#is it bad i write in present tense

[saystrinity]

a little birdy (tumblr) told me you were taking requests 👁

charlie, our beloved, date night thoughts? im thinkin reader in his clothes, watching a movie or show, popcorn and his gas station eggs, falling asleep on the couch after hours of cuddling, yknow the vibe

started giggling and kicking my feet the moment i received this ask >//< also first post hi!!! hi!!! HI!!!

❛ hcs ; nights in with charlie <3 ༉‧₊˚✧

“hey angel,” the very millisecond you walk through the door; “was work alright?”

busying himself around you as he fine tunes the house for you - taking your coat, your bag, your shoes, your hand, guiding you to the bedroom, visibly proud of himself as he displays his freshest, comfiest clothes laid out on the bed, all ready for you.

sights set entirely on you while you strip away the remnants of your day, revelling in the content hums you release with every layer you remove, dutifully taking the cast-away clothes and placing them in the hamper for you.

listening ears ON while you deliver the latest work gossip, absolutely living for the newest updates

having to take a moment when you finally turn back to him, your hands resting on your hips as he marvels at you, swimming in an old merch shirt and his sweats, which you’ve had to roll the waistband of.

“there is no way you find this attractive,” you laugh out, watching him approach, hands first, coming straight for your waist. he laughs back, bubbling chuckles flush against your skin as he presses delicate kisses up and down your neck, “it is insanely attractive,” he moves up to your forehead, littering them around the rest of your face.

and you best believe you’re getting carried around. one arm hooked under your knees, the other threaded around your back and back up under your arm, hand firm against the side of your chest as you travel through the house as one.

looping strands of the hair on the nape of his neck around your fingers as he does, grinning as his eyes flutter at the sensation.

squealing when your back hits the cushions of the couch, playfully kicking your legs as he traps them between his knees, suspending himself on the palms of his hands, forearms caging your head.

this impromptu playfight continues for a good few minutes, lazy swings and hazy laughter until you’ve both managed to completely tire yourselves out, and you’ve ended up on top of him in the conflict.

he keeps a tight hold around your body, arms encircling you as your heavy breathing pulls the two of you in and pushes you out in tandem, exasperated giggles escaping your lips every few seconds.

“shitty movie?” he asks, running his open hand up and down your back. “shitty movie,” you confirm, nodding your head resting in the crook of his neck.

countless studio logos playing as he pads off to the kitchen, the tell-tale scent of popcorn drifting through the open door while the movie’s glaringly obvious exposition drones on and on.

opposite ends of the couch when he returns, legs entangled, the comically large bowl of said popcorn seated between them, the occasional hands brushing whenever you reach over.

spending the rest of the night heckling stitled acting and wilted writing, scoffing about how ‘we could’ve done so much better’

giggling as you gain numerous new inside jokes from awful line delivery and utterly incomprehensible plot holes

crawling back over to him as the evening chill sets in, and neither of you can be bothered to utilise the actual air conditioning, especially when you’ve got eachother.

fingers interlaced, held against your chests as they’re pressed against one another.

“i like this,” he mumbles, nose buried in your ruffled hair, lips moving against your scalp. ”i like you.” “whaaat?” “shut up,” you grumble, despite your smile.

eventually dozing off, you going first, lulled by his soft, rhythmic breathing. he watches your snoozing form with the fondest of smiles, head racing with the usual ‘how did i ever manage this?’ queries.

he still doesn’t get how he bagged you - but he’s sure as shit not complaining!!

“g’night, angel,” he murmurs, a soft squeeze of your clasped hands as he switches the tv off and joins you in sleep.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Now that I know more about writing, I'm upset at all the writing advice that urged new writers to find the one best way to write stories, when they should be telling us to play with writing techniques like toys.

Don't tell us to avoid certain points of view! Don't box us into the one currently popular prose style! Let us play and see what effects different techniques achieve, so we can learn the best ways to make use of them! Give us a whole ton of possibility instead of one cookie-cutter template!

[a-very-sparkly-nerd]

@dragonprincedrabbles

Nyx + Corvus, Foreboding

Corvus finds out just enough about Soren's kidnapping experience to be pushed over the edge.

Corvus is quick to dislike a person. Easy to rub him up the wrong way. And this elf had done it from a mile away.

Blue hair and heterochromic, an omnipresent shit-eating grin, and non-stop teasing, jabbing, and overall being infuriating.

