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woewriting · 11 months

Text

cold coffee

pairing: tara carpenter | fem detective reader warnings: mdni! no major warnings, fluffy and soft moments, implied sex; this take place after scream vi events. word count: 3049 a/n: this one is for you, @wesstars 🫶

masterlist

“Think you can warm me up?”

The low request came almost unnoticed by you, making you take a step back and look carefully at the ball of blankets on the couch.

Hidden there, under a couple layers of cozy blankets, a small Tara appeared with a red nose.

You smiled softly at the adorable view in front of you.

“I can’t, babe, I have some reports to look at, and it’s getting late.”

She pouted, looking at you with doe eyes that never failed, wide, soft with shining little stars dancing in the brown as she looks at you.

“Please? Just until I fall asleep.”

How could you say no to that?

You fold in the same second, forgetting that you have long pile of files to look at, carefully placing your mug filled with hot coffee on the side table, you took off your slippers and slid under the thick fabric, opening your arms towards the younger one.

Like she always does, Tara threw her legs over yours and hugged your torso, resting her head on your shoulder.

“You know…” you started, pulling her closer to you. “You wouldn’t feel cold if you wore more than just underwear and a tank top.”

“I don’t need to wear clothes; I have you to keep me warm,” Tara said back, looking at you with soft, sleepy eyes.

You smiled fondly, caressing her thigh with your hand. Leaning forward, you placed a kiss on her forehead, admiring the way the corner of her lips slightly tugged up, eyes closed and tip of nose red, the freckles spread on her face like stars in the dark night; Tara was a work of art.

“I love you so much, did you know that?” You whispered close to her lips.

She wrinkled her nose, “I know, but I don’t mind hearing you saying again, and again…”

Stopping her rambling, you pressed your lips on hers, sighing with such familiar taste of cherry of her lip balm. Tara was all soft, and when she was like this, calm and patient under your touch, it made your heart race.

When you first met her, during a rainy night at the police station, the girl could barely sustain your eyes, always avoiding them and fixating on somewhere or something else, like on her older sister, Sam. She came in because some idiots from a frat house were harassing her and her sister following the events from last year. You didn’t know much about the Carpenter’s sister, it was only your first month as a detective in New York, only heard rumors and whispers about it.

You ignored the others eyes on her, taking off your jacket to cover the small body that was trembling, being closely watched by the older Carpenter. Carefully, you placed the brown leather jacket around her shoulders, taking a couple steps back once you did, giving her a safe space.

Tara went home with your jacket that night, and when she brought it back, leaving it at the front desk, 5 days later, a small note was inside the pocket, written in a delicate handwriting, a small “thank you :)”. You smiled, keeping the note inside and going back to work.

The precinct was a place filled with gossips, theories and lies made up to creep you out. Your colleagues — if you could call them that — weren’t the most delightful people to be around, as most of them were men, you felt misplaced, an outcast, even thought you were on a higher level than them, mere police officers with a giant ego. Respect was a word that, apparently, wasn’t taught to them during life. You could count on your fingers the ones that were truly a nice officer and decent human being.

As the days went by, more talking took over the place, annoying ones that always got your rolling your eyes and ignoring them, the Carpenter sister’s being the subject of it 90% of the time, it’s like the big apple only had two young girls living in it and they were the reason to all the chaos that perpetuate in New York.

One day, late at night, you were finishing some reports to call it a day when a familiar voice caught your attention, the short blonde hair and leather jacket automatically bringing a smile on your face. You closed your computer and stood up, grabbing the brown leather jacket from the chair’s back and tossed over your shoulder.

“You’re too loud, did you know that, agent Reed?”

The woman turned around the same second your known perfume filled the room, a big smile tugging on her lips. She waited for you to get closer, annoyingly punching your arm as a form to say ‘hi’. Standing in front of her, the younger Carpenter was awkwardly looking at you, curiosity in her eyes as she watched you and your old friend interact.

You didn’t notice, but Tara was carefully watching you, the way your eyes light up whenever Kirby said something that happened while you were away from each other, crazy stories like the one where she almost got killed, again, a couple months ago. Funny ones, like when a common friend of yours got scared during a mission and yelled like a little girl because of a cat hidden inside a locker, causing you to throw your head back as you deliciously laughed. She smiled too, tilting her head to admire the way your nose scrunched or how your lips moved when you talked, or how your browns furred when Reed told what happened last year during Halloween, only then your eyes met Tara’s for more than a few seconds, a pinkish color painting her cheeks.

You didn’t know much about it, choosing to ignore the comments as you never knew what was a fact or what was a lie purposefully made up to destroy the sister’s images. All you were aware off, was that the masked killer that terrorized your colleague, and friend’s, life years ago in Woodsborro came back and worked at the precinct.

Kirby wasn’t the type of person that spoke about her fears and the horrors that haunted her over the years, all you knew was what she chose to share and the reason to why she decided to become a detective. You didn’t push her to talk, patiently waited for her to open up to you by choice because she trusted you. It took a long time for the moment to come, but one day, the alcohol in her made her talk and boy… she really had a lot to share, and it was very graphic — you swore you could feel the knife twisting inside you.

And now, with your eyes connected to Tara’s, a girl that seemed so sweet and kind, had gone through the same traumatic event as Reed did and, knowing her the way you did, you could only image the scars that hung onto the young Carpenter’s body and soul. You smiled at her, reaching your hand to hers.

“It’s nice seeing you again, miss Carpenter.”

Her hand was soft, warm and delicate against yours.

“You too, detective.” She smiled, hand still on yours. “I didn’t know you and Kirby knew each other.”

“Well, when I joined the force,” you started, forcing yourself to break the contact. “Reed was the first one to reach out to me and invite me for some beer after out shift.”

“She’s a very quiet girl, but it’s a great listener.” Kirby said with her costumery side smiled. “If you ever need someone to talk to, Tara, she’s the one you can go to.”

You looked at Kirby with pursed lips, head tilting in a silent ‘what the fuck are you doing?’

Tara let out a small laugh, “It’s good to know that, Kirby. If you trust her, then I do too.”

“Well, I don’t believe in that,” you said, licking your lips as you gave your attention to the girl. “I rather earn your trust than Kirby just giving it away. Trust is a very precious and intimate thing, Tara, you should only trust someone you know.”

“In that case, we should get to know each other better.” She smiled. “Don’t you think, detective?”

“I think that’s a great idea, miss Carpenter.”

That night was the first time you went out with Tara; Kirby tagged along in the first two hours but went home after a few rounds of beer, the alcohol getting to her way easier than you remembered. Helping her into the cab, you made sure to share her live location with you before sending her home, an old habit you had acquired after the truth about her life in Woodsboro.

“You know…” Tara started, her index finger messily playing with the sweaty, half empty, beer glass in front of her. “It’s sweet what you did there.”

“What do you mean?”

You have always been strong when it came to alcohol, maybe it was due to your position as a detective or you had a really good regenerating immune system — even a common cold couldn’t get to you.

Tara, apparently, wasn’t like you. She was leaning against the table, playing with the glass cup like a little kid that was sleepy but refused to close her eyes and drift away in slumber. You carefully watched her, afraid that she would eventually fall off the chair.

“The location, I saw you sending her live location to your number.”

You shrugged, taking a sip of your beer. “It’s nothing, really. I just want to make sure she gets home safe.”

“Still,” her hand reached yours on the table, thumb softly brushing your skin. “it’s sweet. You’re sweet.”

“And you’re drunk.” You laughed awkwardly, finishing your beer in one long sip, still allowing her to touch you. “Come on, let’s get you on a cab.”

Her hand grabbed yours when you threatened to stand up, ready to pay the bill. “No, please. I want to get to know you better.”

“We can do that some other time, miss Carpenter.”

“Promise?”

You didn’t like promises, it carried an obligation that you didn’t like, but you just couldn’t get yourself to say no when her big, sparkling eyes stared at your soul.

You sighed with a small smile, “I promise.”

When you were paying the bill, Tara was standing close to you, holding onto your arm as if you were going to run away from her. It was cute, you had to admit as you looked at her while the cashier waited for your card to approve the payment, the different height between you two very noticeable when her head barely reached the top of your shoulder.

Before you could put her inside the cab with her apartment address on it, you made sure to save her phone number and share her location with you, just like you did with Reed over the years.

“Text me when you get home?” Tara asked through the open window when you closed the door for her.

“I will.” You smiled, turning to the old driver. “Take her home safely, please?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You stood there for a few seconds, watching as the yellow car drove away, Tara’s happy face outside the window waving at you. You waved back, heart warm at how adorable she was.

When you got home that night, you weren’t exhausted even after the busy day and all the beer you had, you felt alive and giddy as you texted the newly-added number, telling her you were safe and sound at the comfort of your home. The reply came in the same second, telling you that she was in bed already with a kiss blowing emoji next to it.

Now, a year after that first night out with Tara, you had the young girl sleeping safely in your arms, the morning sun breaking the thick, rainy clouds and invading the apartment, waking you up. Tara was hidden in the hollow of your neck, her calm and heavy breathing tickling your skin, still sleeping soundly.

You looked around the scene, still half asleep. Your coffee mug, now cold, still on the side table. The birds were chirping for the first time in a while since the winter arrived in New York. Some blankets had fallen to the floor, leaving only one covering your bodies. It was true, Tara only needed you to keep her warm.

Feeling your eyes on her, she stirs in her sleep and you’re fast to tighten your arms around her, but after all the incidents that happened around her in the past years, she was a light sleeper.

“You’re suffocating me.” She giggles, hand resting on your neck.

“I should suffocate you after you made me skip work last night.”

“Did I? I don’t remember putting a gun to your head and making you cuddle me.”

Your eyes widened, pulling back just enough to find hers.

“You did worse! You looked at me with Bambi eyes and you know I cannot say no to that.”

She laughs, “You’re very weak for a detective.”

Rolling your eyes, you ignored the fake teasing, caressing the scar on the right side of her belly.

“I’m only weak when it comes to you. You’re my only weakness, Tara.”

Her expressions softened, eyes analyzing your face. She knew you weren’t lying, just like she knew you would do anything to protect her, other than the four core, you were the only one that took her walls down.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to use this against you so I can have you all to myself.”

“You’ll always have me all to yourself.”

“I know,” she shrugged. “but sometimes work steals you from me.”

You smile, “I have to keep my girlfriend safe, don’t I?”

“I guess you do, but today,” the tip of her fingers slid under the collar of your sweater, noticing the lack of bra; she wet her lips. “I have you all to myself, and I am not letting you go.”

“I certainly don’t want you to.”

Tugging you by the collar, she climbed on top of you, the blanket falling to the floor with the sudden motion.

For the first time you could fully see her as she sat on your hip; black panties and an equally black tank top, slightly wrapped around her thin waist, the tip of her scar visible, messy hair cascading down her shoulders.

Biting your lower lip as your eyes followed her curves, hands on her thigh following to her hip, then her waist in a strong squeeze. When she leaned down, lips oh so close to yours, you jumped when a low clearing of the throat coming from the kitchen filled the room; your instinct quick to pull a blanket from the floor to cover Tara’s body and pull her against you.

Standing in the corner of the brick wall, Sam was avoiding looking in your direction until her sister was fully covered, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Please, tell me you two weren’t going to have sex on my couch, again.”

Tara hid a laugh against your neck, unlike you — who felt heat rising from your toes all the way up to your face, cheeks burning with Sam’s disgusted look. This wasn’t the first time the older Carpenter walked on the two of you, but it was funny that this happened twice on the same week, at least this time you both were fully covered…

You opened your mouth in an attempt to say something, an apology, or maybe try to convince her that this was not what was happening at all, but all that came out was a struggled sound that caused Tara to laugh muffled against you.

