#plantings and payoffs

[yashley]

Then why are you here? What is it you want? I want to free you.

[nicoleanell]

1.02 After the Phantoms of Your Former Self

2.04 I Want You More Than Anything in the World

[avielex]

I'd been too busy to handle the plants due to finals week. When I managed to get a moment to breathe, well...

The dittanyhead has no dittany hands :']

[millionsnife]

"Over my dead body." Points the Punisher's barrel aimed right at Knives' skull. He is LIVID. "I'm not letting you go ANYWHERE with Livio. This ends now."

"There you are." That's what he wants.

Knives smiles sharply, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "Did I touch a sore spot, Nicholas?" He shifts forward, pressing closer into the barrel; he knows exactly what line he's dancing on and it's thrilling.

"Is this about the orphans or is it about Doublefang?" he asks curiously. "If it's about the latter, he's cute enough I suppose but he doesn't look nearly as nice on his knees as you do. If it's about the orphans, I don't actually care enough about them to bother."

[greenerteacups]

lionheart simply changed me fundamentally as a person.,,. obsessed with your beautiful writing, characterization, and for you being so active and talking to your fans on here! you always are so kind.1) do you plan on ever publishing any original works in the future? 2) lionheart has been a super slowburn and i LOVE mutual pining. when can we expect (ballpark) draco and hermione to acknowledge their feelings? like is it coming soon or do we still have a lot of time (and more books) to go?

Thank you! I've been honored with a readership of incredibly kind people, so it is very easy to feel inspired. I feel very strongly that I should do right by everyone, and it's excellent motivation.

Original works: I don't have plans for it right now, since there's a lot of fanfiction on my laptop still demanding to be written, but I can see it happening someday! In the meantime, writing in the fanfiction space has been a really great fit for me, both as a writer and a human. It's a level playing field, it's community-oriented and non-competitive, it's generally a very positive space, and besides, I like that my stuff is free; I think there's something really beautiful about a story that just exists to be read by anyone who wants it. (Not that original artists shouldn't be paid — they absolutely should!! Different art forms, different etiquette.) But anyway, yeah, open to it! No irons in the fire, though, currently.

Slow burn antics: If it's mutual pining you like, then you will not be disappointed. Without revealing too much, the last arc of Book 4 and most of Book 5 is going to be About Dramione, in a way that the previous installments haven't had the chance to be, because they were kids having adventures and their feelings were less complex. It's a very long slow burn, to be sure! But I hope it's not giving away too much to say that Book 5 will bring a number of payoffs to the things being set up in Book 4. 👀

[h-i-raeth]

Listen there are so many moments I'm excited to see with Mighty Nein Animated but I Cannot get over the fact that Ashley is going to get to be Yasha the whole time

[pinkeoni]

When you watch/read enough stuff and learn more about how writing works it becomes very easy to pick up on what things are plants that require payoff

[javen-tiger]

probably i should plant natives but the flowering plants are generally so large and they r expensive compared to the potted colour which is only 2.50,, and i am always killing my plants. my last garden died over the course of like 2hot days and then the pot caught on fire bc i lit a mosquito coil amongst all that dead plantmatter and then fell asleep 😳

[talesofsymphoniac]

[sigh] thanks kristin neff

[yumeka-sxf]

New chapter today, and even though most of it seemed to continue the silly tone from the previous one, the last few pages actually shocked me! 👀

For the first time, ANYA CONFESSED TO SOMEONE THAT SHE CAN READ MINDS! Now this doesn't necessarily mean anything crazy will happen in the series from now on, since Damian doesn't believe her (at first). But proving that you can read minds is easy to do, so the question now becomes, will Anya keep trying to prove it to Damian until he believes her? Or will she regret it later and not try to prove it, and then the plot point isn't touched on again? Regardless, this chapter definitely makes it seem like Damian will be the first person to know about her mind-reading powers.

Then there's the question of why Anya chose to confess this to Damian? I think it's a combination of a few reasons, the main one being that Damian doesn't have any connection to her family, so little risk of him telling them and thus bringing about the fear of abandonment Anya has should they find out. This might also be why she chose to tell him over Becky, since Becky already has somewhat of a relationship with Loid and Yor. The other reason could be that, as time has gone on, she's learned to trust him, at least when it comes to something like this. As hostile as he is towards her, she knows that he's not a double-crosser or a blabbermouth, and deep down he wants to do what's right. And lastly, it was the heat of a moment - her knowledge about him seemed weird so he questioned it, and perhaps at that highlighted moment, when Damian was being genuinely nice to her (since she can read minds, she knows if he's being genuine or not), she wanted to try not lying for once, just to see what happens.

Guess we'll have to wait until next time to see if anything ground-breaking comes from this...will Anya keep pursuing this, will she regret it and let Damian continue to not believe her, or will it just not be mentioned again until later? This reminded me a bit of the Mole Hunt arc where Yuri became suspicious of Loid, but the latter was able to throw him off the track. But the seed of suspicious was planted nonetheless. In this case, even if Damian continues to think Anya was lying, a seed of suspicion may have been planted in him too that could come into play much later on. We'll see!

But besides this big event, a few other notable things in this chapter was super rare soft Damian from the above page. This continues to prove what I've always thought - that Damian acts the way he does to appear "proper" in front of his peers, but when he's alone with Anya, his real feelings seep out. She's a rare person where he doesn't feel the need to put on airs around.

We also got more Henderson x Martha crumbs. Love to see it.

Also loved to see Anya getting cocky and Loid freaking out about it 😅

Overall, even though I'm not as into Damianya as I am Twiyor, I still enjoy seeing their progress, and this chapter was definitely one of the most Damianya-chapters of all~ Despite some of the "dance with Damian" challenges being a bit too silly for my taste (like, how did Emile and Ewen organize all that last minute?) the payoff at the end was worth it! Loid and Yor better get themselves together or their daughter will end up beating them in the romance department 😂

[dragonmuse]

Keep It In The Box : An Essay on OFMD Season 2 and the Failure to Heal

(here in is my season two reaction. It contains many many spoilers. It's also about 3k words long so you know what you're getting into.)

“See, I have a system for dealing with all the terrible things I've seen. There's a box in my mind, and I put the things in the box..” -Frenchie, Season 2 of Our Flag Means Death

…..and then he never opens it. Chekov’s locked box has no key in season two.

On first watch, it seemed clear to me that Frenchie’s declaration was a narrative plant. Clearly the whole season would be about that box of pain and trauma being opened, sorted through and at least the beginning of healing. The show had developed a reputation after season one of being kind and focused on queer narratives of healing from childhood. Ed and Stede’s parallels in their childhood traumas were frequently on display through season one and were repeated in flashback throughout season two. Jim’s season one arc about becoming someone who doesn’t think just of revenge and can now forge meaningful connections was profound, beautiful and often funny. Izzy is an antagonist because he doesn’t want Ed to move on or stop acting like the trauma-response version of himself. The antagonist wants to stop healing. The point is to grow, to change, to learn how to love. It’s one of the things that made season one work for me at the time, despite reservations about pacing and tone.

So naturally season two should follow suit. It’s a kind show! About healing and falling in love!

For the first several episodes, the remaining crew on the Revenge go through a gauntlet of trauma, forced to do and receive violence at Ed’s whims as he careens from self-destructive behavior to self-destructive behavior. This is the wounding setup. It was dark, but it seemed like it would have a payoff and at first it did.

Perhaps one of the most beautiful moments of the season comes in one of the small respites in those early episodes as Jim recounts Pinnochio to Fang to soothe him through his grief. That was the show that I expected. The kindness of that moment struck me very deeply. It gave me some understanding of Archie too, who seems to fall for Jim right at that moment.

That scene is the show season one promised. Season two led with packing Frenchie’s box full to bursting. Here is the fight to the death between lovers, there is a first mate who is mutilated and rotting in the very walls (the rot of the Revenge itself), and there is the storm of Ed’s rage and pain that threatens to consume all of them.

So surely these remaining episodes would concentrate on finding the humor in healing from those moments. That is the setup. Frenchie has a box. The box must eventually open.

Except time and again, all the characters who suffered are told that the only way to deal with what they’ve been through is to stick it in the box and never open it again.

Pete tells Lucius that he’s unable to move on and needs to let it go. Izzy has a story about a shark. Ed’s apology to the crew which doesn’t even contain the words ‘I’m sorry’ is just…accepted. I kept waiting and waiting for a meaningful apology to the people Ed had hurt the worst with his actions, but it seems all we get is Fang saying ‘eh, no problem, I got to hit you back so I feel better’.

The playful theme of ‘pirates are just violent sometimes’ from season one becomes a grinding horror machine in season two when every atrocity visited on someone is forgiven because the narrative needs it to be. Ed and Stede spend more time making amends with each other over the bloodless night on the beach than either of them spend trying to repent for their actions towards anyone else.

And let’s talk about Ed. Arguably this season pivots on his narrative, on his path to healing and growth. A path that starts at a very low point. His moment in the gravy basket, deciding he wants to live because there are still things to live for is so great! So one might assume that what would follow would be him pursuing those things, making amends, making connections. He and Stede have a wonderful moment, talking about being whim prone and how they’ll work to avoid that, build a relationship by going slower.

Yet, at no point do either of them stop following whims. They never heal or learn from what’s happened to them. They both keep running from thing to thing, particularly Ed. It’s a whim to sleep with Stede, it’s a whim to run off to fish, and the finale gives us just more of their whims. Ed drops fishing as fast as he picked it up. He finds those leathers in the ocean, murdering the symbolism of leaving them behind. Even the inn is a whim, one of those things Ed decided he’d be good at without evidence. And Stede joins him in that without a single on screen conversation about it ahead of the moment.

