#but it'll just be a process i go through at my own pace <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[xfindingtrouble]

teeny tiny psa: i have a lot of cleaning up to do on this blog. moving percy to his own blog ( @xbadnews ) was a great move for organizing his threads/interactions butnow that i have just about everything for him moved over, i'm going to start deleting things! not threads but just percy-centric musings & things like that.

on top of that, i also want to update my carrd. by the end of it my three main muses are going to be ellis ( as my featured muse ) , kima ( who i've been digging into privately - she'll be almost entirely stream based ) & cassandra ( who will still have mixed canon influence ) but i want to have a better system for my muse list / whatever information i want to have available.

[hyenahunt]

Rouge & Ruby: Eventual Affection - 3

Writer: Umeda Chitose

Season: Winter

Characters: Ibara, Jun, Nagisa, Hiyori

Proofreading: royalquintet (JP) & Skyress (ENG)

Translation: Mirei (Adam) & hyenahunt (Eve)

Ibara: …This is because Valentine's Day is a day to send one's love to another... or so I've heard.

[Read on my blog for the best viewing experience with Oi~ssu ♪]

Ibara: — Now, then. Thank you so much for taking the time to come today!

Allow me to apologise for the delay in arranging this meeting. I had a hard time coordinating our schedules —

Going forward to Chocolat Fes, I’m going to explain the new, reorganised plan.

Jun: ...And so we gotta read the notes you handed out to us, right?

Before you ask, I already had a rough skim-through.

Nagisa: …I did the same as Jun. I know that this room is for meetings, but I think it is also a good place for us to meet up and talk through things at our own pace.

…Therefore, I think it would be a waste to use this time just to read notes.

Hiyori: And I did the same as Nagisa-kun and Jun-kun!

We've truly been so busy lately, our schedules are simply packed from dawn to dusk!

On top of that, we also have our "Venture into V-Day Project" in the works.

Ibara: … I’ve heard mentions of it recently, but what is this project…?

Hiyori: (ignoring him) So let's cut to the chase — you can skip straight to the part you wanted to tell us.

I'd love to make this a little more relaxed version of our usual meetings.

And would you look at that! We have drinks and snacks laid out on the table for us to kick back with — there's even chocolate... ♪⁠

Ibara: You noticed that?

Jun: 'Course we would. It caught my eye the moment I walked in.

Ibara: While I would love to unveil what that is right away...

First, I’ll give a brief overview of the changes to the Chocolat Fes plan.

I do believe the practice for Chocolat Fes has been progressing smoothly so far. This time, we will be showcasing our performances in a three-part plan, starting with Eve, and then Adam…

Then finally, we will perform as Eden. This way, we can make full use of our limited stage time in Chocolat Fes to the fullest.

Eve will be responsible for attracting the audience’s attention and directing them to us.

Jun: That's a hell of a responsibility~ But it's gonna be totally worth it — I'm all fired up ♪

Hiyori: Not a soul out there can resist our charms, after all.

We'll entice them to cosy up with us at the gates of paradise...

Ibara: Afterwards, Adam will seize their hearts with our powerful presence, and then drag them into paradise itself…

Nagisa: ...Knowledge turns to interest, interest to temptation, and temptation to entrapment.

…Following that process, we will keep them captive in paradise.

Ibara: "I want to see more of them, I want to watch them for longer"; Once such desires arise in their hearts, we will then tie those desires to Eden.

Hiyori: Heheh. After we invite them into paradise, they can then enjoy a moment in time with us — one right out of a lovely dream.

Jun: Even the way the stage's set up makes our performance worth watching, with how it's split up into Adam and Eve.

There are definitely gonna be moments where they'll lose themselves watching our performance, but that's a given when it comes to us, I think ♪

Nagisa: … Then, the memories we have planted and the influence we bestowed on them will continue to grow and pile up throughout Chocolat Fes.

Ibara: Exactly. Growing influence means greater chances of going viral; then, the lingering memories will lead to action to connect it all.

This will encourage those who watched us to make a purchase —

Hiyori: — and that's when it'll be finally time for our original chocolate to shine ♪⁠

Ibara: I believe I’ve talked about how I was also preparing original chocolates for us.

After polishing up the project, I reconsidered the design from square one.

…This is because Valentine's Day is a day to send one's love to another... or so I've heard.

With the added meaning of gifting our love to our fans in the shape of chocolate... I believe this to be a fitting product for Valentine's Day.

Hiyori: And by that you mean we can finally take a look, yes? I've been positively dying to see what's inside.

Jun: Man, even just the box looks beautiful. Makes you think you'd open it up to find jewels inside it or something.

Hiyori: Whoa! Jun-kun, Jun-kun, you simply have to see this! Look, it's just as you said!

Jun: Wow, for real. So it's got four chocolates that look just like jewels.

Plus, I feel like I recently saw this exact shape somewhere...

[ ☆ ]

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[sometimesraven]

any writing advice for someone writing their first novel? (*cough, cough, aka me*)

<3

Disclaimer: what works for me might not work for you, so feel free to take, twist and scrap whatever you need. I recommend asking/shopping around for ideas and other authors' processes, and it'll take some trial and error before you find what works best for you. But here's how I personally write.

Disclaimer disclaimer: this got real long while I was writing it and I realised how terrifying it must look to a first time writer. Take it step by step, at your own pace. It's not as scary as it looks xx

BEFORE YOU WRITE

(I'm going to be focusing on the story itself, but I'm sure it goes without saying that you should have your characters planned out first)

First things first: have a basic idea of the story beats. It doesn't have to be a Big Old Detailed Outline, just a basic compass to keep you going in the right direction so you're less likely to hit a roadblock. Personally I use the Plot Embryo! Here's my favourite video explaining it:

It's a nice simplified, easy to use tool for plotting. Here's a page from one of my journals breaking it down in a way I can personally come back to and understand:

hopefully you can read my shitty handwriting but I've put a little breakdown in the image description.

I then use these prompts to scribble down the basic idea of what journey I want my main character/s to go through, and use that as my blueprint for when I write.

WHILE WRITING

First things first: if you're like me, and seeing errors or plot holes in the stuff you've already written will bug you forever, do what I do and NEVER READ BACK OVER YOUR WORK WHILE IT'S STILL IN PROGRESS. Sometimes I have to skim back to remember where I am but as a rule, once something is written it's no longer my problem until the whole thing is done.

Don't worry about chapters and other such structure. I use the plot embryo to split things up so I know where I am, but otherwise chapters and scenes Do Not Exist until the editing process. Here's the "chapters" of a WIP as an example (this is a slightly different embryo adapted for romance but you get the idea)

Then just keep going until you're done. You don't even have to do it in order. If I'm stuck on a scene, I'll just put a big word in all caps that I can ctrl+f easily (usually either ELEPHANT or PENIS sklfsgskjf) and move on to the next bit I have ideas for, then come back to it later.

This first finished story will be bad. It'll be rough, patchy, full of holes. THAT'S OKAY. This is what we sometimes call the "Zero Draft". The draft that literally exists just to get the story out of your head to make the whole thing easier.

EDITING

Warning: editing is the longest, hardest part of writing a novel. Your book will go through several different versions, be scrapped and torn apart and put back together again. This is what makes the story great.

This is where every author differs, and there's a whole bunch of ways this can go. Personally, the first thing I do once the zero/first draft is done is put it down. Don't look at it, don't touch it, don't think about it. For at least a month. This allows you to come back to it with fresh eyes that haven't been staring at the same words for so long they just hate the whole thing regardless (and you WILL HATE IT. This is normal).

Then, the first thing I do is read back over the whole thing, adding notes and reactions as if I am a reader. If a part of what I've written makes me go 🥺🥺🥺, I'll write that down. If something could be worded better, I write that down. If you think a certain thing that you would put in the tags of a tumblr post, write it down. Treat it like you're someone else's beta reader, note down every negative, every positive, every ???? part. This will give you an idea of what is and isn't working. Here's some of my funniest notes from my zero draft of book 2 just to prove how literal I'm being here:

Then, and this is a controversial move that doesn't work for everyone but it works for my autistic adhd self-loathing brain: WRITE THE WHOLE THING AGAIN. FROM SCRATCH.

This sounds daunting and it is, but you've already written it once, so the second time is easier. Usually I don't worry about making this perfect because again, this is just another draft. I'll copy from my zero draft anything that I think is fine and write new bits or scrap bits as I go.

Sometimes, the story is fine. Sometimes this is an easy refining process. However, if you're anything like me, sometimes the whole thing is messy and you'll realise halfway through rewriting that the whole thing needs restructuring. Do not despair. This is normal.

I'm using book 2 of the Truth Saga as an example for this. I got 40k words into rewriting it before I realised that the reason it felt so 'off' was because the whole thing was sagging in the middle, characters were being left behind, and the whole thing needed restructuring.

It was a rough realisation, as Reckless Truth (book 1) was such a comparatively easy process. I only did three drafts and didn't have to restructure much. Book 2 is giving me so much grief and I'm gonna slap it when it's done.

