#writing hooks

[mangotangerine]

More mango writing advice! This episode on Writing Tools, Not Rules, we answer the question:

Where do I start my story?

(Or scene, or sentence)

In the middle! Unless it's better to start at the beginning.

There is some advice I've seen a couple places, about starting a scene "late" and ending it "early", that I think is good advice—for the most part!

But sometimes it's not good advice, because perhaps starting late and ending early isn't actually what you want to do for the specific story you're telling.

We'll start with talking about what "starting late" means first.

What this common advice is getting at is the importance of hooking the reader and building interest.

"But how do I hook a reader?" you ask. Good question. And people will tell you, "By adding curiosity! By leaving information out! By starting in the middle!"

But what the fuck does any of that actually mean?

All around us, every day, we're surrounded by (and filtering through) tons and tons and tons of information. Some of it's environmental information that our brain is subconsciously taking in and categorizing, some of us are in school, reading textbooks, or scrolling through Wikipedia. Or maybe a waiter is telling us the specials of the day!

It's all information, and it's all being processed, and it's all being sorted and subconsciously (or sometimes consciously) judged.

As a species, we've gotten real fucking good at being able to tune out what's not important and at anticipating what might come next.

And we know, when something starts out at the beginning, with something like, "There was a girl," or "a long long time ago," or "Jimmy wakes up on Sunday," or "Janine takes a bucket of chicken feed out to her chickens," that it could go fucking anywhere.

Starting like that isn't wrong, but it's asking the reader to invest time in something that could end up going nowhere at all. Hooking a reader is about giving them right in the beginning: A) why they need to care, B) why what you're writing is interesting, and C) why the reader can trust you to deliver something interesting.

Example One

Consider these two options:

Janine takes a bucket of chicken feed out to her chickens.

vs.

Janine stares up at the sky, chicken feed spread out in a chaotic smorgasbord across the lawn.

The first one: okay, what's she doing with the chicken feed? Feeding chickens. Great. Cool. What next? Something cool? Is it gonna be about how much Janine loves her chickens? What's this story?

The second one: What the fuck happened to Janine and why'd she throw chicken feed across the lawn?

This is what people mean when they say "start in the middle."

Don't start with Janine taking her chicken feed out, trying to scatter it, and how she, I don't know, steps on a banana peel, chicken feed flying, chickens tumbling out of the coop like bowling pins.

Start with her slipping on the banana peel, chicken feed flying, chickens tumbling out of the coop like bowling pins, or start with the aftermath of Janine lying down surrounded by chicken feed.

You immediately hand the reader something interesting, something they now want to know more about, a mystery for them to solve. They're invested. What happened to Janine and her chicken feed?

Then you can go into the backstory. You've seen the technique before in other places, I'm sure. We've all seen a movie or TV episode where it starts on a chaotic scene and you get the narrator character voiceover of, "So how did I get here?"

Exact same concept, just a different medium. You want to tell the reader there's something interesting here, give them a flavor of what to expect, and then you can pull back and start to fill in the blanks—or not! You don't have to! You can just go forward from Janine and the chickens tumbling out like bowling pins, or from her staring at the sky, surrounded by chicken feed and tumbling chickens.

See, you don't really need the, "she walked outside with a bucket full of chicken feed," if your story isn't about how she has chicken feed, and where it came from, and even if that is what your story is about—where can you start it instead, that gives the reader a taste of what to expect? That leaves a little mystery?

Example Two

Let's explore another example, and explore what your intro is actually doing and what the impact of the words is. We're going to take one of the examples I gave that I implied you shouldn't start with, and tell you how you can start with that.

"Jimmy wakes up on a Sunday."

What does this tell the reader about what kind of story this is? What's the relevant piece here? That he's waking up, that it's Sunday? Is any of that relevant? What's important about him waking up on a Sunday?

Jimmy = our character, who will be revealed anyway.

Wakes up = something everyone does. Well… usually.

on a Sunday = this adds specificity. Specificity is an indication that something is important.

What's your next sentence going to be? Will it give context as to why Sunday is important? If it doesn't, the reader is going to either think, "okay maybe the next sentence will," or they're going to throw, "on a Sunday," out as unimportant.

You've just given the reader a sentence that does nothing. It tells them nothing.

Consider:

"Jimmy wakes up on a Sunday. He checks his clock—fuck, it's 12:00 PM already."