Ed needs to heal himself and to do that he needs to confront what he’s done and do the work to heal the wound. Instead, he doesn’t meaningfully apologize to anyone, besides Stede and Fang. Despite Izzy’s dying words (we’ll get to that), not only do we never see the crew caring about Ed, working to make him family in the same way they do with Fang and even Izzy, he also doesn’t choose to stay with them. So what is the point? Where is the healing? Or does even Ed, beloved main character, have to live with it all stuffed in a box?

He ends the season in the leathers he threw away, in a relationship that’s barely stabilized, going to live in a house which we are told by the narrative (in that they are very very clearly paralleling Anne and Mary with Ed and Stede or why do we even get that whole Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? episode) will only end in them setting fire to each other to stay warm.

But Vee, I hear you cry, it’s a ROM-COM. This is all meant to be ha-ha funny and you are taking it so seriously!

Cool beans. Then why the hell isn’t it funny? Healing is often filled with comedy because people deal with pain with humor. You can heal and laugh at the same time. The finale especially is almost entirely devoid of laughs, almost entirely devoid of joy until the last minute for that matter. The episode that should show off with a flourish how far everyone’s come, mostly serves to show that no one has grown.

Okay that’s Ed. I want to talk about Lucius next. Our former audience surrogate (that’s taken away in season two when he doesn’t get enough screen time to perform that role and no one takes his place) really goes through the wringer. He experiences many many terrible things, including sexual assault (which is made into a grimace-laugh line that doesn’t take away from it’s seriousness because oh hey, that can be done as it turns out). He’s nervous, he’s smoking, it’s clear he’s suffering.

There’s a beautiful moment where Pete tells him ‘hey, I was also in pain. I grieved’ and that’s great. It’s good that Pete sets a boundary about Lucius not obsessing over the past to the point of occluding their future.

We even get our comedic moment where Lucius pushes Ed off the boat (still not apology, but I’d lost hope for that by then) and that doesn’t help enough. So Izzy comes in with a shark and the advice that you just have to move on.

Just…you know. Play pretend. Forget.

Shove it in a box. Ed didn’t take my leg, a shark did. Ed didn’t kill you, a shark did. Live with the person that tried to murder you because it’s your fault you dangled your leg over the side of a boat. That is the show’s message. I thought on first watch, that surely this would also come back up and be explained that you can’t live that way, that that is no way to heal. That it would become clear that this was no way through. You cannot make everything into sharks.

Lucius can move forward and still carry pain. He can still want a meaningful apology and still want to talk to his lover about what he’s dealing with while moving forward toward a brighter future.

And what of the flirtatious promise of relationships and connections being the way to heal? Look to Oluwande and Jim, whose heartfelt romance from season one was relegated to the bins of history in favor of a narrative that made him a brother Jim once had sex with. They could have had Archie AND Oluwande, who in turn could also have Zheng, but that never seems to be an option. With a single short conversation, they are broken up with, despite a brief tease at the birthday that they still ‘dance’ together, it never actually manifests. Jim and Archie never talk about what they went through. It’s swept under the rug as fast as knives are lowered.

Lucius also no longer flirts with other people, the solution to his pain is to propose and get married (but not too married, lest we forget that they’re two men, they don’t even get to be husbands or even the more respectful mates, no. They’re mateys.) This season proposes that the only happy endings are monogamous ones, where no one talks about anything painful that went before.

To ensure that message, beyond assuring the success of Oluwande and Zheng’s relationship, Jim and Archie almost entirely disappear from the narrative. Sorry you guys were given layers of trauma and no growth and not even much to do this season, we need to make sure that everyone remembers Oluwande is the break in Zheng’s day so when he says that to her five minutes later we know exactly what he’s referencing. No time for Archie to learn what an apology is or for Jim to get one line in with Oluwande that isn’t affirming their newfound broship. Must do more flashbacks to things we just did two episodes ago!

The show even dangles the conversation of the Revenge being a safe space. Why would any of them ever feel safe when the man who tortured them is allowed to walk among them and they are expected to forgive and forget? What’s safe about that? The ship is never made safe for any of them, but that’s never addressed.

And Zheng! Amazing, hysterically funny Zheng! She loses her ships, her entire way of life, the kingdom she built for herself and then…she doesn’t even get to captain the Revenge. We don’t know what becomes of her fleet, of her plans, her ambitions. Don’t worry about it, she has a romantic partner and isn’t that what every lady wants in the end?

(But Vee, I hear you cry again, there will be a season three! Maybe it will be All About Zheng! To which I say: then why did they present us with the most series finale feeling episode ever? If there’s more, I have no idea where it’s going. BUT VEE: BUTTONS AS SEAGULL ON THE GR- Fine. It’s time.)

Let’s talk about Izzy Hands.

Izzy manages more healing than anyone else this season. He reaches his lowest point, suicidal in the bowels of a ship that’s become a prison (very much in contrast to Ed’s suicidal low). The person he loves most in the world has shredded him physically and emotionally (and if you’re in the camp that thinks Izzy deserves the abuse that Ed gave to him, I would really like you to sit quietly with yourself and ask why you think there is ever anything anyone can do to deserve that treatment). He’s low, he shoots Ed to protect everyone, and then seems to plan to drink himself to death, mourning his losses.

And then another beautiful moment! The crew move past their own pain to help him. They work together for the first time and it’s to give Izzy mobility back. He treasures it. He cries over it. He uses that kindness extended to him to reach a new understanding of Stede and help him succeed, doing the work to make real amends. He sings in drag, he’s vulnerable and beautiful, celebrating the side of himself that he must’ve loathed in the first season. He’s an elder queer man, coming into himself.

He never gets an apology though. (‘Sorry about your leg’ without eye contact is not an apology. There is no responsibility taking, no acknowledgement of the weeks of torture that came with it.) Izzy also never really has an honest conversation with anyone about what it means that the man he loves punished him so severely for the crime of trying to protect the crew (yes, lest we forget, Izzy lost his leg because he was trying to keep Ed from re-traumatizing the crew and himself).

Izzy does all this work, but even he’s not allowed to take it out of the box. It’s a shark, not Ed. Ed is just ‘complicated’ (the language of abuse here is so upsetting and I think not even intentional).

And then he dies. His last act? To apologize to the man who tortured him and shot at him. To have done all this work, to take on all the blame. And then die.

In a rom com.

This show ends in a profoundly unfunny moment of telling the audience: this is the one character that did the work, that made amends, that tried his hardest to accept the parts of himself that he had a hard time embracing and formerly embittered him. He’s fully accepted his queerness and turned it into beautiful music. He’s disabled, and he worked hard to accept that. The man he loves will never love him back, so he worked hard to make Stede able to meet Ed on an even playing field. The Giving Tree gave up its limbs and its trunk, and it’s not even allowed to be a stump to sit on.

Kill the queer elder, who has managed to figure out how to live and in his own way how to heal. Kill him before he manages to teach anyone else how to meaningfully move forward (he almost gets it with Lucius, almost, but it’s meant to be rule of three, you know. Cigarette..shark…and then…and then fuck it, Lucius doesn’t even get to say a word at his funeral).

The message of this season again and again is that there is no healing, just moving forward. Like a shark. Like a bird that never lands.

That is not a kind show.

Season two is not a kind season.

It splinters people up and jams them back together without purpose or reason. It tells everyone who experiences pain that they should shove it in a box and not deal with it. No one who really needs one gets an apology of any sincerity. No one puts in the work to gain forgiveness. (Ed wearing a onesie is not The Work. Ed fixing a door is not The Work. Ed broke people that the show wants us to care about. Ed never does the work of making those amends. He fires off a Notes app apology at best. After all, it’s what he told himself via Hornigold in the gravy basket: you move on or you blow your brains out! Good thing he took his own advice and therefore had to change nothing to get his just rewards.

I would’ve taken just fifteen minutes of Ed trying to actually make amends. It could’ve been hilarious! Imagine awkward Ed trying to dance around what he’s doing with Jim and the two of them having a knife throwing competition about it. Or him and Frenchie attempting to make music together, writing a song about the raids they went on! It’s not just the crew robbed of their healing because of this, it’s Ed himself. He never meaningfully changes or makes amends. How is he any different at the end of the finale then he is standing on the edge of that cliff with Hornigold? He hasn’t moved on, he hasn’t healed. He tried one thing (fishing) that doesn’t fucking work and then he runs right back.

No one leaves this season better than they went into it. They’ve lost an elder queer, they’ve lost their joyous and queer polyamory, they’ve lost a chance for meaningful reconciliation with Ed and Ed lost any chance of looking like he gave shit if they did. Stede grows enough to accept the crew’s beliefs as important and then leaves them behind without a care.

Izzy gets a beautiful speech about piracy being larger than yourself. Ed and Stede, within twenty minutes of that speech, leave piracy. They are incapable of giving themselves to something bigger, apparently. They haven’t learned to be a part of a community. They haven’t healed from their childhood trauma or their fresher wounds. They are still just following their own whims.

Zheng’s life work is in tatters, but it’s fine, she has love. Oluwande and Jim aren’t together, but it's fine because they both have dedicated monogamous partners. Lucius was deeply scarred by what happened, never recovers much of his first season personality, but hey he got-well it’s not married exactly- but you know good enough!

Frenchie, who has a box forever locked in his head, is captain. Because the key to success is to lock it all in a box and never open it. What a message. What a show. Conceal, don’t feel. Smile because it’s a happy ending. Don’t mourn the dead, don’t try to tell people what happened to you (they will literally run away or cry too hard to listen and really you’re just bumming them out), and any meaningful change you make is only rewarded with death.

