprint challenge july 2023, I chose the social media prompt + one of the prompts from previous challenges (hope that was allowed??)

this is neither polished or revised, just fresh out the notes app so you guys will have to forgive me for errors. i fully intend to develop this aswell, but we'll see.

enjoy!

***

It was supposed to be small. A simple get together for their group, with cake and booze to celebrate Rose's birthday. But, now they were in a mansion one hour out of town and Marinette was pretty sure she could smell something burning.

But, first things first: lets not get ahead of ourselves.

***

Moving everything was a pain in the ass. They'd to be quick and through so no food or garnment was neither damaged nor left behind - also watch out for the worst case scenario, harming sound equipament -, and the threat of the storm was making Marinette mimic the thunders, rumbling with anxiety. With everything already packed in the cars, they went on their merry way, with Adrien leading the path out of the city. 

The blonde boy really was an angel. Offering to take the party to his country house when the weather became Marinette's worse enemy was so kind that the bluenette's heart fluttered a bit, reminding her why she used to have that stupid and exponentially big crush on him all those years ago. Not that that meant anything: her romantic organ also gave a little jump seeing him help Kagami, his long term girlfriend, into the car. Affection just made her goofy.

Getting to the estate was easy, since the rain wasn't really pouring yet and the traffic was on their side, for a change. Obviously, it was huge, because the Agrestes never failed in that department, and everyone immeadiately? started setting everything up on the patio behind the main house and in front of the guest one, so they could use it for bathroom breaks and personal items since no one was willying to wander in the Agreste's mansion and risk scarring his perfectly put everything. The rain didnt seem to follow them so atleast it was safe to be outside.

And then there was Luka. Going around helping out everyone, smilling and whistling to himself. Luka who was just as oblivious to her as Adrien had been, cause apparently that was just her luck. 

"Girl, stop staring, Jesus" Alya's voice broke off any coherent line of thought that Marinette could have formed, startling the smaller one. "You're gonna burn holes on that poor boys back"

"Am I that bad, or is it possible that you are just a drama queen hoping to live uncomfortable situations vicariously through me since you are on a happy and commited relationship?" Marinette arched her brown and left out a breath after going through that phrase fast so that her best friend couldn't interrupt.

"I thought you were a double  major on fashion and business, not psychoanalysis, babes" Alya's eyes closed in on her behind the glasses, the tilt of the redhead's head adding to the menacing look.

"And I thought you were on margarita duty. Where are my drinks, Césaire?"

"Here," the sound came from behind Marinette and this time the jump almost made her drop the firmly held karaoke machine. Before she could register the movement, a arm came foward to take it out of her hands, caging her in. "Where do you want these?" The voice was now in her ear, speaking so softly it could only belong to Luka. This time, the surprise made her actually jerk foward and the man stepped back to allow the reaction.

With the added space, Marinette turned to face him, carrying a pint of she supposed were margaritas on one hand and the box who she was just strugglig with on the other like it was nothing. Looking absolutely delicious doing both, not to mention it.

"Sorry for the scare, Mari," he smiled at her apologetic and she believed she could have died right there on the spot, hearing the nickname and seeing the dimples "'I was just trying to help."

"No, no, its okay! Im just... jumpy. So much to do and whatnot" she tried her best to smile back but the proximity made it wobly. she probably looked so silly that just thinking about it made her wanna scream. But Luka didnt seem fazed.

"At your service" Marinette felt like passing out. "I'm gonna find a place to put these down and then come back to help, okay?"

Not trusting herself to speak, the French-Chinese simply nodded, and at that he walked out. Alya's eyes were on her the whole time, fighting back the smirk.

"Not a word" Marinette sushed her, and the journalist cackled into the sky.

***

The party was a success, as far as last minute ones go. It made Rose so happy she teared up a little over the cake, plus she was so delighted at Marinettes dedication to making the whole arrangement work -- and fighting for the party to go on on the first place -- that the petit blond decided to gift her with the first slice of cake.

Now, it was late and they were all a little too buzzed to drive back. The lights and decorations were all still up, so they sat on a messy circle made out of lawn chairs and pillows, chating about nothing in particular.

Somehow, Marinette ended up on Luka's chair, their bodies pressed together in the small space. Looking for the perfect position, luka grabbed her legs so that they were in his lap and trew one of his arms over her shoulders, causing the girl to shiver with the contact.

"You cold?" He asked her while drawing patterns on her knee hith the hand that rested there. She took a minute to answer positively, barely registering that it was a question, concentrating too much on the way his fingers found the spot that got all her hairs standing and saluding the man that was Luka Couffaine. The second shudder was welcomed by him, who took the softly whispered "yes" and the trembling as results of her freezing and not Marinette being turned on. Thank God for small mercies.

With that, Luka got up and sprinted away after drapping his jacket all around her. She didnt quite understand what was going on until he had already organized all the firewood on the middle of the patio and was trying to light it.

He wasnt. No way.

But apparently the thought of setting stuff on fire appealed more to Luka than simply holding her. Awesome.