If you hit this roadblock, it might be time to do what all mood writers hate. Detailed plotting. Go right back to basics. Write down every plot point in detail this time. Act like you're spoiling the whole entire story for someone. Have you ever watched a movie or book review where the reviewer does a full breakdown of the plot? Do that. In this you'll find out exactly where you're going wrong and be able to tweak and fix it. If you have more than one main character, I recommend doing a separate plot thing for each of them and one for the book as a whole so that you can make sure their emotional arc is getting the attention it deserves.

Then, when you're happy with the new plot you've written based on the draft of your story, go back and try to rewrite it again. If this sounds like a nightmare, it is. But it's worth the work, I promise.

From there it's a case of rinse and repeat, reread, rewrite, re-edit until you're mostly happy with what you've got. Then send it to beta readers and editors to tear apart even more and put it back together until you think it's ready! I also recommend joining some writing discords, watching streams or videos about writing, just research research research basically

Happy writing!

[eremiie]

hbd cornelius springer <3

❥ nsfw | 3.2k words | connie x fem!reader

❥ content - blowjob

❥ the birthday boy deserves some birthday head!!!

happy birthday connie springer, and happy belated birthday @arlerted ily both a whole lot <3... i started this at like 4am so pls bare with this

"you enjoying your birthday?"

connie turns around at the sound of your voice, soda can in hand while he closes the fridge door.

the way his face lights up when he connects your voice to your face makes you beam. his eyes get wide, eyebrows rise up, and a crooked smile graces his features as you walk forth, your hand trailing against the kitchen counter.

it makes you smile, the ways he's immediately stoked to see you. it's endearing if anything and your heart flutters at the excitement that twinkles in his eyes at your appearance.

"duh... yeah of course i like it."

"duh... yeah of course i like it."

"duh... yeah of course i like it."

his stupid smile shifts into a small smirk and he picks up his drink to take another sip. "what're you lookin' at?"

seriously? were you that obvious?

he leans back against the corner of the kitchen counter, twirling the soda can in his hand to shake his drink up while steadying himself with his elbows. you can tell the question was one he was genuinely waiting on an answer for— it was to just rile you up and one for him to shrug off with a 'just messin'.

you roll your eyes. there was no reason to give him an ego. "your ugly party hat." your tone is snarky, and a breathy laugh leaves connie's throat as he shakes his head at you. he beckons with two slender fingers.

"come 'ere."

your stomach turns at the gesture— no at the sentence and you curse the slight stubbornness that keeps you standing where you stood with your arms crossed. "what?"

connie holds your gaze easily, and instead of giving you an answer his hand reaches out to pull you towards him by your forearm.

you stumble forward until you were situated between his feet, a strong hand encasing your wrists and his breath fanning across your face from the proximity of you and connie.

his eyes look more hazel up close, green and yellow dancing like a fiery bright fire. you can feel the denim of his jeans rub against the fat flesh of your thighs from where you stand, and connie makes no effort to move back.

it's a clear invasion of your space but neither you or him seem to mind— and you hope connie didn't take the way your heart jumps in your chest and your suddenly uneven breathing as a sign that you did mind. no, it was the exact opposite of that if anything.

"are you enjoying the party?" his voice comes out a little too smooth for your liking. where was the slight cracks in his voice as he spoke or the lilts in his tone as he tried his best to be a flirt?

the way he looks at you doesn't help. his eyes are low lying, having trouble staying focused on only just yours. you notice them flit a little lower every now and then before popping back up to match your gaze.

you hoped you came off as unbothered— stable and unfazed by his sudden demeanor. if it wasn't obvious by now your slight attraction to connie was something that you couldn't seem to let go of ever since you had first met him.

you hated how goofy he was and how the lame jokes he'd crack would always make you laugh regardless of how stupid. you hated how  somehow he'd always coerce you to do the handy work when it came to class projects because he was too lazy to get up off his own ass and help you. you hated how even through all these little silly quirks of his if he really wanted to with a few slip ups here and there he could make the hairs on your arms stand and have you stop breathing just from a slick look and slick sentence.

you hated all these things because they all made you feel gushy inside no matter how dumb it was. they made your body warm and gave you this comforting feeling that you couldn't get from anyone else.

so when connie repeats another "hm?" catching you off guard for the second time, that warm feeling returns because this time the pads of his fingers drum against your shoulder, a little to close to the junction near your neck.

"as long as ymir and sash keep me entertained, then yeah. this little 'party' isn't that bad." your quick with your response this time once he sets you back on track and you calm a bit.

"so ymir 'n sash are the life of the party for ya?" he pouts, and you scrunch your nose up when he leans in a little more, a mock pitiful expression on his face. "damn, 'n i'm supposed to be the birthday boy... that's crazy."

you can tell he's a little under the influence. despite it being his birthday he was actual one out of a few to keep their drinking at a light tonight. you couldn't say the same for armin who was currently passed out and curled up at the safety of mikasa's side on the large sofa, or for reiner who was last crying to ymir before she managed to 'shut the fuck up jockey' him as you walked pass.

you liked it like this though, liked to know that the interactions between you and connie weren't entirely the alcohol talking.

but it wasn't like it was ever really anything but him talking when he got more than comfortable with you.

light touches up the soft skin of your thighs, moving you around by placing his hands on your waist (where you must say they fit like a puzzle), or attacking you in tickles when he decided to crash at you and sasha's place and you wouldn't pass up the remote.

those were all connie, but it was nice to know that the person in front of you was mostly connie as well.

"you are... you just haven't been keeping me company as you should have." you lift up a hand right in front of his face and pretend to inspect your nails before dropping four fingers down to your palm and turning your nails to you once again.

connie let's out a low laugh at the gesture before using his own palm to cup the top of your hand. you expect him to push it down and let go but he only holds it in his grip with that same dumb smile plastered on his face as he doesn't fail to keep eye contact with you.

"ha-ha, so funny. you act like we didn't dance together," you recall the memory of connie hoisting you up from the couch and spinning you around until your backside was pressed against him, asking you to 'dance'. if anything that encounter is probably what encouraged the tingle between your legs and pushed you to follow connie into the kitchen. "sit together for like a good ass while, and play cards together— cheating together i might add."

you giggle, "did eren not realize that practically half the deck was under my ass and in your pockets?" connie reciprocates your giggle in his cheery tone and he raises the soda can to his lips again to empty it out inside his mouth.

"nah, but for real, what more company do you need?"

in the back of your head you had a solid idea of the kind of company you needed from connie, but you weren't even sure if your mind was quick enough to formulate it into a sentence that sounded appealing to the ears, enticing even.

a dramatic sigh leaves your lips and your hands come up to connie's head, one index plucking at the thin string below his chin and the other one holding the loud party hat until you were pulling it off and fiddling with it in your hand.

connie's hand automatically comes to rub at the short grey strands with a small frown at the absence of his hat. he stands up straight so he's peering down at you and his arm swings over your shoulder as he begins walking the two of you towards the exit to the kitchen abandoning his empty can of soda. "what?"

you slow down your pace so that he slows down and pull his arm from around you just as quickly as he placed it there massaging his knuckles in the process.

the eagerness to stay alone with him and not go back out where the chatters of all your friends would become tenfold is what makes you more bold, is what makes you back connie up towards the kitchen island until your practically leaning on him with doe eyes, fluttering your lashes and saying, "just wanna be alone with you for a minute..." you hesitate for a moment before beginning to speak again, "i gotta present for you, but we gotta go upstairs."

it's like your words alone manage to somewhat crack the demeanor he had going on. how his mouth slightly parts and how his body tenses up slightly tells you. you're thankful for the small adrenaline rush a measly walk to the archway gave you.

"shit, what's upstairs?" you relish in how he feeds into your words instead of stuttering under pressure and his hand moves to the small of your back pulling you even closer.

it's noticeable that he likes to feel your skin on his, and his hands are warm against the skin of your hip, practically singeing it with just his touch. it sends a hot feeling throughout your body and you indulge in him some more, fully enveloping your hand with his free one and giving a nice smile.

"if you come with me then it'll be me and you," and he lets you pull him along like a dog on a leash, sticking as close to its owner as possible as he's so close behind you that you can feel him up against your back as you begin to nonchalantly walk past your group of friends conversing in the living room.

for you it's easy to ignore their remarks and looks of 'finally'. after all, you knew they were coming. but connie couldn't, shooting silly faces to his audience as he lets you pull him along.

"they're finally fucking."

"go, birthday boy!"

"gettin' some birthday pussy!"