Jimmy = our character, who will be revealed anyway.

Wakes up = something (most) people do.

on a Sunday = specific, potentially relevant.

THEN

He checks his clock = He has a clock, he checks it, that's a normal thing.

fuck = Oh. An emotion. Something's wrong.

it's 12:00 PM = the time. Most people wake up earlier than that, but not everyone. Why is waking up at 12:00 PM bad?

already = he did not mean to wake up at 12:00 PM.

You added just one sentence, which did the following:

It confirmed that Sunday is important information. Wonderful, now your reader knows there's something to discover here.

It gave some more very specific information. Using our fantastic brains and how we are pattern matching experts, we have the beginning of a pattern emerging—that you are giving us specific information that is, in fact, actually important.

It gave emotion. It tells us something about the character. He's not just Jimmy anymore, he's a Jimmy who is unhappy about waking up at 12:00 PM on a Sunday for some reason. What could be the reason?

It gives something to anticipate. Is it because he's missing church? Is there important band practice? Why would he be upset about waking up so late if it wasn't something interesting? We don't usually feel fuck-level emotions about mundane shit.

It presents a setting.

It drives the story forward. It adds important information. It confirms the first sentence wasn't empty and purposeless.

The thing is, you still started at the "beginning." You went against advice. You broke the rules. Does that make this start bad?

No. Why? Because this does what the advice is trying to tell you to do. It's a quick hack to build interest, starting in the middle of the action. It's advice that's easy to follow, a great formula for people who aren't sure.

But it doesn't tell you why starting in the middle acts as a hook, it doesn't tell you what that does to the reader, how that hooks the reader, not in a way you can repeat.

And this information I present to you isn't just useful for starting stories, either. Maybe you're starting a new scene, or a new chapter. Or maybe you're in the middle of a scene, and you don't know where to take it next. Or maybe you're reviewing a scene, and editing, and it drags a bit, and you're not sure why.

Understanding the reader journey, where you're leading them, and what they're getting from your writing—that's useful regardless of where you are in your story.

So you've learned what starting "in the middle" looks like, you've learned that it isn't always necessary, and you've learned why. You've learned how to repeat the process. You've learned why certain things work, and certain things don't. You've learned how one sentence leads into the next, what drives a story forward.

You've learned how to start your story.

[sleepii-moth]

movie sonadow but its that awkward crush phase where sonic is just really dramatic about everything

[bricreative]

Already thinking about their future together UGH they make me sick

Inspired by Heybosshotsauce fic “Lovers, Hunters” Chapter 12, on AO3! A great blend of pre/post battle missing scenes and flashbacks that relate to the story.

Check em out!

[myfairstarlight]

We joke but the fact NO ONE bats an eye when Penelope and Colin are unchaperoned in broad daylight, or the way they keep to themselves in the corner of balls and other events, speaks a lot of how little the ton considers Penelope as a desirable debutante. Fife and co mock Colin for his friendship with her. Portia catches them alone in a room and somehow doesn't jump on the YOU MUST MARRY train. Even Anthony, albeit s1 Anthony so he's a bit dumb, comments that Colin has danced multiple times with Penelope yet it does not signify.

Side note but I would kill to see his reaction when he hears Colin interrupted Penelope's and Debling's dance lol.

Everyone sees Colin running after Penelope multiple times this season, and everyone assumes it's out of pity, rather than care. Like she's not even the one chasing him, he's the one doing it in all four episodes!

Never in their wildest fantasies could they imagine Colin Bridgerton being interested in Penelope Featherington indeed. And oh boy, are they in for a rude awakening! Because that boy is already loud with his actions when he wasn't even aware of his feelings, but he's gonna be even louder with his words to make sure everyone understands how much Penelope Featherington is beloved by him.

[crispyliza]

I've got you all figured out fanartists

[noodles-and-tea]

personally i think the funniest way of explaining anything off about the reported timeframes in your au is to have both stan & ford being absolutely terrible with time

stan being like damn the 50s sucks & little ford going its the 60s???? & ford going ‘nearly 30 years ago’ and fidds being like ford you’re like 30 that doesn’t make sense

I love that so much

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Hooking your Readers

Hook—The first line, lines, or paragraph meant to grab the reader’s attention

For most people, a night out at the movies includes sitting through the coming attractions. We watch these short bursts of scenes that scare us, intrigue us, make us laugh, and sometimes nearly bring us to tears. No matter the preview, though, if it looks good, we want to go see the movie. An effective “hook” in your story works the same way. You want to grab your reader right away and compel them to continue reading.