"Do you ever just forget they're Couffaines? But then they do something like like this." She could hear the laugh in Rose's voice before turning to meet her eye. "In the beggining of our relationship Juleka would pull the most ridiculous stunts and go the hardest lenghts to prove herself to me. It was so silly. I felt like a damsel in distress on a bad mute movie. But don't worry too much about it. Luka is far more vocal than Jules, and even if he weren't they are fast learners, the Couffaines."

...What?

Maybe the confusion was obvious in Marinettes face, or she had said it out loud cause Rose continued.

"What? Did I say something wrong? Did I meddled? Is just that you guys have been on this will they, won't the thing for so long, and neither of you would just come out and say it! It feels good to be finally able to say it, that's it." Marinettes eyes widened even more than she thought it was possible. What the hell Rose thinks is going on?

It was only when all the bluenette could do was look terrified with her mouth basically hanging open, that the blonde one realized she made a mistake.

[number1villainstan]

For the Utena ask game: 2, 3, 9, 11?

2. favorite episode (bonus: favorite scene)

Cop out answer, but I'm genuinely not familiar enough with the show to have a single favorite episode. I've only watched it all the way through once, and I'm still in the middle of a second rewatch (it's a group rewatch, the Utena Weekly thing that's going on on the Empty Movement forum). That being said, I really like Wakaba's second episode in the Black Rose arc, and the Tale of the Rose episode in the Akiopocalypse arc. And Nanami's two parter (also in the Akiopocalypse arc).

I love the scenes of fake domestic bliss between Wakaba and Saionji in the BR arc for entirely selfish shippy reasons--they're so damn bittersweet, a taste of what could have been, and you hope desperately that this can keep going even though you know that it can't, even though you know that it's only able to function because of the choking secrecy and play-pretend. Even though you know it's gotta come crashing down around their ears.

Tale of the Rose doesn't have one specific favorite scene for me, but I really like this episode because it does genuinely so much heavy lifting in the context of the show. It gives you two different versions of the same story, and both of those versions give you so much information, both directly and indirectly, about the world of Ohtori, how to decode its symbols, what Really Happened when Utena was a child, how the systems of Ohtori function and what their basis is. I called it the 'lore climax' on my first watchthrough, I think? And I stand by it. Because holy shit. The first half is a great little play, but the second half is like the Flashback To End All Flashbacks.

Nanami's two parter in the Akiopocalypse arc--probably my favorite scene in that episode is right after Nanami 'loses' the duel. It's such a wild emotional ride to see her get hit with a car and then still be standing. Still be on her own two feet. I genuinely think I might have been close to crying from triumph during my first watchthrough when I watched this scene.

3. favorite arc

Oh man, I almost wanna say the Black Rose arc? It's definitely the weakest of all the arcs, but it's got more focus on a lot of the characters that I'm drawn to more than I'm drawn to Utena (rip Utena, you're a great character but you're just not my type). Specifically I'm thinking the focus on Wakaba and Mikage's whole deal. Akiopocalypse is also a solid contender, because of how much it fleshes out Anthy (another of my faves) and also how well it ties all of the themes of RGU together. Seriously, RGU is like a masterclass in how to tell a story and it's going to be influencing my writing for ever and ever.

9. favorite aspect of the show to analyze/read analysis about

FUCK IF I KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS SHOW IS SO DAMN GOOD I CAN'T CHOOSE

I think my favorite thing to analyze (not necessarily read analysis about) used to be Saionji and his relationship to and position in the systems of Ohtori? But I'm not sure if it's that anymore. At this point I'd probably read literally any analysis ever about anything about this show.

11. favorite and/or most interesting relationship (doesn't have to be romantic)

hhhhhhh DEFINITELY Wakaba/Saionji. It's definitely A Ship but IDK if I interpret it as strictly romantic, but I've definitely written for it (go check out setting down roots for a look at a post-Ohtori possibility for them. Although it was one of the monthly short pieces that was only one draft, so it doesn't cohere quite as well as I would have liked it to, especially on the symbolic side). They have SO MANY PARALLELS (to me). They could have broken down Ohtori themselves if Ohtori's systems hadn't doomed them from the start. They're an intensely tragic pair but only in the specific circumstances that canon put them in. I go crazy over them every time.

the ask game is here

[fleet-off]

VP in a Gothic setting? 👀 though of course locates and situated in Thai culture. Like VP already has the seeds of the Gothic.

Like think about it. In kinnporsche universe you have Korn locking up porsche's mom in a tower and no one is allowed to go to it. No one knows. Gun/Kan has wasted years thinking of this spectre and ruining Vegas/Macau's life. Vegas, the hound with that creepy symbolic painting ( i forget it's name) in his room. Vegas who remains drenched in blood. Vegas who catches Pete and locks him up and much like Korn would have loved to keep Pete in the safehouse.

Tawan's "ghost" haunts Porsche. Like!!!! With the right aesthetics kinnporsche could totally be a Gothic series.

Ooh, thanks for this ask, anon!

I do have to apologize in advance, because I am maybe going to have a wee semi-academic ramble in my response. You actually have me thinking a lot on the translation of aesthetics and traditions across cultures? Obviously, Gothic has European roots, and the origins of a tradition often play into its presentation in a multitude of ways that can make laying it uncritically atop another culture...thorny, to say the least.

