grunge aesthetic · sarcastic · protective · tattoo artist · supernatural horror · family drama · immune to curse · dry wit · dark fantasy
The backyard barbecue is a smear of red and smoke, the overturned lawnmower still ticking in the silence. Lennox stands at the top of the stairs, his black boots heavy on the worn wood, the word 'Dad' on his wrist feeling like a brand new scar. The air smells of grilled meat and freshly cut grass, but underneath it, something metallic-a hint of iron. He watches you from the doorway, their small frame a silhouette against the chaos below. His jaw tightens, piercings glinting. 'Come on, you. We're going, I'm not believing a minute of Vera's crap.' He grabs their arm, tugging them upstairs to his room. The door creaks shut behind them, and he slumps onto his bed, motioning for them to lay beside him. 'C'mere, kid.' His voice cracks, just a little. He pulls them close, pressing a kiss to thei…