Some common strategies for creating a hook & examples:

Anecdote: My hands shook and beads of sweat rolled down my face. I double-checked the directions before assembling my tools and turning up the heat. Making lasagna shouldn’t have been this stressful, but in my grandmother’s kitchen, the stakes were a little higher. 

Direct quote: “Be open and use the world around you.” Toni Morrison gives this advice about the craft of writing, but I find that it applies to most areas of my life.

General statement or truth: Every child, no matter how sheltered or well-adjusted, will experience fear. Whether they are scared of the monster under the bed or the neighbor’s barking dog, children experience fear as a normal and healthy part of childhood.

History: On Wednesday, August 28, 1963, thousands traveled to Washington D.C. by road, rail, and air. There were demonstrators of all races, creeds, and genders. Unafraid of the intimidation and violence they faced, they demonstrated for the rights of all. Known as The Great March on Washington, this day marked an important turning point in the Civil Rights Movement in the United States.

Metaphor: Stretched out in a sunbeam, my cat may seem timid, but really, she’s a lion. She will stealthily stalk her prey, attack without mercy, and leave a trail of blood and guts in her wake. Afterward, as she grooms her luxurious mane, she shows no remorse.

Scene or illustration: Shadows stretch across the pavement as jack-o-lanterns flicker in windows. Little trick-or-treaters scamper from porch to porch, filling their bags with various forms of sugar. It is the day dentists dread most: Halloween.

Sensory description: The stale smell of cigarettes engulfed me as I stepped into the dim, silent apartment. The heat had been turned off, so I could see my breath fog in front of me as I carefully stepped over the old pizza boxes, overturned cups, and random pieces of paper strewn across the floor.

Startling statistic or statement: Teenage drivers crash their cars at nearly ten times the rate of older drivers.

More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

A Most Mousterious Mind.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

This is off topic but the switch direct featured a game called Disney villains cursed café, and it got me thinking, what if Yuu ran a café in twst

I saw the trailer myself and instantly thought of Twst! 😭

Maybe Yuu wouldn’t be able to have their own café (lack of capital for startup), but they could be the Mostro Lounge’s barista or something? They have what appears to be a bar-like area:

It could be considered a part-time job to supplement the monthly allowance Crowley gives Yuu! It’d also be a good way for them to spread the Magic of Friendship and interact with the student body way more than what is shown in the main story.

If that part-time job goes well and Yuu enjoys it, maybe it could be a viable career path for them once they graduate NRC (assuming they don't find a way back to their world)? With a degree from a prestigious arcane academy + connections built by then, Yuu could surely net some financial backers and set up shop in Foothill Town (or even on NRC campus!). They could even have drinks and sweets themed after the dorms of inspired by their classmates. Since a lot of the expendable items in Twst gameplay are edible, it would also be so cool if Yuu recreated them for their business. Friendship Popcorn, Leaping Macarons, Rich Card Cookies, Limelight Waffles, Lucky Cupcakes, Starshards, Friendship Tea, Secret Snacks, breads drizzled with Blooming Honey, etc. It sounds like the beginning of a cozy fantasy novel www

In Disney Villains Cursed Café because I want to talk about how silly it is, you play the part of a "potionista" and serve magical brews to various Disney villains in a modern setting. Your choices will influence the villains' ambitions and result in different things happening in their storylines! Some stories teased include:

Gaston attempting to impress his golfing buddies

Hook wanting to be the star of a community theater production

Maleficent seeking to dominate on social media

Ursula becoming a reality TV sensation

The art style is very stylish, and I'm always a sucker for games involving food and fairy tale motifs 🤡

Some customers you'll meet include Ursula, Gaston, Jafar, Captain Hook. Cruelle De Vil, and Maleficent (in casual wear!). asdbasoydasd The Mistress of Evil using her staff as a selfie stick in the promo art makes me laugh a little 😅 Gaston looking preppy and athletic is also super fitting, but Jafar looks so different in a hat and suit that I had to do a double-take when I first saw him.