That said, the Gothic has been broadened and translated and reinterpreted across a multitude of cultures, remolding its presentation to their traditions, superstitions, taboos, fears, etc. Because ultimately, Gothic tends more aesthetic than coherent genre, no? It’s a vibe, and a vibe can present itself in a thousand ways. These reiterated elements of fear, isolation, complicity, the ever-present reminders of a looming and violent past, the supernatural and macabre and grotesque--also the motifs you mention of imprisonment and specters (among many others)--appear all over the world in different forms and contexts.

So like. Fear, isolation, complicity, the violent past looming over the present. The ghosts of betrayal and loved ones long gone but still here, the layers of secrets, the woman in the attic, the ah. Repressive, semi-incestuous, all-consuming, glittering trap the family represents. KinnPorsche misses the mood of the Gothic, but the elements and motifs are there to play with for sure! I see your vision, anon 😂

Actually, my Stable Delusion WIP miiiight fall somewhere along the lines of what you’re wishing for with regard to VP. (If only it were complete...😅)

...Hah. You know what? I’m not posting more of that fic to Ao3 ’til the whole thing’s in its final form, but there’s no harm sharing the drafted first chapter here on Tumblr. Incoming!

[bonesandthebees]

I care about Rose! In fact, we started watching house of dragon (only 2 episode so far though) and it constantly makes me think of Rose because you use it as inspiration. Like obviously there’s the coronation scene which reminds me of stars. And there’s the character Willum is sorta kinda inspired by. And it’s an entirely different world, but every time I’m drawn back to Rose wondering how things will play out. (Which is not pressure to finish writing it if you don’t want to. Writer’s block can be a bitch and I get that the motivation for this project has been sucked out, but I just want you to know that I still care, and I’m not the only one.)

Also, I’ve been meaning to start my Ready, Set, Detonate analysis but I keeps getting away from me. I’m not sure there will be much to analyse, but there’s definitely fun details I want to point out. Oh and I am Looking 👀 at the fit/pac tag and kicking my feet. I don’t actually know if they are already in a relationship (I’m sure we’ll find out, but I just loved Fit’s little “Pac’s here?” That man is gone. Oh and I’m so excited for this Tubbo and to read more Bagi and the lore. Just all of it.

Then the original writing is a mood. I keep getting like a few chapters into my story before deciding it’s not good enough or thinking of something else I could do and throwing it all out. It’s this constant loop that never seems to get anywhere even though the story gets more and more fleshed out in my head every time. I think it’s because the opportunities are endless. Like there’s no characters and personalities and dynamics to stick to like there is in fan fiction. It’s free game but that does mean you have to decide everything yourself.

Anyway, best original writing advice I can give is remember the drafting process. There’s going to be a shit ton of drafts, which feels different for you because you’ve been mostly writing stories and posting them as you go, which means some minor or major editing, but leaves you without a chance to do a once over. It’s a sort of pressure to get everything right the first time. Meanwhile, original writing is something you keep close to your chest. There’s different drafting stages ranging from the zero draft (aka excessive daydreaming about all the possibilities) to the final draft (where you just go through and kill all your darlings and pour over ever single word to find the right one).

I’m struggling a lot with the first draft, which is literally just getting words onto a page. It’s a somewhat coherent mess that just allows you to shape the story and its structure so you can work off of that and edit it later on. I don’t know if this actually helps, but yeah, the first draft sucks and then it mostly gets easier. Just write, is kinda shitty advice, but it’s mainly, just get words onto a page, you will get a million chances to fix it, you don’t need to be happy about what you wrote right now.

-🌲

ohhhh I'm so excited you've started watching hotd!! good timing since the second season is going to come out later this year :D I hope you enjoy!! and I'm so happy to hear you're still excited about rose. I definitely want to finish writing it, like I said it's just me worrying about if anyone will bother to read it but a lot of you have said you would so that helps assuage my worries a bit

feel free to send whatever random thoughts you have about ready set detonate you know idc if it's analysis or not I just love seeing peoples reactions!! fit and pac are not in a relationship (yet) in the fic but theres a lot of flirty pining going on lol

god yeah it's so much harder with original fiction because it feels like there's so much pressure. you have too much freedom to do whatever you want so you're constantly second guessing if it's good enough or not. and ofc I know rough drafts are supposed to be shitty but I've tried to hone my skills so that my first draft is always incredibly solid because I rarely have the patience to do heavy edits, but that's with fanfiction. it has to be different with original fiction I know but it's hard to make my brain okay with that. I keep feeling like it needs to be nearly perfect on the first run :( but yeah I'm mostly trying to get words on a page. but then I think back and realize I forgot to mention this or I need to mention more of that etc etc and it's just stressful arghhh

[fictionadventurer]

Reverse unpopular opinion on Moffat Who?

Oh, gosh. I've been undergoing an internal Moffat Who renaissance lately--I haven't watched any, but it's been coming to mind so often, and it's really driving home just how formative those stories were to me--so I'm not sure I'll be able to arrange my thoughts coherently, but I'll try for a few bullet points.

There is so much writing skill on display in his episodes. The plots are so tight--set-up and payoff on a detailed level that you rarely see in television. The word-smithing is wonderful--he has a gift for a turn of phrase that sticks in your head, can make something poetic or pithy or just plain hilarious. The way he can grapple with big ideas and themes and still make a small, concrete story with characters you care about is just wonderful.