"_______, bite his dick off for me!"

the only phrase to elicit some sort of reaction from you is the mumbly one from sasha from whatever was in her mouth as she encouraged you to injure connie.

all the phrases seem to get one out of connie, from him pretending to fuck you from behind causing you to pinch the tan skin of his wrist to him making kissy faces at jean, eren, and even to ymir who further encouraged you to take a chomp out of his little friend.

you lead him through his bedroom door, immediately locking it because you know he'll forget and then turning to face him again.

when you turn back around connie's still looming over you, his hands lankily at his sides and it's as if he doesn't know what to do with them.

it makes you titter, and you take a step towards him pulling at his wrists place his hands back on your hips. "so what's my present?"

your hands come up to come his face and his skin is soft under your touch. he's warm and his breathing is unsteady as you lean forward to press your lips onto his.

he quickly returns the kiss, more fervently than you if anything. connie immediately groans as if the feeling of your lips on his was something he was craving.

connie pushes you against the door, a small thud eliciting from the way your back hits it and he lets go of your hips to cup your face and bring you deeper into the kiss.

the way he presses up so close against you makes you part your lips slightly giving him enough time to slip his tongue into your mouth until it's slotted alongside yours.

his knee parts your legs and bump against your crotch making you moan and let go of his face, holding onto his shoulders instead.

you pull back to breathe for a brief moment— and connie's eyes are overcast with lust. he doesn't have that twinkle from earlier and his grip on your hips is tighter than it was a few seconds ago.

he breathes heavily and rests his forehead against yours then dropping his knee. "that wasn't all i get for my birthday, right?"

with another roll of your eyes you shake your head. "it'd be a little rude of me to leave you like this, yeah?"

you slide down the wall until your knees hit the carpet and sit back on your shins. your delicate hands slide down connie's chest until the tips of your fingers are brushing over the buckle of his belt.

"yeah," connie's eyes flutter shut and he places a hand on the door to once again steady himself. "'d be real fuckin' rude of you."

your hands make work of his belt, unclasping the loop, unzipping the zipper and unbuttoning his pants to begin shrugging down the denim.

you had barely even started doing anything yet connie's mouth was slightly parted in anticipation. it was amusing how even the slightest touch from you could elicit a reaction out of him.

you pride yourself in this, and you take your time letting your fingertips massage the length of connie's clothed cock beneath his boxers. his body stutters overtop of you for a quick second and you move your hands to the hem of his boxers to begin pulling them down.

he's pretty; a slightly flushed tip that complimented the tan color of his skin. he's clearly already hard and you swear when your hand wraps around him his dick twitches in your touch. "god," he mumbles.

his dick is heavy in your hand, and he's thick to the touch. with a few test pumps you prop yourself up on your knees once more and place a hand over his thigh. "c'mon," his tone is encouraging yet hurrying, needy.

you click your tongue at him before using it to kitten lip his tip, like you were just trying to get a taste. connie hisses above you and drops his hand down to the top of your head.

"c'mon, we can't take too long with everyone still down there."

you know he's only saying so because he wants to feel your mouth around him. he's only being needy because it's something he'd been craving over the course of a few months. you are something he had been craving and now that you were under him he wanted all of you, starting with what you were willing to give which happened to be your pretty throat.

nevertheless, he's the birthday boy and you want to help pleasure him, making him feel a euphoric feeling that you know he's longed for.

you stick your tongue out and slap his tip against the flat of your tongue, and connie lets out another short groan, his fingers scrunching your hair.

connie shudders from above you and you almost feel bad for teasing him. you let the warmth of your mouth consume him completely— well, as far as you can while your hand works at the remainder.

"yeah, yeah..." he hums and he opens his eyes  again to look down at you.

your mouth around him felt heavenly, and the image of you sucking him off was even better; cheeks hollowed out and hand pumping his length.

you were so pretty.

connie brings the hand in your hand down to your cheek to feel himself through the skin, his tip pressed up against the inside of your cheek as he slightly rolls his hips forward to fuck in your mouth gently.

you pull off of him, pushing spit to the front of your mouth and letting your saliva drip onto his cock.

"fuck, you can't do that," he whines and rubs his tip against your lips until you open up again for him and his hand returns to your hair. "stick your tongue out."

you obey. using the leverage he has on your locks, he pushes deeper into your mouth, bobbing your head as he thrusts forward. small moans leave connie's lips. he's infatuated with the way your tongue slides against his underside as you try your best to relax your throat to let him in.

he loves it, loves how your mouth is so wet and sloppy around him, how it feels so good to be inside you— and he wants to feel every part of you, not stopping at your mouth.

saliva drips from the corner of your mouth and you try to suppress the gags that try to come up. you whimper from underneath connie, and he pulls out to give you a minute to breath.

it's funny how he's breathing harder then you his chest heaving. "that fuckin' mouth,"

you give a slight smile at the compliment, pleased to know you were pleasing him.

"i need it s'more."

what kind of person would you be if you didn't give the birthday boy what he wanted?

so you give him more, using connie's thighs to keep yourself steady, relaxing yourself and breathing through your nose as you let connie fuck your mouth.

he becomes erratic, the grip he has on your hair is slightly painful but you know he's too caught up in his lust, too caught up in the haven that was your throat.

he's so lost in the pleasure that he doesn't warn you when he's about to cum and you only know by the way his cum spills down your throat making you cough and pull off of him.

what you could only assume was a "sorry" comes from him as he calms down, pulling up his boxers and jeans but forgetting to buckle his belt. his hand reached out for you to grab it.

you take it and he pulls you up until you're almost at his height again, that same dumb smile on his face. "did you like your present?" you hum after you clear your throat.

"duh..." his thumb comes up to wipe at the saliva around your mouth before pushing the digit between your lips. you waste no time entertaining him, sucking your spit up and popping off of his thumb. "you thinkin' you could gimme something else though?"

you snort, "what happened to we couldn't take too long cause everyone's downstairs?"

"i'm still hard, it's my birthday, i really don't give a fuck who's downstairs." his words contradict his earlier statement but you brush it off, pulling him by the string of his jacket and pressing another peck to his lips.

"get in the bed birthday boy."

[imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl]

Unexpected Places (Pt. 03 of 11)

Pairing: Ivar the Boneless X Reader/Bjorn X Reader

Word count: 3 K

Summary: As a princess, you've lived in a golden cage all your life, always a piece on someone else's game. But everything changed when the Norsemen came crushing down on Wessex, like waves in a violent storm. Their king spared your life and decided to take you with him to his kingdom, in what felt more like a rescue than a kidnapping. There, you were not only confronted with a completely different culture and lifestyle, but also with two of his sons. The oldest one has his eyes set on you, but it's the youngest one, Ivar, who gets who claimed your attention since the first sight. And he seems to have an unnamed interest in you. Of course you hoped whatever that was would pass, but when unexpected feelings start to flow a different way, things begin to change.

<- Previous part (02)

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{Vikings Masterlist}

×

Icy Blue Eyes

For the first time in your life, you're wearing pants. And you don't feel less of a woman because of it, as they used to say in Wessex. Your upperbody is protected by a leather vest, Aslaug's idea since she doesn't like the idea of you trying to learn how to fight. You feel a little badass though, dressed like this, with your hair all braided up, away from your face. Hvitserk is already waiting for you, laughing at something this guy said. When he sees you, he quickly dismisses him, making his way to the middle of the open area.

“You look good. Ready to have your ass kicked a couple of times?” He says, a bright smile on his lips. He's having too much fun, but you must cut that off before you get badly hurt.

“Hvitserk, you gotta go easy on me, alright?” Raising both your hands at him, you tilt your head at the small deck behind you, where Aslaug will be. “Aslaug told me to pass it on to you that if you hurt me today, she'll wipe the floor with your face.”

He squints his eyes at you, taking a quick look at the deck. “Did she really–”

“No.” You burst out, giggling. “But really, I'm not used to it and I'm nowhere as strong as the women here so...” A man comes and hands both you and Hvitserk a sword and a shield before moving away. “Don't beat me up.”

“First of all, I was joking.” He starts, suddenly taking your sword away and throwing it on the ground. “Let's begin with some basic defense. I'll attack you, and you'll have to block me with the shield. It'll help you understand the amount of strength you'll need and how to avoid being cut down to pieces, alright?”

“Alright.” Fixing the shield on your arm, you hold it with both hands, keeping it in front of your body.

“I'll attack you from different directions so pay attention.”

“Alright.” When he starts to pace around, you do the same. You're on full alert, your eyes on the arm he's holding the sword. It doesn't take much time until he moves, bring the metal down on you. Thankfully, you think fast enough to lift the shield to protect your head, and the impact isn't as strong as you were expecting, so you managed to stay your ground. Hvitserk is holding back, obviously, and you're grateful he's being gentle.

“Good. You're fast.” He exclaims, and you giggle when you pull the shield down, staring at him. “I'll strike harder on each blow, alright? So keep in mind the next one will be worse. Protect your head and sides.”

Nodding, you're soon attacked many times. And he wasn't joking about that. Every hit is harder than the last, and you have to alternate between your skull and torso since the blows come from different angles. It doesn't take much until you start being pushed backward, and for some reason it makes you laugh.

Never in your life, you thought you'd be doing something like this. In a place like this, with people like this. They aren't mindless monsters, they're just people. They laugh, and love, and care about others. And, God, they live. They yell, and run, and fight. They're not restricted by some stupid made up rules. For you, right now, this is what means to be a Viking. To be free to do what you want, go where you want, be with who you want.

This is paradise on Earth, it doesn't matter how weird things still look in your eyes. As Hvitserk hits again, making you stumble back, a laugh escapes your lips as you realize you won't ever go back. Not even if Aethelwulf sent an army to rescue you. You wouldn't even consider it.