Frenchie is now a pirate captain with a box in his head full of trauma that’s never been opened, leading a crew with more wounds than scars. Wonder how that could turn out? Wonder how many years before he might want to retire and then happen to run across a gentleman pirate. As if no one learned anything at all.

[loveindefinitely]

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ PRINCESS TREATMENT — price + gaz x reader

01 — THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT

featuring. kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price

warnings. fem!reader, fmm, friends to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence, frequent mentions of drug and alcohol abuse, discussions of mental health

series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

If you had to say when, exactly, everything changed, you’d put it down to a single monarch butterfly.

Walking down the tight alleyways of Las Almas, the sky a four o’clock black, a lone street light casts a gentle yellow over your frame. The air is stagnant, the warmth of late spring mixed with the type of humidity that only comes before a storm, your boots clicking against the stone beneath your feet.

With a leather jacket wrapped tight around you, you fall into the rhythm of it all. It’s just before five in the morning, and you know that you should be heading home any minute, but you find yourself rejecting the idea.

Everytime you leave for the night, just to breathe, to live for no one but yourself, it gets harder and harder to make your way back through your bedroom window. You know the guards are getting antsy, too, your payoffs for their silence on the issue becoming less and less worth it. Not when it’s becoming an ultimatum between some quick cash and a slow death.

You wish you were given that choice. Mightn’t even care which option you happened to receive.

It’s quiet, in these parts. No sign of the city that had been ruined by mercs, no sign of the destruction that had once lay beneath one man’s boots. 

Instead, this city now sits in the firm grip of El Sin Nombre – the way it had once been, and if your family has it how they want it, the way it shall forever be. 

Underneath your breath, you hum, a tune you’d picked up from the local radio. Every morning, you listen to the daily news reports, the weather, the latest celebrity gossip. Without fail, El Sin Nombre is never mentioned. Neither are the missing persons, the families torn apart by the woman you call boss.

The end of the alleyway is coming up, the main street ahead barren of people, except the odd homeless person or fitness nut getting their morning fix.

Just as you’re about to turn around and manually move your feet back to your home, the smallest of movements catches your eye, right by a potted plant sitting at the street corner. You’re not sure how, or why, it catches your attention – but it snags it, hook line and sinker.

Quickly looking both ways, you take a cautious step towards what appears to be a small aloe vera plant, stopping in your tracks when you realise what’s perched upon the tallest of the stems, its burnt orange wings fluttering with the small breeze.

A butterfly.

It hasn’t spooked – not yet, not with your careful movements – and it seems so insignificant. So small, with the family homes lining the streets, the independent stores setting up for the day.

With you, your massive life, your massive boots to fill.

And it just sits.

Flaps its wings.

A shot sounds.

Jumping back, your eyes catch the butterfly taking off into the sky, its sun-kissed wings taking it as far away from the horror as possible. Exactly as you should be doing.

Screams echo around you, another bullet sounding, and then another, and another – 

Hand resting at the gun sitting in your thigh hollister, you whip your head towards the sound, the yelling, the rushed Spanish leaving people’s mouths. Gringos. El Sin Nombre. Death. Stay down.

Taking a sharp right turn onto the main street’s footpath, another shot fires, this time much closer. Much more real, tangible. Hand fully fisting around the handle of your pistol, you take the corner to the sidestreet – the source of it all – with quiet ease.

Multiple cartel members – expendable pendejos, Valeria would say – have guns not unlike your own, aimed at two separate men hidden behind a parked car. They’re crouched behind it, peaking and launching their own retaliating shots, hitting either shoulders or necks. 

They fire off quick, dirty shots, one bursting through the car’s windows, shattering the glass, before lodging in one of the mens’ head. He falls, blood and brain matter splattering on the brick wall behind him. None of the others even spare him a look.

“Get ‘im!” A deep, rough voice calls – British, assertive, mature – the one furthest from you. He’s adorning a boonie hat, pulled down to cover the tops of his ears, facial hair decorating his jawline and upper lip.

They both seem to be exerting themselves, clearly having done a lot of activity and planning before the current scene. Nearly all of the civilians are out of the area, the two foreigners taking care to not harm any of the innocents.

Certainly a step up from the cartel.

There’s four left, all taking shots at the car, some bullets ricocheting off of the flat metal. Back to the opposite wall, you take out your pistol, switching off the safety with a single brush of your thumb. Keeping it extended in front of you, both hands holding it, you make your way silently closer to the confrontation, keeping behind them all.

The second foreigner – tall, all slim muscle, radiating warmth and self-assurance – takes a sweeping step away from the car, delivering final head shots to all but one.

Clawing against the ground, trying to gain his footing, pistol flung metres away from him, he lets out groans of agony. He’s been shot in the knee, it seems like – yeah, definitely been shot in the knee, by the way he screams when he tries to rise on it.

Doing quick head checks, the younger foreigner keeps his gun raised at a safe level, before walking over to the wounded member.

The lone soldier grunts when the lithe man smacks the butt of his gun against his temple, his head twisting with the force of it. You can tell he’s being kept alive.

“Fuck, Cap,” the younger man hisses, hooking his thumb in his vest, throwing his head back slightly. In the streetlight, from your close distance, you can see a droplet trail down his Adam’s apple. Collect at the hollow of his throat, glisten in the dim light.

The other, ‘Cap’, presses his hands against his knees, using the momentum to stand, wiping the back of his glove against his mouth. Quickly scanning his surroundings, you dart behind a small, abandoned street stall, crouching as you do so.

No shots are fired – you consider it a win.

“C’mon, we gotta get ‘im to exfil,” he grunts, and when you move back to watch them in full view, you see him jog over to stand next to his partner. Leaning down, he pulls his arm around the unconscious man, lifting him up with the younger’s help. They swing his arms around the necks of them both, their hands keeping him upright between the two.

“Ale and Rudy are gonna have our asses for the stray shots,” the black-haired one groans, but there’s a relieved smile stretching over his face. “Hopefully this guy has the intel they want.”

“If he doesn’t,” ‘Cap’ returns, a humoured look written all over his face, “We’ll have their asses.”

Intel. They want… intel. On the cartel, on El Sin Nombre. Something you have in spades. In fact, you were probably the closest thing to a gold mine when it came to information of the Las Almas cartel. Wouldn’t even need torture to get you to speak.

You’d heard of Alejandro and Rodolfo. They were considered legends by the townspeople, the men who nearly took down the cartel. The true face of the Mexican Military – not the paid off army. 

It was a shame, really, how much of their story wasn’t told.

Being shot if either name left anyone’s mouth made it a difficult one to retell. Especially to you – the Cartel’s Princess – a woman hated for nothing more than her last name.

Your step-father and ‘boss’ refused to speak of them, either. Your limited knowledge pertained to the fact that they were direct enemies of El Sin Nombre, and shared a complicated past with Valeria. You’d asked, once, what happened.

You’d never asked again.

The sun is rising, the hints of morning brushing over the deserted side street. They seem… ethereal, in this light, exhausted from work but cheerful from a job well done. At ease with each other, even with blood decorating their skin, boots covered in red.

You remember when you’d first tried to run away, fourteen and too naive to plan it beforehand,  before you knew to slide cash into the guards’ belt. It had been seven minutes and twenty-nine seconds before a bullet had grazed your thigh, and you were brought back to your house. You still have the scar – both physically, and mentally.

Having to learn that running away was never a truly feasible option was a hard reality at such a young age. Sheltered, too – you didn’t understand the true way of the world. What life was like without a bounty on your head and blood money decorating your neck in the form of a pearl necklace. Hands chained with bracelets of pure gold.

The cool metal grows clammy with your own distraught, your index finger hooking around the trigger.

When you were younger, you wanted to become a journalist. You dreamt of the ability to make things known – uncover the dark secrets your family loved to hide. A servant to the public – in the most damning of ways, a true way of protecting without the need for blood on your hands. The only black metal in your hands would be that of a pen; considerably more deadly than a weapon could ever be.

You aim your pistol.

Oh, to be free. To not have to wake up every day, dreading, hating yourself for the sins of your family. Your livelihood. Freedom in not having to choose between being a bystander, or meeting the death of a traitor.

That butterfly, gods, that butterfly. It took itself wherever it wanted – got to experience the world at its own pace. Live for the sake of it, gifting the Earth for the pleasure of it all.

Grateful for just a week of substance. A week of survival.

What you’d do for just a week.

A shot fires, and you don’t move an inch from the drawback. You just stand, watching, as a body falls, and two guns are instantly aimed at you in turn.

Just a week.

Letting the gun slide from your hand and hit the floor, you raise your hands, palms facing the two. They don’t shoot – that’s all you could’ve hoped for. Being reckless was part of being in the cartel, and your very blood ran because of it.

“You want intel?” You ask, loud enough to carry to them, taking a bold step forward. With the sun not having risen, a chill settles into your bones, the tight, silk nightdress you adorn during sleep the only thing protecting you as the breeze brushes open your jacket. “I have it.”

The youngest moves to lower his gun, but a side eye from ‘Cap’ has him raising it again. The way they stare you down has your chest rising and falling in dramatic movements, and for the first time this night, you second guess yourself.

It’s the only chance you’ve ever gotten – you think, reminding yourself – and you will accept it with open arms. Just a week.

Taking careful, precise steps closer, you keep your palms facing them and face a stubborn neutral. You’d been trained in a lot of areas, sparsely, but there was no doubt in your mind that you wouldn’t be able to take either of them in a real fight. Diego had spoiled you with riches and luxury, not sparring and gunslinging.