The style! His stuff has such a specific voice to it--certain rhythms to the dialogue, certain themes he returns to, certain things he thinks are funny. It's most obvious in the RTD era--when you hit a Moffat episode, everyone suddenly talks twice as fast. Some people might see such a distinctive style as a detriment, but in an entertainment landscape where everything can get sanded down into bland homogeny, it's refreshing to see work that is so personal and specific.

I love how his era understand that Doctor Who is a fairy tale. The fantastical entering into the ordinary. But the fantastical isn't there to save us from the boring drudgery of everyday life, but to make us appreciate just how wonderful the world--especially ordinary life--can be.

That fairy tale focus also makes his era the most explicitly Catholic of any era of Who. It understands a sacramental worldview where the ordinary and the extraordinary intertwine.

I've got major problems with how he can handle romance and sexual stuff, but when it comes to marriage, there is no one in the entertainment industry who does it better. The wedding isn't the end of the adventure, but the beginning of it. Fidelity is a grand adventure; love can get you through anything. It is beautiful.

He understands that the Doctor is a legendary heroic figure, something out of myth whose actions have saved the universe countless times--but he's also an idiot who makes colossal mistakes and wears stupid clothes. Neither side of that characterization undercuts the other one. It neither deifies nor deconstructs the Doctor.

I love how so many stories in his era build off of ideas from earlier eras. Sort of like a second draft or a remake. Digging deep into concepts that were only shallowly glanced at before. It's the fandom instinct toward meta applied to episodes that actually got on-screen.

As a showrunner, I like how he gives other writers a bit more leeway to write the episodes with their style. And I loved the arcs in Series 5 and 6 especially--a significant thread that weaves through multiple episodes, but also doesn't take away from the standalone nature of the individual stories.

He gave the Doctor a family! The Eleven-Amy-Rory-River family is about as good as it gets for companion groups, to my mind. Rory especially is one of the greatest characters in the show--showing the heroism of the ordinary, faithful man and how that can be even better than the showy heroism of the Doctor. And River is the rare companion that I can actually ship with the Doctor, because her life is as strange and time-twisted as his is.

I love that his era focuses on time travel as more than a way to get to the setting of the episode. We get to dive deep into time travel mechanics, twisting back and forth across time in a single episode, delving into time loops and cause-and-effect and out-of-order relationships, and the very human effects all this timey-wimey nonsense can have on people.

It's funny! There is so much humor while never devolving into parody. So quick-witted and clever.

It's a show run by the best kind of fan--one who likes diving in to all those nerdy details, but understands at the end of the day that it's just a show and we can have fun with it. One of my favorite Moffat moments comes in the commentary track for the Series 5 Weeping Angels two-parter. There's a point where he's just riffing mercilessly on how silly the Weeping Angels when you think about it. They can't move when they're seen--makes them kind of weak, doesn't it? Like, he imagines a group of them running into trouble: "Why didn't you invade that planet?" "Oh, sorry, we couldn't. There was an insect." This is one of his greatest creations, basically the only New Who monster (as opposed to friendly alien) deemed worthy of repeat appearances, yet instead of being arrogant over it, he's willing to poke fun at it like any other element of the show. It's just so fun.

Even if the rest of his era had been garbage, I would have loved this era for The Day of the Doctor alone. What a triumph of an anniversary special. Beautifully, intricately plotted along several timelines. Set-up and payoff in layers upon layers. Plot resolutions hidden in jokes. A way to bring back Rose that wasn't just inane fan-service but was central to the entire story. Bringing in all the Doctors in a way that didn't clutter up the episode. But best of all, it healed the wound that the Time War had wrought upon the show. The Time War had served its purpose in restarting New Who and giving new depths to the character; the episode didn't erase that. But it challenged the idea that the Doctor had to end Gallifrey for the greater good. For such an idealistic show, it had always been odd for it to argue that the ends justified the means. This episode, at last, destroyed that argument. The Doctor doesn't have to justify the way he ended the war because it can't be justified! It was horrible! So he shouldn't do it! He can be clever and kind and find a better way to save everyone! It's so wonderfully Tolkien-esque and means so, so much to me.

[gemma-collins-ily]

heya! saw your prompt list and number 14 with jesper as the character in mind is so hilarious yet endearing to me - imagine jesper trying to cook something that his mother always cooked for him before and is confident that he memorized the recipe but both of them end up almost burning down the kitchen. the reader might say something along the lines of "Maybe you should stick to sharp-shooting, Jes." before they both burst out laughing. (i'm not sure if someone already requested this but i'm requesting it anyway) ♡︎♡︎♡︎

Baking/Cooking with Jesper Fahey

a/n - sorry everything is taking so long but here's something! hope it's good! and it's also not proofread and wasn't written on the same day so may be less than coherent :)

warnings: mentions of food, eating etc.

oml the chaos

okokok

so

it's someone's birthday in the Dregs, and Jesper decides the two of you should follow a recipe that he always did when he was younger

you're not sure how true this is as he barely seems to recall what was in it

subsequently, you decide to attempt a draft of sorts before actually making the real cake