Soren knows her, it seems, based on the way his jaw set and brow furrowed when he laid eyes on her across the market they passed through, and especially based on the way he heard her following them from abovehead–because of course the oversized harpy had wings–and used Corvus’s chain to yank her down from the sky. Corvus didn’t think he’d ever seen the other Crownguard so angry, so angsty in the way he stomped off to gather firewood when they made camp that night.

With the Skywing sitting across the fire from him, preening her feathered wings. “Naimi-Selari-Nykantia” had been how she’d introduced herself, tacking on a “But you can call me Nyx” as an afterthought.

Nyx was annoying.

“It’s rude to stare, you know,” she says over the flames, breaking Corvus away from his thoughts.

“How do you know him?” Corvus demands, skipping directly over the small talk.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, too,” she grumbles, but adjusts to turn at least part of her attention and body language to him.

“How?” he repeats, letting his hand drift to his chain. The angry red welts along her ankle suggest she has not forgotten how painful it was, and even less likely to want a repeat. All ration seemed to go out the window when it came to Soren. For Corvus, at least.

She shrugs sheepishly, rolling her shoulders and eyes to the sky. “Er, well… Let’s just say a girl’s got to look out for herself, am I right, eh?”

“Tell me how you know Soren,” Corvus hisses, gripping the handle in an attempt to keep himself in check.

“Oh, we went through a good ol’-fashioned pirate kidnapping together,” Nyx says with feigned cheeriness, a sad attempt at a chuckle. “I gave him some information, he let me go free. The little king, handsome dolt, and idiots in love, er- dealt with their situation themselves.”

Corvus’s blood is suddenly boiling hot, as if his skin doesn’t fit right over his bones. Shock and rage fills crevices of his body he hadn’t known existed prior to this moment. What?

Soren had been kidnapped? Ez, too? And Callum and Rayla, judging by the “idiots in love” bit. And none of them had breathed even a word of it?

That’s fine, it’s their business. Really, Corvus tried to tell himself, getting to his feet.

It didn’t work. Soren had been hurt and in danger, and sure, that’s what Crownguards were trained for, but it didn’t mean he was expected to simply be okay.

“You sold them out?” he says, voice nearing a roar. “You sold him out?!”

“Woah, there. Two batches of idiots in love, my mistake,” she mutters, and Corvus is too angry to be flustered about it. “Listen, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Everyone else there had someone looking out for them. Number One’s the only one who’s gonna look out for Number One. Everyone’s selfish.”

Corvus turns to the woods Soren had disappeared into, everything starting to make sense with each puzzle piece falling into place. “Leave.”

“Excuse me?”

“Leave,” he repeats, digging his jagged, worn fingernails into his palms. “I’m going to look for him, and if you’re here when I get back, I’ll kill you. I swear it.”

“Okay, chill out there, Big Guy,” Nyx starts, and he hears her light footsteps approaching him tentatively but quickly.

As her hand goes for his shoulder, Corvus wheels around and grabs her wrist, getting up close and personal. He lets every bit of anger show on his face. “Look me in the eye and try to call my bluff. Look me in the eye and try to reason with me. I’m not messing around.”

Nyx’s wings flutter nervously, and he lets her snatch her wrist out of his grasp. His skin feels dirty, but not from guilt– from touching this monster who’d let Soren get hurt. “Alright, alright! Message received!”

She takes a few steps backward, and Corvus relishes in how she trips over her bag, and, flustered, scramble to start shoving her things into it. “You, eh, might wanna get some anger issues management help. Friendly word of advice.”

“Get out!” Corvus screams, face hot with anger and eyes pricking with tears, ready to strangle her with his bare hands.

“Okay, okay! I’m leaving!” Nyx shoulders her backpack and only makes it a few feet into the air before reconsidering. She comes back down another bit, hesitant with downcast eyes. “Um, be careful with him. He’s a good man. Savor the people you have to look out for and who look out for you.”

Corvus turns away from her. “I will.”

[folkdances]

truly absurd amount of words into this thing thinking to myself i wish i could change this whole thing into the present tense i need to stop being such a girl who loves present tense gosh

[reiverreturns]

ripping up parts of this wip because turns out i hate writing past tense but here's a lil not-so-bad snippet to prove i tried. slight nsfw vibes but nowt explicit.

[wayward-sherlock]

did someone ask for a girl crush wip wednesday?