“Wait –” the younger stretches out his hand, looking to the other with an expression. Like he’d seen a ghost. “She’s…”

“I know,” the other breathes out, his tense stance easing slightly. 

As you stand, just a metre or two away from them, you look between them both. Calculating, watching, you slide off your leather jacket and drop it to the ground – showing that you have no other weapons, no bombs strapped to you. 

Just a silk, blood red nightdress, an empty hollister, and black leather boots.

“You guys were pretty loud when you said you needed intel,” you narrow your eyes, flitting between them both. They shroud you in their shadows; tall, muscular – military. But not… regiment. Different, more sinister, maybe, more important. “And I saw you kill my auntie’s men.”

They both lower their weapons. Partly stupid, partly an insult.  “You’re the Cartel Princess, aye?” The younger raises his brows, looking over you with studious brown. 

“I left my tiara at home,” you snark. The younger smirks, approving of your response. Maybe you wouldn’t have to be stepped all over, to be taken in by them.

Jerking his head to the dead body laying between the both of them, the older levels an unimpressed gaze your way. “Was that necessary?” He asks, folding his arms over his chest and righting his posture, looking down at you.

“He was a dick anyways,” you roll your eyes, finally lowering your own hands to rest at your hips. “He tried to offer up his daughter ‘cause he was in debt.”

Both of their jaws go slack.

You shrug.

“Where are you guys going anyways?” You ask, bouncing on the heels of your feet, hands held together behind your back. Looking around, your mouth pulls into a small frown at the shattered store windows. You’d try and leave some money for them when you got back.

The smaller one lets out an almost shocked chuckle. “This isn’t – you’re not hitchhiking.”

Rubbing at the roof of his nose, the one with the boonie hat looses a thick sigh, before giving you an exhausted look. “You’re lucky Alejandro has been after your arse for years. Gaz, get ‘er gun.”

“Yes, Sir,” he jokes, roughly saluting the man before grabbing your weapon. Sliding it into his own holster, he loops his elbow through yours, and starts dragging you down the street, the other walking a bit ahead of you both.

“This went way easier than I thought,” you mutter, realising just how… simple it had been to get them to take you. No cuffs, surprisingly, and no sedatives.

Gaz, as the other referred to him as, looks down to you with a friendly smile. “Most of us know your face. Alejandro and Rodolfo have been looking for you – something about you being ‘one of the good ones’.”

“I’ve never met them,” you admit, a small crease forming between your brows. “I’ve heard of them, but… why do they care about me?”

“Apparently,” the one up ahead darts his blue eyes back to you, “You do, in fact, have ‘intel’. And…” He trails off, before shaking his head. “You’ll see when we get back to base. I think he’ll be quite happy.”

Gaz groans with a laugh. “Hate when he’s giddy. They’re so loud.”

Falling back a little, ‘Cap’ hits his subordinate lightly up the back of his head. “You’re gross. Exfil’s just off to the right.”

“Reminds me of Amsterdam,” Gaz says wistfully, his elbow still linked around yours. This might just be the oddest way to be taken in by a supposed ‘enemy’ ever. Definitely up there.

Turning, you see a black SUV parked off to the side, the windows tinted to the nth degree. You can’t see anything within them except your own reflections, the winding streets behind you three. Looking to Gaz, you ask, “Where’s my carriage?”

He gives an incredulous look. “You’re serious?”

You and his partner answer at the exact same time, the same tone, “No.”

Opening the door to the back, Cap urges the two of you in, before getting into the passenger seat. The cushions are black, too, and comfortable as you situate yourself by the window, Gaz taking the middle seat. So much for space.

“John –” 

“Kate, they’ve been after her for years. We owe ‘em.”

A woman, dirty blonde hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, looks at you through her rearview mirror. She seems… displeased about your presence.

“You’re making us a bigger target,” she hisses, shooting him an annoyed look. “If they aren’t already trying to gun us down, they’re about to go nuclear!”

“Auntie and daddy don’t like missiles. Said it’s cheap,” you chip in, folding your knee so your ankle rests on your opposite knee, folding your hands in your lap. Damn, you think, You chipped your nail polish. Only lasted a day.

Silence fills the vehicle.

You hum that radio’s tune once more, and Kate exhales a deep, calming breath. Like she’s one step away from whipping out her own gun and shooting you all dead. And then herself.

“Can you turn on the heater? It’s kinda cold,” you ask, hands rubbing at your bare arms. Should’ve put your leather jacket back on before they took you.

“John,” Kate grits out, “I am two seconds away from –”

A shot fires, then two, then three. In one movement, you grab a hold of your pistol from Gaz’s hollister, switching off the safety once more and holding it to your chest. Kate instantly switches on the ignition, accelerating hard enough to have your head hitting the back of your chair with a squeak.

Gaz unwinds the window to his left, furthest away from you, and starts firing at where a dozen or so members stand at the main street, firing off shots at the car. Bracing yourself against the back of the driver’s seat, you take aim.

True as the way the sun is set to rise, you land multiple shots through vital organs, some lucky ones blasting right through their heads. Your wrist aches from the strength of your hold around your weapon, a break from childhood coming back to haunt you. You don’t stop, however, not when you’re nowhere near your breaking point.

Within seconds, Kate drives the car out of their view, dodging potholes like a professional. 

It’s five minutes later, when you’re out of the main business streets of Las Almas, that your back hits your seat once more, eyes fluttering shut as you flick the safety back on.

Gaz does the same, his shoulder bumping yours with the width and sheer height of him. You feel small, between him and the door, but not unsafe. Quite the opposite, actually, with the way he sliced through those men with buttery gunmanship.

The silence, this time, is electric. A buzzing in the air, an excitement flowing through your veins.

And then, it hits you.

“Oh, shit,” you whine, dragging your hands over your face and sloping in your seat, lips forming a disgruntled pout.

“What – what happened? You good?” Gaz asks, leaning forward, placing his hand on the back of Kate’s headrest to look over you. His arm is corded with muscle, the sleeves of his shirt pulled up to his elbows, allowing a decent view of his military-grade skin. 

You sit your head against the window. 

“I left my favourite nail polish at home. And my favourite earrings,” you mumble, upset.

Gaz coughs, then sits back in his seat awkwardly. “...Right. Can’t you just. …Get more? If you’re cooperative, Ale–”

You punch him in his throat, and he wheezes, tears sprouting in his eyes as he coughs. “You don’t get it,” you glare at him, before patting his back. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to hit so hard.”

It’s only then that you realise John and Kate are speaking quietly up the front, low enough to not be heard by the two of you. 

“Who do you guys work for, anyway?” You ask, when Gaz stops coughing, instead swallowing mouthfuls of water from the skin in his pack. He stops to stare at you.

“You ask this… now?” He questions, looking at you like you’ve lost your mind.

You shrug. “Even if you guys were mercs or something, I probably would’ve asked to be taken. Wait –” You pause, eyes going wide, mouth going slack, “You aren’t mercs, are you? Please say you aren’t.”

“We’re Special Ops. Dunno how much the old man wants me to say, so, there you go,” Gaz shrugs, pulling on his gloves. His gaze remains on yours as he does so – pulling them off by the tips of his fingers, revealing slender hands. They look oddly graceful, for a seasoned operator, and you can see the tendons pull when he takes off the other.

The sun is high enough to paint the sky in streaks of yellow and orange, swirling with the night’s dark blue. Clouds decorate the canvas like swipes of cotton, the beginnings of what looks to be a perfect Spring day. As you look out the window, watching as you pass the streets of your city, you feel an odd seed of doubt.

Not for what you’re doing – but for what you’re leaving. All of the bodies lining the streets under cartel cloths, never getting to do the very thing you’re experiencing. So many families torn apart without the option of freedom.

The glass is cool against your cheek as you drum your fingers over your lap, the tap tap tap of that song in your head looped.

“You don’t look like your pictures,” Gaz says, then, and when you turn, it’s to find him watching you studiously. He appears so relax, seated beside you, tall enough to have his head nearly hitting the roof of the car.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t realise this was a Tinder date.”

He laughs, the sound melting down your spine like the cocoa body butter you favourite. Maybe he was right about the cooperation thing – you could play nice if it meant you got to have your routine.

“I just mean,” he starts, before rolling over the words in his mouth, looking out the window before making eye contact once more. His eyes are so brown. “You’re a lot less… snobby-looking.”

You bite out a sharp laugh in shock. “Excuse me?”

He raises his hands, now, a direct copy of how you’d appeared when you first made eye contact. His smile is devastating as he says, “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Just meant you have a lot more personality than expected.”

“Thought I was the type to be docile and pretty?” You quip, pulling your hair to rest over your shoulder. “How typically… male of you.”

Placing a hand over his heart, he pretends like he’s been wounded, expression twisting into one of pain. “Ouch, Princess. Way to hit a man where it hurts.”

“I know of many other places that’ll hurt,” you mutter, side-eying him. “Don’t test me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Your Majesty,” he returns.

The car starts increasing in speed, then, at a harshly quick rate – enough to have both you and Gaz sitting up straighter, checking out your windows and tightening your grips on your guns.

Price turns, twisting where he sits in the passenger seat, looking out the back window. He curses under his breath, before looking between the both of you.

“We have company.”

author's note. please leave a comment or quote reblog if you enjoyed!! i hope you all enjoy this journey with me :) xx

taglist. nothing to see here.

[comicaurora]

What are your thoughts on guardians vol.3? (If you have watched it) I went into it, expecting it went to the garbage like the rest of the mcu, but I was pleasantly surprised by its creativity, trope subversion, and how it wrapped up the previously unresolved arks of its characters.