If you pay close attention, you'll also find Easter eggs in the decor and background! For example, Flotsam and Jetsam are in a glass container on the left of your counter, and the Magic Mirror seems to be mounted on the right. You'll find customers seated at tables and enjoying their drinks (JAFAR WHY ARE YOU HUNCHED OVER LIKE THAT... I also spot what seems to be the Evil Queen in one screenshot?)

Yzma also makes an appearance; apparently, she helps you with ingredients upgrades to make even more powerful potions.

THIS IS SO SILLY... My brain is just superimposing the NRC boys in these scenarios and that magnifies the silliness 😭

Ursula's "I went to the beach today and NO ONE wanted to make a deal with me" gives Azul being dramatic on an NRC school beach trip energy OTL Maleficent wanting to be a social media influencer is so ironic given that Malleus doesn't know how tf to use technology and regularly breaks phones... Vargas going on a golfing trip... Crewel wanting a hot brew to take the edge off of dealing with unruly pups all day... TWEELS CRAMMED INTO A JAR FOR THE AESTHETIC... Paparazzi trying to sneak a photo of Vil at a café... Jamil being a chuuni by declaring his drink teleports him to a powerful lamp, only to reappear a yard away under a ceiling fixture lamp... This just SCREAMS of the NRC students/staff terrorizing a local business/j Not me hoping that fan artists do crossover art/art inspired by interactions in this game...

[asoftepiloguemylove]

LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME / BECAUSE I EXIST, I EXIST, I EXIST

Franz Kafka Letters to Felice // リリイ・シュシュのすべて All About Lily Chou-Chou (2001) dir. 岩井 俊二 Shunji Iwai / Phoebe Bridgers Funeral // Emily Palermo // Ocean Vuong Someday I'll Love Ocean Vuong // 堕落天�� Fallen Angels (1995) dir. Wong Kar-wai // Margaret Atwood // Bell Hooks All About Love // @mango-season // Mitski Nobody

[keferon]

Odds of Survival Part 3

Unstoppable forces meets immovable objects.

Or Prowl finds new reasons to be concerned.

———————————————————————

While Prowl had destroyed the bombers attacking their end of the bridge, the other side had no such saving grace.

The opposite end of the sky bridge had broken off from the Commerce Tower and was now swinging downwards, creating a miles long ramp to obliteration.

There was a 4% chance Prowl could technically survive the impact. However he’d almost certainly be reduced to a sputtering spark trapped in a compacted pile of scrap that had once been his frame. Without instantaneous medical intervention, he would most certainly perish even in the event of the 4% survival chance occurring.

4% halved to 2% when Tacnet registered Jazz magnetizing his hands to Prowls frame.

Tacnet spun wildly and without traction. Whatever actions Prowl could have taken to mitigate the incoming damage was removed by Jazz’s inescapable hold. Every possible strategy terminated instantly in a flurry of error messages as Tacnet tried to factor for the impossible.

Physically, Prowls servos moved on their own, driven by some core deep coding for self preservation that had him frantically clawing at Jazz’s back for either a hand hold or escape as Tacnet spat out a single coherent plan:

(Brace For Impact)

The Praxian briefly wondered if he’d crash before they crashed.

The mechs jolted as Jazz made contact with the bridge turned ramp. A fountain of sparks spraying from his pedes as Jazz hit the bridge upright and began skating down the buckling surface.

Jazz wasn’t just passively sliding along either. Prowl felt powerful legs tense and thrusters make quick adjustments to narrowly avoid lethal splinters of braking pipes and metal sheets.

Odds of Survival 5%

Odds of Survival 6%

Prowl watched the impossible as Tacnet slowly ticked upwards. Through some stroke of insanity, Jazz was controlling their descent. Analyzing the white mechs motions, Prowl concluded they were practiced. Unbelievably, Jazz somehow had previous experience with similar circumstances.

On what Fragging planet does somebody regularly go careening down incredibly steep slopes at high speeds with only their own athleticism to keep them alive?!

Skill alone wasn’t enough however, because Jazz was slowly loosing control. As the sky bridge swung inexorably downwards, their ramp was steadily becoming steeper. Prowl could feel one of Jazz’s legs beginning to involuntarily shudder under the continued strain. The obstacles kept coming faster and faster, the visored mech barely keeping pace.