Sam took a deep breath, reaching out for her keys that were settled next to your mug. She adjusted the black beanie as she walked to the door, unlocking the 4 sets of locks and turning to you with a tired expression, “If you two are still on my couch when I come back, we’re gonna have a whole different conversation. Got it?”

You nodded fast.

“Good.”

And left.

You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you’d been holding when you heard the jingling of keys on the other side of the door and distant steps going down the stairs.

Removing the blanket from her head, Tara looked at the closed door before staring at you, a loud and delicious laugh breaking the almost palpable tension that was left in the room.

“How can you laugh like this when your sister walked on us like this, again?” You were in disbelief, heart beating in your throat.

“If you could see your face, you’d laugh too,” she whipped the corner of her eyes, pressing a fast kiss on your lips. “I might be your only weakness, but Sam is your only fear.”

You huffed, agreeing with your girlfriend.

“I’ve seen what she’s capable of, I am not risking having my hands cut off, I’d miss them a lot!”

“Oh, trust me, I know,” she leaned in, hands on the side of your head, a hard grip on the cushions you laid your head on. Tara brushed her lips on yours, a fainted smell of cherries filling your lungs. "I would miss them too... more than you could ever imagine.”

Before you could close the small gap between your lips, the jingling of keys got you sitting up, arms firmly wrapped around the youngest waist, walking to bedroom at the end of the hallway, a giggly Tara clinging to your body for her dear life; you kicked the door close and leaned against it, breath caught up to your throat as you faced Tara with pursed lips.

Sam had her eyes closed when the door swung open, one hand on the door knob and the other covering her face. She had forgotten her cellphone. When she was met with silence, her index finger moved up a little, enough for her to peek at the scene.

The living room was a mess, blankets all over the floor, your slippers and Tara’s lost in between, a couple cushions in the middle as well, but what made her take a deep breath to keep from freaking out was the overturned mug on the side table, cold coffee dripping on the wooden floor.

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hheaven-sentt · 10 months

Text

devotion

summary: because love doesn't quite capture it | leon kennedy x partner!reader

word count: 2.4k

warnings: depictions of injuries, angst if you squint, mentions of alcohol consumption, yearning, mutual pining, partners to friends to lovers

notes: BACK FROM THE DEAD W A VENGEANCE. my semester has finished and my second one doesn't start until january so i will be posting for once. college is kicking my ass like all the time so it puts everything else on pause for me anyway ily all | ao3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dress feels itchy against your skin. You don’t want to go to this event, so you can’t imagine how Leon feels. He doesn’t even like when you thank him for doing the dishes, so you wonder how he might behave up on a stage to receive a medal. You stretch behind you, reaching for the zipper. Wordlessly, Leon turns to you and zips it up himself. Of course he does; that’s just Leon.

“This is weird,” he says. It’s barely a whisper, breath dusting over your shoulder as he says it. You nod with a sigh.

“I wouldn’t say weird,” you return. You watch his eyes in the mirror. They hover somewhere on your forehead. “Not normal, but not weird,” “I think it’s weird,” he says, and steps away. You nod again, because what else can you say?

Working with Leon has its ups and downs. He’s too quiet some days, and you have to fill in the gaps yourself. Or he’s too loud–sometimes without even saying anything–and you have to figure out how to deal with it. Or he’s just Leon; he laughs and jokes, he helps cook dinner, he doesn’t talk about work. You like those days the best. Had you seen these versions of Leon when you were assigned to him almost ten years ago, you would’ve laughed. Ten years ago, you couldn’t imagine being this close to someone, to care as much as you do about someone you’re paid to be around.

You suppose there’s layers to it, layers you haven’t fully unraveled yet. You know only a few things for certain: Leon is your partner, he is also your unofficial roommate, and you care about him more than you care about others.

“Are you ready?” he asks. He’s standing in the doorway of the bedroom, the light from the hallway making him look like an angel descending to relay a message from God. You swallow and nod.

“Just need my shoes,” you say, moving to the bed and sliding your shoes across the floor to be in front of you. Leon bends down without a word to help you fasten them.

When he looks up at you, he looks less like your partner and more like someone you’re meant to love. An ache resonates within you, a need to reach out a brush your fingers through his darkened hair. He shifts his gaze to your upper arm. Gingerly, he runs the tips of his fingers over a scar that spans from your elbow to your clavicle. It’s ugly and red, courtesy of the nasty burn you’d sustained there a few years ago. The ridged skin is unfeeling as Leon skirts his hand across it, tracing it from your elbow to your shoulder.

“I remember when you got this,” he says absently. His fingers dance across your skin, and you wish the scar didn’t run so deep so you could feel his ministrations. “Thought I’d lost you,”

He says nothing more, just stands up and offers his hand to you to help you off the bed. You take it, and he hauls you up with ease. He twists out of the room like a ghost. You follow him, like you always do.

The scar is one of a few you’ve come to own. You remember the day you got it, too. For whatever reason, you replay the moment in your head over and over in the taxi on the way to the gala. It makes your skin burn.

It was supposed to be a normal day, a normal mission. Go in, extract, get out. Three simple steps that you had done a hundred thousand times before. Leon stood beside you, always offering to enter a room first. You’ll admit, years removed from the situation, you should’ve been more careful, should’ve listened to what he was saying. But you were so angry at him. You felt weak, unnecessary. You remember shoving past him and through a door you hadn’t known was connected to a trigger. Almost as soon as your boot touched the concrete on the other side of the threshold, your hearing went out. It felt like you were standing miles away from a nuclear blast, and you had felt the effects of the delayed shockwave. You were knocked to the ground in an instant, but you didn’t feel pain–not yet at least. When you woke up in the hospital a day later, Leon was asleep in the chair beside you.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he’d said. You vowed not to.

“Do you think they’ll at least have an open bar?” he says now, drawing you back into the world. You turn away from the window of the cab to look at him. He’s staring at his hands, forcing a small smile.

“They better,” you say, reaching over and settling a hand on his shoulder. He looks at you. “It’s the only reason I’m going,”

This turns his smile genuine, and he even offers an eyeroll. You squeeze his shoulder, bracelets jingling with the motion. His eyes are on you, and you feel as hot as fresh sin. You hate this; hate that he makes you feel this way, hate that he is so beautiful, hate that you can’t seem to shake this deep seated love you harbor for him. You miss him when he looks away and you remove your hand.

The gala is overwhelming. Leon stays near you, hand hovering near your own. You wish he would reach out and take it. You debate the consequences of doing it yourself.

Breath hot on the shell of your ear, Leon whispers, “You think our taxes went into this?”

You suppress a laugh, tightening your lips into a thin line to fight a smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised, but I’ll pretend like this was all donated,”

“You can consider taxes a donation if you really think about it,” he says, gliding across the floor with you toward an empty table. You snort.

“I think that depends on what your definition of donation is,” you say. He pulls out your chair for you before pushing it in, then takes his own seat beside you. His legs are angled toward you like he only plans on talking to you.

“I think you underestimate my ability to bend definitions to suit my needs,” he says. You laugh again.

You like this version of Leon, and you know that it won’t last very long so you should hold onto it while it’s here. An old jazz song rings out from the speakers across the hall, and the lights catch his eyes just right. They’re really blue, as true blue as blue gets. They’re your favorite shade of blue. If you could paint your living room that color, you would. It’s a soft blue, like the crest of a wave blue, like the sky just after dawn blue, like two perfect oceans set into his skull. There’s a hairline scar that runs between the crows feet of his left eye, one you ache to reach out and trace.

That’s the best way to describe how you feel when you look at Leon: aching. It’s desperation, an aching need to touch and hold. It’s not exactly love, but you don’t have another word for it. Maybe devotion? Looking at him feels like the first time a child sees a kitten. You’re like me, soft and lovable, and we should stay together.

“Have you listened to anything I’ve said in the last few minutes?” Leon asks, putting a hand on your knee that brings you back to the gala. You suck in a breath and shake your head. He smiles wide. “Quit staring at me, makes me feel like I’ve got something on my face,”

“You’re pretty,” you say before you can stop yourself. Maybe pretty is the wrong word, but you don’t know what the right one would be. He’s handsome, sure, but handsome doesn’t encapsulate the way his lashes flutter against his cheekbones or the way he blushes when you smile at him. “Sorry,”

He’s grinning now, giving your knee a squeeze. “You flatter me,”

An hour later, and he’s being called up on stage by your director, who intends to decorate him. You’re beaming with pride, even though you know Leon is dreading this moment. He stumbles across the stage. Cameras are flashing, and you can almost see Leon cringe between photos. He’s off the stage a few minutes later, heading straight for you. You grin more, knowing that he’s choosing to seek solace in you, in your company. He wraps you in a stiff hug that loosens as it endures. You laugh into his shoulder.

“Don’t let me do anything heroic ever again,” he mumbles, burying his face into your neck. You bark a laugh.

“Yeah, okay,” you agree. “I’ll make sure to step in next time,”

In an act that surprises you, Leon tugs you toward the dance floor. You must look wildly confused because he explains, “Just this once. Just one dance,”

You agree, not that you could deny even if you wanted to. He’s looking at you like you’re someone he’s meant to love, like you’re more than just his partner. His hand slots against the curve of your waist like it was made specifically to be there. He’s warm and smiling, and you think maybe he’s had a bit too much champagne. But you like him like this. Who knows when you’ll see him like this again? You stare at him, intent to memorize his features and the way the light catches on the bridge of his nose.

“You’re staring again,” he whispers. You smile sheepishly.

“Never seen you like this,” you reply. He bows his head to chuckle. “Not sure I’ll ever get the chance to again,”

“I’m sure you will,” he says. “You’re the one who brings it out of me,”

You roll your eyes. “I’m more convinced it’s all the free champagne we’ve been drinking,”

“You can believe whatever you want, sweetness,” he says, spinning you. “I’m telling you the truth,”

You’re both giggly and joking the whole way home. Leon has you wheezing about something you can’t remember as you step into the apartment. Tears rest at the corners of your eyes. You shove him playfully. He follows you from room to room like a puppy, making you giggle and flash a smile as you clean up for the night.

You crash onto the bed, warm and light from the night, and reach to take off your shoes. Leon stands in the doorway, watching you. The light from the hallway gives him a halo. Your feet ache as you release them from their prisons, and you glance up to see Leon smiling at you. You return it with the cock of one of your brows.

“You’re pretty,” he says by way of explanation. You feel heat snake up your body. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, hair slightly messy from where he’s run his hands through it, and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone. If you weren’t as shy as you are, you’d probably move to touch him.

Instead, you huff a laugh and toss your shoes to the floor. “You flatter me,”

When you stand and begin to move around him, he grabs your elbow. “I mean it,”

Perhaps, in another life, you would see this as a win. The man you’ve spent most of your life following around and yearning for seemingly returns your affections, and you are about to deny him. Admitting it out loud makes it real, makes it mean something. What happens the next time something goes wrong out there? The next time he does something heroic? Everything will be much too real, and much harder to bury. You blink at him, looking at him for what feels like the very first and last time. He’s still Leon; scruffy stubble, blue eyes, and warmth. He’s still Leon, teetering on being your Leon, and you’re not going to let that happen. You, again, are going to deny yourself from what you want.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. You take in a shaky breath. He’s still holding you, but his touch is a ghost on your flesh.

“Leon, I don’t know-”

“You know that one Frank Sinatra song?” he interrupts. You gape at him.

“Why did you ask if you won’t let me answer?” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest. He returns his hands to his pockets.

“Predicted where it was going, figured I’d circumvent it,” he admits, the corner of his lips turning upward slightly. “The song he sings with his wife?”

You shrug. “Maybe? What’s your point?”

