#i was digging deep into my oatmeal

[everbluekisses]

SUPER!!! LAZY!!! MAID!!! YAKUMO!!! DESIGN??? really. the laziest i could be. yall feel free to do whatever u want with this i'm just too lazy

[under-sedationnn]

Mike Schmidt x reader where she’s pregnant?

mike schmidt x pregnant fem!reader pt.1

summary: a day in the life with mike and abby as the reader navigates the ups and downs of the much dreaded (and much anticipated) third trimester. 

“Mike, I'm going to be honest, there's no way I can tie my shoes.” 

"Abby-girl! Come on, breakfast!"

I hear the sound of small, bare feet skittering down the hallway and halt to a stop at the edge of the dining table. Abby, hair still unbrushed and pajamas wrinkled, smiles at me from her seat by the window.

"What did you make this morning, y/n?" She leans across the table to see the bowl I'm holding, and I give her a sympathetic look.

"Oatmeal," I say, and she wilts slightly. "With nutella, and bananas! Made special for you."

I set down the bowl and she inspects it, picking up the spoon by the small end and poking at the slices of fruit. I shift on my swollen feet, and pray that she decides it's not poison, after-all. Besides, I need to eat something soon, too. And take a bath. And online shop for baby clothes, on clearance.

"I guess it's fine," she mutters, but digs in anyways.

"Well," I start, heading back into the kitchen, "I bet if you are a super star today that Mike will take you to get pizza tonight. And if he says no, I'll tell him the baby said we need it."

She smiles widely, and I pour myself a small cup of coffee. I sit down across from her at the table, and prop my feet onto the seat beside me, settling my coffee cup onto my bump to rest. Abby is fully invested in eating her oatmeal now, and I anticipate the need for a snack when she finishes.

Settling into domestic life with Abby and Mike wasn't difficult, one could say it was the exact opposite, but there are ups and downs. For one, I had to drop myself into a semi-stepmom situation, and pretty soon afterwards found out I was going to be a mom for real. But Abby is a good kid, and Mike is the kindest man I have ever met, and we're making it work day by day.

"So, Abs," I say between sips, "what are we feeling we want to do on this glorious day of all days, Saturday?"

She thinks for half a second, and opens her mouth to answer when the door begins to unlock. Mike steps into the living room, backpack slung over his shoulder with deep bags under his eyes. He smiles when he sees us nestled in our little corner of the room, and shuts out the bright morning light behind him.

I move to stand, but he puts his hand out to stop me.

"Woah woah woah, remember what the doc said, no unnecessary walking, right now. How are your feet feeling by the way?" He leans down to kiss me on the forehead, the cheek, a peck on the mouth, and moves to put his backpack and keys by the door.

"Eh, they're doing okay, but they definitely don't feel great," I respond, and he kneels down beside me.

"Want me to take a look?"

I nod my head, and he peels my socks off. The swelling is a little better, but I still hiss slightly when he pokes at the top of my foot, and the pit stays in my skin.

"Not the best, but not the worst," he says, not too sure of himself, "but you're not doing anything today, you need to rest."

I sigh. "Mike, you just got off of a shift, I know you're exhausted, and the house needs to be cleaned. There is no way I'm going to let you-"

"There is no way I am going to let you clean the house today, or do anything that is going to make you feel worse." He moves his hand to my stomach. "We're in this together, remember? 'Til the very end."

I place my hand over his own, "The very end, I love you."

"I love you, too. Now, what's first?" He kisses my fingers once and stands up. Abby joins him in watching for my answer.

"Breakfast, please."

"Agreed." He smiles and turns to the kitchen, presumedly to make us each an equally bland bowl of oatmeal.

"What were you saying you wanted to do today, Abby? You never got a chance to finish what you were saying, sweetheart."

Her bowl is empty; she wipes the leftover nutella from her lips, and moves towards the fridge to get out some milk. "One of my friends at school is having a birthday party today and I wanted to go." She pours herself a precariously full glass of milk from the carton, and slowly walks back to the table.

"You can still go Abs," says Mike, "and I could drive if you want me to."

"Well, her mom is carpooling for other kids and said she could come and get me," she adds between gulps.

I look at Mike over the kitchen bar, and he smiles at me slightly. "Abby, do you have her mom's number? I can call and see if she'll come and get you."

"Sure! Hold on, it's in my back pack." She hops up from her chair, stumbling in her excitement, and races to her room.

"Mike, if she goes, we could have a day all to ourselves."

Not that we don't love having Abby around, but a day alone would be well-deserved.

"Yeah, we could take a nap." He chuckles, and brings our breakfast to the table. Oatmeal, with just a little bit of nutella.

I nod my head in agreement as Abby races back to the dining room and shoves a piece of paper with a phone number in Mike's face. He calls, talks for a moment, and places down the phone while saying, "Abby, go get dressed, she will be here in 20 minutes." She turns on the spot and speeds down the hallway, once again.

We give each other a silent high five, and look forward to a day of relaxation together.

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i'm going to be honest, i kind of want to continue this blurb into a second part where the day continues. i was really enjoying making this into a small, domestic fic and I didn't want to just make it about the pregnancy but the life that it would lead to WITH mike (which includes abby).

thanks for reading!!! <3

[himbocoups]

˗ˋˏ multitasking ˎˊ˗ | 18+ Only

synopsis: multitasking only saves time when it's done right.

pairing: mingyu x reader (gn)

genre: smut

tags: college party, mention of drunk people, extremely conceited mingyu | big! dick! mingyu!, choking, crying, c*m eating, degradation, dirty talk, facesitting, handjob, mirror sex, oral (m receiving), pet names

wc: 1.1k

beta reader reviews: "i can't believe cocky gyu gave me butterflies in my pussy im so mad" - @bitchlessdino // "gonna have to take some deep breaths after that god damn" - @heartkyeom // "do you think if u put it in oatmeal it would taste good" - @onlyhuis // "...this fic made me clench the shit out of void and emptiness" - @multi-kpop-fanfics

message from nu: happy mingyu day!! this fic x concept has been sitting in my drafts for months now. what better day to release it than today? - nu ♡

himbocoups's masterlist

The sound of a plastic ping-pong ball bouncing click, clack, clonk against the wooden floorboards, and a couple of groans from the living room downstairs escape through the tiny aperture underneath the closed bedroom door. Still, the liveliness of the party downstairs, the rhythmic thumping of the EDM song playing from the speaker, and the screams and shouts of drunk college students envelope his bedroom door like a protective barrier - a natural sound-proofer for the noise coming from inside the bedroom. 

“Fuck you look so good today,” he grunts from above you. 

Even now, in this bedroom, everything in the world arrives in your ears in a muffled manner - muted, with little substance left to decipher. 

Kim Mingyu, who is a little too conventionally handsome for his own good, sits above your face. Thick muscular thighs crush both sides of your head as he leans his upper half over your naked body, planting himself firmly against his mattress, and pushing himself deeper into your mouth.  

“So, so good,” he moans into the open. 

An automatic reply attempts to escape your mouth as your hands fling onto his knees for support, “Thunfk yth.” But he peels your sweaty hands off his knees, plucking them between his thumb and pointer finger, and plops them to the side despite your feeble response. 

Tongue swirls around his round and smooth tip, licking a long stripe down his shaft. You moan, eyes rolling to the back of your head when you feel his veins against your tongue, the minuscule grooves created from veins underneath the soft epidermis, and the salty-musky taste mixed with your saliva. You swallow his taste like the sweet lukewarm soda in a red plastic cup to cut any bit of bitterness that coats your mouth and throat. 

He doesn’t care about you. You know he doesn’t care about you. You’re just a random stranger at a party who is remotely good enough to even be considered a candidate for Mingyu. 

Now, even when you’re sucking his dick from below him, he’s not staring at you. Instead, he stares at his naked torso reflected in the mirror, flexing his biceps - watching them contract and relax - and smiling at how handsome he looks tonight. 

To him, you’re more or less an afterthought. There is nothing in this bedroom that intrigues him more than himself. And when he finally sees you between his thick and glistening thighs, he can only think of one thing to say: “Take me in deeper and I’ll let you be seen near me when we go back downstairs.” 

Incomprehensible is the thought of how you can take him even further down your throat; you somehow open your mouth wider and dig the back of your head further into the mattress. But it’s huge. It’s fucking huge. From the base of his cock to his ego, Kim Mingyu is fucking massive in every aspect of his body. And he assails your throat from above, pushing in, pulling out, angling in, and angling out. 

The fact that you’re gagging against his cock, struggling under his touch actually annoys him severely. He knows that he is Kim Mingyu. And if anything, you’re the one who should be trying to accommodate him. If it weren’t for the fact that he could see the shape of his organ outlined against the inside of your throat, he would already be out the door. And seeing himself move inside your throat only fuels his ego and makes him hornier than ever. 

Purring, he takes time to trace his right finger pointer along the outline of his cock, mumbling about how gorgeous he looks. Lauding his size, he only stops when he feels the pressure against his fingertip. The way his lips stretch thin, eyes open widely, and pearly whites show is diabolical. And he has to stop himself from orgasming when he realizes he can feel his cock through your stretched throat and on the pad of his fingertip. Because the only thing Mingyu loves more than sex is himself. 

This new discovery causes him to twitch in your throat. And moaning in response, your throat vibrates around his cock like an electronic toy. This chain reaction leads him to grab onto your throat, covering his embossed outline. To him, it feels like he’s holding himself in the shower - the warmth and silkiness of your inside like the hot water that cascades over his Adonis. Brazen with the ache between his thighs, he takes matters into his own hands, rubbing and pumping himself along your throat. 

Deep and open moans protrude from him like a beautiful low vibrato note on a double bass. Thighs feeling weak from his arousal, he sits on your face to ease his trembling thighs. The newfound action feels so good that his entire body tightens like a coil ready to spring. High building with each calculated yet languid stroke along your vibrating throat, Mingyu’s eyes squeeze shut as his breath hitches and staggers. 

Salty tears roll down your face, and the feeling of him getting himself off via your throat causes you to scream and tremble as you convulse without his touch. You’re trying your best to accommodate his size and the fact that he is currently facesitting and using your throat to masturbate. Yet your climax comes out of nowhere, forcing him out of your mouth while you finish as you get off on the fact that you’re being used as his toy. He seems to pay you no mind as he quickly pumps himself over your body, hissing as he spills his milky honey over your chest - pumping himself empty while using his other hand to massage his balls. 

Purposely, he taps his throbbing and dripping organ against your forehead as if to tell you he isn’t finished with you. But he isn’t a complete asshole. He sees how you’re struggling to recover, so he lets go of his balls so that he can dip his thumb into the pool on your chest and offer his nectar to your lips. And you suck the salty liquid off his thumb, taking his digit in your mouth and swirling your tongue as if you are searching for sustenance to satiate your thirst. 

He plucks his thumb from your wet lips when he feels like it, gloating at how loudly you whine for him. Vainglorious as he is, he knows a single gesture, the twirling of his pointer finger, would immediately get you to go on your knees. Once his organ casts a shadow over your face, he tells you to suck. This time, he requests you to spell his name as you bob your head. And if you’re good enough, then just maybe, he’ll forgive you for spitting him out while you came.

Copyright © 2023 Himbocoups. All rights reserved.

[hedawanheda]

secret recipe- prologue

Clarke has been given six months to find a serious and genuine relationship or else her father will hand over the company to Cage Wallace. Lexa just wants to cook.

or

Lexa is the Griffin’s personal chef.

Clarke Griffin is a leader. She’s a girl who knows what she wants and she doesn’t care how she gets it. When she talks, people listen. When she walks by, people stare. She exudes a confidence and energy that makes everyone who knows her respect her, while also fearing her a little. Her life is dedicated to her work, the Fortune 500 company her family had built from the ground up.

So when her father announces at his retirement party (that she flew all the way from California to attend and moved back home for this promotion) that his temporary successor would be Cage Wallace, she is understandably pissed.

“Don’t cause a scene,” her mother whispered harshly to her as she watched Cage walk up and shake her father’s hand. Clarke was in utter disbelief, waiting for her to wake up from her nightmare or for Ashton Kutcher to come out and say she was punk’d.

Cage caught her eye, sending her a gloating smile as he posed for the papers. Clarke felt the heat rise to her cheeks as her anger began to take over, clenching her glass so tightly that she was surprised it didn’t break. That should be her up there.

As the applause for Cage continued, Clarke downed the rest of her drink. Then the rest of her mom’s. Then she flagged down a waiter who was passing out shots to celebrate Cage’s promotion and Jake’s retirement.

And then she doesn’t remember the rest of her night.

She wakes up in her childhood bedroom which she miraculously got to somehow in her drunken state. The sun shines into her eyes way too early, rousing her from her deep slumber. Her rumbling stomach, pounding head, and dry mouth are too much to ignore, so she dragged herself out of her bed and trudged her way down to the kitchen in search of a greasy breakfast and some aspirin.

She opened the refrigerator and let the cold air hit her, taking a deep sigh and rubbing her forehead before searching for the orange juice. When she found it, she took a swig from the bottle, letting the citrusy flavor cost her parched tongue.