If he dropped me, Jazz has a 23% chance at saving himself.

Prowl caught sight of a chunk of bridge breaking outwards that spanned the total width of it. No getting around it. The jagged edge lifted just high enough to bisect him just below the wings. Prowl turned away.

Jazz leapt.

The deafening vibrations of metal on metal grinding suddenly stopped. An instrumental segment filled the gap.

Gravity ended their short reprieve.

This time when they collided with bridge, Prowl felt Jazz land wrong and then suddenly the sky was whipping past his optics.

Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, moon, bridge.

Tacnet greedily took in their current velocity, rate of rotation, and angle of the sky bridges decent to inform Prowl that Jazz and his combined weight would land on his helm.

Thank you Tacnet, I hate you.

Jazz shifted and Prowls vision went white.

Despite Tacnets certainty to the contrary, Prowl was not unconscious or dead.

ERROR, moon, ERROR. Stars, moon, bridge. Stars, ERROR, bridge, rubble. Stars, moon, bridge, rubble.

They were flipping through the air again.

Jazz landed on his feet this time but couldn’t stop their rolling. Prowl felt fast painful scrapes against his servos and peds.

Stars, bridge, rubble. Stars, bridge, rubble.

Tacnet took in their velocity and rotation again. Calculating their distance to the wreckage at the end of their fall.

Impact Survival 74%

Impact location Doorwings 87%

At least his doorwings were already offlined.

By then, the two mechs were no longer bouncing, but rolling fully across the remains of the bridge. Prowl locked himself around Jazz and braced for impact.

Collision was instant and deafening.

Prowls sense of balance was rubber banding. The instant stop after what felt like vorns of spinning out of control was just as disorientating as the fall itself.

In a lapse of memory, he onlined his doorwings.

Prowl remembered why he left them offline a click too late and sucked in a vent.

Except. They were functioning. The edges stung and the tip’s were badly chipped but both sensors were fully operational.

Blunt helm trauma. He must be having a severe processor malfunction. Prowl unlocked protesting joints and looked over his shoulders at his doorwings.

They were only lightly damaged, fully functional, and only a servos width from the pile of rubble he was being held above.

A black and white arm extended past his wings, buried wrist deep in the wreckage.

Jazz still had a death grip around his waist, visor pressed into Prowls shoulder.

“Jazz?” Prowl tried. If he put his vocalizer against his audial, the sound should carry. The music played out its final notes, leaving the silence of the moon in its wake.

“Jazz?” Prowl tried a little harder, pulling at the servo still magnetized to his back, unhooking his peds to kneel on the rubble. They had fallen into the 90 degree crook of the second cylindrical extension. The bridge had come to rest at last, kicking up enough moon dust to obscure their survival from any searching quintessons. For now.

Jazz slurred something in his native language, before repeating in common, “Gimme a click. I’m gonna throw up real quick.”

Prowl flared his wings, scanning the area. It was a relatively short drop to the moons surface. Once there, Prowl could transform and carry the both of them at speed to the outpost. Clearly, Jazz had no trouble holding onto him.

Speaking of, Jazz finally, slowly began to uncurl from Prowls frame.

He looked terrible. His visor had splintered crack’s across one side, the isolated fragments independently flickering. One horn was stuck pinned against his helm, sparking where shrapnel was jammed into the gap. He was visibly wobbling, and even with an em field Prowl could tell he was badly disoriented.

Jazz stared at Prowl for a while, before looking to his hand still buried in rubble. He tried pulling it free gently and when that didn’t work, got a completely ruined and mostly toe-less ped braced next to it and yanked

Jazz’s hand came free. At the same time something important looking snapped and fell out of his shoulder. The limb going limp.

Prowl didn’t have the bandwidth to process that at the moment.

Instead, he plucked up the chunk of shoulder into sub space. Tacking that onto the growing list of injuries they’d both needed tending to.

Cautiously, Prowl reached up to gingerly touch the back of his helm, fully expecting to feel exposed and crushed circuitry. Instead, he felt several dents, aligned in parallel. Very tender, but most certainly not as damaged as it should have been.

How?

Tacnet answered by mapping the contours of the dents, drawing Prowls optics to the back of Jazz’s obliterated servo.

The remains of the sky bridge shuttered.