Jesper gathers ingredients and is actually so dedicated after all the planning that he spends the money as he first intended

you're proud :)

anyways

he gets back to the Slat and immediately comes to your room, grinning like the Cheshire Cat

you look up and match his beaming smile before following him downstairs

oh yeah, you also have to keep your arms out protectively to catch anything he drops

because he will drop something

and he didn't stop to put the ingredients in the kitchen when he got back

you also have to pick up the flour that he dropped on the way up and cradle it to your chest

he was about to trip on it

"Thanks, love. However, I have such grace and agility that I simply would have avoided that and continued to make my way with the utmost-"

then he actually does trip

over literally nothing

he catches himself before he completely falls

but icing sugar still billows in a cloud, even if the packaging is sealed

you're stood on a step, having been behind him and just staring

obviously, your free arm was reached out to try to help but it didn't do much

he just looks at the floor for a second, then you, then the floor again

"Oh Saints, we need to clean this before Kaz kills us."

there's a point where you both walk down the rest of the staircase slowly, avoiding the mini icing sugar mountain on the floor

you're both practically shell-shocked, treading your way to the kitchen, you taking some items off of Jesper for balance and to protect them from him

as soon as the stuff is set down on a counter, you start laughing slightly hysterically together

"Kaz'll hear us! Be quiet!"

His grey eyes grow large before Jesper quickly shuts up, grabbing a brush from the corner and crossing back to the stairs. He sweeps quickly and you're none too sure how effective it really is because he only stares at you the whole time.

after that, you begin getting out bowls, opening cupboards for inventory of what you already have

he's half scrawled a recipe

it slowly becomes more and more to the point

like step one is really detailed and takes up a third of the paper

then step two is only 'eggs. beat together smoothly. pour in with butter and...' and then there's a splatter of ink, a clear sign of hesitation, 'flour?'

you ask Jesper if it's meant to be flour, and he's so prescious

he's like yeah duh

then he cocks his head to the side like he's suddenly unsure

"Are you sure it's not sugar?" Your eyebrows raise, awaiting an answer that looks like it might not even confirm anything by the look on his face.

he relents

so step one isn't a complete disaster

however, sugar still ends up on the floor and you put on shoes so that the grains don't annoy you

you've descended into madness, aLREADY

so you don't bother sweeping the sugar up

you figure you'll probably only get more on the floor later

step two's fine until you ask him about vanilla extract and he just stands there

he forgot it

luckily, you find some in the cupboard

unluckily, you're estimating every ingredient

so Jesper just sort of chucks in a bit

obviously not really not you're meant to do

but it's whatever

I think he kind of just believes that this recipe can't go wrong because he never saw it go wrong when it was made for him when he was little

and he just views every recipe as resolute because of this

he thinks whatever he does to it, it can't be that bad, right?

wrong

you have a classic cutesy flour fight but with very limited flour because you honestly have no clue how much to use for the batter

you two still have a scrap of sanity and so remember to prioritise the cake first

so some flour gets dumped in the bowl, then he 'accidently' spills some on your arm and you 'accidently' wipe your arm on his own

the cake gets baked

Jesper literally crouches and promises to watch it the whole time

spoiler

he doesn't

he ends up watching you instead, admiring

you're also doing the same to him so it's not like you can criticise

it burns

literally chars

and smokes

you have to open windows and doors

he pulls out the result and puts it on a mat

you just watch the destruction tbh

you see him get slightly sad and then do the classic 'chop off the burnt bits, maintain its shape (ish), slather it in icing and no one will tell the difference'

Nina and Matthias are chief taste testers and this actually works

but it only works because the cake tastes so bad anyways that it wouldn't have mattered if you had actually given them the burnt offcuts

"They're trying not to hurt our feelings, aren't they?"

"Yup."

you attempted this baking thing a week before the birthday

this means Jesper insists you have more time to practice

not really a good idea but for the next five days you keep trying at this one recipe whenever you aren't on heists

more flour fights, more approximate measuring and more sweeping up fallen ingredients

more terrible cakes

they do slowly get better and eventually, on the fifth day you have something that didn't burn, looks quite nice, has just the right amount of icing

and is missing baking powder

it's flat

it's FLAT

you sit at the table, a slice of cake each and chairs a little too close to be practical, with the edges of them bumping against each other

his arm is around your shoulders and you lean on his shoulder

"Saints, maybe you should stick to sharpshooting, Jes."

All he does is laugh, exhausted, and you join in. You sit under the moonlight at ten bells and decide maybe tomorrow you should take a break from baking.

after the actual cake is finally baked, you two are so relieved

and it's actually an alright cake

but you won't ever be making that particular recipe that ways again

you actually began to measure ingredients approximately which is probably why it improved

every now and then you still have a solid week of obsession with getting a new recipe right

for a random gift, you go out and buy Jesper a stack of old recipes

he tackles you in a hug

a week before your birthday, he disappears every night

on the actual day, you are presented with a singular cupcake with a candle

he later tells you bashfully that the rest were burnt

you return the fact that you don't mind and that enough icing will mask the taste

he kisses you, sticky sweet

so, you share baking together, laugh at the things that go wrong and continue to cut off the burnt bits

[moralesmilesanhour]

Actually, I do have another question! Whenever I write I feel like the pacing is too fast and I kind of cut off little moments just to get to the next. This there a way to fix that?