“Good morning, Miss Clarke,”

Clarke dropped the bottle of juice, startled by the other presence in the room. She was so hungover that she didn’t realize that she wasn’t alone.

“Holy shit- Lexa?!” she gaped. Clarke hadn’t seen Lexa since the girl went off to culinary school in Paris a decade ago.

“Welcome home,” Lexa smiled, ignoring the blonde’s disheveled appearance. Clarke was grateful for that, considering she was in a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and an old oversized college sweatshirt. Her hair was piled into a messy bun, and she undoubtedly had bags under her eyes from her late night. “Can I get something started for you?” Lexa asked politely.

“Huh?” Clarke was so shocked from seeing her old friend that she didn’t take in her appearance. Lexa was wearing a white chef’s coat and black pants, her hair tied back in braids. She was standing behind the kitchen counter, hands folded behind her back with an array of skillets and knives laid out in front of her.

“For breakfast,” Lexa explained patiently. “What would you like?”

“What are you doing here?” Clarke asked, answering Lexa’s question with one of her own. “The last time I heard you were at some Michelin star restaurant in the French Riviera.”

Lexa pretended that she didn’t hear that. “There’s pancakes or waffles, I could also do crepes if you wanted those. Omelets, eggs Benedict, frittata-“

“Wait, hold on-“

“Oatmeal, French toast, bagels-“

“Can you just stop for a minute-“

“Your dad has me hide his sugary cereal from your mom, I can dig that out-“

“Lexa! Stop listing breakfast food!” Clarke said, exasperated. “What are you doing in my house?”

Lexa paused, looked down and avoiding Clarke’s eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? I work here,”

“But… why?” Clarke was genuinely confused. Why would someone give up a great and promising career to cook for her parents?

She didn’t get her answer, because her father entered the kitchen with a bright and cheery smile on his face. Clarke instantly scowled. She may not have remembered how most of her night had gone, but she remembered being burned by the person she called her father.

“Good morning, sweetie. Good morning, Lexa,” he said gleefully. He walked over and kissed the top of Clarke’s head, ignoring his daughter’s sour face. “Isn’t today a glorious day?”

“I see you’re enjoying your first day of retirement, sir,” Lexa grinned at him. “Shall I prepare your usual?”

“Please. But add extra bacon, I feel like celebrating,”

“Didn’t you and your bestie Cage do enough of that last night?” Clarke grumbled. Jake turned to her, smiling, and placed his hands on both sides of her face.

“Lighten up, sweetie. I’m sure once you have some food in you, you’ll be happier,”

“Food won’t make me happy,” Clarke said through squished cheeks. She removed her father’s hands from her face, angrily crossing her arms. Jake chuckled at his daughter’s death glare.

“You’ve haven’t had Lexa’s cooking in a long while. She’s like a food Midas, anything she makes turns to gold,”

“What happened to Alie?” Jake’s smile fell while Lexa looked down at her hands. “What?” Clarke asked again, looking between her father and Lexa. It was weird seeing Lexa at the house and not having her mom there, the chef the Griffins had since before Clarke was born.“What are you not telling me?”

“My mother passed away last year,” Lexa said quietly, not meeting Clarke’s eye. “Cancer,”

This morning has turned out to be quite the surprising event for the blonde.

“Excuse me?!” Clarke said angrily, turning to her father. “You didn’t think of mentioning this to me over the past year? That the woman I’ve known for as long as I’ve known you died?”

“In his defense, she wanted to keep her illness private,” Lexa explained calmly. When Clarke looked at her, her gaze softened. She wasn’t the one Clarke was rightfully angry towards. “The funeral was a small affair. Just family,”

Clarke frowned. Wasn’t she considered family? “That still doesn’t mean it was okay not to mention it to me,”

“You’re right,” Jake sighed, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, that was wrong of me. Why don’t we sit down and have Lexa make us a nice breakfast. I’m sure there’s something on your mind,”

//

“Why did you pass over me for the promotion?” Clarke asked as Lexa slid plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast in front of her and Jake. “Why did you choose Cage of all people?”

“I know what you think of him, but he’s actually a brilliant man,” Jake started digging into his meal, talking with his mouth full. “Difficult, but brilliant,”

“But I don’t understand. You’ve been preparing me to take over for you since I started at the company. And I actually worked my way up from the bottom,”

“Cage is only a temporary solution,” Jake explained. “He will be interim CEO for the next six months before I decide if you’re fit enough to take over,”

“And what do you consider that to be?”

“How do I say this?” Jake rubbed his chin. “Clarke, you need a life,”

Clarke looked and felt offended. “What are you talking about? I have a life,”

“You’re a twenty eight year old workaholic who’s never had a serious partner before. Your mother and I are worried about you,”

“And where’s Mom now? Work.” Clarke snapped. “And the partner thing? A little misogynistic, don’t you think?”

Jake sighed. “Honey, don’t start. If I gave you the position right away, you would never find time to settle down,”

“So what are you saying? I can’t get the position I earned until I get hitched?”

“Not exactly,”

”Not exactly?”

“Well, not married per say, but a relationship, yes,”

Clarke stared at her father, eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re serious,”

“I am,” Jake nodded. “You need to get out there and actually live in the world, Clarke. There’s so much more to life than an office.”

“I do yoga,” Clarke pointed out. “Work’s not my entire life,”

“Honey, I don’t think you realize how sad that sounds,”

Clarke slumped down in her chair. “I could just hire someone, you know,”

“I know. But I’m using the honor code here. I just want you to be happy, to settle down,”

“I can be happy and not be in a relationship,”

“But you’re not,” Jake folded his hands on the table, pushing his empty plate away. “Just try. Put yourself out there. As long as I see you’re at least making an effort, the gig is yours.” This made Clarke sit up straighter in her chair.

“Really?” she asked. “So I have to just go on a few dates?”

“Emphasis on the effort, Clarke. And besides, six months is a long time, who knows? Maybe you’ll find your person,” Jake smiled warmly at his daughter, who rolled her eyes. “You’re a little too old for that now,”

“And I’m also a little too old for you to be telling me what to do,”

Jake sighed. “This isn’t a punishment. I really do want what’s best for you Clarke. Six months. That’s all I’m asking for,”

“Fine,” Clarke huffed, throwing down her fork on her partially eaten plate. She had lost her appetite, no matter how good it looked. “I’ll agree to this, no matter how dumb it is. It’s not like I’m actually going to fall in love just because you gave me a deadline.” Jake smiled, doing a little happy dance in his chair.

“I think this is going to be good for you, Clarke,” he said. Lexa came in and began clearing away the dishes as quietly as she could, trying to go unnoticed. Clarke watched her, not wanting to look at her father’s triumphant grin. She didn’t realize her eyes were trailing the girl until Lexa left and her father cleared his throat. When she turned back to him, his grin was faint, but there was a twinkle in his eye as he looked between Clarke and the doorway where his chef exited.

“Something amusing?” Clarke asked.

Jake chuckled. “No, nothing at all,”

read on ao3!

[karltface]

Yeah, I can get a post out of this.

It's the Creepy Can, from Readers Digest in 1994.

Now, this came from a thrift store, so there are no guarantees, but it promises some interesting things. The 90s were a bit of a boom period for rubber bugs, after all. And mini books are great for the Halloween trinket fund. The electronics in the lid have a sealed (and very dead) battery, unfortunately. Let's dig in, though!

I'll open with the bugs, because I'm Karl. The spider is either a knockoff or knockee of a larger specimen I've encountered in the past. She's accompanied by possibly the worst scorpion I've ever seen, which is delightful. That's my money's worth right there.

I'm short one here, but I was pleased to get a fiery red lizard. Reptiles and amphibians used to be Halloween staples, and while I'm glad they're no longer "scary" to many people, I think they can still be spooky.

The laced moray, however, is an anomaly. I personally own three movies where eels are played for creep factor, but they almost never appear in that context with Halloween stuff. Truly fascinating, and a damn fine addition to the Kickass Nature Toys shelf.

Curses! That classic John Speirs art on the can was what caught my eye in the first place. I even have a spare frame that would've fit this.

Bob is entirely absent. I assume he was made of tagboard, and tied together with thread, if the instructions are to be believed. Oh well.

And then there are the Bone-Chilling Books. 10 pages each, they're chock full of kid-friendly jokes and puzzles. I'm just gonna touch on one from each.

I sincerely hope you can read these. The only limerick in Petrifying Poems concerns a monster with detachable eyeballs. An inspired choice.

Falling under the "scary" half of "Hairiest, Scariest Puzzles" is this lovely spread of simplistic crawly stuff. It's actually a trick question: those aren't regular spiders, they're clearly spider monsters, and that means all of them belong.

Good Lord, Skully is terrifying. It's the pointed teeth and bloodshot eyes, I think. The Visit to Count Dracula is just a Halloween party at Castle Dracula, but we do get to see all the monsters getting ready. I dig both mummies and sewing gags.

Monster Riddles is pretty standard fare for kids' stuff, but gets points for hitting deep cuts like this one. I remember buying entire paperbacks full of this crap. There's gold in there.

Ghostly Goodies, I'm keeping. It's a full-on recipe book, with stuff like simple scones, chocolate oatmeal balls, and this fun twist on good ol' rice pudding. Ricotta, you say? Bet it tastes like cheesecake.

There's a poster in here too, but it's almost 2 feet wide and just over 4 inches tall, which makes it a nightmare to photograph. It's a nice cemetery backdrop, dotted with a couple dozen monster and skeleton stickers. And since I've hit the image limit, I can at least tell you you're not missing much. Maybe I can use a hair dryer to remove the stickers and have another background; it's glossy paper, after all.

So yeah. Out-of-season Halloween goodness warms my heart. The cheaper, the better.

[avocado-frog]

Find the word tag because Today is the Day

Tagged by @oh-no-another-idea

Let's see if I post this the day I started writing it or if it goes to die in my drafts

Fish (??? i honestly just started writing. dunno what this was for)

(He didn't know if a dead pufferfish was just as dangerous as a live one. Ryan would know.)

(The next morning, out of curiosity, he found himself asking. The boy seemed a little startled by the question, but he lit up at seeing that he was the expert in that subject. He shook his head, but said that you shouldn't touch them, anyways.

"Don't people eat 'em sometimes?" Sam asked, through a bite of oatmeal. He gestured wildly with his hands.

"Yeah, but there's a certain way to cut them, I think." Ryan and Logan's answer was simultaneous.)

---

Fuel (Leo kills a man)

That fueled the fire like gasoline. With a sudden surge of adrenaline, Leo dodged the swing that came her way and placed a well-aimed foot into the boy's stomach. He fell back, threw a clump of dirt at Leo, and she took the opportunity.

He was on his back and Leo stomped hard on his neck, earning several screams behind her.

---

Feeling (cw for body horror I think)

Dylan pointedly did not look up, as the hand started to tighten. The demon's skin was ashy and gray, the hand thin and bony, black veins protruding through the cold skin. It wore a loose, turquoise shirt, and a white lab coat that nearly reached the floor.

Shooting a quick glance at Ryan, he had not yet noticed. Dylan didn't want to move, afraid of the demon's nails clawing at their skin. With a quiet hum of Ryan's name and a swift kick at the ground, their friend looked up, shot to his feet, looking terrified of the demon. Dylan didn't blame him, though they had yet to get the pleasure of looking at it.

Reluctantly, Dylan moved their head up, meeting the gaze of what they assumed was supposed to be Leo.

It had the same face, though gray and pale, black stripes slashed over its mouth. It had the same golden eyes, though bloodshot and glowing yellow, and it had the same brown hair tied up behind its head, thin and disheveled.

It opened its mouth, and the skin on its lips stuck together, sewn up like a doll, as it smiled big, lacking teeth.

This was an easy contender for one of the worst days of their life.

---

Float(ed) (drowning tw)

The rotting wood creaked under his feet, mold and moss lining the cracks in black wood. Red waves crashed harmlessly against the poles. Through murky water, he could see arms floating.

If Dylan were here, they wouldn't have hesitated to go into the water. They'd have already found Elliot by now. Lucas would've been out ages ago. That was why they were taken away, they were too determined to find Elliot. Ryan wasn't determined enough.

If he didn't find Elliot, he wouldn't get Dylan back, and if he didn't get Dylan back, he'd be stuck here forever. With that thought in mind, he took a deep breath, willed himself to move, and stood right on the edge of the docks, and tilted ever so slightly forwards.

He plunged into the water, in what felt familiar. The water, this time, was red instead of murky blue, and when he was pushed into the lake at the fair, there wasn't a hand around his wrist, pulling him down. This time, there was, and he had screamed at the realization. Bloody water entered his lungs, tasting distinctly like iron, getting colder and darker the further they went.

He latched onto the pole holding the docks, digging his fingers into moss, reaching up for the surface. A hand grabbed onto his, pulling him out of freezing water. Jaxon held him close, shouting at a group of kids, frantically apologizing. Ryan didn't do much but shake, huddled against the safe figure of his friend.