Odds of Survival 45%

Prowl got Jazz’s attention and began pulling him towards the ledge they’d need to descend. Effectively deaf, probably blind, down an arm and forced to walk on two severely injured peds, Prowl only felt some relief when he finally wrangled Jazz to rest on top of his alt form.

Watching him struggle down the ledge was utterly disturbing to watch. Jazz limped along as if he was completely desensitized to pain, behaving as if he was more annoyed by his injuries than agonized.

Package secured, Prowl gunned it for the outpost. Even injured, he trusted Jazz to stay magnetized to his frame with whatever he had left to hold on with.

Out of the dust cloud, Prowl was intimately aware of how exposed they’d be. Confident he wouldn’t loose Jazz, Prowl focused entirely on plotting the most efficient route to the outpost.

The moment it came into view, Prowl pushed his engine past the redline as he registered sniper shots firing just past and above them.

Pursuing quintesson wreckers 78%.

Sure enough, a dead wrecker crashed into the moon dirt a short distance to their left.

Prowl managed a drifting slide past the out post gates, losing exactly enough momentum to match the speed of a running mech, then transformed back to root mode in the same maneuver. An exceedingly useful technique when chasing criminals and a damn effective way to shoulder someone on your roof through a door in the most efficient manner possible.

[Bluestreak, I’ve made it inside the outpost. I have an injured mech with me.]

[Heya Prowl! I saw you tearing it up out there with your backpack buddy! I’ve got a few more stragglers to take care of but you’re welcome to use the medic case I’ve got with me in here. I’ll ping the door for you.]

The primary medkit should be in the outpost storage closet. That is unless Bluestreak pulled it into his snipers nest to tend to his own injuries (22%). Or because Bluestreak pulled it there to force Prowl to bring his “backpack buddy” within conversational distance (92%).

He felt a tap at his shoulder, “Are we safe here?” Jazz yelled in the thin atmosphere. Visor flickering worse than before and visibly making an effort to stay balanced upright on eviscerated peds.

Priorities.

Prowl ignored his annoyance. He hit the trigger to pressurize the airlock and pulled Jazz’s good arm over his shoulders to stabilize the other mech. He had easily a dozen lines of questioning queued up in the backlog of his processor, every single one tagged with Jazz as the subject line. As much as Prowl itched to piece together the puzzle of why he was “Like that.” It’d have to wait until they were both in more stable condition. At least now his vents could actually do something to start cooling his overstressed processor.

“For now. We are somewhat safe.”

Prowl muttered quietly in addition, “Against all odds.”

———————————————————————

Bluestreak, seeing Prowl with some very obvious hand prints and very specific paint scratches: “What in the pit did he do to you?”

Bluestreak, seeing Jazz walk in after him with a broken arm, busted horn and an utterly torn up paint job across his back: “What in the pit did YOU do to him?!”

Either one or two parts left, next up Jazz pov.

-SSTP

OH HELL SSTP LET ME HOLD YOUR HAND REALQUICK THIS IS A FIVE STAR MEAL FOR MY SOUL FKKDJFG I JUST. I NEVER FUCKING GET TIRED OF THE WAY YOU WRITE I know I'm probably repeating myself at this point BUT IT'S JUST WHAT MY TRUTH LOOKS LIKE OKAY. EVERY TIME I SEE AN ASK FROM YOU AND START READING IT I GO "Oh M A N the author cooked so hard they should've made Ratatouille 2 about this way of placing words."

[eddiazx]

ablaze in the ambulance - eddie diaz x reader

"Eddie. Eddie, come on!" You call out.

The man in question doesn't look back; in fact, you're pretty sure he walks away even faster from you.

You knew he was pissed. You knew that he would be when you ran into the burning building without calling for backup. But you got out of there safely, a 7-year-old kid named Leo safely in your arms, without so much as a scratch on either one of you. Bobby had been exasperated, but ultimately he put a hand on your shoulder before giving you a stern "don't do that again."

Now, if only your boyfriend could give you the same grace.

You watch him walk into the ambulance once everyone is back at the firehouse, shutting the doors behind him with a slam. Buck, Chim, Hen, and Bobby give you small, sympathetic smiles, telling you they were going to hit the showers before getting started on supper.

You watch them disappear upstairs, before taking a deep breath, and walking into the ambulance.

Eddie doesn't look up when you step in. Instead, he continues to take inventory of the gauze and bandages. You can practically see the cartoon-like fumes radiating off of him.