[notfivefives]

Prompt fill #6 for my @badthingshappenbingo​ card, requested by @sharkluv. Thank you so much for the ask! This is not the story I was expecting to write (like, at all), but I really enjoyed working on it. I hope you enjoy reading it! Also tagging @rain-on-kamino​!

Prompt Filled: Manhandling

Fandom: Star Wars: The Bad Batch

Title: Salvage 

Characters: Crosshair, Hunter, Wrecker, and Tech

Word Count: 2,033

Summary: Crosshair’s chip doesn’t trigger during Order 66, but the rest of The Batch’s do. Crosshair disobeys an order.

Chapter: 1/1

Warnings: Non-canonical character deaths, forced ( but nondescript) medical treatment

My BTHB Card

Read below the cut or on AO3

The walk from the Marauder to their quarters is like a funeral procession. Crosshair trails his three brothers - They are still his brothers, aren't they? - and after they enter their quarters, the door slides shut with a finality Crosshair can’t recall ever noticing before.

He crosses the distance to his bunk just like he has after countless other missions, but Wrecker isn’t boisterously recounting the high notes of the mission and he hasn’t carved a hash mark on the wall to commemorate their victory.

And it is a victory, Crosshair decides; he's just unsure why.  

He neatly stows his equipment and sets his rifle on the common table, relieved when the heft of it no longer puts demands on his wounded shoulder. He will see to that later, once the others are asleep or absent. For now, he’ll clean his weapon because that’s what he always does. And he will keep Hunter, Tech, and Wrecker in his periphery and he will try not to think too much about why Echo isn’t with them. When he turns to get his cleaning kit, Hunter approaches him. Crosshair straightens and studies Hunter as intently as he is studying him.

“You should let me take a look at that,” Hunter says as he inclines his head toward the singed plastoid at the intersection of Crosshair’s chest plate and right pauldron.

“Nothing to look at.”

Where there might usually have been a dubious smile on Hunter’s face, there isn’t now. There is a tightness around his eyes and something sharp and unyielding there instead.  

“I’m fine.” Crosshair’s words come out icily, and they would be convincing if Hunter wasn’t the one listening. But Hunter’s privy to every electromagnetic pulse and vibration, scent, and every other type of sensory input that slips beneath the notice of most. Crosshair has never envied Hunter the intensity of his senses, never wished to know the reek of a battlefield the way Hunter must. But that doesn’t stop Crosshair from cursing Hunter in the privacy of his own mind and loathing him just a little bit for not shutting things out, for not shutting it off. For just knowing.

“Is that why your heart rate just jumped, and why I can smell the stink of infection?”

Damn.

“Leave it alone.”

Crosshair narrows his eyes and focuses on the deep, ceaseless pain, wills it to temper his resolve. He itches to be anywhere but under Hunter’s scrutiny. He traces the tip of his tongue along the backs of his teeth, quelling the urge to reach for a toothpick.

“I need you functional,” Hunter presses as he takes a step closer to Crosshair and reaches toward him.

Crosshair takes a clipped but still-graceful step away from Hunter and scoffs. The derisive noise is louder than he intends and he can feel Tech and Wrecker’s eyes on him. They’re not listening to an argument with interest or waiting to throw their opinions into it. They’re just watching, waiting. The instinctive thing Crosshair has been feeling since Koller lurches into clarity.

He is outnumbered.

“I said leave it alone, Hunter.”

Crosshair can see a minuscule twitch in Hunter’s jawline, and his expression grows harder. Just like it had on Koller before-

Crosshair shakes off the memory and sidesteps Hunter and avoids the temptation to punctuate his disdain by checking Hunter’s shoulder with his own. No use in causing himself more pain.

He wants out of this room, and he wants away from his batch. Hunter grasps Crosshair’s forearm and Crosshair wrenches away. That ignites fresh agony in his shoulder and he sucks in air through his teeth. He reaches for the wound, but stops short and puts his arm back down at his side, straightens, and looks from Hunter to Tech to Wrecker, then back at Hunter, trying to gauge how much weakness he just displayed.

“Don’t touch me,” he says. The threat in his voice grows jagged and brittle with each syllable.

He walks toward the door and the blood rushing in his ears and the hair pricking at the nape of his neck tell him the same cold, clear truth.

You should be running.

Crosshair makes it two steps before he hears Hunter say Wrecker’s name.

“Right,” Wrecker says. There’s eagerness in his tone that’s familiar but wrong and for once Crosshair wishes Wrecker was as slow as some people - idiots mostly - thought he was.