Jaxon wasn't there this time. No one was there. He did not know whose arm was dragging him so deep underwater

---

Sad to say I don't have fancy 😔

Words: Stake, stale, severe, shadow, sandwich

Tags:

@holdmyteaplease

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs

@kaiusvnoir

@words-after-midnight

@blind-the-winds

+open tag of course

[scotianostra]

On April 10th 1988  Sandy Lyle became the first Scottish golfer to win the US Masters tournament.

It was lucky 7 for Sandy in his previous six attempts his best score was 3 under par in 1986 tied for 9th place behind the “Great White Shark” Greg Norman. In my opinion I don’t think he got the credit he deserved two years before when he won The Open  Sandwich, England.

Sandy Lyle made his 37th appearance in the Masters this week, where he celebrated the 30th anniversary of his historic success at Augusta National. Sandy went into the tournament in peak form in 1988 after winning the Greater Greensboro Open the previous week. I remember a friend put money on him winning the masters so I took more of a notice than normal, I think he was 33/1 to take the Green Jacket.

  Sandy led from the second round and in the final round the title looked in the bag  when he led by three after 10 holes on the Sunday, but he came unstuck a bogey at the 11th and a double bogey at the next, Mark Calcavecchia took the lead at the 13th and the Scot had to dig deep to remain in contention, he shot  three successive pars then a birdie at hole 16 to draw level. At the 18th we had given up hope of him winning when he hit a bunker but Sandy hit a brilliant shot from there and we were cheering as the ball landed on the green past the flag but started rolling back to within ten feet of the hole. He then drained the 10-foot birdie putt to claim victory and raised his arms in the air to celebrate before dancing a little jig and embracing his caddie, I think we woke the neighbours as we shouted and cheered him.

  I even remember the next year, tradition has it that the reigning champion chooses the Champions Dinner, which takes place each year on Tuesday night before teeing off the championship on Thursday, I don’t know how he got round the ban on it, but Sandy, donned the Kilt and chose Haggis as the starter that night,  Lyle told the Augusta Chronicle.

  "The older guys, like [Jack] Nicklaus, had been to Scotland and knew what haggis was. But the newer ones, guys like Lar­ry Mize, they weren’t too sure about that.”

I dug up another mention of Sandy’ meal from the CNN web page in which they describe haggis…..

“ – a dish of sheep innards minced with oatmeal and spices – not to everyone’s taste.  It doesn’t sound very nice in the first place,” the 1988 winner told CNN. “It’s a lot of barley, spices, blood, slightly sort of off cuts,” added Lyle, who admitted most of his fellow diners “just pushed it around their plate.” As Larry Mize put it:

“Well I guess I’ve had the dinner every year except Sandy Lyle’s year, I did not have the haggis, that was unique the haggis!

"Thank God it wasn’t the main course otherwise it would have been a disaster,” said Lyle in his defence.

Sandy, now 66, plays on the Seniors circuit nowadays, but as a former champion is entitled to an invitation to play The Masters each year, his best finish since his win has been tied 20th in 2009. This year he didn’t make the cut with a +12 after the first two rounds.

England didn’t have long to claim their first victory as Nick Faldo won the following year, as seen in the third pic., another tradition being the last years winner presents the winner with the customary green jacket.

Sandy said last year that this year would be his last Masters and he didn't have the best of tournaments.

Lyle 's farewell tour of the famous Augusta National course, did something he has never managed before at the age of 65. Sandy broke his first club at his final appearance at the Masters and joked: "And it wasn't even over my knee."

The former champion suffered a shocking start to his penultimate round here when he blocked his opening drive into trees – and then snapped his 8-iron on a root hitting a left-handed shot which struck another branch and a cameraman. Lyle, still scrambled a bogey on his way to nine-over par 81 in his 42nd appearance here.

The Scot said: "It's the first one I've broken here. Taken 40 years to do it, but it's happened. First hole, and it wasn't even over my knee! I nearly always pulled it off the 1st hole, and this time I actually hit the other shape.

At his final 18th green a day later Masters organisers were slated when they suspended play as fans gathered at the green to see the Scot attempt a 12 foot putt to finish his Masters career.

Despite protests from Kokrak and the other player in the group Talor Gooch – not to mention spectators who chanted “let them putt” – officials instructed Lyle to mark his ball. 

Next day when the horn sounded at 8 a.m. to signal the start of play and open the course to spectators Lyle took out a ceremonial golden putter a replica of the one he used in 1988, made for the occasion and two-putted for a double-bogey completing his final competitive round in front playing partners Jason Kokrak, Talor Gooch, their caddies and a few maintenance crew and officials. Robbed of the rousing sendoff accorded former champions.

Sandy commented afterwards

“I’ve had most of the night to think about it, I know that, I’ve had a few drinks, as well, through the night so it was a little bit cloudy this morning. It’s a shame we didn’t get the chance to finish yesterday, but that’s just the way it is. The rules are the rules. I needed about another 30 seconds for a chance to hit the putt.

“The emotions are pretty high. As you look back at it, it’s gone very quick since ‘88, but it’s never let me down. You really appreciate how big the Masters is. The memories and the way you’re treated as a past champion. I look forward to coming back and playing the Par 3 Course, and playing off the members’ tees will be quite nice.”

[stormclouds-chainmail]

[Image description: A webcomic by The Oatmeal titled Wombats. Continued under the cut.

Panel 1: Image of a wombat. A medium height, stocky creature with four legs and fur.

Panel 2: Image of a wombat from the side.

Panel 3: Image of a wombat from the other side.

Text from panels 1, 2 and 3. Listen, we need to talk about wombats.

Panel 4

Text: There's a lot we could say about wombats.

Panel 5

Text: They're cute.

Image of a wombat lying on its back.

Panel 6

Text: They're marsupials who can weigh up to 80lbs (36kg).

Image of a wombat on a set of scales with the word chunky on the display.

Panel 7

Text: Their closest relatives are koalas.

Image of a koala.

Panel 8

Text: And a wombat actually weighs as much as three koalas.

Image of a wombat with an equals sign beside three stacked koalas. The top koala says, "Is the stacking really necessary?"

Panel 9

Text: Wombats dig 100 foot (30 metre) long burrows with dozens of entrances.

Image of lots of holes in the background. The foreground has a wombat emerging from a hole saying, "I am a firm believer in skylights."

Panel 10

Text: A group of wombats is called a wisdom.

Image of a group of eight wombats stood under a banner that says, "Deep thinkers only". One wombat has a cup of tea. One wombat says, "Hello, Cynthia". Cynthia replies with, "Greetings, Charles". A wombat called Higgins says, "Do crabs think fish can fly?" A different wombat responds with, "Interesting hypothesis, Higgins. I must meditate on this.

Panel 11

Text: And they can run at 25 mph (40kph).

That's nearly the same speed as Usain Bolt.

Image of a very fast wombat running and leaving a trail of black and grey lined and stars behind it.

Panel 12

But we're not here to talk about all that.

***

We're here to talk about butts.

Image of a wombat from behind with large butt cheeks. Its head is turned to look behind it.

Panel 13

Text: You've probably heard that wombats make cube-shaped turds, right?

Image of a wombat butt pooing out cube-shaped turds with sound effects, thibt, thipbt, this, thbttt!

Panel 14

Text: If not, congratulations.

Image of a cube-shaped turd.

Text: You just learned a fun fact.

Your brain probably deleted a childhood memory in order to make space for that fun fact.

Image of a wombat turd in a circle with an arrow pointing to a brain with a label saying, "Worthless knowledge 100% capacity and a full red bar. That has an arrow pointing to a human head in a circle going into a bin or trash can.

Text: Maybe it was a memory of your dad pushing you really high on a swing set.

Image of a dad pushing a child (who has the same face as the memory that's in the bin) on a swing set.

Text: That memory is now gone and has been supplanted by a six-sided block of marsupial feces.

Image of the people at the swing set but their faces are giant wombat turds with eyes and smiling mouths.

Text: Incredible.

Image of a close up of the child on the swing with the dad's hand pushing them. The wombat turd child says, "Higher, Papa, higher!" And Papa responds with, "Yes, my child. The wombat turd child is leaving a trail of debris or foul smell behind them as they move on the swing.

Panel 15

Text: But the fun facts don't stop there. Wombats actually crap out 80 - 100 of these turds a day.

Image of 100 wombat turds in a 10 by 10 formation.

Text: If humans pooped this often (averaging 4 inches or 10cm per turd), we'd make 33 feet or 10 metres of poop per day.

That's roughly the height of 11.5 koalas.

Image of 5 whole koalas stacked and holding each other up with the top one holding a koala chopped in half at the waist. The half koala says, "Please stop using us as a unit of measurement."

Panel 15

Text: Wow.

These fun facts sure are fun.

***

But they beg the question, why is wombat poop shaped like that.

Image of a wombat holding a cube-shaped turd and an axe saying, "Why a cube, cousin? Why not an axe?"

Text: Their stacked poop is used to mark their territory and also attract potential mates.

Their turd totems are basically a wombat's version of a keep out sign.

Image of a wombat surrounded by turd totems holding a placard that says, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter my fortress of feces."

Text: Or a dating profile.

Image of a wombat standing behind a stylised heart made of wombat turds. It's twice as tall as the wombat who says, "I will cherish you as I have cherished my turd statue. Heart emoji."

Panel 16

Text: And the reason wombat poop is cubed-shaped is so that they can stack it on a variety of tall, uneven surfaces, such as logs or rocks, without it rolling away.

Image of an arrow pointing down to a stack of six turds on a rock. A wombat is peering out behind the rock saying, "Structural integrity is nominal."

Panel 17

Text: Basically they are playing butt Jenga as a means of communication.

Panel 18

Text: Extraordinary, yes?

~

Yes.

Downwards arrow.

But that's still not why we're here today having this conversation about wombats.

Image of a wombat from the nose up with its paws raised in the air.

Panel 19

Text: We're actually here to talk about butt cheeks.

Panel 20

Text: Wombat butt cheeks are composed of bone plates that have fused together to form a protective shield.

On top of that shield is a layer of fat, skin and fur.

Image of the four layers, a rectangle of brownish fur with an arrow pointing to the pinkish skin with an arrow pointing to the yellowish fat with an arrow pointing to the white bone plate looks like a lozenge.

Text: When attacked, a wombat will dive into a burrow with their rump facing outward.

Image of a cross section of a wombat burrow containing a whole wombat with its rump sticking slightly out of the entrance.

Text: This is because their armoured butts contain very few nerve endings, so when they're scratched or bitten, they barely feel it.

Image from above of a wombat ass sticking out of a burrow entrance. Superimposed on it is a shield symbol with a tick in it. In a box at the bottom are the words, "Wombat ass = 100% secure."

Text: They basically have Captain America's shield embedded in their phenomenal buttocks.

Panel 21

Text: And while in this defensive position, a wombat will often flatten its body out, leaving a gap between themselves and the roof of their burrow.

Image of a cross section of a burrow with the wombat hunched down so there's a gap above it.

Text: When a predator pokes its head into that gap, the wombat will do something remarkable.

Image of a diagram on lined paper. The wombat is in the burrow with its butt sticking out and a gap between it and the top of the burrow. A pink direpig labeled with the disclaimer "not a real animal" is about to attack. The wombat is labelled with the disclaimer, "a real animal". The wombat's bum is labelled, "wombuns of steel".

Text: The wombat will slam its battle-hardened ass cheeks upward, crushing the predator's skull with a series of breathtaking butt slams.

Image of another diagram on lined paper. The wombat has slammed its butt up against the roof of the burrow crushing the direpig's skull between its butt and the earth.

Sound effects, "wam! wam! Wam! Crunch! Crunch! Crack thbpppt!"

Panel 22

Text: And this, my dear reader, is why we're having a conversation about wombats.

Image of the deceased direpig. "RIP direpig. Gone, but not forgotten."

Text: They have surface-to-ass missiles.

Marvelous murder-cheeks.

Weaponised HamSlammers.

Wombats are adorable, huge, high-speed marsupials who defecate Lego bricks and crush the skulls of their enemies using brutal, beautiful buttocks.

Image of wombat buttocks with shiny sun logo things.

Panel 23

Text: They are extraordinary.

I think about them often.

You should too.

Image: This entire panel has a dark background with floating turds and pentagrams maybe meant to represent stars. Image of a wombat floating with turds and pentagrams around it. Below that is a wombat viewed from behind with very prominent butt cheeks. At the bottom is the writer lying on the ground thinking about the wombats in this panel.

Credit: Written and drawn by The Oatmeal. End description]

[delucadarling]

🌿, 🌺, 🌼 ( ;3c ) for Barbie, 🍂🍄 for Stevie!

Spoiled!!! <3

Barbie

🌿 What way does your OC show that they care without using words? What way do others show your OC that they’re cared about without using speech?

Barbie shows she cares by remembering the things that trouble her loved ones. If someone doesn't like a certain smell, she endeavors to avoid it. If they dislike bright lights, she makes sure to only have lamps on. If someone feels overwhelmed in clutter, she clears things up for them.