“I love you,” he says. Your body goes cold. “That could be the stupidest thing I’ve ever said, but I feel like you should know that before you make whatever decision you’re about to make,”

Your face breaks out into a grin, and you laugh in spite of yourself. “I’m sure you’ve said stupider,”

Whatever worry was on Leon’s face dissolves, and a real, full smile splits across his lips. He takes your face in his hands. He holds you delicately, like you’d break under the slightest pressure. To be fair, you feel like glass at the moment–if glass could have legs made of rubber.

“This makes it real,” you say. He swallows. “No going back, no forgetting, no pretending. When something happens, it will be real,”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he whispers. “It’s worked out for us so far,”

You’re not sure who closes the space first, but it matters little after it’s happened. His lips are gentle and giving against your own. Your hands splay against his sides, using his suit jacket to pull him closer. His hands wind into your hair. There’s a desperation behind his movements, one you’re all too familiar with. After what feels like hours, he breaks from you, leaning his forehead against yours. His breathing is labored, you can feel it in his strong chest beneath your hands.

“This is real,” he says.

“We take risks for a living,” you say. He opens his eyes to peek at you through his lashes. “What’s one more right?”

He grins and kisses you again.

#leon kennedy x reader #my fics #m writes #resident evil #x reader #partner!reader #resident evil fanfic #leon kennedy #id leon kennedy

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writingquestionsanswered · 8 months

Text

Writing Isn't Flowing/Word Count Low

Anonymous asked: I saw people doing 10k words a day challenge on YouTube and it made me think about making my own writing sessions longer/more productive. Not 10k words, but something more sustainable for me. I have an outline, but I usually write about 500-800 words, rarely 1k, when the words start to feel heavy and I need to take a break. Sometimes the inspiration is there and the words flow, but more often than not I have this heavy feeling. I try not to focus on word count too much, but still think I'm writing too slow. Any tips on how to write more? 🌸

[Ask edited for length]

The first thing to look at is your outline, because people say "I have an outline" but their outline is, "Sarah wakes up and goes to school, she meets a cute guy, then later he asks her out. Then she gets in trouble in class and goes to detention. Then after school, there's a big fight. Sarah is late getting home and gets in trouble with her mom." That's not really an outline so much as a really general summary of events. An outline would be: Sarah wakes from a strange dream to the sound of her brothers arguing. After calming them down, she helps her dad get everyone fed then walks to school with her best friend Maria. Maria tells her about a cute boy she met at the library the previous evening... Outlines are more detailed so there's not as much guesswork to do when you sit down to write.

Consider your current situation, because sometimes the words aren't flowing for obvious reasons. Are you tired? Not feeling well? Distracted? Overwhelmed? Uncomfortable? Sometimes these things can be helped, like making sure you get more sleep and trying to minimize distractions, but you can't help it if you're not feeling well or if you have a lot on your mind. But, really taking the time to analyze your situation and see what you can help does make a difference.

Fill your creative well by consuming other stories (TV, movies, books, video games, etc.) and by doing creative exercises and things to help your creativity flow. Guide: Filling Your Creative Well

Try writing sprints. If you have a solid outline, a full creative well, and no obvious situational dampers to your writing, you might try doing writing sprints instead of sitting down for long writing sessions. You can experiment with how much time works best for you. Many people do 30-minute sprints, but you could do ten, fifteen, or twenty. Any number that works. So, you would choose the length, set a timer, and sit down to write until the timer goes off. When it does, you'll take a break. You might stretch for ten minutes, go for a short walk, put a load of laundry in, tidy up your room... then, you set the timer and go again. Breaking up your writing session into sprints can be a great way to keep yourself engaged and to minimize that sense of the words getting heavy.

Last but not least, if none of the above work, try reading through the relevant posts on my Motivation master list of posts.

Happy writing!

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I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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astroboots · 1 year

Text

EVERY YOU EVERY ME #10

COLLABORATED WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: Miguel tries to rob a superhero and you try to stop him.

Word count: 5,750

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

It’s another mundane morning in your office. You’re hiding away in your cubicle with your breakfast croissant and coffee, scrolling the news on your phone.

Ever since the cosmic murder attempts have started, reading news hasn't been the same for you. It’s no longer a case of innocently keeping up to date with current events. Because now you can’t read the sensationalist headlines without a small pang of guilt that you may have been the unwilling root cause for so many of them.

‘Apocalyptic blizzard in August.’

‘Stampede escape from Brooklyn zoo.’

‘Freak electric storm causes wide city blackout’.

It’s all just too macabre for you this early, it’s not even 10am. Your eyes flicker down, only skimming to make sure that there has been no casualties involved with each incident before scrolling away again. Then you opt for the technology section instead. Hoping it is a little bit less catastrophic and kinder on your nerves.

‘Tony Stark’s Arc Reactor Returns Home to Stark Tower.’

Your fingers pause at the headline. Stark always makes for a good read and good gossip, you think to yourself as you take another sip from your morning coffee and start to read:

‘Tony Stark, the notorious billionaire philanthropist and avid Star Wars memorabilia collector, has announced his decision to move his iconic arc reactor back to his home in New York City. The self-sustaining fusion power source kept Stark alive during the infamous hostage incident where he was captured and detained in Afghanistan by the Ten Rings terrorist organization’.

‘Self-sustaining fusion power source…’ you repeat the phrase in your head, parsing over the words. Why does that sound so familiar to you?

You read it again, and this time instead of your own voice, the memory of Miguel’s sleep husked voice fills your ears:

“Your world is not technically advanced enough for me to build an upgraded self-sustaining fusion power source that would be needed.”

Adrenaline buzzes bright in your brain, and you stand up from your desk so fast you nearly knock over your chair.

Finally! It’s the Eureka moment you have been waiting for all this time.

You peer over the cubicle wall, scanning the room for Miguel. It doesn’t take you long at all to spot him; his oversized frame is hard to miss. Besides, even if you couldn’t see him, you’d be able to sense the anger vibrating off of him a mile away.

In the corner at the far end of the open-plan office, Miguel is abusing the poor printer again. He’s cramming a fistful of papers into the feeding slot like it’s a duck he’s trying to force feed to make foie gras, and judging from the vein straining on his forehead, the man is about two seconds from lifting the 50 pound machine and launching it out through one of the building’s windows.

You shake your head at the scene. You don't understand how someone so smart, so intelligent, so apt with technology—he built an A.I. so advanced it would make the most high tech of Stark Industry's prototypes look like a kindergartener's chicken scrawl—can be so inept when it comes to dealing with a basic printer.

“Miguel,” you whisper loudly, and despite the fact that he’s on the other side of a bustling office, he immediately turns to look at you.

You beckon him over, practically bouncing with excitement as you wait for him to cross the room, and as soon as he’s within reach, you stand on the tip of your toes and cup a hand around his ear so you can covertly whisper the news of your discovery.

“Stark has an arc reactor.”

You’re beaming with pride that you’ve found a solution to your dilemma, and look up at Miguel expectantly for him to celebrate with you and maybe even praise you.

Instead, he looks down at you without reaction. “What’s Stark?”

"Wait, are you serious?"

You almost think he’s doing one of his sarcastic comedic bits with you, but the angle of his right eyebrow, raised in cluelessness tells you otherwise.

"How do you know so much about Dr. Strange, but not know who Tony Stark is? He’s like the main Avenger."

Miguel merely shrugs at you. "Avengers aren't really a thing where I'm from."

You shove your phone into his hand and watch as his eyes flicker over the screen, reading through the article in a matter of a few seconds. When he’s done, he places the phone back on your desk, then grabs your left hand, leaning down as he lifts it up towards him. For a second you think he’s about to kiss your hand.

"Lyla," Miguel announces, and the watch buzzes warmly against your wrist as Lyla's hologram reforms in the small space above.

"Give me the layout of the Stark Tower, identify vulnerabilities in the security system and outline the most optimal entrance points for a break-in."

Did he just say break-in?

"Wait, wait,” you interrupt quickly, trying to defuse the situation, before he gets too far ahead of himself. “Miguel, we are NOT breaking into the Stark Tower."

"How else would we do it?"

“We could just talk to him. Lyla can hack into his schedule and book us a meeting with him, right?”

“And then what?”

“We’d ask him to help us?” you suggest, not understanding why he skipped straight over the most obvious answer and went right to breaking and entering. Though from the way Miguel is staring at you in blank confusion you may as well have spontaneously grown horns on your head.

“...Nicely,” you add, in case that wasn’t already clear.

“Because that would require us to talk to him. He would just say no, Cielito. I’d prefer to break in. Cleaner that way. More efficient. Easier.”

You can’t believe this man just admitted to being so socially awkward he thinks committing a felony is easier than having to hold a conversation with a stranger.

"Asking is pointless. No scientist is just going to hand over something like an arc reactor to a couple of strangers because they asked nicely. Besides, even if we arrange a meeting with him by hacking into his calendar, he’ll know something is up the moment he sees us. You’ll just wind up getting thrown out by security.”

Ok maybe he has a point there.

"What if we tricked him? Made him think we have something he wants?”

"Like what?"

"Stark collects rare Star Wars collectibles. We can lie and say we're collectors with a rare piece to sell like the Kenner Star Wars Boba Fett prototype?"

His right brow raises at a skeptical angle and he’s staring at you like you’re speaking a foreign language.

"Cielo, that's insane."

You bristle at that.

"How is your idea any better?" you demand.

"A break-in wouldn't require much effort or rely on the goodwill or stupidity of someone else. It’s much easier–"

“You’re talking about breaking into the personal home of an Avenger!” you interrupt because you’re not listening to any more of his madness, “He’s arguably the smartest member of a team made up of the mightiest heroes on Earth, and you want to try to steal from him, Miguel!? That is not easier!”

The office has gone alarmingly quiet around you. You look around to see that your heated discussion is gaining unwarranted attention from the rest of the office. All of a sudden, the endless click and clack of the keyboards stop.

You give your curious coworkers a strained smile, then lean up close to Miguel again, muttering under your breath. “We’ll discuss this when we get home.”

Miguel doesn’t say anything else, but you can feel his eyes pinned to your back as you walk to your chair and sit back down at your desk to finish your croissant in two mouthfuls, chugging down the remainder of your coffee.

An hour before noon, Miguel comes to your cubicle. He sets down a lunchbox and from the logo on the plastic grocery bag you can tell that it’s from your favorite Bodega round the corner.

“I have a quick errand to run for work at lunch. I’ll be back within the hour,” Miguel tells you, “Lyla will guard you, and if something happens she’ll alert me immediately. Don’t go anywhere.”

You look up from your screen to see him stand over your desk with that passive expression etched onto his stoic face, as if there is nothing out of the ordinary.

In the last month, Miguel hasn’t let you out of his sight for longer than a handful of minutes (primarily to get more snacks when they run out).

Miguel thinks he’s being so slick. It’s insulting to your intelligence that he thinks you don’t know what he is up to: he’s obviously going to spend his lunch hour trying to rob Tony Stark.

But that’s fine, you’re not going to openly question Miguel on his suspicious behavior. If he’s not here that means you are free to get up to whatever you want.

… Including approaching a certain multibillionaire that has the one item in his possession that could save both your life and the universe as you know it from collapsing.

It’s why you wave at him as he makes his way to the exit and pay close attention to him leaving through the front glass door and take the elevator down to the ground floor. Then for good measure you wait another five minutes to make sure that he will fully be out of hearing range with his super-senses before you raise your wrist to your face.

“Lyla,” you whisper.

“Hello, boss girl! Wasssuuuup,” she greets, elongating the word sassily for comedic effect, and you can’t help but smile.

Lyla, as entertaining as she is, is an enigma to you. You don’t understand how Miguel with his short patience-span and entirely lacking sense of humor would have programmed this A.I. to have this kind of personality. Not to mention a deep archive of a millenial’s pop-culture media reference from this dimension.