Crosshair makes it another two and a half steps before Wrecker is between him and the door. Silently, Hunter falls into place behind him, and Crosshair can feel him there, the trigger in a trap that is ready to slam shut.

Tech hasn’t moved; he’s watching proceedings, assessing them from behind the yellow lenses of his goggles. Crosshair doesn’t doubt Tech can tell him the precise likelihood he’ll make it out of their quarters, but he doesn’t have to. Crosshair knows it’s laughably slim.

“Get out of my way, Wrecker.”

Wrecker moves his head back and forth and raises his hands, palms outward, ready to catch Crosshair or fight him if it comes to that. Crosshair bends at the knees and flexes his fingers, and he realizes it will come to that.

And he doesn’t know why.

“Enough,” Hunter warns. “Remove your kit. Let us treat the wound. Now. That’s an order.”

An order.

This isn’t a professional disagreement or a fraternal spat. Hunter’s words are absolute and Crosshair feels as though he’s being tracked through the scope of someone else’s rifle. He glances back at Hunter without looking away from Wrecker completely. Hunter’s expression is hard and direct. Expectant. Hunter’s esteem for his own rank is inconvenient at best and unnerving at worst.

Crosshair followed orders every day of his life. He followed them to complete missions, to win. He followed them because it was in his very marrow to do so. Freedom from choice has always been a mercy - though the rest of The Batch would never admit it, not even Tech - but before today, that mercy has never felt like slow suffocation.

When Hunter reaches for his arm again, Crosshair disobeys.

He swings back at Hunter’s head with his elbow. He knows it's a bad move.

Hunter catches his arm easily and twists it behind him. The countermeasure hurts, but it’s not hard enough to be cruel. Maybe Hunter is still in there somewhere after all. Crosshair wants to believe that. He suddenly, desperately needs to believe that, but he contorts in Hunter’s grip and viciously curses as Hunter’s hold tightens.

“What are you doing?” He tries his best to bury his pain and the spike of fear with indignation as he tries to pull away. “Don’t touch me.”

Then Wrecker is there and Hunter hands him off as casually as he would an ammo cartridge.

“We’re going to help you, Crosshair.” It’s the closest thing to patronization Crosshair has ever heard in Wrecker’s voice and he hates it. Lula is lying discarded on the floor, half buried under an old panel that Tech had likely been using for one project or another between missions. The tooka, with her red eyes and forlorn lip lipline, is the only thing in the room that feels familiar.

Crosshair turns away from the doll and futilely tests the constraints of Wrecker’s arms.

“I can help myse-”

“Bring him to the table,” Hunter orders. He’s crouched next to Echo’s bunk searching out the med kit Echo keeps there.

Wrecker nudges Crosshair in that direction, letting him know compliance is a good idea. He digs his heels into the durasteel beneath him and pushes back hard. He may as well be trying to move a wall.

"No," Crosshair says. He can hear the ragged edge of desperation wearing at his own voice as he lunges back toward the door. Wrecker holds him tight.

He tries to crush Wrecker’s instep, but he only catches armor and there’s no indication Wrecker even noticed. He’s only managed to send new pain screaming through his shoulder, but he bites back on the agony and struggles.

It makes no difference.

Crosshair cries out in surprise when Wrecker tugs backward, using his own weight against him. Wrecker keeps him from falling flat on his ass, but panic lances through him when he can’t get his feet beneath him again. His boots stutter pathetically on the floor, but that ceases when Wrecker hauls him up and toward the table.

“No!” He’s struggling now, writhing without regard for how frantic and ineffectual it is. “Let me fucking go!”

With dizzying speed, Wrecker lifts him and hefts him onto the tabletop. The back of Crosshair’s head hits the table. It’s enough force to stun, but not enough to do any harm, and in the fleet seconds it takes Crosshair’s mind to catch up to what’s happened, Wrecker has both of his wrists in one massive hand, pinning them over his sternum. Wrecker’s other hand forces his left leg down by the thigh.

“This outburst is unnecessary,” Tech says as he takes his place on the side opposite Wrecker. There’s something like commiseration in Tech’s words, but there’s callous interest in his eyes.

Crosshair drives his unrestrained knee up toward Tech, but Tech anticipates the attack and catches his leg with quick hands.