The ways others can show they care for Barbie is spending time with her. Barbie very much enjoys parallel activities, where a cherished one is doing something they enjoy in the same room where she is also doing something she enjoys. She doesn't feel the need to talk at times like that. She just enjoys spending time with her people.

🌺 What does your OC do to calm down when they’re scared or after a nightmare? Do they have any special comfort items or need to be reassured by a specific person? How do they handle this if they’re alone?

Barbie, by virtue of being one of my detectives in Wayhaven, uhhhhh does get nightmares constantly consistently. In particular, she doesn't like the dark, and always wants to turn on every light in the room. She needs her back and neck covered (usually achieved by wrapping herself tightly in a blanket). Once she's calmed enough to not be too anxious to leave her bed, she'll go seek a warm drink. She's had a long struggle with smoking, so in her weaker moments she'll dig up an old carton of cigarettes and sit outside. Mostly she tries to settle her nerves with hot chocolate instead.

🌼 Who are this characters friends and found family? How did they meet, how long have they been friends for, could they ever be something more than just friends? What do they look for in a friend or a romantic partner?

I would definitely say Barbie's closest friend is Kira, @crownleys' main detective for Wayhaven. In our AU, they meet because Barbie is a researcher with the Agency that is brought in to help Unit Bravo try to determine how Murphy is finding his victims, so that they might be able to get ahead of him.

(Unbeknownst to them, Barbie herself has The Special Blood)

So they've only been friends a short time in Book 1, but they grow incredibly close. Possibly a touch of trauma bonding.

Barbie and Kira could absolutely be more than friends. Both have well established crushes on one another, and in one AU or other they do end up married. Mostly their relationship is based in a deep, warm friendship though.

As for what Barbie looks for, she mostly just wants someone who understands her.

Stevie

🍂 Does your OC enjoy hugs? What do they do as a show of affection for: their friends, their family, their significant other(s) or for strangers? Over all what are they like with recieving affection from others?

She LOVES hugs! In fact, that is her main form of showing affection to just about everyone. Certain loved ones will also get a (slightly aggressive) head bonk when she's overtaken by loved <3 She gives and takes affection with extreme enthusiasm (and neediness).

🍄 What are your OCs favourite snacks? Their favourite comfort food which always cheers them up when they’re down? Favourite meal to make? Do they enjoy baking and cooking and are they any good in the kitchen?

Stevie loves anything sweet, salty, fried, or super super spicy. Junk food is a huge weakness of her. Her favorite comfort food though is just oatmeal. It's what she makes herself when she's sick or hungover.

Her favorite meal to make is just frozen spicy chicken nuggets. Anything that can be microwaved and done is a-ok in her book.

She doesn't like baking or cooking really, but she does love to play sous chef to someone she loves. Her skills lie elsewhere, so how helpful she is is....questionable.

[goose-girl]

This morning, my boyfriend and I ate breakfast at the kitchen table. It was the first time we had eaten breakfast together in the thirteen days I had been in London after moving here from the coast of Maine. He usually eats his bagels on his own because I sleep in. Later in the morning, I make my own breakfast and return to bed with all of the pomp of a Southern belle with the vapors, dig deep into the duvet, and savor my peanut butter oatmeal. This morning, however, the cat licked my cheek and kneaded my neck, and I was awake whether I wanted to be or not. Read the rest here!

[platypanthewriter]

Take On Me

Art by @fae-vorite​ for the Harringrove Big Bang!

When Steve pulled up in the drive, he had a mouthful of blue slushie, and he was watching the tiny old lady he’d been driving behind.  She’d barely been tall enough to see over the dash, and as he watched, grimacing, she barely swerved around a row of mailboxes, and then carreened through a four-way stop.

As he stared after her, there was a weird hissing noise by his elbow.  Steve yelled and threw his arm up in the air, spattering himself with slushie.  

“Bwah!” Max yelled, stumbling back, and smacking blue slushie ice off her arm.  “Steve!  What the hell.”

She hadn’t been in the driveway when he pulled in, Steve was fairly sure, and he stared around.  “Where are the rest of you?” he asked warily, rubbing flung slushie off his chin.  He glanced up, half-expecting Dustin to swing down on him with a vine from a tree.

Max squinted at him, her jaw working, and then glanced around.  “In the bushes,” she said.  “Get us inside, now, Steve.”

He rolled his eyes, stalked over and held the front door open—and then swore and dropped his slushie right on the ground and ran over to help, because it wasn’t Dustin and the Chipmunks hiding in the bushes.  There was a woman, shaking, her hands stained with what looked like blood, and Billy Hargrove, who apparently wasn’t dead, barely staggering between Max and the lady.  He was bandaged, and half-naked.  

Steve elbowed his way in past Max, and got an arm around Billy, hefting his sweaty, shivering ass towards the door.  

Once Steve had Billy, Max ran ahead and kicked the slushie cup aside, ushering the woman into his house.  “Mom, come on,” she groaned, and it occured to Steve that he’d never wondered about Max’s mom.  It seemed obvious, thinking about it, that most people had a mom.  One of his girlfriends freshman year had had two, and didn’t seem to have a dad, which Steve had never quite figured out.

Billy looked dead, mostly, pale until he was nearly grey, like instant oatmeal.  “I thought you were dead,” Steve hissed at him, and he snorted a laugh.  

“Guess not,” he breathed, his head against Steve’s as he stumbled along.

When they got inside, the phone was ringing, but Max ran and stood in front of it.  “Don’t answer,” she told Steve, staring at him with wet red eyes.  He nodded, still half-carrying her undead brother, and trying to figure out whether the blood on Max’s mom could have come from under Billy’s bandages.  

“We should call somebody,” Steve pointed out, as he lowered Billy onto the couch.  Billy’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t try and get himself more comfortable, or anything, he just laid there.  Steve threw a blanket over him, feeling like he was covering up a body.  

Max’s mom looked like she wasn’t up for much, staring at her hands and the floor, and Max took a deep, shaky breath, rubbing her face.  

Steve beckoned her into the kitchen.  “We should call somebody,” he whispered, again.  Max set her jaw, shaking her head, and Steve made a face.  “At least a doctor,” he hissed, and she deflated, staring out at the limp shape of Billy on the couch.  

“H-he should be fine,” she mumbled, digging her fingernails into her forearms until the skin whitened.  “He—he didn’t get shot,” she gritted out, and her mom flinched, shivering, and rubbed at her bloody hands.  

“Wait,” said Steve, staring between them.

“M-my husband,” said Max’s mom, and then covered her mouth, and a shaky sob.

“You have a dad?!” Steve yelped, looking around.  “He got shot?!” he added, grabbing his car keys, because it seemed like somebody should probably find the guy. 

“He’s dead,” Max’s mom whispered, staring at her bloodied hands.  “He died right—right in front—in front of—”

“He wasn’t my dad,” Max said flatly, “—and we don’t need to go anywhere.”

Steve nodded, and then shook his head, bewildered.  He hung the car keys up by the front door, and then braced himself, and sidled over to touch Max’s mom’s shoulder, waving at the kitchen sink.  “Um, d’you want to…?”  

She nodded, and took a couple weaving steps to lean against a chair, which she drug to the sink.  Steve leaned down to whisper to Max.  “...so...somebody’s dad got shot?  That’s—that’s where the blood—” he asked, feeling well out of his depth.  His fingers itched to call a functioning adult—Hopper, or Joyce Byers, even, because it looked like Max’s mom wasn’t up for much more than staring at the bloody water in the sink.  “Should I try and find some...tea,” Steve hazarded, and Max snorted a laugh, rubbing her eyes.  

“Billy’s dad,” she whispered, watching her mom.  “The, um—” she dropped her voice further.  It rasped in her throat.  “—Mom let them in because they told her they were the CIA.”

“The CIA shot Billy’s dad?!” Steve choked out, trying to keep it under his breath.  

“They weren’t actually the CIA,” Max said, rolling her eyes.  “Obviously.”

“O-obviously,” Steve echoed, because it sort of made sense.  It did seem weird that the CIA would come to Hawkins, Indiana to shoot anybody’s dad.

“Mom thought they were just...checking on us, you know,” Max said, sniffling, and Steve tried to imagine assuming that the C-fucking-IA had banged on his door just to roll out the welcome wagon.  “Just—just like the FBI does, all the damn time,” Max mumbled, biting her lip.

“Wait, what,” Steve interrupted with a hiss.  “The what now.”

“We’re, um, we’re not really from California,” she whispered, swallowing, and biting back a sharp laugh.  

“Okay,” Steve nodded, raising his eyebrows, and watching Max’s mom cry softly with her arms in the sink, and her head bowed.  “Okay, yeah, no, hang on,” he told Max, jogging the couple of steps over to her mom.  He poked the woman’s shoulder gingerly.  “You all cleaned up?” he asked, keeping his voice soft, and she turned big watery eyes on him, but she nodded.  

“Come out in the front room and sit down,” Steve told her, feeling like sitting wouldn’t really help much, but crying into the sink had to be worse.  He reached in and turned the water off, and guided her by the elbow into the front room.  “Gonna get everybody something hot to drink,” he told them, hoping he still had...something.  Ancient instant coffee from the last time his dad was home, maybe.  Something old and dusty, probably, but Steve didn’t think Max’s mom would know the difference, not after having her husband shot by somebody pretending to be the fucking CIA.  

After he pointed her at the big recliner, Max started fussing around with the color-coordinated throw blankets Steve’s mom had bought and never used, and Steve stepped over to the couch to squeamishly lift the blanket off Billy’s head.

“I-I’m fine, honey,” Max’s mom told her, behind them, as Steve surveyed Billy’s pale, sweaty face.  His eyes were closed, but the skin around them was as red and raw as Max’s mom’s.  His eyelashes were stuck together with the fresh tears leaving trails down his cheeks.  

Steve dropped the blanket again, grimacing, and stalked back into the kitchen to find the teakettle, fill it, and put it on the stove.  He found some packets of hot chocolate Dustin’s mom had given him at Christmas, and dumped them into two mugs.  After a minute, watching the glow of the burner shine off the bottom of the kettle, he grabbed another mug, shrugging.  

 Max shook her head when he walked out and tried to hand her the hot chocolate.  “I’m not a little kid,” she said, glaring at him, but her mom took it with a soft sigh.  

“Thank you,” she said hoarsely.  “Max, sit down, I—I’m fine.”  She reached out and took the mug Steve had offered Max, and held it out to her, and Max sighed heavily, but took it.

Steve went back for the third mug, and then uncovered Billy’s head again.  “Hey,” he whispered, and Billy licked his chapped lips without opening his eyes.  He grimaced before he blinked and squinted up.  “Here, at least hold it,” Steve told him.  “It’s warm.”

“...you made me tea,” Billy growled, glaring at the mug, and then, warily, at Steve’s face.

“It’s chocolate,” Max put in.  “You like chocolate, asshole.”

“...made me chocolate?” Billy asked muzzily, frowning harder, and Steve sat it on the floor, in order to get his arm around Billy-suddenly-alive-Hargrove, and help him sit up.  

“Are you sure you’re not...dying?” Steve whispered to him, lifting the mug and pressing Billy’s hands around it.  “Like, right here?  I need to, uh...kidnap a doctor, or…?”

Billy snorted into his first sip of hot chocolate, biting his lips together as his chest shook with coughs.  After a few seconds, he took a shaky breath, and opened his eyes again.  “Don’t...kidnap anybody,” he rasped out, smirking.  “Didn’t know you had it in you, Harrington.”

“I know a guy,” Steve told him, letting go of the mug, and reaching out to tug at the bandages visible over the top of the blanket.  Billy went very still, holding his breath, which was creepy.  If he wasn’t sitting up, Steve would have checked his pulse.  “A doctor.  M’not gonna let you die,” Steve told him, eyeing the stretched pink scars under the gauze.  Some of the gauze looked wet, not red, but pale yellow, and Steve grimaced, brushing his fingers over it.

“It’s just the surgeries.  Fuck,” Billy creaked out, his hands shaking on the hot chocolate so it nearly spilled.  “They had to cut me open a few more times.  Stitch me back together.”  

Steve put his hands around Billy’s on the mug, to steady them.  “...I got some duct tape somewhere,” he offered, under his breath, and Billy’s breath huffed against his fingers in a laugh.  His mustache tickled, but Steve held steady, watching him drink the hot chocolate.  His cheeks were pinking up a little.  He stunk, kinda, sweaty, and sour from his bandages.  It was weird to be anywhere near Billy Hargrove and not smell his cologne.  “...I thought you were dead,” Steve said under his breath, and Billy shrugged a shoulder, wincing, and swallowing hard.

“Murphy’s law,” Billy hissed back, grinning, but his eyes welled up again, and he blinked rapidly.  “Whatever you least want to happen…”

 Steve helped him drink the hot chocolate, trying to think of something to say.  ‘Sorry your dad got shot,’ seemed wrong.  ‘At least your mom’s alive,’ didn’t seem right either, and then Steve realized he had no idea whether the woman was Billy’s mom.  Billy and Max’s family seemed complicated, and it was entirely possible both parents were Billy’s, and Max had been snatched from a stroller outside a grocery store.  