“Everything alright over there?” Hvitserk asks, and, still laughing, you lower the shield so he can see your face. He looks very confused but smiles anyway.

“Yeah, it's just...” Gasping, you shrug your shoulders. “This is crazy, you know? This is freedom. I'm doing this because I want to and if I want to stop, I will. And nobody will come and say I should or shouldn't do it.” Running a hand through your hair, you push some loose strands away from your face. “I feel great. My arm already hurts, but I feel–” You're cut short by another blow, quickly raising the shield again to block it. And another laugh escapes. “Shit, that was tough.” Regaining your balance, you mutter.

“Your reflexes are very–”

“This is not how you do it, little brother.” Bjorn's voice cuts in, and both you and Hvitserk turn to look at him. “If you want to teach her, do it properly.” He quickly takes a sword, walking fast over you. “Focus on your legs. Stand your ground.” He's barely even done speaking when the sword comes crashing down.

The same moment you raise the shield, his sword connects with the wood. But it's way too strong, and you're caught by surprise. You feel the shield slipping and hitting your head as you stumble down, falling on your ass. Using one arm to sustain the seated position, you close your eyes tight when you feel like the whole world is spinning insanely fast, and you feel what can only be blood flowing out. Throwing the shield away, you feel arms around you, and a voice slowly breaking into your head.

“(Y/N), talk to me. Hey.” A snap makes you open your eyes again, finding Hvitserk crouching before you. “There you are. Can you stand up?”

“Yeah.” You notice some people gathering around, so, despite the headache and the dizziness, you push yourself up, holding onto his arm for support.

“(Y/N), I didn't mean to–”

“To crack my head open? Yeah, I bet.” Cutting him off, you give Bjorn a look, raising a hand at him when he tries to approach, making him stop.

“Let's get you some water.” Hvitserk guides you away from the crowd, to a half construction near the deck. Lucky for Bjorn Aslaug isn't here yet, or else you're sure she'd lash out at him.

“That was certainly a show.” The voice makes you roll your eyes, and it shoots a sharp pain through your skull. Ivar's giggle makes you even angrier, but you can deal with it later.

He's seated on a piece of wood right beside the table with some buckets filled with water. “Here.” Hvitserk gives you a cup and you take a few sips from it. “I'll get something to clean the blood. Are you alright standing on your own?”

“I'm fine.” Nodding, you watch as he quickly disappears behind a corner, putting the cup down, and closing your eyes when you feel dizzy again. Using the table as a support, you feel your body falling, unable to sustain its weight.

You're ready to collapse on the floor when you feel hands grabbing you, tightly holding your waist. It takes a while until you notice it's Ivar, and when you use his shoulders to support yourself, your face ends up too close to his, close enough to feel his breath. His eyes, ice blue, in a shade you didn't even know existed, burn right through you, and... It takes you by surprise how Ivar doesn't push you away, violently, as you were expecting. Instead, it feels like everything slows down, and you stay there, balance regained, but his hands still holding you.

“Everything alright?” Hvitserk's voice snaps you out of it, and you awkwardly step away from Ivar, moving towards the table.

“Yeah, I'm alright.” Nodding you watch as he damps the small piece of fabric on one of the buckets before starting to clean up the blood. But when he starts to get closer to the wound, you start moving away. “Ouch!”

“Stop flinching.” He tells you.

“Yeah, stop flinching,” Ivar repeats, and you feel his hand on the small of your back, forcing you to stand still.

Roling your eyes before closing them, you decide to ignore it for now. But what you just can't ignore is how his touch burns, making itself known, felt, it doesn't matter how hard you try to pretend he's not there. It takes way too much time until Hvitserk is done, putting the fabric down and giving a better look at the wound.

“Well, it's not as bad as I thought it would be, but–”

“What happened?” Aslaug comes out of nowhere, pushing Hvitserk away and cupping your face, angry eyes scanning through the injury.

“Bjorn showed up.” He answers as you use the table to balance yourself when you feel dizzy once more. “He hit her so hard that the shield went right to her head.”

“He will listen to me. Come. You need to lie down.”

You were going to just walk, but the moment you move away from the table you feel yourself falling again, so you grab Hvitserk's arm, and you don't even have to ask him, he puts an arm around your waist to help you get moving again.

It still takes you by surprise to know Aslaug actually likes you. She makes her slaves have this patch made with some herbs to help the healing process and forces you to stay in bed for a while. The headache makes it easy to just do as she says.

The bad part is that there's pretty much only one thing in your head, and it's not how pissed you are at Bjorn. It's Ivar. Maybe the hit on your head is driving you crazy after all, but you swear he was... Different. Not anger as he usually seems. It takes two days until the headache starts to surrender, and you decide to spend another one in the calmness of your bedroom with no company other than Aslaug, who's often talking about her husband and their issues, or Hvtiserk, who comes to check on you at least once a day. He started to teach you to play Hnefatafl, and you soon learned your way around the game, even beating him a couple of times. The only reason why Bjorn hasn't come is that the Queen forbade him, and you don't mind that at all. He's the last person you want to see right now.

But then, it's time to finally leave the bedroom, only the ghost of the pain hovers over. It's almost time for dinner, and you're already hungry. Walking through the place, you find Hvitserk and Ubbe chatting, and they both look up from their drinks when they see you.

“Look who decided to show up,” Ubbe exclaims. “Feeling better?”

“Very much. I really enjoy walking without feeling dizzy.” Moving to the table, one that hangs from the ceiling by four sets of chains, you take a cup and the jar, pouring some drink for yourself before passing it to the guys. “Actually, I kinda need to steal your brother for a while, Ubbe. I need to talk about something.” Carefully not to make anything fall, you push yourself up, seating on the table and feeling as it softly swings.

“It's alright. Gotta get some stuff done before supper anyways.” Ubbe sighs and gets up, taking long sips straight from the jar. Then, he gives the now empty thing to his brother and leaves.

“So.” You start, taking a deep breath. “Take a chair and sit here.” Moving further to the center of the table, you tap the space on the wood on your left. “The last thing I need is anyone else listening.”

Hvitserk makes a face at you, squinting his eyes before getting to his feet and grabbing a chair, placing it on the place you gestured. “Is it some plan to kill Bjorn?”

“What? No.” Shaking your head, you suddenly realize what you're about to say. And for a moment you reconsider. But if you don't get this out, it'll keep annoying you. And Hvitserk will probably say you're getting everything wrong, so you'll let it go. “It's not about Ragnar's oldest son... It's about the youngest.” Lowering your voice, you stare at him, taking in the low giggle as he looks down at his hands.

“I knew it.”

“No, you didn't. Now shut up and listen.” Moving to playfully punch his arm, the table swings. Hvitserk nods with a dramatic eye-roll, holding the piece of wood to make it stop. “I... May be going crazy, but when you left me with Ivar that day, I felt dizzy and almost fell.” Looking down at your cup, you drum your fingers on the top of it. “And, I don't know, it felt... Weird.” The memory comes back, and for a moment you can feel his hands again, around your waist.

“Define weird.”

“A good kind of weird.” You mutter, drinking what's left and putting it down beside you. “He looked at me, and damn it, Hvitserk, it didn't felt like he hated me or something.” Whispering, you lean closer to him. “I've been trying not to think about it, but I that's everything I think about. Am I crazy?”

Hvitserk seems thoughtful for a while, and when you're just about to ask him to say something, he looks up at you. “Ivar's normal behavior would be to let you fall. Then he'd laugh.”

“Well, I didn't fall and he didn't laugh. So.”

“I don't know.” He shrugs his shoulders. “He hasn't mentioned you to me yet, which is a surprise by itself. I was expecting him to give me a hard time since we're kinda like friends now.”

Good. Neither of you can understand Ivar. “Great. Nobody knows what the hell is going on.”

“Am I getting this wrong or do you like Ivar?” Hvitserk leans backward, crossing his arms and resting his back on the chair.

“No...?” It sounds like a question as you mirror his position, arms crossed. “I mean, he's... Handsome...” Blushing, you look away. “I noticed that I'm not blind. But it doesn't mean I like him.”

“Who is it you like?” The other voice makes you turn to the hall immediately, watching as Bjorn comes from the main hall, pushing the leather curtains away.

Taking a deep breath, you jump to the floor, holding the chains to make the table stop swinging and then fixing everything that you dropped. “What do you want? Try to crack my skull open again?” Hvitserk hands you two cups that fell on his lap.

“I hope you can forgive me.” Bjorn comes over you, standing only a foot away, a hand grabbing one of the chains sustaining the table. “I thought you wanted to learn and–”

“I wanted to know how to defend myself and I was having a good time until you showed up.” Eager to put some distance between you two, you walk around Hvitserk, who's looking down, pretending as if he's not here. “I don't enjoy being hurt.”

“But in a real situation, you'd–”

“It wasn't a real situation, alright?” Running a hand through your hair, you feel your head getting a little worse.