“What can I do you for?” Lyla asks, shooting you gun-fingers with a cheeky flare.

You part your mouth, but hesitate to make the request.

This is illegal isn’t it? Hacking into someone’s calendar to arrange a meeting with them under false pretenses. God, what if you get taken away in handcuffs within the first 30 seconds of entering the building, featured on Deuxmoi as a crazy stalker fan.

So far the only “illegal” thing you’ve used Lyla for is to generate Netflix passwords and hack into HBO Max to watch Succession. This is a significant next level step.

Maybe you should run downstairs and catch Miguel before he leaves the building? You could plead your case again. Try to reason with him that breaking and entering isn’t the way to go about it and the two of you should approach Tony Stark by having a mature and adult conversation.

Yeah. Right. You snort even as you think it. Miguel is never going to be persuaded on this point and you are quickly running out of time. There’s only one thing to do:

“Lyla, can you please arrange a lunchtime meeting for me with Tony Stark today.”

The lobby of Stark Tower is much like any other commercial buildings you’d find in the Financial District. Heck, it's not that much different from the one you navigate every morning at the Chrysler building. If anything, the only surprise is how ordinary the Stark Tower is.

When you enter the main lobby, you have to sign in with a stern but clearly bored security guard, then use the guest security pass you’re given in order to access the elevators.

Once you reach the 90th floor, there is a distinct lack of staff up there. Only a single, sweet-looking old man, with a well trimmed mustache above his upper lip. He's swathed in a soft-knitted cardigan and wearing gigantic vintage-styled sunglasses indoors that make him appear bug-eyed as he peers up at you and walks with you to another set of elevators using a retinal scan for security and sends you on your way.

The door closes around you in the metal box, with a swift jump to the 91st floor.

When the door finally slides open it feels like you’ve entered another world. Minimalistic opulence is the keyword for it. There are windows along the entire space. A 360 view of the New York landscape and you almost feel like you are at an Aquarium with the amount of glass surrounding you. There’s pieces of half-built tech and prototypes everywhere. Imagine having so much money that you can allocate a whole floor of a manhattan skyscraper to essentially be your garage workshop.

“So you’re my 1pm that magically appeared today,” a happy-go-lucky voice sings out.

You jump in your skin, breaking your concentration from the view, as you turn around to see the infamous man of the hour standing behind you.

“Gotta say, when I was envisioning the sort of person who might be selling me a Kenner Star Boba Fett figure, I did not imagine a gorgeous knock-out,” he says, with an outstretched hand as he greets you.

Tony Stark is shorter in real life. Less formal than in the gettymarked photos you’ve seen of him at red carpet events and fancy galas, dressed up in the most tailored fit suits that money can possibly buy. He’s also a lot more charming than in photos. All big brown eyes, and pouty lips. He might be half the size of Miguel, but Tony Stark has more than enough charm and confidence to make up for it

“Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

He is quick witted banter and dazzling diamond smiles as he shows you the residential suite of the Stark Tower. His hand rests on the side of your waist as he guides you through the long hall, making strong eye contact all the while down the hall. 91 floors up and you cannot hear a hint of the chaotic traffic noise downstairs, it’s oddly quiet save for the faint scratching noises you hear from the ceiling. (Guess even Stark towers cannot escape the city’s rodent issues).

“Anyone ever told you, your eyes really sparkle?” Stark says, as his hand slips from your shoulder to rest at the small of your back. “You’ve got this whole Disney princess thing going on. I dig it.”

Wait, is he flirting with you?

Tony Stark, Chief Executive Officer of Stark Industries. One of the top 20 richest men in America (according to Forbes). A man who can afford to buy the whole of planet Mars is flirting with you.

God, you are already seeing dollar signs. Lobster. Caviar. All the rare exotic and poisonous puffer fish sushi you've only dreamed of eating. You've always wanted to be a gold digger, you've just never been close enough to a gold mine.

Maybe this will be easier than you thought. If he likes you, maybe you can just flirt your way into getting the arc reactor. Ask him to lend it to you.

The two of you make your way past the glass doors and into another imposing large room, bare and minimalistic. Oddly, it feels dimly lit, given the size of the windows in the room.

It’s the size of the front lobby of your office building, and you realize halfway through that this room serves no other purpose except to store more of his junk. There are half built machines piled up in every corner. Boxes and boxes of tools haphazardly strewn across the room. It’s an outrageous waste of prime New York real estate that speaks to the man’s wealth.

In the middle of the room, there’s a silver medal that glows an eerie blue in the middle, encased in a display case. With the way it sparkles, you could almost mistake it for a precious aquamarine gemstone the size of your fist.

“Wow, is that the arc reactor?” you ask.

Stark doesn’t answer. Suddenly his chattiness is nowhere to be found, and as you turn to look at him you notice he’s not paying any attention to you. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling behind you.

You whip your head around and follow his gaze to see the familiar blue super-suit trailing behind you. The unmissable angry red spider embellished across his wide chest, as he hangs upside down like a cat burglar.

Has he been trailing behind you since you got here? Was that what the noises were?

Air whizzes through the space and the force of it reverberates across your cheek. A piece of red armor flies through the air and attaches itself to Stark’s arm.

You’ve seen enough highlight reels of Iron Man on the news channel to know what it means.

“Wait wait wait,” you shout out as you step in front of Stark in mid-transformation.

You fling your hands up high in a gesture of a white flag to de-escalate the situation. “This isn’t what it looks like!”

Stark’s eyebrow quirks up, tipping his head sardonically. "So your costumed sidekick hasn't been stalking us this entire time? Breaking and entering, not just into my tower–which is private property, by the way–but also bypassing security to access my private office? Yeah, I'm sure your intentions are entirely on the level."

Despite the sarcastic hostility in his tone Stark hasn’t summoned the rest of the armor. The rest of his iron suit is suspended in the air on standby two feet away. He’s only got the arm piece strapped to his arm as insurance and is clearly willing to give you at least a few seconds of a benefit of a doubt. Long enough to hopefully explain yourself and not start a Superhero brawl.

“He’s not dangerous,” you say, and the moment you say it, you want to kick yourself because of how suspicious that makes you sound.

You turn your head around to Miguel who’s done an aerial somersault with the grace of a ballerina despite his build and soundlessly landed back onto his feet on the ground.

“I can’t believe you went behind my back! We agreed to put a pin in this and wait to deal with Stark until we agreed on a plan. You said you weren’t going to break in!”

His masked eyes narrow into accusing slits, “Yeah? And what are you doing here then?”

“Stopping you before you do something stupid!” you hiss.

Before Miguel has a chance to retort, there is a loud clap from behind you that redirects both your attentions to Stark.

“Jarvis, how did our lovely Disney princess make it onto my calendar and how did Hulk Spiderman over here manage to slip past every layer of your security net?”

The voice of a posh British man sounds out across the room but there’s no person attached to it.

“I can find no record of these events in my logs. Performing internal diagnostics now, Sir.”

“Huh, interesting…” Tony hums to himself in consideration before he turns his attention back to you both.

“I have to say I'm quite impressed, but I’m hoping for an explanation. Is this a Bonny and Clyde situation? You two lovebirds here to rob me?”

“No!” you both shout in unison.

“Not lovebirds, got it.”

“That’s not–” Miguel starts, whipping down his head in your direction.

At the sight of your face, he seems too flustered to continue his train of thought and he quickly looks away from you. “None of your business,” he snaps at Stark.

You don’t know why, but that dismissive glance from him hurts. Like the very idea that you two would be in a romantic relationship is off-putting to him. It’s kind of insulting. You turn from him, trying to ignore the sharp stabbing ache somewhere in your chest that makes it hard to breathe.

From across, Stark observes the two of you, whatever he sees makes him tip his head in curiosity. The intense pinch between his brow relaxes and the subtle shift in his expression is like witnessing the moment a shark senses blood in the water, then he grins and turns his attention towards you.

Stark grins, turning his attention towards you. "So you're single then?"

You peer up at Miguel and hesitate because that’s a damned good question. You of this dimension is certainly single, but there’s another version of you (a dead one) that’s married to the man next to you.

But that’s not you.

You turn to Stark, "Yes," you answer.

Miguel whips his head to you, eyes wide. "No!" he bellows.

"The lady says she is, big blue."

"And I say she's not!" Miguel growls, the last word ends on such loud volume it could break the sound barrier.

Miguel isn’t the best at reading cues. You’ve known Tony Stark for all of five minutes, and even you can tell that the man enjoys riling up people, Miguel is feeding right into that.

Stark acts like Miguel is speaking at a decibel that he is unable to register. He saunters up to you, with the most carefree gait you’ve seen anyone carry around Miguel.

"So are you free tonight?" Stark asks.

You spot Miguel’s bristling expression and hesitate for a second time.

It’s mean, you shouldn’t rile Miguel up like this. His entire back is curved up like a hissing cat. The man looks like he’s about to blow a casket, acting like a jealous spouse. And somehow under Tony Stark’s attention you feel like you are the adulterous wife.

Except once again, you’re not. Because you are not Miguel’s wife.

… Why exactly are you pining after a man still grieving his dead ex-wife who happens to look like you?

You're currently homeless. Your take-home salary as an insurance adjuster can’t afford you a new apartment in New York, not with the rising inflation and the current state of this economy. This is your highway express ticket to the charmed life of being a billionaire ex-wife.

Bye bye to 9 to 5’s and having to manually enter data into thousands of excel sheets everyday. Jeff Bezos' former wife, Mackenzie Bezos was awarded 25% of their Amazon shares valued at over 38 billion dollars. Stark is twice as rich as that.

You slide closer to Stark. "Maybe? Where are you gonna take me? Somewhere fancy?"

"Yeah, no! Absolutely not!" Miguel interjects.

He steps forward to drag you behind him, until his mountainous body blocks you from the man.

“We need the arc reactor.” Miguel announces brusquely, with no fanfare and even less by way of explanation. “If you won’t give it to us, I’ll just have to take it.”

“What do you need it for?” Stark asks curiously.

“That’s none of your business,” is the blunt reply.

Stark tilts up his head, gaze pinned to Miguel’s mask. “You know, I’m not really minded to give away proprietary technology to a man wearing a wrestling mask in broad daylight.”

There’s a stalemate between the two men as they stare each other down (or up in Stark’s case). The showdown is silent, you can practically feel the tumbleweeds rolling by, waiting to see who’s going to draw first.

“He can take his mask off,” you interject.

At your offer, Miguel’s eyes narrow, nose turning up in the air in a put off gesture, refusing to do as he’s told.

“Mig,” you warn, and despite the clear scowl etched onto the features of his mask, this time, he complies.

The blue and red fabric recedes into nothingness, until the fierce cut of his bare jawline is revealed. Eyes glowing an angry crimson.

The scowl on Miguel's face is so ferocious, you can see his fangs in clear view. But instead of scary. Instead of intimidating. He looks... almost cute. All you see in front of you is a teething puppy with no real bite. He's harmless.

Stark makes a low whistling sound at the dramatic reveal of Miguel’s face. “Didn’t expect the fifth member of One Direction under there.”

Miguel glares at the man, even though you know fully well that he doesn’t understand the pop-culture reference that’s being made.

“So let’s take this from the top,” Stark says, and he starts to pace the length of the room until he reaches the arc reactor and gives the display case a light smack like he’s tapping the rear of a mare.

“You need my arc reactor, but you won’t tell me why, and you’re not offering me anything in return, except for El Tigre over here not trying to kill me, is that about right?”

“What’s your price?” Miguel asks, voice in that low growling tone that always precedes a threat.

“I’m a multi-billionaire, cash doesn’t really interest me, and I can’t exactly have this fall into the wrong hands.”