“So, um,” Steve started.  “You’re...not from California?  Why would you…”  

“Lie about that?” Max asked, flatly.  “The goddamn FBI told us to.”

“...the ones that…” Steve stared over at her, trying not to stare at whoever’s mom’s hands, where they’d been all over blood.  Max called her mom, he told himself.  Whatever she is, Max thinks of her as her mom.

Maybe they’re aliens, he thought, trying not to laugh, because why was the FBI checking in.  Maybe they’d all raised Max from an alien egg they’d taken turns sitting on.

She seemed okay, for an alien, he decided, as Max said, “We’re in Witness Protection.  Or we were, until the Starcourt Mall footage made the national news.”

“Ohhhhh,” Steve said, nodding.  “That makes more sense than aliens,” and Billy choked on his hot chocolate.  “Did you see a gang murder?” Steve asked politely, that being how it usually worked in Hawaii Five-O.

Billy coughed harder, and Steve patted his back, gently, grimacing as he tried not to break the guy any further.  

“Noooo,” said Max, and when Steve glanced over, she was staring at him.

“What?  Shit happens,” Steve said, shrugging.  “Sometimes monsters steal your brother.”

“They didn’t exactly steal him,” Max said weakly, and Steve blinked.  

“I was talking about Will Byers,” he said, and shrugged.  “No gang shootouts, then?”

“We lived near Portland,” Max said, like that fact made Steve’s question the stupidest question ever asked, and then she sighed.  “It’s, um, it’s actually...stupider.  Than that.  There, um, there was a...lab.  There.”

“Ohhh,” Steve said, nodding, and thinking of Hawkins Laboratory, and Eleven.  

“They wanted children to...experiment on,” she whispered, and trailed off.  Steve turned to see her glowering into her mug.

“Set up this machine to check the local kids,” Billy said, suddenly, near Steve’s ear.  He huffed a laugh as Steve jumped.  “At the arcade.  Looked like a normal arcade machine, but it was keeping track, high scores, you know.”  He took a shaky breath, then cleared his throat.  “Even had a fake name.  Polybius.”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know?!” Max shouted, suddenly, her voice wet and uneven, and her mom grabbed her close, squeezing her with white-knuckled hands.  “How the hell...we saw guys in suits parked around the place, we thought maybe the owner was like...running some kind of gambling with the machines and they were watching him, or something, how could I have—”

“Went to pick her up and they were shoving her in a van,” Billy’s voice rasped, and Steve jerked unintentionally, imagining it.  “I followed them to the lab and they tried to tell me it was some...class for special kids,” he hissed.  “Tried to tell us all to shut up.”

“They came and talked to N-Neil and I,” Max’s mom said.  “They were...we did what they asked, if they’d leave Max alone.  We couldn’t talk about it, not with anyone.”  

Steve nodded, familiar with the way laboratories worked, and filed away the fact that Max’s not-dad had been named Neil, before somebody’d shot him.  There was a long silence, then, as Billy bit his lips together, frowning into the nearly-empty mug of hot chocolate, and Max’s mom cried softly again.

“I called the fucking police,” Max said hoarsely into the silence.  “I—I called the goddamn police, they were—they were stealing kids, they—”

“Yeah,” Steve said, grimacing.  He’d found out more and more about what the lab had been doing, after he’d promised to keep quiet.  They’d even killed the nice burger man, he thought sadly.  His name had been Benny, Steve learned later, but at the time, he’d just been the nice burger man, the one who listened and advised as Steve told him about being terrible at college application essays, and his love for the smartest girl in school.  

Luckily, in Steve’s case, the sheriff had already been told.  “You had to,” he agreed.

“They shot the cop she told,” Billy said flatly, in Steve’s ear.

“They were kidnapping little kids—” Max yelled at Billy, her voice cracking with emotion and he raised his voice over hers, his voice wavery as he tried to catch his breath.  

“Shot him in the head.  They shot his partner, too—”

“The FBI helped us sneak out,” Max’s mom said softly, but they both shut up.  “We were shuffled around a lot…”

“Why bring you here,” Steve said doubtfully.  “Where our lab is?  I mean, it’s better, now.”

“Maybe our FBI guys weren’t as on our side as we thought,” Billy muttered, swallowing hard, again, and Steve realized he was trying not to cry.

Steve tried not to do anything, push Billy away, or anything weirder, like hug him.  He’d gotten too good at this babysitting thing, he thought with a grimace, if he was inclined to hug Billy Goddamn Hargrove.  The problem was, Billy’s inaudible, bitten-back sobs felt like when Nancy’s little sister was scared of the noises outside, while her parents were at the movies.  Steve was conditioned to pull that kind of thing against his shoulder, even when it was Billy Hargrove, with his broad, heavy, muscular shoulders, and heavier fists.

“Fuck,” Billy hissed under his breath, pulling his hand loose from Steve’s to rub his wrist across his eyes.  

“...d’you want...anything,” Steve whispered, as softly as he could, fairly sure Billy didn’t want him to sing Old MacDonald even if he was really good at all the animal noises.  

“How about my dad, alive,” Billy snarled, his unsteady breaths taking the sting out of it.  

“Thanks for letting us in,” Max said, hoarsely, and Steve turned to frown at her.

“Of course I let you in,” he snorted.  “I wasn’t gonna leave you hiding in my bushes.”

“We—we’ll figure out what to do,” Max said, as her mother squeezed her close again.  “Soon.  Before—before the lab people figure out where we are.”

“We need Hopper,” Steve told them, starting to stand, and then realizing he was holding Billy up, and he didn’t want to drop him on the floor.  He wasn’t sure how together Billy was under the bandages—he didn’t seem very...healed—and the thought of dropping him on the floor, and just accidentally jostling all Billy’s internal organs out through a big hole in his back made Steve shudder.  

“You can’t call him,” Max’s mom said bleakly.  “They were listening to our phones.  They said, as we...ran,” she choked out.

“...bet they aren’t listening to walkie-talkies,” Steve told her, absently spreading his fingers over the cool skin of Billy’s shoulder, to warm him up.

“Where’s yours?” Max asked breathlessly, and Steve gave her directions to his sock drawer.  

Billy was shivering harder, and Steve waited until his little sister and maybe-mom weren’t looking to pull the blanket away from more of his bandages.

There was red smeared on them.  “Billy,” Steve hissed, urgently, and Billy laughed wetly, wiping his nose.

“‘S not mine,” he laughed, a little hysterically.  “S’my dad’s.  He—he died right—”

“Shit,” Steve said, blankly, watching Billy try to wipe it away with shaking hands, tears rolling down his cheeks.  “That can’t…” he trailed off as Max brought the walkie-talkie down, and she and her mom started whispering about what to say.  “You need new bandages,” Steve told Billy, the one thing he was confident he could do.  “I need to clean you up.”

“I’m fine, fuck,” Billy panted, sniffling juicily, and Steve nodded once.  

“I’m taking Billy up to...clean him up,” Steve told the other two, and they nodded, watching him.  

“He’s still got stitches,” Max said, glaring.  “Don’t get him wet.”

‘Your dad’s blood got all over’ didn’t seem like the right thing to say ever, so Steve just nodded, and got Billy fairly upright.  

“How far we going,” he panted, swaying, and Steve made a face, then turned around.  

“Piggyback,” he announced, and Billy swore under his breath.

 “Fuuuck,” Billy whispered in Steve’s ear, as Steve made his way carefully up the stairs, steadying himself with one hand on the railing, and one hand awkwardly supporting Billy’s ass.  “Watch it there, Harrington,” Billy snorted, with a pained grunt.  

“Sorry,” Steve told him.  “Is this like how you can’t squeeze the donuts at the store unless you buy them?” he asked, because Billy was heavy, and his ass cheek was soft in Steve’s hand, and Steve’s tongue was on cruise control.

Billy coughed, his fingers digging into Steve’s shoulder and chest as he gave a strangled-sounding laugh.  “...yeah, Harrington, it’s exactly like that,” he gasped out.  “I’m...your fucking donut...now, asshole.”

Steve laughed so hard he almost dropped him, all the adrenaline of them showing up covered in blood draining out of him.  “Shit,” he panted, staggering up onto the landing, and taking a minute to breathe.  “Don’t make me laugh on the stairs—”

“You started this shit, I just finished it,” Billy mumbled against his neck.  His breathing was uneven and shuddery.

Steve took a slow breath to steady himself, and carried Billy just that little bit further through his plaid bedroom, and into the bathroom.

Billy didn’t even comment on the extreme plaid, his teeth chattering, so Steve nearly dropped him on the toilet in his urgency to get a few inches of really hot water in the tub to plonk Billy in.  It’d be just like with Holly, he figured, put few inches of water in there to keep her warm, but not enough so she could slide in and drown.  It wouldn’t be enough to get up near Billy’s bandages, he told himself, then, while the water was running, he realized he didn’t know where all the bandages were, so he reached over and yanked at the drawstring of Billy’s sweatpants.

“WAH,” Billy said, grabbing Steve’s hand with his cold, sweaty, shaking one.  “...what,” he breathed, his eyes falling shut, and then blinking stubbornly open again.  

“Come on,” Steve said, grimacing at how pale he was.  “You got any bandages below the chest?”  Billy just shivered and breathed, staring into the middle distance, and Steve finally bit his lips together and grabbed Billy’s cold face, turning it to face him.  “Billy,” he said.  “Billy?”

“...Harrington,” Billy whispered, focusing on him, and then looking around, his eyes welling up again with tears.

“Come on, stay with me, I’m gonna get you warmed up,” Steve told him, ignoring his own heart pounding.  He was aware of shock as a concept—he’d seen Joyce Byers after—after.  But Billy had bandages, he could be bleeding out, or something, and the thought made Steve’s fingers clumsy as he tried to lift the guy enough to get his sweatpants off, and pull him into the bath.  

“Come on,” Steve whispered, pulling Billy up until he was sort of standing.  Steve had to reach down and lift Billy’s feet one by one into the tub, and he yelped, opening his eyes again at the heat.  “Just gonna clean you up,” he muttered, pretty sure Billy wasn’t hearing him, what with the way he was slumped against Steve’s side.  Steve lowered him into the water, and Billy shook his head, mumbling inaudibly.

Steve held his shoulders for a long moment, watching his face, and then yanked at the bandages.  Billy still had some stitches underneath, but to Steve’s profound relief, it didn’t seem like any of the blood was his—or that the blood had seeped in anywhere.  From what Steve remembered of reading Johnny Tremain in middle school, gangrene was a possibility if stuff got past Billy’s stitches, and so he was very careful to wipe around them.  

Billy relaxed slowly against the back of the tub, his head tilting to rest against the corner as his eyes closed.  His hands occasionally lifted to touch Steve’s, and then fell away as Steve washed him all over, until he was pink and warm, and didn’t smell like sour sweat anymore.  Billy snored softly under his fingers, and Steve bit back a laugh.  

The bath water started to cool, and Billy’s shoulders started to clench again, his legs goosepimpling, so Steve ran the hot water again.  He pulled the plug on the cooler water, then when the tub was empty, replugged it.  As the hot water rose, he ran out to grab an old plastic cup from his desk—he had to dump the pencils out—and pour warm water over Billy’s legs.  

Billy screamed, this awful broken noise, scrambling to get out of the tub, and Steve yelped and turned the water off, helping frantic, naked Billy Hargrove out of the tub and half into his lap.  He was slippery and warm, and Steve tried not to think about it, stretching to try and reach a towel, but Billy was laughing brokenly into his hands, muttering “I’m me, Harrington, I’m fucking sorry, I’m the best you’re gonna get, I’m still me, I’m Billy goddamn Hargrove—”

“Shit, I know,” Steve told him, as Billy’s wet shoulder soaked into his t-shirt.  “You’re Billy, you’re okay, shit.  You were just cold, I wasn’t trying to—”

“Maybe I’m better as the Mindflayer,” Billy laughed, gulping and sniffling.  “Could’ve taken out that lab guy before…” he took a shuddering breath, wiping his nose.  “Not just...let my dad get fucking shot,” he whispered.  “F’I wasn’t such a waste of space I’d have answered the door.”

With a sinking horror, Steve realized he had his arm around a naked guy in his bathroom, a naked guy who’d once beaten him unconscious.  A naked dude who wished he was dead.  “Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference,” he said, after some thought.  “You don’t know he’d have gotten away.  Max’d be crying over you again.”

“Like she would,” Billy snorted, reaching for the toilet paper and loudly blowing his nose.

“She did, though,” Steve told him, and Billy glared over.

“Yeah, right,” he said, and then opened his mouth again, shut it, and wiped his eyes.  “...what the fuck am I doing here,” he grunted.

“Uh, well,” Steve started, “—you were um, playing an evil videogame in Oregon—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Billy laughed, wheezing with pain.  “Why are you...why’d you—” he mumbled, as Steve set his jaw determinedly and wrested him up from the floor, dragging Heavy-Ass-Hargrove out to his bed, and tipping him into the sheets.  