“I'll leave you two to talk,” Hvitserk mutters as he stands up, giving Bjorn a look before disappearing somewhere behind you.

“That was the first time in my life that I got to hold a shield. You can't possibly think I had the strength or ability to deal with a stroke like that.” With both hands on your hip, something gets your attention. Entering the main hall, you see Ivar, standing this time, walking with the aid of a clutch. You don't know why you're biting the inside on your cheek to suppress a smile. Why do you want to smile in the first place?

“It's just that you look like one of us now and I forget that you're a Christian princess.” Bjorn's voice makes you look at him again, but it takes a while for you to bring sense to his words.

There are a lot of things you could say. That it's not about being a princess, or that you're not trying to look like them. But you don't feel like extending this argument. “Alright, Bjorn. I forgive you. Just leave the training to Hvitserk.”

“That's fine by me.” He nods, a small smile on his lips. The truth is that Bjorn didn't do that on purpose, this is just their way, and you're the one who's not used to it yet. So you feel good forgiving him after all.

“Alright.”

“But now, who were you talking about with Hvitserk?”

“Oh, that was just–”

“You two,” Ragnar calls from the main hall. “Come eat.”

You want to hug him for interrupting this conversation, so you immediately follow him, settling down next to the fire. Today it's just Ragnar's family, and at first, you do feel like an intruder. But with time, as they include you in the conversations, you feel better. You even tell a little about yourself, about your life in Wessex. It doesn't take much for you to feel Ivar's eyes on you. You try hard not to look too much, but it's like a freaking battle. Those blue eyes have some kind of power, and it's difficult to resist.

“And so it'll be until the twilight of the gods,” Ubbe says and everyone laughs, but you don't, unable to remember what they were talking about.

“Ragnarok,” Bjorn exclaims.

“Until Ragnarok. That asshole won't be coming back here.” By the tone of his voice, it sounds like there was a fight. Aslaug told you about a man that came into town, stealing and destroying things. Ubbe must have taught him a lesson.

“Ragnarok.” You mutter to yourself, playing with your empty cup.

“As if you knew anything about it.” Ivar sounds a little pissed, and you honestly don't understand why. “Don't speak as if you do.”

Chuckling, you stretch your arm, hand hovering above the flames. “There will be three severe winters.” You start, and for some reason, probably given the nature of the subject, a silence falls on. “And summers of black sun.” Retrieving your hand when it gets too hot, you fix your eyes on Ivar. You already had enough of him teasing you, and it happens that you know exactly what Ragnarok is. “Those will certainly be terrible times, and Jörmungandr, the world serpent will come lurching from the ocean, bringing up the tides until they flood the entire world.�� Smiling, you lean forward, elbows on the table. Slowly, Ivar does the same, those powerful eyes not leaving yours. It feels like there's nobody else here, just you and him. “Fenrir will break loose of his invisible chains and the sky will open, so Surt, the fire giant can come, blazing through the bridge to face and crush the gods. Odin will come to battle one last time against the wolf Fenrir, and Thor will fight the serpent. He will kill it but die from its venom. And at last... The giant wolf Fenrir will swallow the sun, and the world will be forever in darkness.” Your lips break into a smile, and, at the same time, Ivar's lips do the same. He looks at you the same way he did a few days ago, only more intense. It's like he sees you now. “This is Ragnarok.” You add, voice barely a whisper.

“Perfect,” Ivar mutters, and everyone finally starts moving again.

“How did you learn all that?” Aslaug asks as Ragnar fills her cup once again.

“I was allowed to learn about your culture. Language, traditions.” Shrugging your shoulders, you feel when Hvitserk kicks your leg under the table, so you glance at him. Discreetly, he tilts his head towards Ivar, and you can't help but look straight at him. He's staring.

“That's interesting. But it feels like you're not really paying much attention to what we're saying, are you, Princess (Y/N)?” Aslaug holds back a smile, and by the look on her face, she knows exactly what's going on. And that's good, perhaps she can explain it to you later.

“Uhm...” Your eyes fall on one of the jars, which you know it's empty. “I'll get some more.” Moving quickly, before Aslaug can send one of her slaves, you grab the jar and walks to the kitchen. The girls there help you out, refilling the jar. But it happens way too fast, so you decide to go outside for a while, breathing in the cold night air.

Raising your head to look at the night sky, you take a deep breath, closing your eyes. But when you do, it's Ivar you see, his ice blue eyes shining against the darkness. Something is going on with you, and you wish you could understand. If you were as sure as you were before that Ivar absolutely hates you, I'd be easier. But now... You don't know anymore.

×

@multific @revolution-starter @crackhead1-800 @youbloodymadgenius @clown-boyyy @kitten0394 @castielsangelx-blog @goldlion07 @midnightmystic @readsalot73 @xvxcarolinexvx @momowhoo @fangfoxy @msrawog @walkingonshunshine @alytavzla

[whump-my-dear-watson]

Febuwhump day 1 “Trapped”

Characters: Matt Murdock, Foggy Nelson, Karen Page

Fandom: Daredevil (TV)

Word Count: 1,500

Warnings: Trapped in elevator, mild claustrophobia, punctured lung, passing out, hospitalized, broken ribs

Summary: Matt’s fine. That’s what he insisted. But on their way from the courtroom Foggy and Karen realized it was worse then they thought.

A/N: So, I know 0 things about law or law practice, and this piece was made entirely for the whump so...yeah. Also, the medical accuracy is probably not on point, research only goes so far!

“Can you make it down the stairs?” Asked Karen as they exited the courtroom after a long day.

“Yes. I’m fine.” Matt replied, grunting with an effort just to get the words out.

“Not a chance buddy, we’re taking the elevator. If we had my way you’d be in an ambulance right now,” said Foggy with his usually light tune, although it seemed a little too forced then usual.

“Was I really that bad?”

“Matt, you're a wonderful Lawyer, but, you look like crap and I tell ya everyone in that room knew something was up,” Foggy said directing his friend away from the stairway towards the elevator.

Matt didn’t fight him on this, he leaned into his friend as they walked, “We still are winning though.”

“Yeah. We’re a great team. But you have to admit Matt, you are reckless. Why’d you go out the night before our big case?”

“Crime doesn’t take a night off, Karen.”

“But you can,”

The Elevator doors opened up and Matt got in, steadying himself on the railing. His ribs were aching, he could tell that he had at least 3 broken, and even more bruised. His head was still throbbing from the hard hit he had taken the night before.

“Matt, do you need help? Like real help? I think Claire’s in town, I can try to get her-”

“I’m fine,” interrupted Matt, “couple hours of sleep and I’ll be hitting the streets again.”

“Matt! You’re gonna kill yourself,” Karen couldn’t hide the hurt in her voice.

Matt’s reply was interrupted by a lengthy coughing attack. He slumped further against the elevator wall, the weight of his own two feet suddenly overbearing.

“We’re gonna get you some help, okay?”

Before Matt could even process what Foggy had said he felt himself lurch forward, the whole ground came with him. Looking around him he saw Foggy and Karen in the same panic tossed around the room. Although any exertion at all deepened his pain, Matt closed his eyes and tilted his head to get a better focus. Getting a picture of the whole room around of him, Matt ‘saw’ with his power that the cords holding up the elevator were stuck.

After an agonizing minute of gears grinding loudly, the elevator lurched one last time before planting itself firmly in-between floors. The rapid movements and loud noises were quickly overwhelming Matt, his back still leaning on the wall he slid into a sitting position on the floor, clutching his chest.

Foggy leaned over by his friend, placing a reassuring hand on Matt's shoulder, Karen pulled the emergency call button on the elevator, nothing happened.

Matt’s shortness of breath along with his ever so slightly blue hue in his skin was making Foggy and Karen start to panic.

“Uhg. There’s no service! I can't reach anyone!” said Karen in anguish.

Matt looked up at her, he meant to give her reassurance, tell them both that he was fine, that they’d get out of this, but nothing came out. In fact, nothing was coming in. Matt took a deep breath but the oxygen was too stubborn to come in.

After another minute of continued wheezing, it subsided for a while. Matt just sat there, his eyes closed taking in more air, but nothing eased the tightness he felt in his chest.

Karen continued pacing the room, phone in hand, while Foggy rubbed Matt’s back and tried giving him words of comfort, but Matt could barely even hear him over his own rapid heart rate.

“Okay, Matt, when did you start having symptoms? It might help narrow down what’s wrong and what you need.”

Matt furrowed his brows together, why was it so hard to think? “Uh, last night my chest began to hurt, probably because of the broken ribs, but it wasn’t hard to breathe until about an hour ago,” Matt’s voice hitched as his last word spurred another coughing fit which increased his chest pain.

“Okay, no more talking for you, just, take it easy Matt,” said Foggy as he scanned the room for the third time.

The elevator wasn’t big, but it also wasn’t small, to Foggy, it was a death sentence.

Claustrophobia wasn’t something Foggy initially thought that he suffered from, but the way the walls seemed to close in on him and he was starting to feel nauseous didn’t give him much of a choice. Foggy couldn’t be freaking out right now, Matt needed him.