That's what I've heard!

The thing is, Guardians 3 could be the most transcendent work of cinema ever made, and I'd probably still feel little to no motivation to watch it at this point. It's not Guardians's fault - it's just suffering from the same problem that superhero comics have been struggling with for decades: no matter how good an individual arc or run is, absolutely nothing good lasts or matters in the long term, and the stories are shaped in such a way that "the long term" is the only thing anyone gets to build towards.

Whenever I complain about the MCU I get a handful of people loudly complaining about my complaining, with the general thesis that if I don't like it I shouldn't watch it or talk about it - if I'm not having fun, just stop engaging with it. And the thing is, I have. I am intellectually interested in why this massive franchise is fumbling the bag so hard, which is why I still check in on it sometimes, but I've long since stopped turning to the MCU for uncritical entertainment. And even the good movies or shows with a lot of interesting ideas - good character arcs, fun concepts, interesting planting for future payoff - don't draw me in anymore, because they're hooked into a massive moneymaking machine that will scrap and squander anything if they think it'll make them more in the quarter. It doesn't matter how good the writing is, because the writers are not allowed to tell a complete, finished story, and they have no control over what happens to their characters outside of their own script.

Captain America's arc was set up from literally minute one to answer one burning question at the core of his character: does a world without a war still need Captain America? After that incredibly basic tee-up at the end of First Avenger, half a dozen movies failed to come up with a reason to say "yes," and now Steve is retired for good after getting fumbled through four different storylines that couldn't even pretend that they needed him (the unused Chekhov's Phone from the end of Civil War still haunts me). The foundational arc of his entire character never happened because nobody bothered to keep track of it past a single movie.

Taika did something interesting with Thor in Ragnarok - take away Mjolnir, force him to recognize what it means to be the god of thunder, give him a very Odin-y missing eye - and the very next movie undid all of it. Just kidding, never mind, here's an eye and a new weapon and also his old weapon again, and in one more movie we're even gonna give him his hair back, probably as an apology for all the completely unironic fatphobia we're gonna slather him in for two and a half hours. I'm not even surprised Love And Thunder was such an overblown mess that barely took itself seriously - why would Taika bother trying to give Thor another arc when the powers that be will just roll it back in six months anyway?

I hear Rocket Raccoon has a fantastic arc in this movie. That's great, and demonstrates that he's being written by a writer that deeply cares about him. But he's part of the MCU, and the MCU doesn't let anything end, so if current patterns hold, Rocket is going to continue to serve as quippy plushie-bait for the next dozen movies and none of that depth is going to come through in the long term. Hell, since they're making Kang noises for the Next Big Threat and Kang's entire gimmick is rewriting timelines, literally none of this is guaranteed to matter. By next year, it might not have even happened anymore.

The MCU has successfully shaped itself into a paradigm where the bright spots of good writing are overridden and lost as soon as the writers room turns over, and that makes it really hard for me to muster up the enthusiasm to watch even a really good movie that's locked into the exact same grist mill as everything else. I'm glad people liked it, I hope it gets to stay good this time - I just have no desire to watch it.

[chelseasdagger]

Alone And Forsaken

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: After a close call with infected, you and Joel return to your safehouse and try to stay warm during a cold night

Warnings: smut (18+!), sex (unprotected), cockwarming, cursing, gun mention (briefly), smut with very little plot, Joel hasn’t cockwarmed in over twenty years

Author’s Note: This is my first Joel fic so I'm a little nervous but I love the idea of him cockwarming/having sex again after so long and he's desperate oops. Much thanks to @chellestrash for supporting me through this fic! Feedback is greatly appreciated! :)

Word Count: 5.2k

Joel mutters in his sleep. Most nights, it was whispers of his late daughter’s name; the sorrowful memory of that night replays in his mind even after twenty years. Other times it was restless grunts and warnings of clickers as he tossed and turned on the small mattress. It doesn’t matter whether you were in a somewhat protected military zone or in the uncertain darkness that lies outside of those sanctioned areas. When the sun sets and the anxiety dies down just enough to finally slip into unconsciousness, you’d hear the distressed mumbling beside you that made your chest grow tight all over again.

The two of you have just returned home—or, whatever you could call the four walls that were miraculously still standing. It was more of an improvised safehouse while you traveled beyond the patrolled Fedra walls to make your drop offs. The house was small but dependable, especially once Joel had gone and fortified the decaying wood that was barricading the doors and windows shut. Perhaps you could consider it safe in comparison to the rubble and debris surrounding it, not to mention the absolute luck that there were no cordyceps in the immediate area.

Smuggling isn’t exactly your favorite job when it comes to ways of earning supplies, but you suppose it’s better than the depressing things that Joel does for a few ration cards. He’s the one who got you into helping him after showing you just how good the payoff was and, if you’re honest with yourself, you enjoy the time alone with him. He isn't easy to read and his rough voice comes across harsh to others but the longer you’re around him, you begin to pick up on his true intentions behind his sometimes cold front.

Your name rings through your ears, pulling you to the present and away from your abandoned train of thought. It sounds nice to hear Joel speak it, despite his deep, rough shout. You quickly stand and make your way over to the wooden bookcase that’s lying diagonally over the back door to the house. Planting your feet on the ground, you push it so that it’s standing upright again and twist the small lock on the doorknob.

You open the door and the sounds of the thunderstorm grow louder, a flash of lightning illuminating Joel’s silhouette. His back is facing you as he checks the surrounding area once more, gun in his hands as he slowly turns before entering the house.

“It’s clear,” he holsters his gun, “no signs of clickers or infected,” he sighs heavily, closing the door gently behind him. He steps past you and into the house, immediately moving furniture in search of cracks in the floorboards. He often forgot exactly where he left his supplies due to the different safe houses you two frequent on the smuggling route. You watch as he knocks the toe of his boot into an area of the wood underneath the dusty rug. The sound is hollow and he immediately kneels to the ground to start removing the slotted wood.

“You’re sure?” you ask uncertainly, your voice a whisper in the otherwise quiet room. It was rare that you questioned him, but your fear got the better of you. The way he freezes with the floorboard piece still in his hand has you worried you overstepped, and you hurry to explain.

“I-I don’t mean to—it’s just that, well, I wanted to be absolutely certain,” your words come out faster once he looks over his shoulder. He stares up at you, glancing over your features while resting his hand on his knee. You pull your lip between your teeth, nervously thinking of his potential reaction to your words.

Your expression gives your anxiety away and he sighs gently, his eyes scanning over your face. His own features soften and you watch his shoulders begin to slouch before he’s standing up and silently walking towards you.

“Tonight was too close and I’m…” he trails off, his eyes focusing on something behind you, his mind going elsewhere. After a moment he looks to your scared face again and continues, “I’m sorry I made the wrong call.”

Joel hangs his head in defeat and you wish you could take away the guilt he feels. The rain patters gently on the roof but you still hear his frustrated exhale over the noise. He brings a hand to the back of his neck, scratching at the grey hair brushing his skin there. After clearing his throat, he continues, his southern accent wound around his words.

“I thought it was clear I… If I hadn’t gotten there—”

“But you did,” you cut him off before his mind has time to spiral. Joel always takes responsibility for every mission no matter the importance. There’s been times in the past where he thinks back on what went wrong and makes a mental note of how to improve next time, but not without holding some resentment for his flawed actions. You know tonight was more serious, what with the clicker’s gnashing teeth nearly grazing your neck, and you wanted to try and spare Joel some of the self loathing.

A shiver suddenly works its way down the back of your neck. The icy touch runs along your spine and spreads throughout your body, causing you to shake slightly. He watches your involuntary movement and looks down at your hands that are balled around the cuff of the wet jacket you’re wearing.

“C’mon, let’s get you out of those clothes,” he speaks up again before turning away. His wet footsteps echo out on the wooden floor as he steps towards his backpack. You wind your arms around yourself as he slings his bag over his shoulder, walking back to you and leading you to one of the unused rooms down the hall.

The both of you typically would stay in the main space of the house, with access to windows and a kitchen within close distance. But in moments where some privacy was needed, you’d have the extra rooms of the house to change or get some time alone. He entered the small bedroom first, quickly scanning it with his flashlight. Once deciding it was clear, he gives you a small nod before dropping his bag, leaving the room, and pulling the door shut behind him.

Crouching down to his bag, you open it and find two thick flannels folded at the bottom beneath the few cans of food and extra boxes of ammo. Discarding your wet jacket and soaked shirt underneath, you pick up a dry one from his bag and hold it in front of you. You think of the last time Joel wore this one and how the blue plaid pattern brought out the tan in his skin.

Slipping your arms through the sleeves, you pull the material closer to your body. It’s a lot softer than most of the shirts around nowadays, most likely the material being worn down by all the years Joel has been wearing it. There’s a small tear under the arm on your right side but other than that it’s in great condition.

You untwist the collar of the shirt as you make the fabric sit smoothly against your neck. Your fingers move down the lapels of the flannel and you pause for a second before raising it to your face. The collar smells so deeply of him and you shut your eyes as you inhale his scent.

His heavy footsteps sound out through the house and you hear them from the other side of the paper thin walls, pulling you from your thoughts. You quickly straighten the edges of the shirt before slipping the black buttons through their holes and making your way back to the living room.

Joel is back in his position on the worn couch. His back is straight as a board, a physical display of his alertness. He’s squinting his eyes as he peers between the slotted wood boarding up the windows, watching the outside area nearby. You’d often find him like this, making mental notes of the surrounding environments or how many exits a building had. It makes you feel safe, but you wish there was a world where he didn’t feel the need to do that instinctively.