The bandages were an adventure, with Billy falling asleep--and he finally fell asleep again right on Steve, as Steve tried to get him dried off.  

He didn’t wake up for hours, until Steve was sitting up in bed, on the phone with Hopper.  Billy blinked big blue disoriented eyes up at him, frowning grouchily, and Steve held his finger up to his lips, listening to Hopper explain the situation.

“It’s okay,” Steve hissed to Billy.  “You’re with me, you’re safe.”

Billy stilled, watching him, then snorted a laugh as his eyes drifted shut.  “...’kay, Harrington, he mumbled, sighing contentedly as he curled into the warm pillows.

Steve smiled, and rolled his eyes.

[sambvcks]

crawl home to her, b.b. x reader

chapter one // body’s working on empty

summary: bucky isn’t as receptive to this new life of his as everyone had hoped. he’s cold, sharp-tongued, and closed off. except to the tenant across the hallway from him, who always wears pajamas and bakes a dozen too many of his favorite cookies

warnings: food, nothing too bad this chapter!

word count: 1.5k-ish

author’s note: i thought my marvel phase ended five years ago...here we are again. i haven’t written in awhile so please be kind! title and chapter titles taken from hozier’s ‘work song’.

[ read on ao3 | series masterlist | inbox | join my taglist! ]

[ NEXT ]

Five minutes into their first session, Bucky decided he was going to make Dr. Raynor’s job as difficult as he possibly could.

It wouldn’t be an impossible task, seeing how this whole ordeal depended on him opening up and talking, two things that he had abandoned decades ago. Her unwavering stare was nothing more than a challenge, these fifty-minute sessions once a week were nothing more than a slight inconvenience to his lackluster day to day routine. He would play along, do whatever exercises she asked, and feign stability until he never had to see her again.

“Since this is our first session together, we’ll take it easy.” She promised with a forced upturn of her lips before whipping out her notebook.

Suddenly, it felt like he was encased in bulletproof glass in Berlin again. He remembered that the last time he had been forced into receiving psychiatric help, it hadn’t exactly gone to plan. His chin fell to his chest, hands wringing together as he thought of any excuse to request a different doctor. 

“Let’s begin.”

It was already getting too hot to wear leather gloves and his heavy jacket. New York’s heatwave was supposed to be the highest on record this year and while kids popped open fire hydrants in the street, Bucky would be settled on the hardwood floor in the back corner of his apartment, waiting.

Waiting for what, he wasn’t quite sure.

It was a fairly nice apartment, newly renovated and practically barren. Government issued and funded, of course, and he had spent the first night pulling the furniture from the walls to the center of the room in search of bugs and cameras. He found thirty-four, destroyed them under a rolling pin, and they hadn’t come to replace them. Message received.

The one thing he really liked about the apartment building were his neighbors. The price tag for a one bedroom was substantial to say the least and only older couples could really afford it. No children, no dogs, no outsiders. The only break from his undisturbed routine would be occasionally helping Mrs. Johnson down the hall carry her groceries as she struggled to get the door unlocked with her brittle hands.

They affectionately called him James and the older women were quick to get a hold of his arms, saying things like “They don’t make them like you anymore, James!”. He swallowed the bile prickling at the back of his throat as he nodded, and they moved on to telling him about their single granddaughters.

It was almost nice, his routine. Almost.

Outside of those small encounters, he spent most of his waking hours jogging in the park and cooking the same three meals. He had his appointment every Wednesday with Dr. Raynor, but that was it. He’d take two trains back to his apartment and wouldn’t emerge again until he needed groceries two days later.

It was when he was returning from one of his biweekly grocery trips, a paper bag settled on his hips, that he spotted you outside his door.

He stilled in the hallway, taking a quick step back to peek around the corner without being spotted. His breath stalled, his ears picking up your soft humming and the crinkle of plastic as you set a bundle of cookies at his doorstep, the only one without a mat. His eyes flicked to the other doors, where identical bags of cookies sat propped up, tied with blood red ribbons.

His shoulders relaxed. No threat.

The bottom of his grocery bag suddenly gave way, fruit rolling in every direction. Bucky fell to his knees, glove clad hands snatching up everything he could reach as quickly as he could manage. You were faster, though, and scooped up a plum that had rolled your way, offering it over as he tried to balance the rest of his groceries in his arms.

“Thanks.” He was quick to sweep past you, hand digging in his pockets for his key.

“James, right? Ms. Robinson downstairs is like, in love with you.”

“Yeah, but, uh-“ Dr. Raynor’s instructions from their last session rang in his head, as much as he tried to tune her out: make connections. “You can call me Bucky.” He cleared his throat. “And Mrs. Robinson is far too good for me.”

“Bucky it is then.” You trailed him down the hallway, “Y/N.”

Bucky tried to sneak a glance at you from the corner of his eyes, which was harder to inconspicuously do now that he had gotten a haircut and couldn’t hide his wandering eyes behind long tresses. Young was Bucky’s first thought. much younger than the other renters in the building. Bright was next, followed by much too smiley for a Tuesday morning.

Pretty, he admitted as he turned his back to unlock his door. Maybe in another life he would have lingered in the hall, his so-called effortless charm seeping through as you swooned at the very thought of a date with James Buchanan Barnes. But that life was long gone, and instead he rushed to retreat.

“Oh, don’t forget these.” You swooped down to collect the bundle of cookies you had left at his door, handing them to the hand that wasn’t delicately balancing the pile of groceries he still held against his impossibly broad shoulders. “Oatmeal raisin, super-secret family recipe.”

He was back in the doorway of his ma’s kitchen, watching his little sister balance on a wobbling stool as she struggled to crack and egg with her little fingers. He can so distinctly see the pale green of the cabinets, remember the fight his parents had when she begged for that shade of green while his dad had wanted white. Of course, she won.

“These are your brother’s favorite.” His ma whispered to his sister; her flour covered hands reaching for the age faded index card with their grandmother’s script detailing the ingredients. “Our family’s recipe. One day, you will make these for your children. And your children’s children.”

Rebecca, still so young and with a hatred for smelly boys deep in her bones, giggled at the mere thought as her fingers fished out the bits of eggshell that snuck their way into the bowl. She wiped it away on the spare apron tied twice around her waist, much too big for her. 

Bucky would never see her grow into it. He would be drafted only a few months later.

In the meantime, he would bundle half a dozen of them in a tea towel and split them with Steve on the walk to the movie theater. Steve would begrudgingly admit that Buck’s ma made the best cookies, but his made the best brisket. They’d sneak in through the back door and do it all again the next weekend, until they ran out of weekends together.

“Oatmeal raisin are my favorite.” He admitted, accepting your offering like a stray cat does to the first scrap of food from a stranger.

“I think you’re the only person under the age on one hundred to ever say that.” You teased, backing away to the door adjacent to his, “Anyway, don’t tell me things like that. I’m a stress baker and with finals coming up…” You winced at the image of the dozens of batches you would surely be whipping up in the coming weeks.

“Finals?”

“Law school, one semester left.” You fished your own keys from your back pocket. Bucky barely held in the scoff at the shiny Spider-Man keychain that dangled from your fingers. “You?”

“Oh, no. I haven’t been in school in what feels like…a century.”

“Well, I’m all alone here and as much as I would love to, I can’t eat everything that I bake. So, expect a few dozen muffins and cookies every few days.”

“No arguing from me, doll.”

You both lingered in the small hallway, only a few steps apart, each leaning against your respective doors. Keys in each hand, with no intention of using them any time soon.

“Law school, you said? How do you afford a place like this?” Bucky was sure he was the only recently pardoned fugitive under this room.

“Well, this used to be my grandma’s apartment and it was handed down to me in a maybe no so legal way. If the landlord asks, I’m an eighty-year-old woman who doesn’t know how to work her answering machine.”

He huffed a laugh, mostly because that wasn’t particularly far from how he felt with today’s tech. The flip phone that Dr. Raynor had described as archaic sat heavy in his back pocket with only three names programed into his contacts. Don’t get him started on his television.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

With that, you each stepping into your respective apartments. Bucky stalled at his door for a moment, listening as you locked and dead bolted your door behind you. He sighed, dumping his half-ruined groceries on his barren kitchen island.

The next day, he’d have another appointment with Dr. Raynor. This time when he’d say I’m trying, as he did each week, it wouldn’t be a complete lie. His phone buzzed in his back pocket.

2 New Messages

From: Sam

You coming up this weekend?

Don’t ignore me this time. He’s getting worse, Buck.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Wounded Love Pt. 2 (Lady Dimitrescu/F!Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T? Maybe? Almost the exact opposite of the first one. Language, minor violence Genre: Fluff, mainly, with admittedly a little bit of humor? I blame my lack of sleep. And my adhd. Warnings: Implied cannibalism adjacent activities because guess what honey, this is a fucked up family, what do you expect of me??? Sure, they have breakfast in this, there's cute stuff, but c'mon, they don't eat flowers and oatmeal! Notes: Doubt it needs to be said, but this is a sequel to the good ending of part one. Also Cass has one line in this that might be OOC, or seem oddly placed, but admittedly this chapter is also loosely based on a dream I had, and I couldn't not include the few direct quotations I remembered, and she seemed the most likely to say the line. And yes, there will be a part 3, because I am weak and also kind of maybe made this one less plot-moving than intended.

{Wounded Love: The re-woundening}

Every step ached more than the last, even with Alcina supporting you. She had wanted to carry you down the stairs, of course, but you had insisted that you would be fine. Now you were just determined not to complain out loud. One yelp or cry and you’d be scooped up in her arms, surely to be carried for the rest of the day. As much as you appreciated your girlfriend’s assistance, you hated feeling useless, and hated putting a burden on others. So here you were, one arm wrapped around Alcina’s waist, limping ever-so-slowly towards the dining room.

Further ahead (unburdened by your injury) the three Dimitrescu daughters talk among themselves, voices hushed as they too headed for breakfast. It was odd to see them all awake, and socializing, as there was usually at least one who came to meals late. You couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with your condition… or the circumstances that had caused it.

Less than eighteen hours had passed since your fight with a stray lycan, and tension had been high since. While you hadn’t yet spoken to the sisters, you had spoken to Alcina, who had briefly mentioned their concern for you. Whether they actually cared about you as a person or just cared because you are dating their mother is unclear. Based on how they had acted while treating your wounds, though, you were inclined to think that they were fond of you. And seeing as Alcina had already vowed to get revenge on your behalf… well, you wouldn’t be surprised to learn that her daughters intended to assist.

“Careful on the last step, dear,” Alcina says, positioned as to catch you if you fell. It takes a little willpower to resist the urge to hop down the rest of the way. As long as you landed on your uninjured leg, it wouldn’t even be that bad. Still, irritating your girlfriend first thing in the morning felt like a pretty stupid thing to do. Instead you just nodded, slowing down even more, and took visible care not to trip. “Good girl.”

Well, you certainly couldn’t say that being careful didn’t have its rewards.

“I have my moments,” you replied, blush rising to your cheeks. Suddenly your pain didn’t feel so bad (at least until you took another step and winced). “Damn, who woulda thought that cutting a chunk out of my leg would make it hurt more?” The leg in question throbbed in pain, as if to prove your point, protesting the weight you put on it. Changing the angle at which you stood helped some, allowing the lower half of the limb to bear more of the burden.

“Dearest…” Alcina starts to say, looking like she was going to readdress her desire to carry you. For a moment you try to avoid her gaze, but she moves in front of you, making sure that you could still hold onto her for support. “I know how you feel, how you want, desperately, to be independent. When I was first… granted this gift, it took a long time to adjust. There was so much I had to relearn how to do, so much that I suddenly needed done for me.” A pause, a deep breath. At last you look up at your girlfriend, warmth in your heart, reaching out to hold her hand. “You have time, my dear, and plenty of it. More than that… this will not last forever. The more you push yourself, the longer your recovery will take. Now, please, allow me to assist. You have already proven how strong you are.”

“Oh, you drive a hard bargain… but if you insist, who am I to decline? Or, well, who am I to decline twice in a row?” You answer, somewhat begrudgingly. It wasn’t much farther to the dining room, you figured, so it wouldn’t be much of a loss to accept help. Or at least that was what you told yourself. Even with Alcina’s encouragement it was so hard for you to accept her help. After all, you were the one that worked for her. Never mind the fact that she was somewhat responsible for your injury- really, you were actively avoiding thinking about that.

It’s much easier to forget once Alcina carefully picks you up. One arm goes under your legs, the other under your chest, lifting you without any effort. You might as well have been a kitten or a child’s toy. The movement does, however, shift your injured leg in such a way that it aches. At this point you can hardly move the limb at all without it hurting, and even the slightest friction against the bandage makes your eyes water.

Apparently someone would be delivering some painkillers later in the day. You assumed it would be The Duke (whose name is apparently not Doug, as you had thought), seeing as he knew some special way to get to and fro without risking the same fate that had befallen you. Which, of course, made you feel a lot better. Getting someone else hurt would weigh on your mind forever.