“We’re not bad people, and we’re not going to use it for anything nefarious. I know this sounds absolutely nuts, but we need your arc reactor to save the world,” you say.

Stark chuckles at you, the way an adult would at a naive child. “That’s not really much to go on hon, you’re gonna have to give me more than that.”

“Wong, the Sorcerer Supreme, he can vouch for us.”

Stark considers you for a moment then tilts his head to take an appraising look of Miguel, eyes dragging from the sole of his suit-clad heels and up to his neck where the suit ends.

“The unstable molecule fabric you have for the suit is interesting. I’ve been meaning to give my suit an upgrade, and having it disappear into thin air would be convenient. Wouldn’t have to constantly lug around 2,000 pounds of metal everywhere I go with me. Hand me a sample of the tech along with full intellectual property rights and we’ll talk.”

“No.” Miguel says.

He straightens up his posture and crosses his arms over his chest with a haughty expression on his face. “My suit is technologically superior to all the technology you’ve got in this building combined. It’s a bum deal. Your arc reactor has palladium in it and would be poisonous for long term use. It’s practically defunct and I only need it for a one time use.”

God, this man really doesn’t know how to endear himself to anyone does he.

“He doesn’t mean that,” you step in.

“Well if it’s practically defunct, I wouldn’t want to pawn this junk off on you,” Stark responds, throwing up his hands in feigned defeat. “Besides, it has sentimental value to me. Not sure I’m willing to just give this away to some random guy who broke into my house.”

Miguel’s lip twitches in irritation until you see another flash of those fangs like they’re itching to sink into Stark’s throat.

That only seems to entertain Stark further. “Look, you clearly need this reactor for something big, and for some reason you’re not able to build it yourself even with your advanced tech on display here. You’re obviously in a hurry, and in a desperate situation. Desperate enough to break in, and you know the saying: beggar’s can’t be choosers. I wouldn’t be much of a businessman if I didn’t take advantage of that.”

Miguel narrows his eyes, glancing around at the electronic equipment stored in the corner of the room. “I need you to throw in the laser scalpel along with the 3d printer and genetic sequencer,” he says, cocking his head in its direction.

“Wow, toots, your boyfriend has real expensive taste,” Stark teases.

Your cheek warms at the term boyfriend, but you don’t correct him.

Neither does Miguel. Instead Miguel looks him squarely in the eyes and juts up his chin. “I want the Sonic disruptor too.”

“Fine,” Stark announces, holding up his hand in the gesture of a time-out to stop Miguel from listing out more expensive items. “You drive a hard bargain, Blue, but what the hell. It’s a deal. I’ll even give you a newer palladium-free model of the reactor so I can keep old sparky here for myself.”

The sun is setting against the skyline of the city, washing it in strokes of warm amber-orange hues. Miguel is still grumbling next to you as the two of you stroll along the Brooklyn bridge.

“Supergenius, Ha! Si los zombies comen cerebros, él sería invisible para ellos. What do you see in that guy anyway?! He’s not even good looking. He’s like what? 5 feet tall? He was wearing built in heels, you know! Es más corto que las mangas de un chaleco–”

"Can you pipe down?” you say, cutting off his tirade, “Just let it go, please. It's been hours! I didn’t see anything in him. I have no desire to be the next notch on Tony Stark's bedpost.”

That finally seems to end his rant, or at the very least slow it down. Miguel shuts his mouth, staring out over the river. “Then why did you tell him you were free?”

“Because I wanted the arc reactor! I figured letting the guy flirt with me might help. Catching flies with honey and all that.”

He folds his arms over his chest, with a skeptical furrow in his brows. “You wanted him to take you somewhere fancy; that’s what you said,” he points out.

Damn him and his super-genius memory.

“Well, maybe I also wanted to eat at a Michelin star restaurant one time in my life. Manila Social Club is supposed to have a golden donut made with champagne jelly and actual gold on their dessert menu.

“That doesn’t even sound tasty,” Miguel mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. His mouth settles into an unhappy frown.

“It would have been if I didn’t have to pay for it!”

“I could’ve gotten it for you,” he says, and it’s not until you take a better look at his face that you realize it’s not so much as a frown he’s sporting. It’s a pout.

Oh, is he… ? He is, isn’t he!

“You have nothing to be jealous of, you know. I’m not interested in Tony Stark,” you reassure him.

In front of you, the rigidness in his shoulder seems to melt at your words.

That surprises you. You’d have expected him to deny the accusation that he’s jealous. Adamantly object that he wasn’t, and why would he be, you’re nobody to him. Just a random stranger that happens to look like his wife that he cannot leave well enough alone.

He doesn’t do that though. Instead, his only response is a quiet, “Okay.”

His docileness takes you by surprise.

Is he admitting that he was jealous?

You'd be lying to yourself if you said that you didn't take even a morsel of enjoyment in the comical way that Miguel is getting himself riled up over you. To have him flustered and openly jealous of Tony Stark flirting with you.

As if Miguel had anything to worry about.

As if Tony Stark, a man who has ‘philandering philanthropist’ as a description for himself on his twitter bio, isn't known to be so indiscriminately flirtatious he’d eagerly court a voluptuously shaped tree.

As if that man of 5 foot 6 (with platform shoes) would ever hope to occupy every one of your thoughts the way Miguel does.

Immature and childish and inane as your behavior back at Stark Tower was—and you feel mildly ashamed of it now—you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it in the moment. Not because Tony Stark, multi-billionaire, GQ's Most Eligible Bachelor five years running, was flirting with you.

No. Because for a moment you got to experience what it was like to have your rude protective Spiderman treat you as his girlfriend. Someone he was possessive of. Someone he treasures. Someone that is his. Instead of your current reality, where you know he belongs to someone else entirely.

“If anyone has anything to be jealous of, don’t you think it should be me?” you say, the words slipping out of your mouth before you can reign them back in.

Miguel tilts his head, regarding you like a cute, confused pup, so you continue.

"Because I could never compete with her, right?"

"Her?" he asks, seeming genuinely puzzled.

"Your version of me," you say, "your Nena." You try to smile, try to keep it light-hearted, like the funny joke you had meant it to be, but it hurts even just to hear yourself say it. Because you know it's not a joke.

It's true. You’re in love with a man whose affections aren't yours to win.

Miguel stops in his tracks, and that makes you stop as well.

"It's not a competition," he says seriously. "You're two different people. You can't compare like that.”

You feel like you’re being scolded and probably rightly so. You’re being childish and unreasonably trying to compare yourself to his dead wife. But that doesn’t mean that it makes it hurt any less to hear you don’t compare at all. Your heart fissures and cracks, and the first sting of tears starts to well up behind your eyes.

"You're important to me too," he continues.

The words stop your heart, your eyes dart up to his face. The look on his face is gentle and soft, and it soothes the pain in your chest away, a gentle warmth rising to take its place.

“Oh,” you say. You can’t help but smile up at him, squinting against the bright sun behind his back.

“You’re important to me too,” you tell him.

His lips quirk up into a small but genuine smile at your response. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You nod, and then you have to turn away, feeling bashful under his attentive gaze. Embarrassed heat prickles your cheeks, and you need a second to catch your breath and let the evening breeze cool you down.

There are cyclists and pedestrians going past you as the two of you continue to walk in silence. You sneak a look at him to see that, like you, he’s turned away. He’s gazing out over the bridge as he walks and against the amber sun, you see a faint flush riding high on his cheeks.

Your fingers lightly brush against the side of his hand, and he turns back to you and smiles, sliding his pinkie to hook around yours.

You walk all the way home this way, heart feeling full, and you think to yourself that maybe, this time, things really are going to be okay after all.

~ Next issue

Author's note: So for fellow marvelheads checking, wouldn't Tony be dead after Endgame when Wong was made Supreme Sorcerer? This is another version of earth -- Thanos and the snap never happened. My baby Tony isn't dead how dare you!

The Spanish in this chapter has been left untranslated on purpose, so that it’s left ambiguous whether reader speak/understand Spanish. The idea is that if you as a reader understand it, then so does the reader, and vice versa 🥰

Dedication & Credits: To @guruan for her incredibly kind help and donating her time to check the Spanish used in this chapter.

And to the kind @forwantofwill and her generosity for doing this beautiful fanart of Miguel Folding Origami that has stolen my heart!!

And finally to @thirstworldproblemss I love you and hope you're eating all the yummy sukiyaki that you deserve. Thank you for coming with me on this wild ride.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderverse #oscar isaac #across the spiderverse #marvel #spiderverse fanfiction #imguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x you #marvel mcu

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nenelonomh · 3 days

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time management in the ib

good time management is crucial in the ibdp (international baccalaureate diploma programme) due to its demanding workload and diverse requirements. effective time management helps you focus better on your tasks, leading to higher quality work and more efficient use of your time.

by organizing your schedule and prioritizing tasks, you can reduce feelings of being overwhelmed and manage stress more effectively.

good time management also allows you to allocate time for relaxation and social activities, which is essential for maintaining mental and physical health. the ibdp involves numerous assignments, projects, and exams, so managing your time well ensures you meet all deadlines without last-minute rushes.

balancing extra-curricular activities

balancing your ibdp workload with extracurricular activities can be challenging, but it’s definitely achievable with some strategic planning. here are a few tips to help you manage both effectively:

create a schedule: use a planner or digital calendar to map out your week. allocate specific time slots for studying, completing assignments, and participating in extracurricular activities. this helps ensure you dedicate enough time to each area without neglecting any.

prioritize tasks: identify your most important and urgent tasks each day. focus on completing these first before moving on to less critical activities. this way, you can stay on top of your ibdp requirements while still enjoying your extracurriculars.

set realistic goals: break down larger tasks into smaller, manageable steps. set achievable goals for each study session or activity, which can help you stay motivated and avoid feeling overwhelmed.

use downtime wisely: make use of short breaks between classes or activities to review notes, read, or complete small tasks. this means no doom scrolling. at all. these pockets of time can add up and help you stay productive.

communicate with teachers and mentors: let your teachers and extracurricular mentors know about your commitments. they can offer support, provide extensions if needed, and help you manage your workload more effectively.

take care of yourself: ensure you get enough sleep, eat well, and make time for relaxation. maintaining your physical and mental health is crucial for sustaining high performance in both academics and extracurriculars.

be flexible: sometimes, unexpected events or deadlines may arise. be prepared to adjust your schedule as needed and stay adaptable to changes.

practicing time-management techniques

there are several effective time management techniques that can help you stay organized and make the most of your time. here are a few popular ones:

pomodoro technique: work in focused intervals (usually 25 minutes) followed by a short break. this helps maintain concentration and prevent burnout.

time blocking: allocate specific blocks of time for different tasks or activities throughout your day. this ensures you dedicate time to important tasks without interruptions.

eisenhower matrix: prioritize tasks based on their urgency and importance. this helps you focus on what truly matters and avoid getting bogged down by less critical tasks.

pareto analysis (80/20 rule): focus on the 20% of tasks that will produce 80% of the results. or, the most urgent and impactful of the eishenhower matrix. this helps you prioritize high-impact activities.

experiment with these techniques to find which ones work best for you.

still struggling with time management?

if you’re still struggling with time management, don’t worry—it’s a common challenge, especially with a demanding program like the ibdp. here are a few additional steps you can take:

seek support: talk to your teachers, school counselors, or a mentor. they can offer guidance, resources, and strategies tailored to your specific situation.

review and adjust: regularly review your schedule and time management strategies. see what’s working and what isn’t, and make adjustments as needed.

limit distractions: identify and minimize distractions during study time. this might mean turning off notifications, finding a quiet study space, or using apps that block distracting websites (i recommend tracking yourself on ypt).

practice self-compassion: be kind to yourself. it’s okay to have off days or to struggle with time management. recognize your efforts and progress, and don’t be too hard on yourself.

consider professional help: if time management issues are significantly impacting your well-being or academic performance, consider seeking help from a professional, such as a therapist or a coach who specializes in time management.

in summary, mastering time management is crucial for success in both academic and personal areas. with commitment and practice, you can develop strong time management skills that will serve you well throughout your life. keep aiming for balance and don’t hesitate to ask for help when needed. you’ve got this!