You notice he’s wearing only his denim button up now, having ditched the soaked jacket. The heavy bookshelf is back in place as well, blocking the only entrance to the house that isn’t boarded up. Your eyes fall to the ground and notice there’s no makeshift alarm. Checking the other door in the living room, you notice it’s clear of any liter as well.

“No glass?” you ask quietly, stepping deeper into the room. Joel turns at the sound of your voice, watching from his spot on the torn couch cushion.

“Just clickers and infected for the next few miles. If we don't make a fire, we can’t draw people in. So yeah,” he’s cut off by his groan as he places his hands on his knees to stand up, “no glass.” 

“Right…” you trail off, trying to ignore the excitement in your chest as he steps towards you. “So no fire tonight? That’s going to be a little rough,” you let out a bitter chuckle.

The weather had been unkind as of late and it was taking a toll on you. Joel saw the shakes your body gave under the unforgiving wind, despite him lending you extra jackets to wear under a thick winter coat you happened across. The past few nights in particular he had been burning low fires as you two were in the woods; he assured you the tree line helped disguise the smoke. But you know the risk of shedding light near open streets, even if you desperately wanted the heat anyway.

“Well, ‘m sorry,” Joel begins, his hands working their way to their usual spot on his hips. “We can’t—“

“We can’t run the risk, I know,” you sigh heavily, finishing his sentence for him. “I just wish there wasn’t a risk—“

The sudden crash of thunder catches you by surprise, making you jump away from him. Distant sounds of clicker screeching fills the air next and you don’t have enough time to fix your confident facade that slips. Joel notices it, and he sees the fear in your eyes despite the smile you flash at him and the dismissive laugh that follows.

“Jesus, you’d think I’d get used to that by now,” you chuckle, folding your arms across your chest. He sees through the act you’re putting on and sighs quietly. Wordlessly, he takes another step towards you, closing the distance and pulling you into him.

His body is warm and his strong arms feel gentle as he embraces you. This was a first between the two of you, even the smallest moments of intimacy being somewhat of a struggle for him. He’s never said it aloud but you’ve picked up on the signs after months and months of knowing him. The one thing you never do, however, is force him to open up to you. Not even after hearing his broken whispers as he recalled the events he’s had to witness.

You don’t realize how much you need his touch until he’s giving it to you, and now you don’t want to go without it. His arms around you feel like they’re holding you together enough that you can allow yourself to relax completely. It’s the first time in, well forever, that you feel like something else is barring the weight for you. And you can’t help yourself from unwinding in his hold.

You let yourself sink into his chest, your head resting below his collarbone as you inhale shakily. His heartbeat sounds out rhythmically into your ear and its predictable, repetitive pattern soothes you instantly. Slowly but surely, you’re able to bring in deeper breaths of air as your hands grab at his large back tightly. Everything else in the room fades as you squeeze your eyes shut—everything except for him.

A few moments pass and Joel begins to loosen his hold on you. His hands leave your back and begin to pull away, but you don’t let go. It must’ve dawn on him that you needed him more than he realized, because he goes back to holding you after clearing his throat gently.

You don’t want to push his boundaries or make him uncomfortable, so you bring in two big breaths of air before untangling yourself from him. He stares down at you, his eyes scanning both of yours quickly, and you feel as though you could melt under his gaze. Your feelings for him had always been there, but after that display of affection? You know you’re wrapped around his finger now.

Joel looks as though he’s about to say something; his lips part as his eyebrows pull together, but you speak before he can.

“So…” you trail off as you swing your arms awkwardly. You don’t have anything else to add; your fear of what he might say overpowered any ideas you had before you opened your mouth. His eyes fall to your hands, which are still moving, and you become painfully aware of how odd you’re acting.

“So!” you wind your arms around your chest, “What’re we thinking? Living room or one of the beds?” you ask with a joking laugh. The confusion on Joel’s face is plainly there in his rough features, but thankfully he drops it. He clears his throat once again before nodding his head towards the hallway you left just a moment ago.

“Figured we’d use the beds, since they’re there. Those sleeping bags have been killing my back,” he rasps out as he places his palm over his lower spine. He shakes his head gently, almost as if he’s reliving the pain of the sore muscles the next morning. When he glances back up at you he lets out a small chuckle, muttering, “‘M gettin’ too old for that.”

The fact that he chooses to laugh off the awkward moment has your heart tightening in your chest and a genuine smile finds its way back to your face again.

It takes only a few minutes for you and Joel to move your bags and other supplies into the new room. He doesn’t bring up the extra seconds of comfort you relished in, or the slightly embarrassing aftermath of the moment—which you’re immensely thankful for.

The mattress is, unsurprisingly, stiff and you swear you can feel the springs each time you move to get comfortable. It’s silent other than the shuffling of your clothing and Joel’s quiet breathing. Your back is facing him but you can faintly feel the warmth radiating from his body. You want more than anything to pull him closer, to spare you both from the drafty walls of this old house, but you aren’t sure you can muster up the courage.

The minutes slip by as the rain patters gently on the glass of the windows. The storm is finally settling down now and you catch the shadows of the rain through the glass; the image is projected on the wall as the droplets roll down. It’s times like these where the world seems so peaceful, you almost forget about the threats of this new world.

“Are you asleep?” your whisper cuts through the silence like a knife. There’s a pause, and for half a second you think he might’ve drifted off.

“‘M too cold to sleep,” his raspy voice sounds out, and you can’t help the chuckle that falls from your mouth.

“Yeah… yeah me too,” you admit to him. The silence that falls after you speak feels thick, and you’re once again regretting your choice of words. 

You do though find comfort in his presence. Having him close makes you feel safe, but it does nothing to help the chittering of your teeth. You let out a long sigh as you rub your hands over your arms, attempting to use the friction to warm up.

“Do, uh… Do you want me to help?” he speaks up out of the darkness.

“How?” you ask with sincerity. There’s only one thing you could think of that could fix this situation at all, and you doubt he’d do it.

“I don’t…,” he trails off, trying to rack his brain for an answer. “‘M not sure. We can’t have the fire—,” he begins to explain, but you cut him off.

“No, I know, Joel, it’s okay,” you sigh. There’s a long pause after you speak and you just wish he would get the hint already. As the seconds pass the shiver in your bones grows tiring, and you finally cave in.

“C-could you… hold me?” And again you’re met with silence. Joel doesn’t say anything and you clammer to explain. “Just, y’know, it’d be warmer if you… We’d share heat that way.”

He lets out a deep grunt and you can’t help but worry that he’s hating the idea. You feel paralyzed, too scared to check over your shoulder to see his reaction. The pulsing grows in your chest and you fear you’ve overstepped again.

Joel’s arm lightly curls around your waist, and you nearly flinch from the contact. Your entire side lights up and you inhale shakily, his touch feels burning hot as it spreads through your body. The next thing you feel is his chest pressing into your back, his scent filling in the air around you.

You bite down on your lip, determined to not spoil the moment with your clumsy words. You’ve never been this close with him before, despite your crush that’s developed over the months. He’s so much warmer than you could’ve ever pictured all of those nights under the fire, longing to be in this exact situation.

Joel moves his hand down to hold your lower stomach instead but you feel his arm tense up. He begins to speak but cuts himself off, opting to move his hand back to its original place. It’s slightly reassuring to see him acting stiffly as well. It reminds you that you’re not alone in the newness of it all.

“Is that… Does this feel alright?” he mumbles, uncertainty clear in his voice.

“It’s good. It’s uh, it’s warm,” you chuckle lightly, moving your palm to cover the back of his hand, “thank you.” Your fingers wrap around the bruises on his busted knuckles. He doesn’t say anything else, but he nestles his fingers between your ribs and the mattress.

You try your best to focus on his body and not on the cold, but your brain has other ideas. Each rise and fall of his chest has him pushing against you and he’s so close you can feel his breath on your shoulder. Every second that passes makes your awareness of him worse and worse.

A shiver runs its course through your body again, a sign of the chill still deep in your bones. He doesn’t mention it but wraps his arms tighter anyway. The close grip does nothing but make you crave more of him. An idea pops into your head suddenly, and you don’t give yourself a chance to second guess it and back out. You push your ass back into his crotch and his hand immediately leaves your ribs, trying to stop you from doing it again.

“Don’t,” he grunts behind clenched teeth. His fingers dig into your hip tightly and your breath catches in your throat. He’s never sounded this rough with you but the rasp in chest makes you grow hotter between your thighs.

“C’mon, Joel,” you nearly whine, “it’s so cold.” You roll your hips back again, pushing yourself against his bulge once more. His grip on you tightens and you immediately stop.

“That’s a bad idea,” he whispers gravely. The air around the words ghost over your neck and goosebumps start decorating your skin. The gruff tone of his voice does nothing but add fuel to the fire in your lower stomach and you press your thighs together to try and get some relief.

“We don’t have to—not, not all the way, I mean.” You sigh defeatedly, knowing you’ve probably ruined your chance at sparking more than a friendship between the two of you. Each bout of silence feels worse than the last, but this time you feel like if you speak at all you’ll destroy everything. 

A weary sigh comes from behind your shoulder, the breath blowing your hair lightly. You swallow thickly as you feel his hand move and hear his belt buckle sound out a second later.

“Shit,” he mumbles, and the sound of denim shifting grows louder. His jeans are kicked off and tossed onto the floor as he presses his lower half against you again. You can’t believe it’s actually happening, that he’s truly considering this.

“Are you sure about this? We don’t have to do this, any of it, if you don’t want it,” the words leaving his mouth are barely audible. You finally turn your head over your shoulder to look him in the eyes, nodding gently before whispering, “Please.”