“You should cooperate,” Tech grunts. He shoves Crosshair’s leg back down and Crosshair takes petty satisfaction in the disapproval on Tech’s face.

“You should let me go.” Crosshair says, breathless and caustic. Wrecker laughs at that. It’s not booming or jovial. It’s the distant rumble of a storm.

Crosshair bucks beneath their hands, all lean muscle, obscenities and fear. He thrashes harder when Hunter sets the medkit by his head. He looks down at Crosshair, dour but thoughtful.

“Where are you going to go, Crosshair?” he asks as he begins to remove Crosshair’s armor.

Crosshair shouts. Neither the harsh sound nor the rage behind it makes his brothers flinch; it doesn’t make them do anything at all. They all know the answer. By the time Hunter is satisfied with the amount of armor he’s taken away, Crosshair is panting and his limbs are trembling from the strain.  

Hunter draws his vibroknife from its sheath and Crosshair’s eyes go wide. He stills and groans involuntarily when he sees the honed, glinting blade in Hunter’s skilled hand.

It’s been cleaned since its last use.

General Bilaba’s padawan had been fast. So fast, Crosshair’s first shot following Hunter’s order had gone wide, and his second one had struck him after it had been deflected back at him by the padawan’s lightsaber. He’d lifted the butt of his blaster rifle to his left shoulder instead of his right and found Hunter in his scope, advancing on Dume. One elegantly efficient move put a burst of crimson on Koller’s snow-covered ground. The roar of the falls had been the only sound.

Crosshair shakes his head and jerks helplessly.

“Shh,” Hunter says without sympathy or warmth. Crosshair is frozen while Hunter cuts away the dark gray underlayer. The blade separates the fabric with awful ease, then Hunter sheaths it without any flourish.

A hypo comes after that. Crosshair tries to flinch away, but it still finds its way into his shoulder, and as the pain abates, Hunter works slowly and methodically, cleaning and dressing and bandaging until he seems satisfied that Crosshair would still be of use to him. To this nascent Empire.

Crosshair’s mind feels slow and his chest feels tight. He doesn’t even have the energy to move after Tech releases his hold on his leg. Tech scans him and shows Hunter with an unconcerned shrug. If Crosshair is on trial, perhaps this small jury has already come to its judgment.

The pressure Wrecker’s been putting on him lets up. When breathing comes more easily, he rolls his head to the side and looks at Echo’s empty bunk.

“Where’s Echo?” He rasps. “Where’s the reg?”

“CT-1409 was in violation of Order 66,” Tech says, as though it explains everything. “But perhaps, with some re-education, you can be salvaged.”

Hunter nods as he packs away Echo’s medkit.

Crosshair doesn’t fight as Wrecker helps him into his bunk.

He curls on his side and drifts.

[hazmatazz]

i hjgghavahsjd hate writingggg

[white-weasel]

Do…. Do people actually have an issue with stuff being written in present tense?

[delta-piscium]

mmh and what if i rewrote an entire wip just to change the pov what then? (tears, that's what)

[sabertoothwalrus]

tips for getting people to like your ocs

*disclaimer: this is based on what’s worked for me, aka an artist that likes to make comics/storyboards. so this advice is directed at people who do that

you can do things like this:

Which is fun! Character sheets like this are great, especially for personal reference! But frankly, I don’t think most people engage with this (at least I personally don’t). You could have the coolest character in the world, but it will be harder for most people to feel invested when they’re presented so neutrally like this.

My main piece of advice is: get better at writing.

That might sound harsh when said like that, but let me explain what I mean! (Not trying to imply you’re bad at writing either!)

What I tend to do is just throw characters into situations with as little handholding as I can. Give enough context that readers can follow along, but don’t feel like they’re being explained to.

what can you learn about the characters through their designs alone? (age, personality, economic status, occupation, etc)

what can you learn about the characters’ relationship though their interactions alone? (are they close? familial? romantic? is there hostility? are they tense/relaxed?)

what are the characters currently doing? what were they doing previously (how long have they been talking)? what are they going to do next? can you convey this without dialogue?

how do they feel about what they are doing? are they content? focused? over/understimulated? would they rather be doing something else?

where are they? does it matter? would establishing a setting in at least one panel clarify the scene? is there anything in the enviroment that could tell some of the story?

what time of day is it? what time of year is it? what is the weather like?

Now, with all this in mind, I'm going to give you another example. I'm going to use completely brand new characters for the sake of the experiment, so you won't have any bias (aka I can’t use Protagonist from above, since you already know all about him).