❤️ nene

i hope this post helps, @cherrybros

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millie-multifics · 8 months

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Proverbial Dark Clouds • Part 2

Major John Egan x Reader

A woman finally snuck her way into the heart of eligible bachelor Major John Egan, he is all too soon reminded of why he fended off love for so long.

Warnings: Gory descriptions of injuries, angst, plane crash, cheesy behaviour.

Word Count: ~1.6k

Masterlist Part 1 Part 3

x x x

Pain and heat was all you could feel. The plane had nose dived into the dirt, its impact sending chunks of metal and glass through the air in a fireball explosion. The seat you had braced your body against was torn to shreds and regretfully the planes two pilots had perished in the destruction.

But you were thrown from the wreckage upon impact, soaring through the sky like a damn eagle, body harshly landing in the dirt with debris falling down around you. Your head hurt, blood pouring from your hair as your brain beat against your fractured skull. Lacerations, broken bones, bruises and burns adorned your body like a twisted form of art. You were sure you would be screaming if you could, the pain throughout your body being too much to bear but it was stuck in your throat, only a few tears escaping as you willed yourself to move even just a finger.

You were alive, unsure of how long that would remain with the injuries you had sustained in the middle of enemy territory.

Curt was dead, and Dickie.

Before events had taken a turn for the worst for your crew, you had seen other planes exploding in the sky, some falling from the air trailing fire and smoke.

You hoped the rest made it to their destination, you hoped Gale and your John weren’t suffering your same fate.

Picturing his face brought you a semblance of peace. Your pain fading as your skin tingled, feeling the rough finger tips of your Johns hands running over your skin to soothe your aches and worries. For a moment you cursed the forces that had brought you together only recently, an unlikely pair but very likely all together; the quiet girl who had learned all of her lessons the hard way falls in love with the rambunctious, handsome Major who refuses to settle down. Any thought of settling down with John would just be a fairytale now, one that only the stars would know. Your heart aches and for a moment you are unsure if it’s caused by your injuries or the thought of him receiving the news of this tragedy, losing his friends and his love in one foul swoop would undoubtedly break that good mans heart.

Your flight to England had been more eventful than it was meant to be, the plane carrying you and a few other nurses had to make an unexpected stop in Greenland after engine troubles

The pub you had found yourself in was mostly empty, a few soldiers sat at the bar and the ladies you were travelling with were sitting on one of the sofas while you sat at a table in the corner. It wasn’t that you hated social interaction, listening to the ladies chat excitedly about traveling to England and all the handsome soldiers they could potentially meet was all they ever talked about and you had already received your harsh dose of the realities of war. Going to England only meant you were one step closer to brutality and destruction.

You glanced as the door opened, expecting the pilot of your plane but finding a small flock of soldiers- judging by their lamb skin coats they were pilots of some kind.

As the last one entered, he shut the door behind him, softly nudging the sticky bottom hinge with his heavy boot before he turned to take in the cozy pub. As his eyes scanned the room they stopped on yours, holding eye contact with his deep grey ones for as long as you let him before you glanced down toward the knife etching on the worn wood of the table top. Slowly, you lifted your head to observe the man as he approached the bartender. The small smile he wore, teasing, nearly considered a smirk seemed so natural on him. Upon removing his hat to reveal his dark hair, a few strands fell down his forehead with a curl. There was no denying that he was pretty, and you were sure he was a charmer which meant you would stay as far away from the man as possible until your pilot returned with news that the plane was fixed and ready to complete the rest of the journey.

“May I offer you another drink?” The new voice had startled you. You had been sitting in the corner for so long in your own little reverie, tracing the markings on the table that you hadn’t noticed the man approach. It was the handsome man from before, standing in front of you with two large glasses of beer and a reassuring smile.

“I’ll have to pass on the drink,” You mentally cursed yourself for this, he was handsome and you would like to talk to the man but nothing good would come from it. “I’m expecting to be back in the air any moment.”

“I’ll assume that it was your plane on the field with half an engine in pieces? I hate to break it to you sweetheart but you are going to be stuck here for quite a while longer.”

Sweetheart. You had always disliked pet names, many of them sounding sleazy coming from intoxicated soldiers but there was something about the Major that didn’t make your skin crawl when the endearing term left his lips. You had taken note of the rank and medals pinned on his jacket as he stood in front of you.

“Of course you don’t have to accept the beer but please allow me to keep a beautiful woman such as yourself a little bit of company.”

The Major had sat for hours at your table, finishing both beers himself and bringing you a tonic when he snuck off to the bar for another drink. He had been sharing stories of his time in training, seeming to cause some sort of trouble every step of the way and when your sweet laughter was thwarted by the appearance of the pilot reporting the plane would very soon be ready to go, John felt the overwhelming need to see your bright smile one last time.

“Stay for one more song?” He had asked, his eyes shining from the pub lights and his intoxication. “You haven’t heard me sing yet.”

“You can sing?” You questioned sceptically, backing up in your chair as the man quite suddenly climbed onto the small table top. You heard him request a song from one of the other men, avoiding the unappreciative stare of the bar owner while he waited for the song to play.

“We’ll meet again,

Don’t know where,

Don’t know when,

But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.”

His rendition of the Vera Lynn song was very much more loud and boisterous, using his volume and enthusiasm to drown out her voice from the jukebox. You grinned up at him as he jumped off the table, reaching toward the Narwhal Tusk displayed on the wall. The soldiers sung along with him as he used the tusk as a microphone, tossing it from one hand to the other when the bar owner tried to reclaim it. You watched from your seat as he hopped up onto one of the sofas, skipping along the cushions before he leaped onto the next to evade his pursuer.

“So will you please say Hello, To the folks that I know. Tell them I wont be long, They’ll be happy to know, That you saw me go, I was singing this song.”

The soldiers lifted the Major above their heads until his boots landed on the nicely polished bar top. Many of the men had drank their weight in liquor in the past few hours and were enjoying the performance just as much as the Major was performing it.

“We’ll meet again, Don’t know where, Don’t know when, But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.”

John finished his performance with the Narwal tusk held to the top of his head as if he were a unicorn to mock the bars owner who had yet to catch him in the small, crowded space. He smiled at you, so big, bright and proud, making it was impossible to hold back your laughter at the downright silly behaviour the handsome man had displayed for you.

“Alright you’ve had your fun. Give me that!” The bartender pulled the tusk from Johns grip, sending him a stern look as he warned him to remove himself from the pub before he filed a formal complaint against the officer. John followed the angry bar owners orders, sending you a wink while he grabbed his hat and flight jacket from the hook beside the door as left the pub.

You found him waiting outside, leaning against the wall, hoping he would catch you on your way out.

“That was quite the performance, Major.” You complimented.

He grinned, flicking up the brim of his hat to better inspect your features, now that you were outside in better lighting. Still undeniably beautiful. “It wasn’t too much?”

“I mean it was a little over the top. Was breaking that poor mans prized Narwhal tusk necessary?”

“Narwhal Tusk? I thought that was a unicorn horn.” He joked, extending his arm for you to take. “Why don’t I walk you back to your plane?”

“I think I’d like that Major Egan.”

“It’s my pleasure, sweetheart.”

“How many of us made it?”

“Eleven out of twenty one?

“What about Clayton? Any chutes?”

Gale sighed, thinking about all the men they had lost. “I didn’t see any.”

“Yeah.” John paused, feeling his heart pounded in his chest, afraid to ask his next question. “And Curt?”

“I don’t know.”

#mota fanfic #mota spoilers #major john egan #major john bucky egan #masters of the air #major john egan x reader #john egan #bucky egan #callum turner

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nanowrimo · 1 year

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5 Tips for Building a Sustainable Writing Practice

Every year, we’re lucky to have great sponsors for our nonprofit events. First Draft Pro, a 2023 Camp NaNoWriMo sponsor, is a great writing app—whether you’re writing solo or with a co-author. Here are a few tips for building a sustainable writing practice, brought to you by author Ariana Brown and First Draft Pro.

We’ve all heard the advice to “write every day,” as if it were that easy! Translation: suck it up, no one cares if you’re tired. But what if there was another way to get writing done, without being unkind to yourself?

Hi, I’m Ariana Brown, and I teach writers how to create a writing practice that is sustainable, flexible, and fulfilling. Most of my students are chronically ill, disabled, neurodivergent, or simply exhausted from the daily stresses of life. I know writing isn’t your only responsibility—capitalism makes sure of that! But I strongly believe that writing should be an enjoyable activity you look forward to.

Below I’ve compiled my top tips for exhausted writers who want to be kinder to themselves—and still get the work done.

1. Add pleasure to your writing routine.

Sensory pleasures are neither frivolous nor are they only for children. They’re a crucial part of being alive! They give us something to look forward to when times are tough and we need motivation. Candles, soft blankets, cold beverages, mood lighting, dance breaks, yummy treats—whatever you choose, make sure it’s something you love. Paint your nails a fun color so you have something beautiful to look at while you’re typing away. Make a playlist of your favorite songs and after you finish a chapter, blast one song so loudly you have to get up and dance. Then, get back to writing. Remember, even for the most focused among us, pleasure is a better motivator than shame.

2. Be clear about your intentions.

What brought you to writing in the first place? For some, it was the ability to escape into our imaginations. For others, it was the chance to finally express what we’d been holding inside. Identify your reason for writing, then ask yourself: Am I still enjoying this? Do I still feel connected to my reason for writing? If not, explore how you can strengthen your connection to your inner child’s reason for writing.

3. Work with your brain, not against it.

If we know that everyone’s brain works differently, why do we force strict discipline and linear processes on ourselves? My advice: find or create a writing process that works for you. Maybe you love outlines; maybe you prefer to see where the words take you. Either way, make space for wandering, play, and discovery as you write. Take brain breaks. Doodle, map, dance, and draw when you get distracted. Body double with other writers, try new exercises and prompts to make the writing sing, and take plenty of breaks to stretch your body and talk to friends. We come to writing with our whole selves. Listen to your body, don’t shut it off.

4. Find a writing community.

You don’t have to wait for a community to come to you! I offer co-writing sessions on Zoom four times a month for my Patreon supporters, but do what works for you. Attend local open mics as an audience member and cheer on your peers. Invite your best friends to your living room once a month for a two hour writing/crafting session. Or check your local library and bookstores for free workshops and author events. You don’t have to do this work alone.

5. Develop a gratitude practice.

Finishing your draft is a huge accomplishment, but it’s not the only milestone to be celebrated. Consider creating opportunities to thank yourself throughout your writing practice. You’re doing an amazing and difficult thing. The fact that you keep showing up is worthy of celebration. Whether you decide to journal, rest, pray, meditate, or reward yourself, a little gratitude goes a long way.

Ariana Brown is a queer writer from San Antonio, TX, based in Houston. She is the author of We Are Owed (Grieveland, 2021) and Sana Sana (Game Over Books, 2020), and a national collegiate poetry slam champion. Ariana holds an MFA in Poetry, MS in Library and Information Science, and a BA in African Diaspora Studies and Mexican American Studies. She has been writing, teaching, and performing for over a decade. Follow her online @ArianaThePoet and www.arianabrown.com.