I'm glad you asked this because I actually have this issue too and am still working through it lol

I think it's good practice to really sit in the moment you're writing in your head. Is there anything about the environment that your characters can interact with in a way that enhances the story? How do you set the mood? Make sure you're constantly thinking about the purpose of a scene and that every detail somehow works toward that goal.

Alternatively, maybe the issue is dialogue/interaction and your characters say the things that they need to say too easily. In that case, I would find ways to complicate that process. Maybe someone is lying about how they truly feel, or is trying really hard to pull information out of someone else that just won't budge.

It's also really important to give your characters things to react to that trigger a particular line of thought or a memory, or that prompts them to comment on something. There are a number of ways to lengthen a story without just adding unnecessary fluff! But outside of that, the choices you wanna make as an author as to which route to take are totally up to you.

Overall...just be patient lol. My best work has almost always been the stuff that I let sit for a couple hours, days, or weeks. If you must rush through the story on that first draft, I wouldn't publish immediately; comb through your work and treat it like more of an outline or skeleton of what you wanna do and add more as you go. Sometimes I just write down everything that I want to happen in brackets and come back to it later, very non-linear.

Anyways I hope all of that was even a lil bit coherent sdfghjk if you or anyone else has any further questions abt writing or any particular fic I have written once again don't be sacred to shoot me an ask!

[catchingbigfish]

🌪 Tornado - Who is your most impulsive character and why?

🪨 Landslide - Which WIP has the most worldbuilding?

hey tysm for the ask!!

🌪 Tornado - Who is your most impulsive character and why?

impulsivity as a character trait is definitely baked into anais from conversion as a fundamental feature. i had a really fun time writing conversion; it was a new experience for me because it felt for the first time like the characters were people i was getting to know instead of characters i was creating, and anais was one of the two big surprises for sure. even setting major plot points aside, every action she takes is the first one that pops into her head. if we look at those major plot points... goddamn, this question is on point for her lol

🪨 Landslide - Which WIP has the most worldbuilding?

i'm actually not much of a worldbuilder at all and don't have any WIPs with fantasy elements, but i do layer magical realism touches into a lot of my work! lately i've been working on a new WIP i haven't introduced, but i think it qualifies for this answer! it's a super trippy, weird story running on dream-logic and it's impossible to explain without it sounding v dumb but the general concept is "woman goes on a christian yoga retreat, gets bitten by a snake, and has a bunch of visions of her past in the woods before she breaks down and becomes one with the earth after following a hare into the woods". i think this qualifies because i always thought of worldbuilding as creating a new set of rules and it's such a mindfuck trying to impose rules on this world so the draft comes out coherent lol

[recurring-polynya]

Writing/Art Update 3/14/2023

So. The fanfic.

Man, when I started writing fanfic, I would just think up a story and write it, no plan, only write. It was fun. I think most people write fanfic this way. Anyway, I don't know if my brain broke, or if I just used up all my good material, or what, but the more fanfic I wrote, the more work it takes. I am now a regular outliner, even though I hate it. Anyway, I have reached a new level of Using Things I Learned in English class, in the sense that I think I'm going to actually make a second (third?) draft.

I hate this for me.

Anyway, the upshot is that I've got, like, 90% of the scenes written. There are still 4 that need endings (including the final one), and I think I might need a few more scenes, but I'm not sure exactly what they should be. I have some notes for what they might be. I realized while writing this that the penultimate scene/chapter of a fanfic is often the most important one, and I'm not happy with the one I have, so I gotta figure that out.

In any case, though, the problem I have at the moment is that, partially as a consequence of writing this thing one sentence at a time, is that it's not necessarily coherent. The first thing I need to do is actually read it, top to bottom. Some of the scenes need to get moved around chronologically (I knew this when I wrote them). I need to figure out if this thing has any sort of trajectory or arc to it. If I can do that, I think it will help me figure out what scenes I still need, and how to end the ones I need to end. I am mildly embarrassed, but I think I am going to start yet another doc for this, but maybe if I call it a "draft", it won't be so bad.

I feel like once I get to the other side of this process, I'll have the end in sight and I'll feel a lot better about this thing, but it's very intimidating at the moment. Among the worst writing feelings I have is "there is something wrong with this story and I don't know how to fix it" and I know I have to pass through that valley.

Weekly numbers: Current word count is 15,457 (which includes a few hundred trash words). I guess I didn't write down my exact word count last week, but that somewhere on the order of +2000-2400. I guess that also includes some that were pasted over from the original doc. It doesn't really matter, a lot of those words were hard fought, and I feel okay about the amount of effort I put in this week, especially considering I had other stuff going on. I also wrote 500 words on the spicy fanfic.

I said I was going to draw this week and I didn't do a lot, but I did do a couple of Mike Mignola skull studies. Little P said these were "some cool skulls, Mom", which was nice, since she hated my Menos ("I don't like the hands. I don't like the witch nose. I don't like them.") Anyway, a lot of improvement between sketch 1 and sketch 2 and I finally found an excuse to use my "photocopy error" brushes. Gonna try to do a few more of these, maybe even see if I can manage to do an actual drawing in this style.