Did this get more of an emotional response from you than the first example? Why do you think so? Who are these characters? How do they know each other? What else can you infer about them? What happened? Who is "she"?

Now, you don't have to actually answer all those questions. But think about them! You can tell people a whole lot about your characters without ever showing them a list of their likes and dislikes.

Obviously, comics aren't the only way to get people invested in your original characters! But regardless, easily digestible formats will grab people's attention faster than huge blocks of text, and comics are a lot less work than doing wholeass storyboards.

Now go and share your ocs with the world!!!

[junietuesday]

i'll be like "why do i suddenly suck at writing what happened why is my style abruptly trash 😭😭😭😭😭" and then i'll switch from present tense to past tense and realize all i was looking for was that sense of refinement

[physalian]

How to Make Your Writing Less Stiff Part 3

Crazy how one impulsive post has quickly outshined every other post I have made on this blog. Anyway here’s more to consider. Once again, I am recirculating tried-and-true writing advice that shouldn’t have to compromise your author voice and isn’t always applicable when the narrative demands otherwise.

Part 1

Part 2

1. Eliminating to-be verbs (passive voice)

Am/is/are/was/were are another type of filler that doesn’t add anything to your sentences.

There were fireworks in the sky tonight. /// Fireworks glittered in the sky tonight.

My cat was chirping at the lights on the ceiling. /// My cat chirped at the lights on the ceiling.

She was standing /// She stood

He was running /// He ran

Also applicable in present tense, of which I’ve been stuck writing lately.

There are two fish-net goals on either end of the improvised field. /// Two fish-net goals mark either end of the improvised field.

For once, it’s a cloudless night. /// For once, the stars shine clear.

Sometimes the sentence needs a little finagling to remove the bad verb and sometimes you can let a couple remain if it sounds better with the cadence or syntax. Generally, they’re not necessary and you won’t realize how strange it looks until you go back and delete them (it also helps shave off your word count).

Sometimes the to-be verb is necessary. You're writing in past-tense and must convey that.

He was running out of time does not have the same meaning as He ran out of time, and are not interchangeable. You'd have to change the entire sentence to something probably a lot wordier to escape the 'was'. To-be verbs are not the end of the world.

2. Putting character descriptors in the wrong place

I made a post already about motivated exposition, specifically about character descriptions and the mirror trope, saying character details in the wrong place can look odd and screw with the flow of the paragraph, especially if you throw in too many.

She ties her long, curly, brown tresses up in a messy bun. /// She ties her curls up in a messy brown bun. (bonus alliteration too)

Generally, I see this most often with hair, a terrible rule of threes. Eyes less so, but eyes have their own issue. Eye color gets repeated at an exhausting frequency. Whatever you have in your manuscript, you could probably delete 30-40% of the reminders that the love interest has baby blues and readers would be happy, especially if you use the same metaphor over and over again, like gemstones.

He rolled his bright, emerald eyes. /// He rolled his eyes, a vibrant green in the lamplight.

To me, one reads like you want to get the character description out as fast as possible, so the hand of the author comes in to wave and stop the story to give you the details. Fixing it, my way or another way, stands out less as exposition, which is what character descriptions boil down to—something the audience needs to know to appreciate and/or understand the story.

3. Lacking flow between sentences

Much like sentences that are all about the same length with little variety in syntax, sentences that follow each other like a grocery list or instruction manual instead of a proper narrative are difficult to find gripping.

Jack gets out a stock pot from the cupboard. He fills it with the tap and sets it on the stove. Then, he grabs russet potatoes and butter from the fridge. He leaves the butter out to soften, and sets the pot to boil. He then adds salt to the water.

From the cupboard, Jack drags a hefty stockpot. He fills it with the tap, adds salt to taste, and sets it on the stove.

Russet potatoes or yukon gold? Jack drums his fingers on the fridge door in thought. Russet—that’s what the recipe calls for. He tosses the bag on the counter and the butter beside it to soften.

This is just one version of a possible edit to the first paragraph, not the end-all, be-all perfect reconstruction. It’s not just about having transitions, like ‘then’, it’s about how one sentence flows into the next, and you can accomplish better flow in many different ways.

4. Getting too specific with movement.

I don’t see this super often, but when it happens, it tends to be pretty bad. I think it happens because writers feel the need to overcompensate and over-clarify on what’s happening. Remember: The more specific you get, the more your readers are going to wonder what’s so important about these details. This is fiction, so every detail matters.