He swallows heavily and glances down between the two of you. You follow his gaze and see his cock, still mostly soft, and you reach down to hold him. The groan doesn’t quite leave his chest as you wrap your fingers around him, gently pumping him in your hand twice before lining him up with your entrance.

Joel slowly guides his hips to follow your movements, pushing inside of you. Even when he’s soft you can feel the decent size he is, and as the seconds pass, you feel him grow bigger inside of you. He doesn’t speak during it, but you hear the way he’s breathing through gritted teeth.

“Sorry, I can’t help—,” he cuts himself off as his fingernails dig deeper into your side. You’re not sure how much bigger he’ll get, but you’re beginning to feel the stretch of his thickness. Feeling him slowly fill you from the inside is a sensation you’re not used to, but you let out a pleased hum from how much warmer you are.

His cock continues to get harder and his fingers let go of you just to grab you tight again. It’s almost as if he feels guilty for his body’s natural reaction, but he can’t fight it either. You feel him give a faint twitch and you clench around him instinctively. His forehead presses against your shoulder as he sighs loudly, his now swollen tip pressing into your lower stomach.

“I don’t think either of us will fall asleep like this,” you speak up in the silence. He’s hard and heavy inside of you and you can feel each vein along his cock. He groans again before pushing himself up, changing positions so he’s on top of you. He doesn’t pull out, however, and now that he’s moved he’s somehow slipped even deeper inside of you.  

He’s staring down at where you two are connected as he pants lightly, still trying to get used to the new feeling. You reach out for his cheek, cupping his face in your palm as your thumb drags along his bottom lip. His desperate eyes search for yours in the dark and you notice the shaky breath he lets out. His fingers curl around your wrist gently as he squeezes his eyes shut. He looks as if he’s in pain, but the twitching you feel inside of you tells you otherwise.

“It’s okay, Joel. You can move,” you instruct him, pulling his lip down. Those words snap something inside of him and he plunges forward, kissing you deeply. Your heart races in your chest as he begins to move forward, pressing himself deeper inside of you. His tongue glides along yours and you moan into his mouth before he breaks the kiss.

He glances back down to where he’s buried inside of you and you watch how he takes it all in. You can hear the sounds of your slick each time he pushes in, the noise so loud in the otherwise quiet room. His hips rock forward torturously slow but pull back before he can bottom out; you can’t help the frown on your face as he does it repeatedly.

“Joel, what’s wrong? Why aren’t you…” you’re not sure how to finish the sentence, but thankfully he understands. His groans fall from the back of his throat as he sits back on his calves, stilling inside of you.

“I haven’t—it’s been so long,” they’re the only words he can think of to explain. It clicks for you then that the reason he’s being so hesitant must be because of how it feels for him. You can’t help the fond smile you flash at him before reaching for his neck to pull him back to you. His lips are soft as he kisses you back and you let your hand fall from his neck to cup his jaw again. You brush your thumb along his cheek, feeling the scratchy beard tickling your palm.

He rocks his hips inside of you faster now but still, he doesn’t go as deep as he can. You try telling him it’s okay, coaxing him with little praises, but he still holds himself back. You can feel yourself craving more and an idea pops into your head.

You wrap your legs around his sides, crossing your ankles and dig the heel of your foot into his lower back. You pull him down onto you as close as you can and he lets out a shuddering moan. Rubbing your hands over his broad shoulders, you give him time to adjust to the feeling of his entire length inside of you.

Joel sniffles after a moment and you feel his hips buck into you. The head of his cock nudges that part deep in your stomach where the pleasure nearly hurts because of how full of him you are. You clench around him and he lets out a strangled cry, letting his face fall into your neck.

His lips suck on the sensitive skin below your jaw, grazing his teeth along you before biting gently. He continues to rut inside of you, never pulling back, not wanting to leave your warmth. He licks over your skin as he soothes the mark he just left on you before unbuttoning your shirt, his hand cupping your breast. The wet stripe on your neck grows cold as the air hits it and you let out a moan of his name.

“Oh, Christ,” he curses quietly, squeezing your chest under his palm. The reflection of the rain on glass illuminates his face now as he stares at you. You watch as the droplets roll down his cheeks; they glide over the lines and scars decorating his face that tell a thousand tales. He bites down on his bottom lip and you catch the way his throat tightens, the veins tensing, like he’s trying to stay quiet.

“It’s okay, Joel. I wanna hear you,” you whisper as if it’s meant for just him to hear. He looks into your eyes as his own are filled with uncertainty. Nodding your head, you watch as his composure slowly breaks down and you finally hear the guttural groan that comes from his chest.

His moans fall freely now, as if your words were permission for him to express himself. Every sound that escapes his lips turns you on even more now that you hear just how good he’s feeling. His hand drops from your chest as his fingers glide down your stomach, lighting a fire on your skin as they move. He reaches for the underside of your thigh and he pushes your knee up to your chest. With the new angle his cock pushes impossibly deeper and you gasp, your fingers tugging on the silver strands at the back of his head.

“You feel…” he groans, dragging his hips back until just his head is inside of you. “You feel so fucking good,” he chokes out before thrusting again. His fingers move to your clit, rubbing your slick over where you’re most sensitive and his touch has you clenching around him.

“Oh, fuck, Joel!” you cry out as you buck your hips, squirming under his touch. Hearing his name falling out of a broken moan, his hips stutter forward and the tempo he sets begins to falter. You feel the heat quickly growing deep in your stomach and you know neither of you will last much longer.

“C-C’mon, honey, I need you,” he grunts out louder, his southern accent coming out thicker as he rubs his thumb over your clit faster. His opposite hand squeezes your hip tightly and you feel as though he might bruise the skin from how tight he’s holding you. Your voice shakes through your whimpers as he moves faster, your body bouncing underneath his hard thrusts.

Joel thrusts inside one last time before stilling, his cock twitching as he comes. The warmth filling you while he lets out a growl of your name is the last thing you need to push you over the edge. You clench around him repeatedly, drawing out his own orgasm as you two fall apart in each other’s embrace.

He doesn’t move after that, only hides his face into your neck again as he nuzzles his nose along your collarbone. His lips cover the markings he left just minutes ago, tending to them with gentle kisses. Neither of you say anything as you let your bodies relax into one another and it’s the most relief you’ve felt in months.

Your hands find their way to his broad back, rubbing over his shoulders absentmindedly while you listen to the rain lightly patter on the roof. His weight presses into you still as he lies on top of you, the feeling grounding you as you notice the kisses have stopped for a few minutes.

Looking down at your shoulder, you see his face is completely peaceful. The regular furrow of his eyebrows is smoothed out and the nearly permanent frown has left his face. All those worried lines have disappeared now and there’s not a single mutter disturbing his sleep.

You’ve never seen him this calm and you feel an overwhelming sense of pride that you were able to give him this—the first night where he doesn’t force himself to stay awake despite his heavy eyes, or wake up in a sweat from awful nightmares.

You decide right then and there that you want to give him this one perfect night. Slowly slipping out from underneath Joel, careful not to wake him, you pick your clothes up off of the floor and dress yourself. You grab your bag and weapons before kneeling beside the mattress on the floor. Running your fingers through his hair, you press a kiss to his temple before making your way out of the room.

With one last look over your shoulder at his sleeping face, you pull the door shut silently. You take watch that night, sitting in the living room until the sun rises between the gaps in the boarded up windows, giving him one night of peace.

[theplotmage]

Hi, I was wondering if you could so some sort of rule set for time travel? I'm finding it hard to describe, and what rules there are on the subject.

Thanks!

Hello, I'm also writing a time traveling sci-fi fiction with a fantasy blend to it and here are some things that I find that could help us out!

Rule Set for Creating Believable Time-Traveling Fiction

1. Time Travel Mechanics

Mechanism Description

- Clearly explain how time travel works in your story. Is it a machine, a natural phenomenon, a magical object, or an innate ability?

Scientific Basis

- Incorporate real scientific theories, such as Einstein’s theory of relativity, wormholes, or quantum mechanics, to ground your story in plausible science.

Limitations and Costs

- Define the limitations of time travel, such as distance in time, frequency, energy requirements, or physical toll on the traveler.

2. World-Building

Historical Accuracy

- Research and accurately depict the time periods your characters travel to. Include cultural norms, language, technology, and major events of those eras.

Parallel Worlds and Timelines

- Decide if time travel in your story creates alternate timelines or if it follows a single, mutable timeline. Consistency is key.

Temporal Organization

- Consider the existence of a governing body or organization that regulates time travel. Define its structure, rules, and purpose.

3. Language and Communication

Temporal Dialects

- Characters from different time periods should speak differently. Use historical dialects, slang, and accents appropriate to each era.

Temporal Jargon

- Create specific terms and jargon for time travelers and the technology they use, such as “temporal jump,” “chrononaut,” or “time anchor.”

Code of Conduct

- Develop a code of conduct or set of guidelines that time travelers must follow, including how they communicate with each other and with people from different eras.

4. Character Development

Motivations and Goals

- Clearly define why characters want to time travel. Is it for adventure, to change a personal event, or for scientific exploration?

Personal Growth

- Show how time travel affects characters emotionally and psychologically. Do they struggle with the ethics of their actions or the loneliness of being out of their time?

Conflict and Tension

- Use the potential for paradoxes, rival time travelers, and moral dilemmas to create conflict and tension.

5. Ethical and Moral Implications

Paradox Prevention

- Address how your story handles paradoxes, such as the grandfather paradox. Use concepts like self-healing timelines or fixed points in time to explain inconsistencies.