Besides, elevators stopped all the time and no one gets hurt.

Right?

The elevator doors stood still as if mocking them for being trapped. By now both Foggy and Karen had run their voices hoarse with hollering for help and pounding on the door. They needed to get Matt out of there, but with no real end in sight, all of their moods were quickly fading.

“Matt, how are you doing?” Karen quizzed him.

Matt nodded his head at her, words just weren't coming anymore. He was no doctor, but he’s been hurt enough to know what a punctured lung felt like, if only he would have recognized it earlier he wouldn’t be in this situation.

He tried to hold on, he fought, but the sweet temptations of rest were too strong, Matt’s eyes fluttered shut as his shoulders slumped further against the wall.

“Matt! Matt!” shouted Karen as she rushed to his side, tears streamed down her face as she put a hand to his neck, desperately hoping to feel a pulse. She was greeted with a thready response, but it was something.

With a startling and grinding crunch Foggy and Karen clung to the walls, worried the elevator was falling, but as if on cue the elevator doors were pried open, behind the door was mostly metal work, only the bottom third of the doorway actually opened to the hall. Two officers awaited them as they stood over Matt.

They weren’t trapped any longer. But they weren’t out of it yet.

Foggy and Karen worked together to gently drag Matt’s limp body towards the opening, a police officer firmly gripped his shoulders sliding him from across the floor through the doors and out of the elevator.

In a frenzy, Karen and Foggy found themselves as well out of the faulty elevator and being attended to by local authorities.

“You guys are lucky, someone called in a late elevator making ‘suspicious’ noises, no one else wanted to check it out.” one officer told them as his partner called in a medic for Matt.

The ambulance arrived quickly, a team of medics hauling a stretcher immediately started to check them over.

“No, we’re fine, Matt, help Matt,” Karen insisted, pushing a Paramedic away from her.

One of the first respondents was looking over Matt, who now lied on a stretcher, “Looks like we got a Traumatic pneumothorax, we need to get a chest tube in him, stat,”

“Is he, is he gonna be alright?” Foggy asked his throat tight.

"Yes, if he gets everything he needs now, he'll make a full recovery."

The EMTs and Paramedics pushed Matt on the stretcher into the awaiting ambulance, Foggy and Karen at their heels. 

"Matt, Matt, were right here okay? We're  not going anywhere, alright?"

                                      *******************************

Matt's still heavy eyelids groggily opened and the fuzziness in his head died down as he became more conscious.

The sound of heels clicking on the hard floor altered him to Karen's presence pacing the room, and Foggy, Matt could hear his heartbeat pounding from the chair. 

"Matt! You're awake! Thank God," Foggy said rushing towards Matt's. Karen quite pacing and joined Foggy at Matt's bedside. 

"It'll take more than that to stop me," Matt said halfheartedly, his voice not as pronounced as usual.

Matt could feel the tension in the room, he faced his friend's direction. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so reckless. I should've been smarter, gotten help sooner. I’m sorry for putting you guys through that." 

Foggy squeezed Matt's IV laced hand, "No, Matt, you were just thinking of others. I’m sorry for making you feel like you need to apologize for just looking out for people. But, next time? Come to us when your hurting." 

"Yeah Matt, we can help you," Karen cut in. 

"Now how did I get lucky enough to have you two in my life?" Matt said, his smile genuine.

Matt's chest was sore, he felt as if his whole body was replaced with sand, everything was so heavy, and the tube in his chest was uncomfortable, to say the least. But his skin was no longer blue, and his breathing was regulating out. But most importantly he was surrounded by his friends and partners and all in all, alive. 

In the elevator, trapped and dying, he didn't know if he would ever see another morning, experience another day, fight another night, but here he was. 

With a grateful look on his face, Matt addressed Foggy and Karen. 

"So, you ready for another day in court?" 

[altfire-archive]

Hey! Would u ever consider posting a full version of one of your outlines so we could see ur outlining process? I’m really curious to see how other writers plan out their work.

omg i love this. i've been wanting to share but wasn't sure if anyone actually wanted to see it lmao i jumped out of bed to answer this on my pc

i'll share my outline for the horror and the wild, since that's published and i don't have to worry about spoiling something that isn't out yet. for thatw i used my short story outline, which is different than the one i use for longer projects and is a little more bare-bones.

this is going to be rather long so i'll put it under a cut

first, ofc, i do a big free-write where i put down all my ideas and ramble through them for ideas and vibes. once i have a semi-coherent narrative, i make a 7-point outline (i use this reference to work through it)

so here's the 7-point outline i used for thatw:

Hook: A beast is killing livestock.

Turn: Ed sneaks out, against Brandr's wishes, to find the beast.

Pinch: Ed is attacked by the beast.

Midpoint: The beast seems to be gone.

Pinch: Ed sleeps with Verranil.

Turn: The beast is Verranil. A werewolf.

Resolution: Brandr kills Verranil.

So obviously this doesn't include a lot of the plot beats, just the general skeleton, so from there I take my blank 4-chapter short story outline (which i can also post if u want) and I start plugging my current plot points in, connecting them with the empty spaces.

i aim for the first chapter to have the hook and some setup, the second to have the first turn+pinch and end on the midpoint(ish), the third to have the second pinch+turn, and the final chapter to be the resolution and whatever ends i want to tie up.

it's very, very formulaic but it helps me actually create stories with solid structure and decent pacing so i don't mind it. im sure that authors who churn out dozens of books (like idk. romance authors) use a similar sort-of formula when writing lmao.

each section is a chapter (except the middle, which is split in half at the midpoint like i said), and each numbered bullet is a scene. under those i write what needs to happen/what i imagine will happen in said scene.

here's my full outline for thatw:

Beginning (four scenes)

1 - Open on the crime scene - the chicken coop, covered in blood and viscera.

Ed suggests they talk to the guard and Brandr shoots him down

Brandr says he'll lay traps on the treeline. If he sees the beast he'll kill it himself. Show his greatsword.

2 - Ed goes to town to buy a rooster. Enter Verranil, an Altmer who's passing through.

They talk some. Verranil is handsome and intriguing.

And flirtatious. "Aren't you a pretty young thing."

Verranil helps Ed take some stuff back to the farm.

3 - Verranil and Brandr meet.

Brandr mentions the chickens.

Verranil says it's probably some wolves just passing through. Not worth all this trouble with the traps.

4 - Next day, the neighbor's cow is dead.

Brandr is pissed. He lays the traps.

Ed offers to go find the beast, not content to sit around and wait.

Brandr says that the beast is greedy. It'll come around again.

Middle (eight scenes)

5 - Ed sneaks out in the night, looking for clues in the woods.

He steps in one of the traps and freaks out, screams and panics.

Something approaches him in the dark and he hallucinates (lol) that it's huge, but Verranil steps out into the moonlight.

6 - Verranil carries Ed to his camp.

He's an experienced healer and fixes Ed up.

Ed has to strip out of his bloodstained clothes and Verranil offers his own clothes.

Verranil interrogates Ed on what he was doing and insists that heading out in this dark is too dangerous for a pretty young thing like himself.

Verranil says he's actually been tracking this beast for a while and to leave it to him.

7 - Ed arrives back to the farm just before dawn.

Brandr is pissed that Ed disobeyed him. "You're lucky to be alive."

Ed keeps the truth - that he very nearly died but Verranil saved him - to himself.

He's undeterred, and plans to head out again that night.

8 - Ed is attacked by the beast.

He sneaks out late that night and quickly realizes he's not hunting - he's being hunted. Sounds behind him of snuffling, underbrush being disturbed, growling.

He runs back for the farm but the beast catches him, pins him to the forest floor. Claws dig into his arms, tear his clothes. He manages to cast a spell - the beast watches nothing happen and chuffs, something like a laugh, before getting conked over the back of the head with the blunt side of an axe.

"Stupid fucking skeletons," Ed mutters as he makes his escape.

--------------------------------------------

9 - Ed gets home after the attack

He heals himself, thinking about Verranil the whole time. The way he touched him while healing...

The beast doesn't attack and thus it's been a couple days. He's stressed because he knows it's still out there.

Brandr, noticing his strange demeanor, says if it stays away another night they'll go to Falkreath to celebrate.

10 - Verranil is there.

He and Ed chat, trying to keep their second meeting secret from Brandr.

Brandr gets pissed because Verranil is a creep but Ed isn't acting creeped out anymore.

Verranil eggs him on 'til he leaves, refusing to fight Verranil.

Verranil takes Ed back to his camp and they bone.

11 - Ed wakes up alone at the camp.

He feels disgusting and hurts all over. Sex sucks maybe.

Brandr wakes up at home to the cottage on fire. He gets the chickens out and escapes.

Ed gets back looking like hell and they hug. What the fuck is going on.

12 - Ed and Brandr fix up the farm as best they can.

Ed puts out the fire and they talk. There's claw marks on the fence posts, the coop, the garden. It has to be the beast.

Brandr starts to put pieces together - Verranil left Ed alone in the morning. Ed confesses that he saw the beast and it's a werewolf. Ed refuses to believe it.