A ridiculous example:

Jack walks over to his closet. He kneels down at the shoe rack and tugs his running shoes free. He walks back to his desk chair, sits down, and ties the laces.

Unless tying his shoes is a monumental achievement for this character, all readers would need is:

Jack shoves on his running shoes.

*quick note: Do not add "down" after the following: Kneels, stoops, crouches, squats. The "down" is already implied in the verb.

This also happens with multiple movements in succession.

Beth enters the room and steps on her shoelace, nearly causing her to trip. She kneels and ties her shoes. She stands upright and keeps moving.

Or

Beth walks in and nearly trips over her shoelace. She sighs, reties it, and keeps moving.

Even then, unless Beth is a chronically clumsy character or this near-trip is a side effect of her being late or tired (i.e. meaningful), tripping over a shoelace is kind of boring if it does nothing for her character. Miles Morales’ untied shoelaces are thematically part of his story.

Sometimes, over-describing a character’s movement is meant to show how nervous they are—overthinking everything they’re doing, second-guessing themselves ad nauseam. Or they’re autistic coded and this is how this character normally thinks as deeply methodical. Or, you’re trying to emphasize some mundanity about their life and doing it on purpose.

If you’re not writing something where the extra details service the character or the story at large, consider trimming it.

—

These are *suggestions* and writing is highly subjective. Hope this helps!

[chithereader]

jealousy, jealousy / aaron hotchner

here’s my masterlist! pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader / shy!reader word count: 2.4k genre & cw: fluff, a little jealousy and pining angst if u squint, mentions of made-up case, different use of cm character a/n: thank u so much for all the support i've been getting on my fics!! hope you love this one as much as i do, i really enjoyed writing this one the most!

Today was a bad day. That much was clear. From the moment you woke up to the minute you arrived at the BAU– you’re convinced that the universe has simply gone the extra mile to make your life a little harder. 

You slept through your alarm and a few phone calls from Garcia, making your morning stressful and complete chaos. You didn’t have time to grab a cup of coffee or a snack, and apparently you also didn’t have time to remove the colorful pimple patches that adorned your face. 

Your blouse is buttoned asymmetrically, your hair resembling a bird's nest, and you left your ID at home, making your arrival more delayed as you had to employ Garcia’s help in presenting a copy of your ID to let you through. 

That too was not without stress given that your phone was on the verge of dying as you were in the call, but thankfully you could finally breathe in the elevator. Or so you thought. 

There were two things that immediately caught you off guard as you walked into the bullpen: one, almost all the desks were deserted and two, Reid and Morgan were watching you- as if waiting for your reaction, which led you to look around in anticipation. Is there a surprise? A prank? Did I miss a patch? I’m…wearing pants, right? 

Not wanting to prolong your search, you look at the two for any indication or clue. Tilting your head to the side as if to ask what? But to your surprise, they both nod their heads in one direction. Oh.

Strauss was in Hotch’s office, along with Rossi and a woman you don’t recognize. Hotch looked a bit tense, Strauss firm, Rossi is as relaxed as ever, and the woman… is looking directly at Hotch. Just Hotch. Huh. 

You were stood just shy of your desk when you shook thoughts out of your head, slowly approaching your desk to settle your things. Dozens of scenarios were running through your head, trying to make sense of new additions to an otherwise normal day. 

But the way she was studying him made your chest tight like someone was stepping on it.. and you couldn’t figure out why. 

You approach the two rascals only to lean on Derek’s desk as you whisper under your breath, “What’s happening there?” 

Morgan shrugs but his focused face remains, “I don’t know, kid. I tried Garcia but she doesn’t have a clue either.” Eyes studying the people in the room, noting anything that could tell them something. 

Mulling over more possibilities, you hum in response. Turning to Reid, you ask him- hoping that his eidetic memory can tell you anything about the woman even if they’d only met in passing. 

“Do you know anything, Spence?” But Reid only pouts at you, a sign that he’s thought about it hard but is coming up empty. 

Shaking his head, he soberly replies, “No..I don’t think so. I– I’ve never seen her before. Sorry.” 

Before any more thoughts could be voiced between the three of you, the door to Hotch’s office opens and all four of them file out- the woman walking a little too close to Hotch. 