Ethical Dilemmas

- Explore the moral implications of time travel. Should characters intervene in historical events? What are the consequences of changing the past Responsibility

- Emphasize the responsibility that comes with the power to alter time. Characters should consider the broader implications of their actions.

6. Plot Structure

Non-Linear Narrative

- Use non-linear storytelling techniques to enhance complexity and intrigue. Flashbacks, flash-forwards, and parallel timelines can create a rich narrative.

Foreshadowing and Payoff

- Plant clues and foreshadowing that pay off later in the story. Ensure that all plot threads are resolved by the end.

Multiple Perspectives

- Consider telling the story from multiple viewpoints to show the impact of time travel from different angles.

7. Integrating Science Fiction and Fantasy Elements

Scientific Plausibility

- Ground your time travel mechanics in plausible science, even if you incorporate fantastical elements. Use pseudo-scientific explanations to bridge the gap.

Imaginative Enhancements

- Blend scientific theories with imaginative elements, such as ancient artifacts, alien technology, or supernatural forces.

Explanatory Dialogue

- Use character dialogue to explain complex concepts in an accessible way without overwhelming the reader with technical details.

8. World-Building Consistency

Timeline Integrity

- Map out key events in your story’s timeline to avoid inconsistencies and plot holes.

Cultural and Societal Impact

- Consider how time travel affects society. Is it a well-known and regulated practice, or a secret known only to a few?

Technological and Historical Changes

- Explore how changes in the past affect technology and history in the present and future. Ensure these changes are logically consistent.

9. Avoiding Common Pitfalls

Avoid Overcomplication

- Keep the rules of time travel simple enough for readers to follow without getting bogged down in excessive technical detail.

Plot Holes

- Be vigilant about potential plot holes and inconsistencies that can arise from complex time travel mechanics.

Exposition Balance

- Balance the need to explain time travel mechanics with maintaining the story’s pace and engagement. Avoid info-dumping.

Rules for Time Traveling

1. One-Way Trips Only

Restriction

- Time travelers can only move forward or backward in time once without the possibility of a return journey.

Explanation

- This rule ensures that the timeline remains linear and prevents paradoxes caused by multiple interactions with the same time period.

Effect

- Limits interference with historical events and reduces the chance of creating alternate realities.

2. The Observer Effect

Restriction

- Time travelers cannot interact with their past selves or directly influence their previous actions.

Explanation

- Direct interaction with one’s past self could create paradoxes, such as the “grandfather paradox,” where altering past events prevents the traveler’s existence.

Effect

- Maintains the integrity of the timeline and ensures personal history remains consistent.

3. Fixed Points in Time

Restriction

- Certain historical events, known as fixed points, cannot be changed or altered in any way.

Explanation

- These events are crucial for the stability of the timeline and the universe’s structure.

Effect

- Prevents catastrophic changes to reality, ensuring key moments in history remain intact.

4. Memory Corruption

Restriction

- Excessive time travel can lead to memory corruption, where the traveler starts forgetting crucial details of their original timeline.

Explanation

- The brain struggles to handle multiple versions of events, leading to cognitive dissonance and memory loss.

Effect

- Ensures travelers use time travel sparingly and only when absolutely necessary.

5. Temporal Anchor

Restriction

- Time travelers must establish a temporal anchor, a fixed point in time to which they can return or stabilize themselves.

Explanation

- This anchor serves as a safeguard against getting lost in time or drifting uncontrollably through different periods.

Effect

- Provides a safety net for travelers, ensuring they have a way back to their original timeline or a stable reference point.

6. Butterfly Effect

Restriction

- Minor changes in the past can have significant, unforeseen consequences in the future.

Explanation

- The butterfly effect illustrates how small actions can ripple through time, drastically altering future events.

Effect

- Encourages travelers to be cautious and minimize their impact on past events to avoid unintended consequences.

7. Temporal Energy Consumption

Restriction

- Time travel requires a significant amount of energy, often depleting the traveler’s resources or affecting the environment.

Explanation

- The energy needed to manipulate time is immense, and its usage can lead to resource shortages or environmental damage.

Effect

- Ensures time travel is not undertaken lightly and that travelers consider the environmental and resource costs.

8. Chrono-Sickness

Restriction

- Prolonged exposure to different time periods can cause physical and mental ailments, known as chrono-sickness.

Explanation

- The human body and mind are not designed to handle the stress of moving through time, leading to disorientation, nausea, and psychological effects.

Effect

- Limits the duration and frequency of time travel, encouraging travelers to minimize their trips.

9. Temporal Interference

Restriction

- Time travelers must avoid interfering with major historical figures or events.

Explanation

- Interfering with significant events or individuals can drastically alter the course of history, leading to unpredictable outcomes.

Effect

- Preserves the natural flow of history and ensures major events occur as intended.

10. Temporal Paradoxes

Restriction

- Travelers must avoid creating paradoxes, situations where actions in the past contradict the present or future.

Explanation

- Paradoxes can destabilize the timeline, potentially leading to its collapse or the creation of alternate realities.

Effect

- Ensures travelers act responsibly and with caution, preventing actions that could lead to paradoxical situations.

***

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[dailyadventureprompts]

Tableskills: Creating Dread

I've often had a lot of problems telling scary stories at my table, whether it be in d&d or other horror focused games. I personally don't get scared easily, especially around "traditionally horrifying" things so it's hard for me to recreate that experience in others. Likewise, you can't just port horror movie iconography into tabletop and expect it to evoke genuine fear: I've already spoken of being bored out of my mind during the zombie apocalypse, and my few trips into ravenloft have all been filled with similar levels of limp and derivative grimdark.

It took me a long time (and a lot of video essays about films I'd never watched) to realize that in terms of an experience fear is a lot like a joke, in that it requires multiple steps of setup and payoff. Dread is that setup, it's the rising tension in a scene that makes the revelation worth it, the slow and literal rising of a rollercoaster before the drop. It's way easier to inspire dread in your party than it is to scare them apropos of nothing, which has the added flexibility of letting you choose just the right time to deliver the frights.

TLDR: You start with one of the basic human fears (guide to that below) to emotionally prime your players and introduce it to your party in a initially non-threataning manor. Then you introduce a more severe version of it in a way that has stakes but is not overwhelmingly scary just yet. You wait until they're neck deep in this second scenario before throwing in some kind of twist that forces them to confront their discomfort head on.

More advice (and spoilers for The Magnus Archives) below the cut.

Before we go any farther it's vitally important that you learn your party's limits and triggers before a game begins. A lot of ttrpg content can be downright horrifying without even trying to be, so it's critical you know how everyone in your party is going to react to something before you go into it. Whether or not you're running an actual horror game or just wanting to add some tension to an otherwise heroic romp, you and your group need to be on the same page about this, and discuss safety systems from session 0 onwards.

The Fundamental Fears: It may seem a bit basic but one of the greatest tools to help me understand different aspects of horror was the taxonomy invented by Jonathan Sims of The Magnus Archives podcast. He breaks down fear into different thematic and emotional through lines, each given a snappy name and iconography that's so memorable that I often joke it's the queer-horror version of pokemon types or hogwarts houses. If we start with a basic understanding of WHY people find things scary we learn just what dials we need turn in order to build dread in our players.

Implementation: Each of these examples is like a colour we can paint a scene or encounter with, flavouring it just so to tickle a particular, primal part of our party's brains. You don't have to do much, just something along the lines of "the upcoming cave tunnel is getting a little too close for comfort" or "the all-too thin walkway creaks under your weight ", or "what you don't see is the movement at the edge of the room". Once the seed is planted your party's' minds will do most of the work: humans are social, pattern seeking creatures, and the hint of danger to one member of the group will lay the groundwork of fear in all the rest.

The trick here is not to over commit, which is the mistake most ttrpgs make with horror: actually showing the monster, putting the party into a dangerous situation, that’s the finisher, the  punchline of the joke. It’s also a release valve on all the pressure you’ve been hard at work building.

There’s nothing all that scary about fighting a level-appropriate number of skeletons, but forcing your party to creep through a series of dark, cobweb infested catacombs with the THREAT of being attacked by undead? That’s going to have them climbing the walls.

Let narration and bad dice rolls be your main tools here, driving home the discomfort, the risk, the looming threat.

Surprise: Now that you’ve got your party marinating in dread, what you want to do to really scare them is to throw a curve ball. Go back to that list and find another fear which either compliments or contrasts the original one you set up, and have it lurking juuuust out of reach ready to pop up at a moment of perfect tension like a jack in the box. The party is climbing down a slick interior of an underdark cavern, bottom nowhere in sight? They expect to to fall, but what they couldn't possibly expect is for a giant arm to reach out of the darkness and pull one of them down. Have the party figured out that there's a shapeshifter that's infiltrated the rebel meeting and is killing their allies? They suspect suspicion and lies but what they don't expect is for the rebel base to suddenly be on FIRE forcing them to run.

My expert advice is to lightly tease this second threat LONG before you introduce the initial scare. Your players will think you're a genius for doing what amounts to a little extra work, and curse themselves for not paying more attention.

Restraint: Less is more when it comes to scares, as if you do this trick too often your players are going to be inured to it. Try to do it maybe once an adventure, or dungeon level. Scares hit so much harder when the party isn't expecting them. If you're specifically playing in a "horror" game, it's a good idea to introduce a few false scares, or make multiple encounters part of the same bait and switch scare tactic: If we're going into the filthy gross sewer with mould and rot and rats and the like, you'll get more punch if the final challenge isn't corruption based, but is instead some new threat that we could have never prepared for.

Art