Reluctant, they decide to head into the woods to find Verranil - Brandr brings his sword.

End (two scenes)

13 - Ed and Brandr corner Verranil at his camp.

Brandr hangs back to let Ed go ahead. Verranil is back at his camp and kisses Ed, making both men's stomach churn.

Ed tells Verranil about the beast and Verranil acts surprised. Ed pushes questioning - he says he saw it. Knows it's a werewolf.

"It was dark, you're weak little candlelight didn't illuminate-" "I didn't tell you what I cast."

Verranil pins Ed to a tree, realizing his mistake. The wind changes and he smells Brandr. He shifts.

There's a fight, Ed summoning a skeleton only for it to be dashed away in an instant, Verranil ready for it this time.

Brandr emerges with his greatsword and beheads Verranil in the fight.

14 - A week later.

They got a reward from the Jarl for killing the werewolf. They use it to rebuild.

Brandr comforts Ed the best he can.

Reveal that Ed took of the beast blood - this will never happen again.

some details are different to how they ended up happening in the story, but the beats and important events are the same.

[sending-the-message]

It'll be back tonight by jesswhatineeded

The drilling started around 3 a.m.

I opened my eyes with a jolt, instantly awake and confused in the pitch black humidity of the room. My room, although it was still unfamiliar. As I let the shape of my nightstand and the books piled on top of it form in the darkness, the muffled mechanic whirring continued below me.

I kicked the sweaty sheets off my body in a tangled heap and heaved myself off the mattress, immediately stubbing my toe on an unpacked box of picture frames. Of course I hadn’t plugged in a lamp yet.

“Shit,” I hissed and tiptoed to the door around more boxes and bins, a landmine of my procrastination.

I made my way downstairs and peered into the living room. It was blindingly bright with all of the lights turned on - the overhead fan, both lamps on either side of the couch, even the glow of the quiet TV showing a rerun of Family Feud. My dad was crouched down by the front door, drill in hand, installing what looked like a military-grade padlock beneath the knob. His toolbox was open on the floor, its contents scattered around him, and his face was scrunched up in concentration. He was mumbling something to himself.

“Dad?” I whispered.

He jumped, dropping the drill onto the toolbox with a loud clattering, his mouth open in horror. When he turned and saw me, he exhaled and clutched his chest.

“Jesus, Sarah, you scared me half to death,” he said with a nervous chuckle. “What’s going on? You should be in bed.”

“I could say the same thing,” I said. “You’re the one using power tools at 3:00 in the morning.”

“Is it that late?” He laughed again - that same weird, nervous tittering that was so unlike him - and looked down at his watch. “Must have lost track of time. I’ll keep it down. Sorry, sweetie.”

“Dad, what are you doing?” I asked, crossing my arms over the baggy t-shirt I wore to bed.

“We didn’t have a decent lock on this door,” he said simply. “You know, this house hasn’t had any updates since the ‘70s. Anyone could come breaking in here and steal something. For all we know, a couple of hobos could have been using this place as a crack den before we moved in.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A crack den in a cul-de-sac?”

“You know what I mean,” he muttered. He ran a shaky hand through his thinning hair. I spotted two empty beer bottles on the coffee table, a third one half-full next to the toolbox. “I’m sorry I woke you. You should really get to bed.”

“Dad, try and get some sleep,” I said, leaning down to kiss his forehead, clammy and cold on my lips despite the heat. “And then maybe I can get some sleep. No more drilling, okay?”

“Okay,” he answered, without looking at me, his bloodshot eyes focused on the wall behind me. “Love you, bug.”

I stumbled sleepily back upstairs when my parents’ bedroom door opened a crack. My mom poked her head out into the hallway, her hair a mess of matted curls. “Again?” She asked me in a strained voice. I nodded and we shared a look of concern.

Dad had never been an insomniac, but ever since we moved to our new house a little over a week ago, he stayed awake all hours of the night. The first night was normal enough; he was up late unpacking. But Mom and I found him sitting upright in the armchair the next morning, wide awake and trembling. The next night I heard him pacing when I got up to use the bathroom, peering down the stairs to see him walking back and forth in the living room, the floorboards creaking gently beneath him as he muttered to himself. The following nights had followed a similar pattern. I would wake to hear him trudging up the stairs after the sun had come up.

He was a writer - mostly of personal essays and nonfiction pieces - but he was never this secretive or consumed with his work. Now whenever we found him bent over his laptop or scribbling furiously into his notebook, he would pack up his belongings and shuffle into the next empty room. This was the first night he had incorporated light home construction and, as far as I knew, beer into his routine. Dad had never been a drinker, either.

The next afternoon, while my dad snoozed the day away in his room, my mom rehashed the same conversation we’d been having for days.

“He needs medication,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Ambien or something. Do you see what he did to the door? It’s not natural to be up all night like that. He’s teaching freshmen at 8 a.m. in a few weeks!”

Both of my parents were English professors at the local college, part of the reason for our move. While my mom had taken on teaching afternoon and evening summer courses, my dad had the season off, fortunately for him given his current predicament. But the fall semester was rapidly approaching. I chalked most of his antics up to anxiety over living so far from the city; he was used to noise, people, chaos. Now we were the only house on a small, dead-end street a few miles from campus, shrouded by trees.

After my mom left for class through the garage (“I can’t even figure out to open my own goddamn front door,” she had snapped) I examined the living room, looking for any signs of remaining bottles. Our front door was now armed with a heavy deadbolt towards the top, as well as a chain at eye level. I balked at the level of security my dad had taken and unlocked each one. I turned the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. I had missed the heavy padlock at the bottom. I tugged it to no avail, then stood to run my fingers on the top of the doorframe searching for a key. Nothing.

“Jesus, Dad,” I whispered to myself, bending down to examine the lock. He must have dropped quite a few things in the process, too - long white scratches marred the floor, disappearing underneath the door.

Fueled by annoyance and concern, I jogged upstairs and quietly entered my parents’ room. Dad was still snoring soundly as I unplugged the MacBook from its charging place on the bureau and snuck back out. Downstairs, I typed in my middle name and birthday at the password prompt and began my search. I didn’t really know what I was looking for, but I was hoping to find some clues for his odd behavior.

The desktop was littered with folders holding files from old student essays, photos from family vacations, and other miscellaneous crap, all labeled accordingly, but I couldn’t find any new projects. When I checked his internet browser history, something caught my attention. I clicked the link and pulled up an article published in a newspaper only a few months before: “Family of four found butchered inside home.” A red-haired couple, each holding red-headed toddler boys in their laps in what looked like a Christmas portrait, smiled out at me from the grainy featured photograph.

The details were chilling. The father was found in the bedroom, decapitated, his head only a few feet from the body. The mother was found in the children’s room, her body splayed on top of one of the beds in what police determined was a protective move. One of the boys was found underneath her, both bodies hacked to bits. The younger boy was found in the bedroom...and the hallway...and the bathroom. His body parts were strewn throughout the house. I shook my head in disgust and clicked back into the browser history.

A much less graphic story about the family had been published to another news site, this time with a video. The reporter interviewed shocked neighbors who all repeated the same mantra: they seemed like such a nice family, nobody knew them well, they had just moved in, and terrible things like this never, never happened in their town. The police chief looked stricken as he disclosed that there were no leads, no suspects, no signs of forced entry. I clicked back again.

To my horror, there were more articles. Not just about this red-haired family and their smiling boys. There were others, too.

A mother and daughter disemboweled in their country home. A man found dead in his duplex, the lower half of his body torn away. Three brothers hacked to bits in a locked room. A young couple eviscerated in their own bed in what police thought looked like an animal attack… only they lived on the 22nd floor of their apartment building.

The stories were from all over the country, but the only thing the gruesome murders had in common was that all the victims were new residents. After only a few days of moving into new homes, apartments, wherever... they were found dead. No known suspects. No explanation.

I must have been reading for hours, paralyzed with fear as shadows stretched across the room, the brightest light coming from the laptop screen. I had clicked through so much carnage, my stomach was rolling. Even though I tried to explain to myself that this was just essay material, just fodder for my dad’s next big writing gig, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was horribly, horribly wrong with him.

“It’ll be back tonight.”

I jumped at the sound of my dad’s voice. I strained to see him, blue circles dancing in front of my eyes in the darkness. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, he turned the overhead light on with a click and I squinted from the sudden brightness. He was wearing the same disheveled clothes from the night before.

“Wh-what?”

Wordlessly, my dad moved slowly into the kitchen. I put down the laptop and followed him, watching as he opened the fridge and leaned down for a beer bottle, twisting off the cap and guzzling down half before wiping his mouth. He turned to me with tired, bloodshot eyes.

“I’m sorry, bug,” he said, sadly. “I didn’t want to bring you into this. Not yet.”

“What do you mean?” I asked in a shaky voice. “What will be back tonight?”

“I don’t know what it is,” he admitted. “And, frankly, I don’t want to know. But I think I figured out how it works, I guess. I’m not sure. There are still...questions.”

“How what works? What the hell are you talking about?” I practically shouted. “You’re really scaring me.”