Regardless, you were safe now, as was your strange, bloody little family. Before long you would even be enjoying a pleasant meal together. Certainly that would help get your mind off of your wound? For now, though, you were met with an unexpected impasse. The sort of impasse that really, really should have been expected.

“Why… is the doorway… so small?” You asked, jokingly, as you stare into the mildly embarrassed face of your girlfriend. It’s already hard enough for her to crouch through the gap normally. When she’s carrying you? Impossible. “Can we ask Mother Miranda for bigger doors? She gave you eternal life and also three kids, she’s gotta be capable of making bigger doors. Put me down, I’ll go call her and-”

“That won’t be necessary, dear,” Alcina cuts you off, not fully appreciating this part of your humor. Or maybe she had already asked for bigger doors, only to be told no?... Okay, yeah, it was probably the first option. With a sigh she sets you down, as gently as she can manage. Ready and raring to go, you start to hobble forward, only to find all three of the daughters waiting for you, just beyond the door. They’re grinning as they watch you, and Bela extended her arm to offer her help. “What appears to be the matter?” Alcina asks from behind you. Accepting your fate and Bela’s arm, you let the sisters guide you to the table, Cassandra holding your other side, and Daniela pulls your chair out for you. Honestly it’s pretty adorable. Evidently your girlfriend agrees, from the way she smiles as she follows.

“Thank you,” you say, more out of reflex than genuine gratitude. Again, you weren’t thrilled about needing this assistance. If the girls notice they’re at least polite enough not to mention it. They simply move to their own seats at the large table, eager to dig in. It feels… strange, to be here, on this side of things. Stranger still to realize you’re the only one intending to eat actual food. There’s wine in your glass, but it’s a much fainter red than those you’ve previously served to your girlfriend. Thank goodness, you think, after how raw my throat was yesterday, I really don’t need to taste any more blood.

Once Lady Dimitrescu sits down, the meal formally begins, with several maidens appearing from the kitchen. Several seem relieved to see you, although surprised, and one even gave you a brief smile. The smile did not last, however. It wasn’t unexpected, considering the nature of her job, the pressures that it put upon her. No one smiled at mealtimes. Well, no maidens, that is. They simply moved around, wordlessly, faces blank, doing exactly as instructed. Only a few days ago you had been among them, fear keeping you in line. Was it wrong of you to care for Alcina, knowing what she was capable of doing to others? Knowing what she might have, in another life, done to you?

A maiden places a plate of warm food, as well as a bowl of fresh fruit, in front of you. For a moment your eyes meet, but she looks away instinctively. Your heart threatens to break.

“This looks wonderful, thank you for your hard work, all of you,” you speak up, glancing at each of the women working so hard. There’s more you want to say that dries in your throat; you are valued, you are deserving, someday I will join your ranks again.

“You don’t need to thank them, they’re just doing their jobs,” Cassandra chimes from the other side of the table. Hearing her say that damn near makes you drop your fork. It’s not an uncommon settlement, particularly among older generations and the rich, but one that irks you nonetheless.

“They’re doing my job. They are taking on extra work, for no pay, because I am injured. Why would I be so cruel as to ignore them? Have I not toiled alongside them enough to call them my kin?” You ask, struggling to keep your voice even. Next to you Alcina is slowly cutting into her meat, watching the scene unfold out of the corner of her eyes, perhaps considering when to step in. On the other end of the table, Bela looks increasingly uncomfortable, as if silently willing her sister into silence. None of the maidens have reacted to what you said, likely too afraid of Cassandra to even consider speaking.

“Ooooh, this is much more fun than our usual breakfasts,” Daniela says, stifling a giggle. “Do you have any other thoughts you’d like to share? Preferably ones that aren’t about me.” At this, Alcina sets her utensils down, clearly intending to put an end to the discussion. Unfortunately for her, you were a bit… impulsive, especially considering the previous night’s activities had left your mind struggling to cope.

“Dead lycans smell terrible. Literally the worst thing I’ve ever smelled, easily, no question about it,” you answer, shrugging a little as you do. It’s such a simple thought that you almost don’t realize how the others at the table react. Until the clatter of silverware on the table catches your attention, that is. All three sisters are eying you with different expressions (Bela is confused, Cass is impressed, and Daniela looks shocked). But it’s Alcina’s wide-eyed stare that gets you to elaborate. “Should I have said ‘a dead lycan’? I only got one, so I guess I shouldn’t say they all smell bad. C’mon, though, they have to all smell bad, right?”

Suddenly Daniela shifts from shock to pure amusement, a fit of giggles overtaking her. You’re still confused, not sure what the matter was, so you just sip your wine and hope someone asks the right questions.

“You… killed the lycan that attacked you?” Bela finally says, after a few moments of her sister laughing, expression still incredulous. When you nod she sort of shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “May I ask how you managed that?”

“Oh, you know, I just meh meh-” you mime a stabbing motion with your fork- “until the stupid thing stopped moving. I had to use a tree branch as a weapon, but then it broke after a few whacks, which actually helped because then I had two stabbing implements to, you know, stab with. That’s right around when it got my leg, and it tried to bite me. Thankfully it wasn’t very smart, so when it leapt at me I just hyah-” this time an upwards strike- “right into its neck. That didn’t kill it, but it was enough to slow it down, which allowed me to stab the other half of the branch into its skull. Made this horrible, horrible sound as it died. Seeing as we are eating, I will not imitate the sound. Not that I could, now that I think about it…”

Once again there’s silence. Even Daniela has quieted now, and is watching you with rapt interest, likely hoping that you’re hiding another story up your sleeves.

“So… did you guys actually think that I managed to run away from the lycan? Or were you under the impression that it simply got bored of me and left?” You ask, casually returning to your breakfast afterwards. No one says anything, at first, taking in your words as best as they can. A few moments later both Daniela and Bela resume their meal, as nonchalant as one could be in the current situation. Alcina, however, rests a gentle hand on your shoulder, meeting your gaze with a loving look.

“You will never cease to amaze me, my dear. But let us ensure you never have to… smell, or see, one of those wretched things again, yes?” She says, softly squeezing you as she does. You can’t help but agree, and nod eagerly, mouth too full of hashbrowns to speak. Still, there’s been a shift in the atmosphere of the room. It’s not that the family didn’t respect you before, as far as you can tell, but they evidently hadn’t expected you to prove as capable as you had. It brings a sense of pride to the forefront of your mind, making you completely forget about your injury for the remainder of the meal.

Unable to stop yourself, you insist on helping the other maidens clean up, and Alcina eventually agrees to let you wash a few dishes- as long as you stay sitting the entire time. The last thing you hear before you shuffle off to the kitchen is the start of a conversation between Cassandra and her mother.

“You picked quite a feisty one, didn’t you?”

“That I did, that I did…”

[softhairedhotch]

I hope that she looks at me and thinks, "Shit, he's so pretty."

(Juliet, by Cavetown)

AO3

I wish that Aaron Hotchner knew he was pretty. I wish he knew I thought he was pretty. Because he is--yes, he's handsome, but he's also so pretty.

Even now, as I sit at my desk, looking up at him through his office window, he's pretty. The way his brows are furrowed, mouth reciting the words neatly written before him. The way his left hand grips his favourite black-inked pen tightly, poised to write, and his right hand rests against his forehead, rubbing it in annoyance. The way he still manages to give off an air of strict professionalism, even as he's half-slumped over his desk in exhaustion, just wishing that his overwhelming paperwork will soon come to an end.

He breathes in, deep, and holds it for a few moments, slowly releasing the pent-up stress. It doesn't seem to do much, but it's better than nothing. He places his pen down, work unfinished, and takes another deep breath, holding it for longer.

Lowering his hand from his head, he places his palms on his desk and forces himself up. He wobbles, but manages to stay upright.

Seeing this, I realise he hasn't eaten or drank anything today. I search my bag for anything he can snack on, but come up empty.

Standing up, I ask Derek and Spencer if they want to join me in buying some food. They refuse, dedicated to finishing their work, but Spencer asks for a coffee. I take the money he offers me and make my way out the building.

Once I'm sure I have everything, I make my way back into the building and up to the bullpen. Reaching Spencer's desk, I gently place down his coffee, careful not to leave it close enough for him to accidently hit. He thanks me, almost throwing his work aside to grasp at the cup and chug it down.

Derek didn't ask for anything, but I knew he'd regret that eventually, especially with Spencer sitting across from him, so I bought him a large coffee. He's surprised, but he takes it from my hands and flashes me a grateful smile. I smile back, patting him on the shoulder twice before making my way up to Aaron's office.

I knock once, twice, and walk in before he has a chance to answer. He pretends to hate that, but I know he doesn't mind.

He glances up at me, raising an eyebrow, but doesn't say a word. Damn, this case must really be getting to him.

I make my way to the chair in front of his desk and sit down, wordlessly pulling out items from my bag. He looks up again, curious.

"You haven't eaten today," I explain, gently tugging away his paperwork and replacing it with a warm tub of pasta, a fork, a small pot of cold oatmeal, a spoon, a water bottle, and a small black coffee. "You haven't drank, either."

He observes the items, slowly raising his eyes to meet mine. The tension in his shoulders briefly subsides, his eyes appear a bit lighter, and the wisp of a smile flickers over his lips. A strand of hair breaks free from the grasp of his hair gel, flopping gently over his forehead. He doesn't move to force it back, as he normally would. Instead, he reaches out for the pasta, opening the tub and digging in.

The smile on his face grows a bit wider, just enough to allow for a dimple to appear, but it doesn't last long as he continues to eat.

He doesn't say anything, and he doesn't have to.

I raise to my feet, making my way to his office door and opening it. I take one last look back, watch how his hair remains flopped over his forehead, watch how he grips the fork in his left hand and the tub in his right as if it's going to magically grow legs and run away from him, watch how he savours each bite, watch how he's clearly grateful and content.

He looks pretty.

I wish that Aaron Hotchner knew he was pretty.

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

Crossword Clues & Coffee - Five Across

Summary: A chance encounter in Lebanon’s finest (read: only) diner leads Dean to find the one thing he never knew his life was missing.

Warnings: Tiny bit of language? Angst. LOTS of sass. Honestly, it’s a lot of fluff. No romance.

Author’s Note: Many thanks to @there-must-be-a-lock for always-masterful revision and editing advice, and to @thoughtslikeaminefield for encouragement and flails. I think we all need something a little more light-hearted these days, so here you go.

MAJOR NOTE: DO NOT QUIT IN THE MIDDLE. DO NOT KILL ME. READ TO THE END OF THE CHAPTER. You've trusted me this long, just read til the end of the chapter. One more chapter after this one.

Word Count: 1269

In Case You Missed It: CC&C: One Across | Two Down | Three Down | Three Across | Four Down

ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

Five Across

Winter brings chill winds and a rattling cough to Esther’s chest that has Dean this close to just picking her up, sticking her in Baby, and taking her to the doctor himself. She waves him off his “fussing,” swallows some pills, and puts her kettle on the stove for yet another cup of honeyed tea.

Dean gets it; she’s been along for a long time, and even before that she was the one who took care of everyone, not the other way around. Dean understands a little too well, actually.

That doesn’t mean he has to like it.

When Dean arrives at the diner the following Tuesday only to receive a message from one of the waitresses that Esther called and isn’t “feeling up to breakfast,” he turns on his heel without a word, stops for ten minutes at the grocery store, and is at Esther’s front door before Baby even has time to stop growling in the driveway.

He knocks once, for propriety’s sake (and only because Esther actually gives a damn about propriety in the first place), and then barges straight in, one arm cradling a small paper grocery sack as his eyes sweep the empty living room.

“Esther?” he calls. He drops the groceries on the table and heads in the direction of the coughing, his heart sinking lower with every little gasping breath he hears at the end of the coughs.

He finds Esther propped up in bed, not even dressed for the day despite it being an hour past their normal meeting time. She looks smaller than usual, the fluffy comforter pulled up around her shoulders as she holds a handkerchief to her mouth just before another round of coughs racks her frail form.

She doesn’t look surprised at Dean’s appearance, doesn’t even fuss at his unannounced arrival, and that honestly worries him as much as the coughing. He retrieves a glass from the kitchen, fills it with cool water, and holds his own steadying hand around Esther’s as she drinks slow sips.

He sets about making her honeyed tea and the oatmeal he purchased from the grocery store, adding some honey to the hot grain (sludge, he thinks with a bone-deep shudder). Then, sighing deeply, he adds a second bowl to the tray for himself.

She’ll be angry if he doesn’t eat, too.

She’s steadier after the hot meal, her coughs subsiding, and they manage a stilted conversation for a couple of minutes before Dean clears away their breakfast dishes and returns with the newspaper he brought.

Rather than handing it over, he pulls out his own pencil stub and starts reading the crossword clues aloud, waiting for input between coughing fits with an increasing tightness in his gut that he doesn’t quite hide behind the death grip on his pencil nor his deepening frown.

His teeth grind a little harder, and his gut twists a little tighter with every cough or rattle in her breath. She’s as stubborn as Sam on a quest to save the world, and Dean is irritated down to his soul. Every wheeze makes the fire burn a little hotter until he finally breaks, somewhere between Esther’s fourth coughing fit and the clue for twelve down (“Related to the lungs, 9 letters”).