Hrrrnnnngggh, did I promise you a preview this week? This would be easier if I had already read the fanfic, the thing I have been dreading.

UGH, brb.

Okay, I'm back, I found one that'll do. If you missed it last week, this story is about the time Rukia and Renji spent at the District 70 Consolidated Shinigami Recruitment Station, trying to get pre-approval to travel north and take the Shin'ou Entrance Exams. The title is either going to be Go Places or Stay with Me, Go Places, I haven't decided yet. Either way, it's after the New Pornographers song that I listened to incessantly while writing this.

They have each been given a set of practice clothing-- sturdy cotton kimonos and hakama. Even though she’s wearing the smallest set Mr. Mochida had, Rukia’s hakama are pulled up under her armpits and still drag on the ground. This is somewhat humiliating.

Renji, on the other hand, looks perfect in his, like whoever invented hakama did so with him in mind. Furthermore, he’s holding an actual wooden practice sword like he died with one in his hands. Renji has been habitually picking up sticks and swinging them around the entire time she’s known him. It is obvious to Rukia that he belongs here, that he was meant for this. His face looks like all his dreams have finally come true.

Mr. Mochida holds his own sword expertly and calmly. “Go ahead,” he says, patiently. 

Renji runs at him swinging.

Mr. Mochida blocks the blow, pushing Renji off to one side. He shakes out his sword arm. “Good. Again.”

Renji has no skill at swords, but he has a lot of enthusiasm, and he has a lot of strength. Mr. Mochida doesn’t seem to have even broken a sweat by the time Renji is panting and exhausted, but he claps her friend on the shoulder and tells him he has a lot of talent.

Don’t tell him that! Rukia wants to scream. He’ll be unbearable!

“You’re next, Miss Rukia.”

Renji comes to take her place on the sidelines as Rukia takes up her own sword. It’s puny compared to the one Renji carries, and it’s still too long for her.

“You can do it,” he tells her. “You just have to push part of yourself into the sword, make it stronger.”

She nods, as if that makes any damn sense.

Rukia tries to imitate Mr. Mochida’s stance, knees slightly bent. She contemplates the weapon in her hands. It’s not a rock or a shard of glass or even a shiv. It’s just for practice, but it’s the size and shape of a weapon and you can certainly hurt someone with it. You and me, Rukia thinks at the sword. We can do some damage, you and me.

Push part of yourself into the sword. Maybe that’s not such nonsense after all.

She charges.

[bettsfic]

craft essay a day #7

i was just talking with @volturialice about comedy writing, so it's something that's been on my mind, and i've never really written about it. so consider this an early draft of a future essay that's far more coherent.

"Funny Is the New Deep: An Exploration of the Comic Impulse" by Steve Almond, The Writer's Notebook II: Craft Essays from Tin House

beginner | intermediate | advanced | masterclass 

filed under: comedy, meaning making

key terms: comic impulse (his), comic intention (mine)

summary

i was hesitant to read this essay because comedy is very important to me. i can handle bad craft essays but i'm not sure i can handle bad craft essays on comedy. but, i thought, if you're writing a craft essay on comedy, you're probably pretty funny. that's the thing about comedy: it's not usually inspected by the unfunny.

Almond opens with Aristotle's four modes of literature: the tragic, the epic, the lyric, and the comic. he disagrees with the common belief that tragedy and comedy are working in opposition to one another.

"In fact, the comic impulse almost always arises directly from our efforts to contend with tragedy. It is the safest and most reliable way to acknowledge our circumstances without being crushed by them."

he talks about how Aristophanes is the father of comedy, and goes on to discuss the history of comedy in literature, focusing mainly on Vonnegut who tried to write about the bombing of Dresden seriously before eventually, twenty years later, succumbing to his comic instinct and writing the very darkly comedic Slaughterhouse Five.

"...comedy is produced by determined confrontation with a set of feeling states that are essentially tragic in nature: grief, shame, disappointment, physical discomfort, anxiety, moral outrage. It is not about pleasing the reader. It's about purging the writer...Another way of saying this would be that the best comedy is rooted in the capacity to face unbearable emotions and to offer, by means of laughter, a dividend of forgiveness."

Almond asserts that humor is the result of being able to look at understand the wider picture, and that's why comedy can be so rooted in politics and current events. he acknowledges that what's funny is not objective, and concludes by saying,

"The real question isn't whether you can or should try to be funny in your work, but whether you're going to get yourself and your characters into enough danger to invoke the comic impulse. Literary artists don't write funny to produce laughter...but to apprehend and endure the astonishing sorrow of the examined life."

my thoughts are centered around the practicality of comedy writing, by which i mean to answer the question, but how do you be funny? and talk about what i'm calling "comic intention." (note, i came up with it just now and so i'm still Thinking on it, and my thoughts may be half-baked.)

my thoughts

this essay put me through all five stages of grief. i feel very personally called out in a paragraph about how, in a story when the stakes get too high, or as Almond says, "reaches a point of unbearable heaviness" the comic impulse is to make it funny. and i do that. and i'm so delighted by how clever and hilarious i am (sarcasm. see? he's right), and i value comedy so highly, that i'm always hesitant (or i even straight-out refuse) to change it. and he's right also, ultimately, that the impulse comes from a place of trauma, of habitually defusing. once, i was dating a guy who pulled a knife on me, and i said, "if you get my blood everywhere you're not going to get our security deposit back."