He sighed and leaned on the kitchen counter, bracing himself with one hand and closing his eyes.

“Since we got here, I’ve been hearing these...these horrible voices,” he said. “Inhuman voices. Animal. And...not. I know them. But they still say awful things. Terrible things. Sometimes they’re not just voices. Sometimes I see them.”

“What do you see, Dad?” I asked, my heart in my throat.

He opened his mouth to speak, his face contorting with his struggle. But he was at a loss. He shrugged helplessly and shook his head, closing his eyes.

If this was a joke, it wasn’t my dad’s style. He was blunt and honest, almost to a fault, and he wouldn’t indulge in a prank like this. Whatever was happening, he truly believed it was real.

“Dad, are you…,” I started, unsure if I could finish the question. “Are you… drinking when you hear these voices?”

He looked up at me with a furrowed brow and laughed gruffly, without humor. “You’ll see for yourself, Sarah. Soon.”

He finished the rest of the bottle and placed it on the counter, heading back into the living room, leaving me alone, my body shivering from a sudden cold.

It was almost midnight. Dad and I were sitting in the living room, our hands wrapped around mugs of coffee. I don’t think he needed any help staying awake anymore, like I did, but I was just thankful he had put his beer away at my request.

Mom had brought home burgers for dinner from the campus diner around 7. She tried to strike up a conversation with Dad and me, but we were pretty quiet, only murmuring in response to her story about an embarrassing typo in her PowerPoint slides. Eventually, she grew frustrated and declared she was going to bed early since we were “positively boring her to death” and “maybe we all needed more sleep.” I was glad for her absence; I still hadn’t decided what I was going to say to her. I mean, how do you tell someone that her husband is clearly unstable?

Now it was just me and Dad, sitting and waiting. Waiting for what, I didn’t know. But I owed him at least one night to buy into his delusions before figuring out what to do about it. I checked my phone a few times, scrolling through my Facebook feed without absorbing anything. The TV was off and all I could hear was the ticking of the clock.

“How...much longer?” I asked.

“Depends,” he answered.

“On what?”

“Don’t know,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, dumbly.

And back to silence.

I must have dozed off in my chair because it was nearly 2 a.m. when I felt my dad shaking me awake.

“Sarah,” he whispered. “Sarah, wake up. It’s here”

“What’s he - “ I almost asked, before remembering with an unpleasant sinking feeling this little game I was indulging. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw he was holding a shotgun in both hands.

“What - when the hell did you get a gun?” I nearly shrieked with a voice hoarse from sleep. “Put that down!”

Dad crouched by the door, setting the gun across his knees and putting his ear against the wood in deep concentration. “It’s here,” he whispered again, to himself more than to me. He looked at me with wide, wild eyes. “Do you believe me now?”

I sat up in my chair and strained to hear, well, anything. But it was just the ticking of the clock and my own heartbeat thudding in my ears. I waited nearly a minute before sighing and standing.

“Dad, I don’t hear - “

“Come outside, Daddy,” a voice hissed.

I froze, icy fear spreading through my veins. It sounded like a little girl. I looked to my dad in panic.

“Daddy, I’m so cold. Please come outside,” the voice called again.

It sounded like a young girl, but off. Like something was mimicking her voice. Underneath the high-pitched trill, I could hear a faint, gravelly echo. And there was something so, so familiar about it. I had heard this girl before.

“D-dad,” I whispered, drawing closer and kneeling to join him on the floor. “Who is that? Who’s talking to you?”

He looked at me, sadly. “It’s...it’s you, bug.”

“Daddy, please, I’m scared,” the hollow voice grew louder, like she had her mouth pressed right up against the door.

I realized with horror that it was my voice. Or at least, my younger voice, something I had only heard in the shaky audio of VHS home movies my parents had recorded with handheld cameras. Once I recognized it - the slight, childish lisp I carried at six years old after I lost my two front teeth - it was uncanny.

“How is that possible?” I asked my dad, but he didn’t answer, listening intently to whatever was on the other side of the door.

“I know you’re in there, Daddy. Why won’t you come outside?”

“I don’t know,” my dad whispered back. “But it’ll get worse.”

“Sarah? Sarah, is that you? I need you, sweetie!”

I nearly choked at the sound of my name. It was my mother’s voice, which was impossible because she was upstairs and sleeping, blissfully unaware, like I had been the past week.

“Sarah, come outside right now. I won’t ask again.” It was the stern voice my mother only used when I was a child and I was in trouble.

“It knows you’re here,” my dad whispered. “It always knows everything. I-I don’t know how.”

“Sarah, listen to your mother. Come outSIDE, NOW.” The voice changed and dropped, morphing into a deep growl as something pounded forcefully on the door. “COME OUTSIDE. COME OUTSIDE. COME OUTSIDE NOW.”

I leapt back in fear, scrambling back away from the door with tears brimming in my eyes. My dad slowly stood, pumping the shotgun with a loud pop. The door was shaking, the locks rattling nearly off the hinges.

“Come outside, Sarah,” the gnarled voice nearly sang. Something was tapping on the door now - no longer banging full-force, but like fingernails tapping down and back up in quick succession, light as rain. “Come outside or we’ll come in.”

I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around myself. “Make it stop,” I pleaded. “Dad, please, make it stop.”

My dad aimed the gun at the door as it continued. Suddenly, after what felt like an eternity, it stopped altogether.

My dad lowered his gun and took a step closer to the door. He peered through the peephole, then inexplicably, lifted his hand and slid the chain lock to the left, letting it swing undone.

“Stop!” I called. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry,” he told me, sounding less confident than he looked. “Everything is going to be okay.”

I watched in abject terror as he undid the deadbolt and unlocked the doorknob, fishing in his pocket for a key to the padlock before kneeling to unlock that as well. Every single millimeter of metallic protection we just had was gone. I wanted to beg “no,” but I couldn’t speak. He turned the knob and pulled the door open.

The porch light only cast a small halo of light in the inky black night and wind blew the warm evening air inside. Nobody was standing there, but I could feel it watching. I peered around my dad and blinked into the darkness. Something was moving in the black, slipping soundlessly through the trees, almost completely camouflaged by the cover of night. But I could see the tiniest pinpricks of light moving, pacing back and forth, disappearing quickly and then reappearing. They were eyes; eyes reflecting the porch light and blinking.

And from the shadows, it began to scream.

I covered my ears and cried, shutting out the pained howl. I closed my eyes as I waited for some unknown creature to gallop into the house and devour us whole. But instead, I heard the door slam shut.

“It’s okay,” Dad assured me, crouching down next to me, placing the gun on the floor. He grabbed my hands away from my ears and held them with his own. “It can’t come inside. I know that now. It can’t get us. Shh, it’s okay, honey.”

“We have to call the police,” I sobbed. “We have to get Mom and leave here now. It’s going to kill us.”

“We can’t, Sarah.”

“What? Why?”

“That’s what it wants,” he said. “It wants us to go. It wants us to flee. That’s how it works.”

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” I said. Everything felt like the climax of a nightmare when you’re waiting to wake up and worrying that all of these horrible things are really happening. “How do you know all of this?”

My dad sat back, keeping a firm hand on my arm. “After that first night here, I did some research and found out about the last family. Then I found the rest through property records. Everyone who lived here before us is dead. I don’t know how or why, but I know that - that thing, whatever it is, has to be responsible. This house… it’s both a curse and protection. As long as we’re here, I - I think we’re safe. But if we leave…”

He trailed off, glancing at the door. I didn’t need him to finish. I had read about those families. I knew what would happen to us. And I knew I wasn’t waking up.

That was a few months ago. We told Mom soon after that night. She didn’t believe us until we showed her; I don’t think it’s something you can accept until you experience it yourself. Now she understands.

We take shifts, switching off who keeps watch each night. Last Tuesday, we felt safe enough to forego assigning a guard and fell asleep in our rooms. It didn’t like that. It needed an audience. We woke up in the middle of the night to its shrieks, the door pounding off the hinges, slamming open and shut in heavy blows, broken locks scattered on the floor. Every picture frame on the wall was broken, swinging precariously from their nails. We’ll never make that mistake again.

I ask Dad why he bothered replacing the locks when he knows they won’t make a difference either way. He says it’s more symbolic than anything, maintaining this idea of peace in the face of something so helpless. I guess I know what he means. After all, I locked them in place a few minutes ago myself.

It’s my turn. I grab a book and put on a rerun of a show I’ve seen a thousand times. It makes me feel less alone for some reason. On a good night, I can get a few hours of sleep. I can ignore it when I hear my own voice, but it’s hard when it’s Mom and Dad. It’s worse when it’s something else. Sometimes, not often, I see it, too. Just glimpses - a silhouette in the window, shadows passing under the door, and (just once) black claws sneaking in from under the door. I don’t know if it’s possible to look at it straight on, but I know I’ll never, ever try.

It’s quiet now. No crickets, no birds, no wind. Even the TV seems muted somehow. That’s how I know it’s coming.

It’ll be back tonight. And every night. But so will we.

“I know you’re in there, Sarah. I can hear you breathing.”