“You won’t go to the doctor or the hospital, so does that mean you’re giving up? You done here?” He knows he’s being blunt, bordering on rude, but he’s past caring about manners.

“Because I’m not done with you. Not with coffee, not with dinners, not with… with fixing up your house. I still have… the flower beds to dig up, and you asked me to work on your porch, and… we haven’t even gone through a quarter of your recipe box. I’m not… I don’t accept it. You’re too damn stubborn to just quit.”

His torrent of words startles the truth out of Esther at last, and her eyes mist over a little. “Stanley died in a hospital. Doctors misdiagnosed him over and over, ignored some of his symptoms, just wouldn’t listen. Haven’t trusted them since. Figured if I can’t handle it myself, I can at least try to be comfortable at home.”

Dean mulls that over, his eyebrows drawn low, acid roiling in his gut. He probably looks angry, which is better than looking as scared as he feels. He’s got a feeling she sees right through the anger anyway.

“So you aren’t ready to die?”

She studies him for a long moment, taking in a slow, rattling breath but managing to forestall the next round of coughs with a sip of lukewarm tea.

“No, Dean, I’m not quite ready to go yet. Seems I’ve got a thing or two left worth sticking around for after all.”

Dean covers her hands with his once more, pressing his lips together to stop the tremor. He isn’t quite able to ignore how cool and fragile her fingers feel against his palm, how thin and papery her skin feels against his callouses. He holds her eyes with his own, his expression brooking no arguments.

“Good, I’m making a call to a friend. He’s not a doctor, but he’s going to help you.”

“You’re going to call a stranger over to-”

He cuts her off, his tone hardened steel to her iron.

“I’m calling a friend to help you. You said you’re not ready to give up. This is your option.”

Dean already has his phone, tapping in a quick text. His eyes flick to hers, not asking permission, but she nods anyway, and he hits send on his phone. There’s a whooshing noise, vaguely fluttering, from the hallway behind him, and Cas walks in, tie and trench coat in their usual disarray.

“What’s the emergency, Dean? Where’s Sam?”

“Heal her, Cas,” he says without preamble, his eyes locked on Esther’s. She raises her eyebrows, glances to Cas, but then looks back to Dean. He sees the questions rushing across her face, but for whatever reason, she chooses silent acceptance.

Her fingers tremble in his grip, but she redoubles her hold on him as Cas moves to her other side. The angel reaches out, places a chaste hand on her collarbone, and closes his eyes. The glow is brief and warm, and the rattle in Esther’s chest disappears.

Esther breathes deeply for a moment, her eyes wide with shock, and she looks from the angel to the hunter with her mouth agape. Her fingers grip Dean’s with more force than a moment ago, and relief floods through Dean so fast his head spins.

The tiny, elderly woman stammers for a moment, as off-kilter as Dean has ever seen her, before closing her mouth with a near-audible snap. She licks her lips, swallows, clears her throat, and then looks up at Cas.

“Go hang up your coat and put your shoes by the front door, young man. Straighten your tie, as well, and then go start the coffee. You’re skin and bones, too. Dean, I’m starving. No more oatmeal, we’re going to make a real breakfast. Now shoo, both of you. I have to get dressed.”

Esther swings her legs over the side of the bed, standing with a bit more alacrity than she’s used to, and she glances over at Dean, her eyes narrow.

“Hips not bothering you so much now, huh?”

“Dean Campbell, do not ask a woman about her hips; that is beyond indecent. Now get out of my bedroom, young man. Go be useful.”

Dean grins, shutting the door and heading down the hall to find Cas before the angel can destroy the coffee pot.

...

Next: Six Down

[winterhawk-olympic-bang]

Emotive Writing

Guest Poster: @thepartyresponsible​

Emotive writing is about making people Feel Things. People use this all the time to sell you stuff, but we’re out here giving emotions away for free. Here are a few tips and tricks I’ve found to make people feel the most emotions.

Word choice:

This is the most straightforward part of emotive writing. Your word choices add an extra layer of complexity to your message. You aren’t just telling readers what happened; you’re signaling to them how they should feel. Most writers do this unconsciously, but being deliberate can make it especially effective.

Here’s a non-emotive, just-the-facts sentence: The soldier lifted his weapon and turned toward the enemy.

Here’s the same sentence reworked to make you care a bit more: The exhausted soldier raised his broken shield and faced the invading army.

The actions here are fundamentally the same, but exhausted and broken invoke sympathy while invading skews negative.

The words you choose are sign posts for the reader. They indicate how to interpret the story and help your readers orient themselves and form expectations. Subtly building expectation is important because, while surprise can be effective, shock is generally numbing and confusion tends to be irritating, so word choice helps you frame things and guide your reader along.

One of the keys here is to attempt some subtlety. If every sentence about your protagonist reads like an ad campaign (effervescent, brilliant, impervious) and every sentence about your antagonist reads like a political diatribe (cruel, spineless, malicious), you’re probably overusing your sign posts. People want to know who to root for, but too much emotive language can make them feel manipulated.

Think of word choice like adding spices to food. If you put oats in boiling water, you’re making oatmeal, and the spices you use won’t change that. But if you throw in some honey and cinnamon, I know we’re headed somewhere wholesome. If you sprinkle in little discordant notes of garlic powder and cayenne, what we’re cooking is a tragedy. And if you upend an entire bottle of cinnamon, a quarter cup of nutmeg, and toss in seventeen whole cloves, I am not staying for breakfast.

Narrative distance:

Narrative or psychic distance is the space between the reader and the character, usually navigated by the intermediary figure of the narrator. Your narrator can be an omniscient figure that knows the thoughts, feelings, and intentions of every character in the world. Or your narrator could be sitting on the shoulder of your main character, close enough to hear their thoughts and know their story but not so close that they speak with the character’s voice. Or your narrator could be your character.

If you want to ramp up emotion, you usually want a narrator who is very close to one character (or, alternatively, to separate characters in turn). But you don’t have to stay at one distance for the whole story, and, just like word choice, shifts in narrative distance can be helpful indicators to your reader about the story and the characters.

A sudden, dramatic shift in narrative distance is quite jarring, like a sudden zoom-in during a movie. It can be effective, but it’ll lose its punch if it’s overused. Generally, if you want to shift narrative distance, you should build to it slowly. Here’s an example of shifting from a distant third person to a closer third person:

They wake the Soldier because the archer is missing. He has a habit of slipping his lead, disappearing post-mission. The chase grew tedious years ago, but the Soldier runs it just the same. He’ll do as he’s told. But it bothers him, when he lets it. The why.

Why does he do this? the Soldier wonders, when he shouldn’t, when it isn’t his place. Where is he going? he thinks, when he can’t stop himself. Who is he running to? But he tries to think nothing at all.

Another trick of narrative distance is to suddenly pull back to show a character who’s been compromised, shocked, or deeply hurt by something. Imagine spending a long time in a close Bucky perspective, hearing his thoughts, and then being abruptly walloped across the face with: The machine went quiet, and the Soldier opened his eyes. Zooming out can emphasize what’s been lost. Because you aren’t just taking the soul of Bucky Barnes right out of him, you’re also taking that closeness away from the reader. You’re silencing the voice they’ve been listening to.

Whether you zoom in or out during highly emotional moments depends on what you’re trying to accomplish and also on who’s involved.  Some characters have loud, messy emotions that will get louder when they’re hurt. Some characters will freeze over and push a narrator further away. You can use narrative distance to show a character slowly opening up or suddenly slamming a door. But you need the reader to have a solid understanding of the character in order to follow what the shift means, which leads to the next component.

Know your characters:

So, here’s the thing. You gotta Velveteen Rabbit this. Every character is Tinker Bell. If you stop believing, they die.

If you want people to care about these characters, you have to treat them like living, breathing, fully feeling people. They have favorite colors. They have phobias. They have Friday night plans and blisters from new shoes and sesame seeds stuck in their teeth. They have superstitions and secrets. You don’t need to know all of these facts, but you should try to give the impression that someone could know them. The more real your characters are, the more we’re going to care about them.

Since this is fanfiction, you start with a receptive audience. Your readers are fond of these characters. Figure out why. Figure out which parts of the character you can relate to and dig in until you feel like you can understand the parts of them you can’t relate to.

Try to collect things that make you feel close to that character. I always have music playing when I’m writing, so I make playlists for characters and playlists for stories. If I feel like I’m losing a character, I’ll go back to their playlist. But you could also use Pinterest boards, reread favorite fics or comics, rewatch movies or fanvids, or spend an unreasonable amount of time researching bows and tactical knives. Whatever works!

Also, remember, your characters don’t know what story they’re in. They don’t know it’s going to end well (or terribly). Maintain that tension, because that’s where the emotions are. When you watch a good horror movie, you’re not really scared of the monster. You’re scared for the characters, because they don’t know if they’re going to survive.

Emotions come from the characters. That’s why it’s still sad that Tony Stark dies, no matter how many times you watch it happen. Tony Stark was brave and flawed and usually right and often sarcastic, and it hurts to watch him die because that’s a full, unique human we’re losing. We know him well enough to know he’s choosing to sacrifice himself and why he made that choice and who will mourn him.

Know your characters, and let them be messy and weird and wrong and hopeful and cantankerous and unique. Fear is relatable, flaws are relatable, and awkward, ungainly, stubborn progress is relatable. Just remember what it is that makes their progress their progress because, if you can swap Dominic Toretto in for Ted Lasso and have the exact same story, you’ve probably lost your characters.

Plan your emotional trajectory:

Okay, time to get a bit technical. This is for people who like to plan. For those terrifying, godlike writers who just sit down and write, this might not be helpful. For my fellow planners:

There’s a theory (which you can get a general overview about here or, if you’re very into data, right here) that there are six core emotional trajectories in narratives:

1)      Rags to riches (rise)

2)      Riches to rags (fall)

3)      Man in a hole (fall then rise)

4)      Icarus (rise then fall)

5)      Cinderella (rise then fall then rise)

6)      Oedipus (fall then rise then fall)

Since rise and fall can mean different things, I find it helpful to combine these building blocks with emotional axes, which you can find some examples of here.

So, basically, for my winterhawk baseball au Got a Heart in Me, I Swear, I planned to follow the “man in a hole” trajectory (fall then rise) along the anxiety-confidence emotional axis with some bleedover from the humiliation-pride axis. Which basically means Clint started comfortable enough, nosedived deep into anxiety and humiliation, and then slowly built his way to confidence over the rest of the fic.

If the listed axes don’t appeal to you, you can very easily create your own. Just think of an emotion, identify what links it to its inverse, and then list the related emotions between the two opposites. Disgust and adoration are opposites, but they’re linked by attention, right? You can’t ignore something you find disgusting or adorable. So, here’s an example emotional axis you could follow: Disgust – Resentment – Obsession – Fascination – Reverence – Adoration. Enemies to lovers, anyone?

Emotional axes help provide a natural framework for your character’s emotional trajectory. They can be subtle; you don’t have to start on one end of the spectrum and go all the way to the other. A story that moves just a step or two on an emotional axis can be incredibly compelling. That small progress from discomfort to hope can hit really hard if the progress feels fought-for and earned and real.

Tips for writing emotions:

·         Get physical: If you want to show an emotion instead of telling it, describe its impacts on the body. Most characters won’t think I’m embarrassed. They’ll feel a drop in their stomach like someone cut the elevator cables and a hot stinging in their face like they’ve been slapped by some disappointed version of themselves. The more visceral your descriptions, the more the reader will feel them. If you want your reader to feast on feelings, you have to set the table.

·         Dramatic zoom: When something very intense happens, shift the narrative distance. In or out is fine, but a sudden, dramatic event should result in a sudden, dramatic change in focus. Characters might hyperfocus on their physical bodies (the mechanics of breathing, the ringing in their ears, the mad animal urge toward flight) or they might be kicked so far out of their own heads that they feel like they’re dreaming or watching the scene play out from overhead. This distance is useful for two reasons: it feels real, and it allows readers to absorb the situation in pieces, without being overwhelmed by it.

·         Unreliable narrator: Some emotions can be so charged that people don’t want to own them, like grief, shame, jealousy, rage, lust, and guilt. Characters might unconsciously misrepresent these to themselves as something else. A grieving mother might insist she’s tired. A rehabilitated assassin who’s fallen in love with an absolute dork might tell himself he’s just tracking a target. Everyone knows what it’s like to lie to themselves, so this makes characters relatable. And, also, everyone likes being in on a secret, so, sometimes, this is just fun.

·         Face the monsters: We’re often conditioned not to dwell on unpleasant things, which is part of why it can be powerful to examine them in stories. From small things like inglorious emotional states (envy, cowardice, resentment) to character flaws (recklessness, withdrawal, arrogance) to personal tragedies (loss, betrayal, abandonment), the negative parts of human emotional life pack quite a punch. Acknowledge them. Not only are they relatable experiences, but redemption and recovery arcs are some of the most compelling stories we have.