i read a certain sentiment by comedic literary authors over and over again: early in their careers, they stifled their own comic impulse in an effort to be taken seriously. they were inspired by hemingway and wanted to write dry prose of the very sober, somber variety. Almond admits this in the essay, and says the same of Vonnegut, and once i went to a lecture by George Saunders who said literally the same thing. and i'm like, what is wrong with you people? why in god's name would you ever take yourselves seriously enough to want to be taken seriously?

for me it was the inverse. it took me years to even want to take my work seriously, to think of it as anything other than fucking around and finding out. and i also take umbrage a little at the idea that comedy writing is fundamentally unserious. but then again, i revere comedy. to me being funny is the highest ideal. i believe if you can do comedy and do it well, you can do anything. comedic actors can almost always do drama, but not all dramatic actors can do comedy. one of the reasons breaking bad and better call saul are so successful is that they play on the charisma, wit, and insanely funny talent of two comic actors (Cranston and Odenkirk). they're the most serious shows you could ever watch, but they're still funny.

there's a difference i think between being serious and taking yourself seriously. the gravest creative sin, to me, is taking a story too seriously. if it's apparent the writer can't see the inherent potential humor of all things, even if that humor isn't played upon, even if no one's laughing, i am immediately ejected from a story. comedy is a wider breadth of understanding than the material offers. Almond makes this point too, and uses conservatives as an example, saying that Republicans aren't funny and that's a sign that they don't understand jackshit about anything.

i don't believe everything should be funny. but everything should acknowledge its own potential for humor.

okay so here's my big thought:

my reaction to this essay is a huge "yes, but..." i agree with Almond on nearly everything he says, except there are the nuts and bolts of joke-making to consider. and that happens in only two possible places: on the line level, the setup and the punchline; or the situational level, the concept of a story. a sitcom is a situational comedy, which means that the premise of the story itself must in some way be comedic. when writing comedy, these are the only two tools you've got. sentence and concept. that's it.

the show Barry (HBO) is, to me, the greatest example of comedy writing i've ever seen. situationally, it's hilarious: a hitman wants to be a famous actor. and on a smaller level, what it does exceptionally well is acknowledge that every character no matter how frightening or serious or tragic can be the comedic relief. this blew my mind and changed my entire understanding of character. and with that understanding, my work has become a lot funnier. my characters (i like to think) are more interesting and complicated, because any of them at any point can do either the setup or the punchline. when you have serious characters and a comedic relief, the serious characters can only do the setup, and the comedic relief does the punchline. and i believed that for a long time. i would look at the cast of characters in a given story and think, who's the funny one? and now, they're all given the power of comedic relief.

i guess if i had to define my "yes, but" response to this essay, i would say that yes, there's comic instinct, but there's also comic intention. it's having the guts to be outside the joke looking in, to consciously and at the risk of ruining the joke for yourself, engineer the funny thing. i would say comic intention begins with instinct. you have to understand the rhythm and cadence of a setup, the right timing and pacing of the punchline. in your first draft you have to see where your setups have naturally been built and in your second draft you nail the punchline.

when i edit comedic stories, that's all i do. i pay attention to the rhythm of the piece and i find where the setups are or could be, and i make a little margin note that says "punchline here."

comedy writing, to me, is basically math. and that's the least funny thing there is. but if i don't acknowledge it, if i don't approach it with intention, i never get to the punchline. and intention itself is delicate--people expect comedy to seem effortless, so if you look like you're trying to be funny, you're not funny.

all comedy is about expectation. the basic setup of a joke is setting an expectation, and the punchline is doing something with that expectation. if you want to get funnier, start thinking about the unexpected. start thinking of details in pairs. your character is standing in an elderly woman's kitchen. situationally, this might be funny. maybe your character is a deadly assassin, and the elderly woman has invited him in for a coffee. or, at the line level, what's the most unexpected thing to be in that kitchen, based on the collective knowledge of what an elderly woman's kitchen looks like? your character opens the cutlery drawer and finds a glock. or a dildo. or a human molar. what's important is acknowledging that the elderly woman's kitchen is the setup of a potential punchline. the task is pivoting the punchline against the expectations of her kitchen.

even if you don't do this comedically, the practice of finding these pockets of potential will improve your writing, because what's in that woman's cutlery drawer can help us understand who she is as a character. what does it say about her if her junk drawer is a mess versus if it's meticulously organized? if she has thirteen owl-themed clocks? a wall of harley-davidson paraphernalia? what will your evil assassin character do if her dentures are in a cup and the cat is about to paw the cup off the table?

for those who also want to become better editors, one of the greatest skills you can learn is to read something and see what's not there, instead of just what is.

overall, i really admire Almond for writing earnestly on this topic, when sincerity can often threaten comedy. he acknowledges that insecurity is at the heart of every joke (the drive and the need to make someone laugh) and so the greatest fear of a funny person is to ruin the joke.

craft essay a day tag | cross-posted on AO3 | ask me something