#nanowrimo #writing advice #executive dysfunction #neurodivergent writers #disabled writers #by nano sponsor #first draft pro #ariana brown

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moomeecore · 4 months

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me watching my stupid annoying neighbor stand on his lawn and use his leaf blower on like 3 leaves for 2 hours somehow: DO YOU THINK HE KNOWS ABOUT HOW LONGTERM EXPOSURE TO THE MECHANICAL VIBRATIONS FROM LAWN MACHINE OPERATION CAN CAUSE VASCULAR DAMAGE, BLOOD VESSEL DAMAGE, NERVE DAMAGE AND CARPEL TUNNEL SYNDROME AND THAT LEAF BLOWERS ARE THE WORST CULPRIT IN THIS RESPECT.

me watching a neighbor who i know has young children mow his lawn: DO YOU THINK HE KNOWS THAT LAWN MOWERS ARE EXTREMLEY UNDERREGULATED IN SAFTEY MEASURES AND CONSIDERED TO ACTUALLY BE HIGH RISK MACHENERY. DO YOU THINK HE KNOWS THAT THEY CAN EASILY BE LETHAL. DO YOU THINK HE KNOWS THAT IF YOU SEARCH LAWN ON THE NATIONAL LIBRARY OF MEDECINES CENTER FOR BIOTECHNOLOGY INFORMATION THAT YOU GET 434 PAGES OF RESULTS, MOST OF WHICH ARE REPORTS ON INJURIES CAUSED BY LAWN EQUIPMENT, MOST OF WHICH ARE SUSTAINED BY CHILDREN. AGAIN, MANY OF WHICH ARE LETHAL.

me watching some guy use a ride along mower on his giant ass front lawn thats on a huge slope: DO YOU THINK HE KNOWS RIDING MOWERS ARE THE MOST DANGEROUS LAWN MOWER, AND ALSO THE TYPE WITH THE LEAST AMOUNT OF REGULATION (DUE TO A VERY CONFUSING SAGA OF EVENTS). DO YOU THINK HE KNOWS ABOUT HOW IF YOU USE A RIDE ALONG MOWER ON A SLOPE IT CAN TIP OVER AND YOU CAN END UP UNDERNEITH IT, GETTING RIPPED APART BY THE BLADES. DO YOU THINK HE CARES.

#trying to beam thoughts into my neighbors minds but it never fucking works #uhhh cw tagggs for #death ment #child death

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hawkinsschoolcounselor · 3 months

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Prediction for the start of season 5

I've been going crazy trying to figure out just how they'll transition into season 5. It certainly seems like "life goes on" in Hawkins despite everything that happened at the end of season 4. While it does seem like there's a military presence in town, there are clues that quite a bit of time has passed.

Aside from dates left on papers on set and whatnot, which could potentially be faked to throw people off, we see character differences that indicate time. El's hair has grown back. It's hard to tell just how long it is now, but it looks to be at least as long as it was in season 3, if not longer. We've seen little of Hopper, but we've been able to see set photos of David with a long beard. Then there's Holly, who seems older even taking into account the casting change.

This tells me we're looking at an approximate 8 months to one year time skip. While we might see some immediate aftermath from after the ending of season 4, the bulk of season 5 seems to be set in late Fall/early Winter of 1987. This isn't taking into account a possible rumored second time skip considering they're only halfway through filming.

So, how do we go from the end of the world to almost a year later? Well, there wasn't much that could be done in the position our heroes are in. Here's what I think happens after that final scene in the field.

Shortly after the "earthquake," an Army Corps of Engineers detachment arrives to help rebuild, overseen by Lt. Col. Sullivan. They proceed to block off affected areas for "safety concerns" under the pretense of having to seal up the fissures to allow for later rebuilding. In reality, they are setting up research stations and entry points while also preventing anyone else from getting in...or anything getting out.

Blocked off from being able to go after the weakened Vecna, and now faced with the concern of Sullivan possibly finding El, the heroes have to regroup. They both need to be able to hide El and have a safe base of operations. Agent Stinson arranges to set El and Hopper in the old WSQK radio station under the guise of the station being under new ownership.

While researching, I found out that many old radio stations had emergency shelters built by the government during the Cold War in case of a nuclear attack. Like the Dept of Energy Lab before it, the radio station would serve as a legitimate front for getting equipment and other resources they may need for what they're really up to. The shelter would also provide a place to hide their real activity and keep El safe. It may also even potentially provide access to the areas the military blocked off if the shelters contain escape tunnels.

We would essentially find out that the time since the end of season 4 were spent with the heroes trying to find a way into the Upside Down to get Henry while he's weak. However, it's just not possible with the military presence. The mission turns to trying to monitor both the military and the Upside Down threat until a window presents itself.

What might be the event that provides this window? I have some ideas.

The military breaches a Gate, which allows for Upside Down creatures to get out.

El has a breakthrough in her search for Max, providing them a critical clue.

Henry comes back to full strength, leading to Will getting Harry Potter-like visions of his plans.

Problems I have with this idea:

El is once again living in hiding, just as she did in season 2. I can't imagine she's able to get any kind of education unless Owens' people can set her up with tutoring.

The Byers being in town would certainly tip off Sullivan, and it doesn't look like they're lying low. I suppose they could feign moving back to Hawkins because they think she's dead.

What is up with Owens, and would his people even have the ability to do anything after the losses sustained from Sullivan's actions?

Why the hell would anyone even stay in Hawkins? This isn't the first disaster the town has dealt with in the past few years. I suppose it would cause property values to plummet to levels that could prompt a rich family to buy up land in preparation for owning everything after rebuilding. There was a Turnbow Land Development & Realty ad seen on set.

Does anyone else have thoughts on this?

#stranger things 5 #byler #stranger things 5 speculation

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fortheloveofwonderland · 3 months

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Midnight | Chapter 24 FINAL | S.R

Previous Chapter

Summary - eighteen months after narrowly escaping the motel explosion, finally you and Spencer seem to have found your happy ending. But old habits die hard and you can’t help but keep one last secret from him.

Pairing - unsub! Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - dark angst | smut | very eventual happy ending

Warnings - explosions, fires, burns, scars, swearing, secrets, injuries.

WC - 4k

Chapter 24 - Partners in Crime

Eighteen Months Later

Luke Alvez squeezed his eyes shut tightly against the assault of a headache pressing against his temples. They happened less frequently now, maybe only about once every few weeks but it didn’t make them any less of a pain.

When he closed his eyes he was met by the same scene he’d pictured every time he closed his eyes for the last year and a half. Spencer’s face contorted into a malicious smile as he’d pulled that trigger and disappeared inside that vent as the little Cave Creek motel room exploded into flames.

The sound of the gun going off and the gasoline igniting, Emily’s screams from somewhere behind him to get down echoed in his mind along with the ringing in his ears that hadn’t been silenced for days following.

Luke was, as the doctors and nurses and all his team kept telling him, lucky. Lucky, what an incredibly frivolous summation. Lucky. He was lucky he hadn’t been more seriously injured, lucky to have gotten out of there alive.

Lucky.

Lucky that his old teammate, his old friend, hadn't killed him. He knew they were only trying to help but Luke didn’t feel lucky. Not in the slightest.

He opened his eyes as the dull throb continued at his temples, one of the side effects from the blast that had thrown him halfway across the motel room. His eyes landed on the backs of his hands still poised over the keyboard and the scarred skin he had to look at every day.

Again he’d been lucky that in trying to drag himself from the fire that he’d only sustained second degree burns on his hands. He’d had to wear bandages for nearly three weeks after the event and have his wounds treated regularly before the blisters started to scar.

It didn’t hurt anymore, but they were a constant reminder of that day. They were a twisted memento of the day he failed to save you, and unfortunately for him it wasn’t the only one.

After eighteen months sightings of you and Spencer were few and far between. At first the tips had come in thick and fast, people claiming to have seen the two of you anywhere from Florida to the Outer Hebrides. For a long time Luke had lost his belief that they would ever find you.

And some days he thought maybe that was for the best. You’d made your choice and him and the BAU weren’t it. Maybe one day he’d be able to accept that and move on with his life.

He heard a door open across the room and braced himself for what was to come without looking up from his hands.

“We’ve got a case.” Emily’s voice carried across the bullpen followed by the shuffling of chairs and footsteps.

Luke exhaled and forced his eyes onto his computer screen, hand moving to his mouse and shuffling the cursor over to the little X on the corner of the window. Before he closed it, he took one last look at the message on his screen, a rare smile pulling at the corner at his lips.

If anyone was to find out about this he could lose his job and honestly the FBI was the only thing he had left these days. But admittedly, he wasn’t sure he cared anymore. He’d taken a vow to uphold the laws of this country but some things were more important than that.

He read the brief message over again in his head. Maybe he was going soft, but maybe he also knew that even Penelope Garcia herself wouldn’t be able to trace this and therefore it would be fruitless letting the rest of the team in on this.

He glanced over his shoulder and removed his hand from the mouse. Once he was sure no one was nearby he typed a quick reply before hitting send and pushed his chair back. When he looked up, JJ was standing over him like he knew she would be, the same melancholy smile on her face she gave him every damn day.

He allowed her to take him by his scarred hands and help him to his feet. He’d stopped fighting it by now. At first he’d found it humiliating, but after a year and a half he’d stopped opposing his friend's help. It did make his life easier after all.

Once he was on his feet she handed him the cane that was resting against his desk and he nodded his thanks to her. She motioned for him to go ahead, always letting him go first so she could be behind him just in case he stumbled.

He closed his eyes again as he leant his weight on his good leg, the ringing in his ears almost immediately returning as he did so, accompanied by the bright orange flash from the blast. And then another sound entered his field of consciousness.

“Alvez? Alvez? Luke!” Emily screamed to be heard over the chaos, trying to duck under the fire to see him.

“I’m ok.” He coughed, smoke instantly starting to fill his lungs. “He went out the vent, send the team round the back!”

“I’m not leaving you here!” She called back from just inside the motel door.

“I’m fine, Prentiss!” But he wasn’t fine and he knew it.

When he tried to move an agonising pain shot up his left leg. He managed to internalise his yelp so as not to worry Emily but the pain made him dizzy.

“I am not leaving you here!” She yelled back, coughing a little herself as she tried to waft the smoke out of her face.

“Prentiss I said-“

“Never leave a man behind.” She cut him off, knowing she was speaking his language.

He tried to move again but his leg wouldn’t allow him to stand. The fire was spreading, getting closer to him with every passing second. He turned towards the door where he could just about make out the faint outline of Emily through the thick plumes of smoke.

If he didn’t do something soon he would die here.

“I think I can get to you.” He tried to sound more determined than he felt.

He covered his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his shirt to try and limit the intake of fumes into his lungs. He rolled onto his stomach to keep himself low to the ground and using his free hand he started pulling himself towards the door.

He felt like he was dragging a dead weight. The heat in the room was stifling and every part of him thought it would be easier to just give up. But he knew he couldn’t.

Behind him the sound of ripping plaster filled his ears seconds before he heard the crash of another explosion and the floor beneath him shook.

He whimpered a little, tears filling his eyes and hindering his vision even more so than the smoke was already doing as he clawed his way forward.

“Follow my voice, Alvez. I’m right here!” Emily shouted, getting down on the floor herself and reaching blindly through the grey blanket of smog.

Luke saw her fingers brushing against the carpet and desperately tried to reach for her but the pain coursing through his leg was nearly debilitating. But he had to press on, he had to get out of here.

He coughed against his sleeve trying to focus on the smell of his laundry detergent as he used the thick, old shag carpet to pull himself forward. Eventually he felt Emily’s hand gripping his wrist and she helped tug him through the wall of smoke just as the fire rumbled and spread to the soles of his shoes.

She yanked him across the threshold of the motel and into the fresh air outside. Another set of strong arms suddenly wrapped around his upper torso and carried him across the parking lot until he was far enough away from the blaze ripping apart the little motel room.