"Eddie." You say softly.

He looks up then, his stormy brown eyes piercing through you, but still doesn't utter a word.

"I'm sorry." You try again.

"Are you, though? Because I feel like you would do it again in a heartbeat." Eddie spits out, and you would've winced at his anger if you didn't hear the crack of his voice, vulnerability pronouncing the end of his sentence.

"I would." You respond, truthfully. "But I am sorry I worried you."

"Worried." Eddie huffs out an unamused laugh. "I was terrified. I thought that would be the last time I saw you! I thought you had died!"

"Eddie." You brave a few steps until you're standing barely an inch away from him. "I will always fight to come home to you, to my family."

Eddie's face softens, listening to the words he has said multiple times to Chris and you, now directed back at him. He puts his hand on the back of your neck, pulling your face towards his. The kiss is hard, uncoordinated and messy, but passionate and raw nonetheless.

You reach down blindly in between kisses to unbuckle Eddie's belt as he brings one of his hands to grab your ass, massaging the skin through your pants, while he uses his other hand to pull your shirt up to touch skin.

Meanwhile, Chim and Hen look down forlornly from the loft railing to a rocking ambulance.

"Did they really have to pick the ambulance to make up in?"

[perfectquote]

Knowing how to be solitary is central to the art of loving. When we can be alone, we can be with others without using them as a means of escape.

Bell Hooks

[noproveninterests]

reminder to do art even if it sucks

ink sans belongs to @/comyet

original post:

[driftwoodpony]

cover art for eternal night by @nihis-place

this piece took a while to sketch out, so im forever grateful for the author's patience. its another twiglim fic i heavily recommend!

[petrichorium]

the first time you give in and let shanks into your bed—after months and months of very persistent dashing grins and cloying sweet-talk—you don’t realize until he has you pressed against your bedroom door, with his singular hand tucked beneath your skirts to grasp the back of your knee and hook your leg around him, that the vest you’ve chosen today is held together by a row of small buttons at the front.

it’s an issue it seems he’s only just realized too, as he pulls away from your lips and stares down at your bust.

“buttons,” he says with a pout, thumb tapping pensively against the side of your knee. “is this a test?”

“an accident,” you laugh. “i’ll help—“

“no.” shanks nips at your finger playfully before you can touch your neckline. “not proper to make a lady undress herself.”

it shouldn’t be a surprise, you suppose, but he’s more skilled than you anticipate. with teeth and tongue he manages to undo three before the steady unveiling of your cleavage distracts him. letting go of your leg, he reaches up to work at the fourth even as his tongue runs hot over the newly exposed skin of your chest.

then you feel him pause. he blinks; his eyes are dark and stormy, so deep red they might as well be black. though you often find it difficult to parse out what he’s thinking, it hardly takes a genius to gauge the way that big hand catches hold of the side of your vest, teeth grazing the other; preparing to forego any more delay and simply tear the damn thing apart.

“pop them,” you sigh out, somehow unwilling to speak more than a murmur, “rip it off. i won’t stop you. but—“

you pause just as shanks does the same, eyes darting up to meet yours over the heaving swell of your chest and fingers freezing where he’s gripped the fabric of your bodice.

“you won’t do much more than touching tonight,” you finish.

those eyes sharpen. a thrill goes through you, as his fingers flex for half a moment—and then he’s surging up to kiss you again, hard and heavy and biting, drawing a heady giggle from your tongue. his arm slips around your thighs, tightening to lift you from the solid wood you’ve been pressed against before he turns to take a scant few strides and deposit you onto your bed, not once parting from your lips.

only when you’ve settled does he pull back, just slightly, pressing his forehead to yours as he moves his arm to brace himself on his elbow and then giving a surprisingly chaste peck to the tip of your nose as he begins a descent.

he lingers at the edge of your neckline, sucks at your skin, then kisses down your stomach over the fabric that still covers you; his hand is eager but gentle as it slides beneath the hem of your dress again, rough calluses brushing against your foot and ankle and calf until he’s palming your knee and pushing the fabric up over your thighs.

“well.” that look in his eye is more of a glint now, accompanied by a grin and a wink that has you rolling your eyes as shanks disappears from sight. “suppose i’ll find something we can do without taking that damn thing off, eh?”