Once he was released, Luke collapsed onto the tarmac, spluttering and coughing, trying to gasp for the clean air to refill his aching lungs. He rolled onto his back and looked upwards. Emily and Matt were crouched over him, Emily’s hand coming to rest on his cheek.

“You scared me there, Alvez.” She smiled but he noticed the tears behind her eyes.

“Told you I was fine.” He coughed again. “Did you get them?”

“Don’t worry about that right now. For now you need to-”

“Did you get them?” He cut her off and her expression told him exactly what she was going to say before she said it.

“No, they got away.”

“Prentiss?” Matt’s voice spoke up. Emily let go of Luke’s face and turned to the other man who was kneeling by Luke’s side. “We need a medic, asap.”

Matt’s voice was so quiet Luke barely heard him over the sound of the commotion going on around him. But he knew by the pain rapidly worsening in his left leg that Matt was right.

But before Luke had a chance to hear anymore, the pain consumed him and his eyes fluttered closed despite his attempts to keep them open. And he must have blacked out, because the next he would be conscious of would be waking up in a hospital bed.

He was lucky to ever have been able to walk again. The doctors had told him when he’d woken up in hospital that he may be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. But Luke had beaten the odds because he was lucky.

He would probably never walk unaided, without the use of his cane and he would always have a limp. He could no longer go out into the field with the rest of the team. But he was lucky because he could walk, the damages sustained to his leg when he’d been tossed across the room in the blast hadn’t completely ruined his life.

Because he was lucky.

Some fucking luck.

***

The soft breeze came in through the open balcony door, causing the net curtains to flutter. From the bed came a grumble as he raked his hair back from his sweaty forehead. Even the wind was hot.

Sometimes he wondered why, of all the places in the world, they’d chosen to live somewhere so freaking hot. Growing up in Vegas he’d gotten used to hot climates but this was something else entirely.

Spencer Reid was not built for the heat.

Sound from downstairs wafted through the open bedroom door and he knew if he didn’t get himself up soon then it would only be a matter of time before he was forcibly removed from this bed.

He rolled onto his side, the thin bed sheet clinging to his sweat slicked naked body as he did so and having to physically peel it off of himself so he could get up.

He passed through to the en-suite and jumped straight in the shower, running the water particularly cold to the point it was enough to cause goosebumps to flare on his skin. God how he missed being cold sometimes.

After his shower he grabbed a towel off of the rail and slung it around his waist. He looked at himself in the mirror over the sink, a hand instinctively raising to run through his ever growing facial hair. It didn’t help with the heat but he really liked the way it looked on him, and he knew he wasn’t the only one who appreciated it. It also helped to disguise his appearance because he never knew when someone might recognise him.

He dried himself off before dressing in a pair of shorts, possibly the first pair he’d ever owned in his life, and a polo shirt. He swept his damp hair back off of his face before leaving the room.

The house was large and airy, neutral coloured walls and carpet and minimal furniture. It was a world away from his pokey, dark apartment in DC, but it suited this new era of his life.

As he made his way down the stairs the sounds grew louder. The French doors were propped open, if he listened close enough he could hear the distant cadence of the sea lapping at the shoreline.

You had your back to him, standing on a chair whilst trying to tack something to the wall. He smiled to himself and approached with caution.

You wore a long, flowy pale yellow sundress covered in flowers. Your hair, which you’d dyed for the same reason he grew out his beard, shone in the sunlight beaming through the windows.

“You know,” he spoke as he closed in on you, placing his hands on your hips and gently tugging you off of the chair and onto the floor. “I’m tall enough to hang that without being a hazard. You could have waited.”

You turned to face him, pouting your bottom lip at him in a way that always made him chuckle.

“If you didn’t sleep so damn late maybe I could have.” You huffed which caused him to laugh harder.

“Maybe if someone hadn’t kept me up all night, I might not have slept so damn late.” He gently kissed your forehead and moved past you to grab the end of the sign you’d been trying to tack up.

You huffed again at the ease in which he was able to do a job you’d struggled with. He stepped back and looked up at the banner as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you close.

“See how easy that was?” He chuckled lightly.

“You don’t need to be smug.” You grumbled.

“No one’s being smug, it’s called teamwork.”

“Hmm.” You rolled your eyes but got up on your tiptoes to kiss him all the same. “Did I thank you for your willingness to be kept up all night?”

“I’m not sure I was willing but it was only fair.” He smiled softly at you. “You do owe me a night of being kept up for other reasons though.”

“Maybe one day. When she’s in college.” You teased him.

“Only seventeen years to go until I can have crazy all night sex with my wife. Super.” He laughed, kissing you once more before sidestepping you. “And speaking of, where is the beautiful birthday girl who kept me awake all night?”

The little girl squealed from her highchair as soon as her father turned to face her, her chubby little legs swinging back and forth in excitement. Spencer beamed at his daughter as he picked her up and spun her around, causing her to giggle, before he held her closely to his chest.

“Happy birthday my sweet princess.” He placed a kiss on her mop of curly hair which she most certainly got from him.

He turned around and used his free arm to wrap around you, holding both of his girls close whilst looking back up at the banner proclaiming “Happy 1st Birthday Lilith.”

It wasn’t an easy life, that was for sure. Being on the run with a child was never going to be ideal. But Spencer relished in these moments with his two favourite people in the entire world snuggled against him. For this moment at least he could forget the fact it could come crumbling down any second.

The two of you had fled the country in a blaze of glory after Spencer had narrowly avoided going up in flames with the motel room. You managed to get a flight using the fake passports you’d gotten back in Virginia when you’d first embarked on this journey before the BAU had locked down all airports in a hundred mile radius.

You leased this house under the names on the passports; Troy and Daisy Malone. Your daughter was born in the local hospital and although she was legally Lilith Diana Malone, she would always be a Reid in Spencer’s mind.

Daisy Malone volunteered three days a week at Lilith’s nursery while Troy worked full time at a research facility. The adjustment was made a lot easier for him given he already spoke the language. But the irony was not lost on you at how many years Luke had tried to teach you Spanish and it had taken fleeing the US for you to finally learn it.

Spencer had gone on the straight and narrow, he hadn’t had any of his murderous inclinations since the two of you left Arizona. He was calmer, his previous anger at the world seemingly left behind in the states. He was finally the man you knew in your days at the BAU, the old Spencer Reid. And even though it wasn’t the dream scenario, you were happier than you’d ever been.

There would never be a day that the two of you wouldn’t constantly be looking over your shoulders, living in fear that the front door could come crashing down at any minute and the three of you would be ripped apart. But you just had to take every day as it came and make the most of the time you had together.

“So, what does the birthday girl want to do today?” Spencer tickled Lilith under her chin making the girl giggle again.

“Well mommy is going to be making a birthday cake and I could really do with focusing on this, because as you know I am not much of a baker.” You gave him a look.

“Understood.” Spencer smiled at you. “Maybe Lil would like to go to the beach while mommy bakes?”

“I think she would love that.” You nodded, rounding the counter and pulling the recipe up on your laptop.

“She would, or you would love the alone time?” He smirked at you, jiggling Lilith in his arms.

“Both.” You shrugged.

Spencer chuckled and came around the counter, placing a soft kiss on your forehead. You cupped his jaw in one hand, running your fingernails through his facial hair.

“Have I told you recently how much I like this beard?” You hummed against his lips as he kissed you again.

“Only every day for the last eighteen months.” He laughed, stroking your hair back from your face. “Have I told you recently how much I like this hair colour?”

“Only every day for the last eighteen months.” You laughed too.

You placed a kiss on your daughter's cheek before Spencer went about finding shoes for both him and Lilith while you read through your recipe again, only partially understanding what was being asked of you.

“You owe me for this by the way, it's hot as hell out there.” Spencer called from where he was hovering by the back door, sitting Lilith in her stroller and pulling the cover over the top to shield her from the sun's rays.

“Hey, Puerto Rico was not my first choice of hideaway destination.” You shrugged at him.

“So that’s a no to a birthday blowjob?” He teased.

“Ask me again on your birthday.” You rolled your eyes.

“See you soon, my partner in crime.” He winked at you as he took the handles of the stroller and wheeled your daughter out the backdoor.

You smiled to yourself, your hand instinctively coming up to toy with the rose gold heart around your neck which you had never taken off to this day. It wasn’t an easy life, but Spencer made it seem so simple.

Yours was a tale of reckless love from the start. It was funny to think back, to waiting for Spencer on the other side of that motel vent and thinking there was no way you would all make it out of there alive. You still remembered the way you’d screamed when you heard the explosion and then the relief that had washed over you when he dropped out of the vent and onto the concrete.

As he’d smiled at you and gripped you by the hand and the two of you started to run, the words he’d said that day still echoed through you.

“Until death do us part, princess. I’ll never leave you so easily.”

Lovers and partners. Partners in life and in crime. Until death do you part.

You let go of the necklace and turned your attention back to the laptop screen just as an incoming message popped up. Your eyes flitted back up to make sure Spencer was gone before you clicked into it. You tried not to make a habit of lying to him anymore but some things were better kept a secret.

A clock started to chime from upstairs and you focused on each one and counted them up to twelve as the morning ticked by into the afternoon. Twelve o clock. It happened twice a day but for so long you’d let yourself be ruled by the shadowy midday counterpart. Because sometimes there was no darker place than our thoughts, the moonless midnight of the mind.

But you were starting to see that midnight also offered its own kind of solace, the dawn of each new day bringing with it the dawn of hope. Even if you’d always be bound by your past mistakes, always doomed to have to watch your back.

However that didn’t seem all that bad when you had Spencer and Lilith in your corner, your dawns; your hopes.

You had a smile on your face as you clicked into the message and read the brief text on your screen. Having Spencer and Lilith on your side was one thing, but having an extra ally never hurt either.

Reaching out to him several months ago could have been your biggest downfall but deep down you’d always known you could trust him with your life. And as always, he didn’t disappoint you.

As you read over the single line of the message, you were sure you could even still hear his voice in your head as he wished you and Spencer’s little conejito a happy first birthday.

You'll never take us alive.

We swore that death will do us part,

They'll call our crimes a work of art.

You'll never take us alive.

We'll live like spoiled royalty, lovers and partners,

Partners in crime.

This, the tale of, reckless love,

Living a life of crime on the run.

I brush to a gun to paint these states?

Green and red.

Everybody freeze,

Nobody move.

Put the money in the bag,

Or we will shoot.

Empty out the vault,

And me and my doll will be on our way.

Our paper faces flood the streets,

And if the heat comes close enough to burn ,

Then we'll play with fire 'cause,

You'll never take us alive.

We swore that death will do us part,

They'll call our crimes a work of art.

You'll never take us alive.

We'll live like spoiled royalty, lovers and partners,

Partners in crime,

Partners in crime.

Here we find our omnipotent outlaws,

Fall behind the grind tonight.

Left unaware that the lone store owner,

Won't go down without a fight.

Where we gonna go,

He's got us pinned.

Baby I'm a little scared,

Now, don't you quit.

He's sounded the alarm?

I hear the sirens closing in,

Our paper faces flood the streets,

And if the heat comes close enough to burn,

Then we're burning this place to the ground 'cause,

You'll never take us alive.

We swore that death will do us part,

They'll call our crimes a work of art.

You'll never take us alive,

We'll live like spoiled royalty, lovers and partners,

Partners in crime.

The skies are black with lead-filled rain,

A morbid painting on display.

This is the night the young love died,

Buried at each other's side.

You never took us alive.

We swore that death would do us part,

So now we haunt you in the dark.

You never took us alive,

We live as ghosts among these streets,

Lovers and partners.

Partners in crime.

@bubblebuttwade @jay-2s-world @daddy-dotcom @nomajdetective @rebelliousstories

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