-

You’re approaching your usual seat on the jet beside Morgan and across from Hotch when suddenly Agent Seaver overtakes you and sits on your seat. Caught by surprise, your eyes instinctively go to Hotch who’s already looking at you. 

He nods to himself, moving from the aisle seat to the one by the window. But it appears Agent Seaver misunderstood his gesture and moved beside him, “Oh! Thank you, sir.” Even going as far as touching his arm and leaning closely. 

Now, you’ve never been a violent person. Rage has just never overcome your senses like that but today.. of all days– you couldn’t help the image of spilling your hot chocolate all over her cream blouse. 

You don’t even notice that you’re frowning as you sit beside Morgan, somehow still unaware of how much their closeness really upsets you. You honestly thought you’ve maintained an expressionless face until Morgan looks up from his file and leans close to whisper in your ear, “You’ll need claws not paws, baby girl.” Winking at you as you separate. 

You steal a glance at Hotch only to see him watching you and Morgan with furrowed brows. He almost looks normal if it weren’t for the clenching of his jaw that’s his tell of irritation. Moving your gaze to Seaver, in case you missed something that’s causing his new mood, you find her reading the case file. 

As you return your gaze on Hotch, you watch as Seaver touches his arm again and engages him in conversation about the case. It’s through the whole jet ride that you had to stomach the constant Agent Hotchner, Agent Hotchner! paired with a giggle or a slight touch. UGH!

If it weren’t for Strauss personally recommending Agent Seaver as a consultant for this case, you would have done– …still absolutely nothing. You had no claim whatsoever over Hotch. Morgan and Rossi may tease the two of you occasionally, forcing that he treats you specially or whatever but his behavior could simply be chalked off as him being a good and attentive boss. 

And yes, okay fine. You may have some moments here and there… but! they could honestly just be built up in your head because of the feelings you have for him. Like when he said he likes it when you stare? Come on, being stared at can be flattering and that’s just a universal truth. 

- 

After a whole day of coming up with theories, visiting crime scenes and M.E.’s, you’re all completely spent. Lounging in the makeshift discussion room, all of you are still working tirelessly on the case given that the unsub’s on a spree and his timeline is alarmingly short. 

Reid’s been silently staring at the board for 20 minutes while Morgan’s pretending to read files of potential suspects with his legs stretched out and feet on the table, “This is impossible. We just don’t have enough.” He exclaims as he tosses the file on the table with a thud. 

To the left of Morgan, you’re also silently mulling over files of potential suspects. Not wanting to admit that he’s right, you guys don’t have enough…bodies. You barely have anything on the guy, barely any clues- for a working profile. 

You sigh heavily, peeling your eyes off the paper and looking at the board. “Reid?” The boy genius shakes his head softly, confirming that the known dump sites don’t say much about the unsub’s comfort zones or hunting ground. 

You suddenly wonder where Seaver, Hotch and Rossi are. You and Morgan got back to the precinct at around 11PM, and you realize you haven’t seen any of them, “Where are the others?” 

Morgan, in an effort to lighten the mood, jumps at the chance to tease you, “Hmm. I think what you’re really asking is: Where’s Hotch and is he with Seaver?” He punches your arm lightly, making it obvious he’s only teasing. 

The smug, playful smile on his face makes you fight one of your own, desperately trying to not give yourself away, “Shut up,” hitting him in the head softly with the file in your hand. 

While you two were exchanging playful glares, Reid interjects, “Seaver wanted to turn in early since she’s also the one meeting with the families tomorrow so Hotch brought her to the hotel.” 

You instantly lift your gaze to him and watch as he removes the marker’s cap and scribbles rapidly on the board, quickly adding “And I’m pretty sure Rossi’s getting us coffee from the diner around the block.” 

You want to blame it on your exhaustion– your inability and ineffectiveness at hiding how you truly feel about what Reid just revealed to you, groaning loudly in pain and frustration. You put your head in your hands, muffling the sounds you’re making that are somehow a combination of a laugh and a sob. 

Morgan understands your reaction immediately and laughs out loud. 

“It’s not funny!” There was honestly no point in hiding it. As much as Morgan teased you, you knew he wouldn’t tell anyway, and Reid.. well, he was honestly an even better keeper of secrets than Morgan, Rossi and Garcia. 

He puts a hand on your shoulder to comfort you, “Baby girl, worry not. You know you hold a special place in boss man’s heart.” Then gripping both your wrists to pry your hands off your face. 

Pressing your face even further into your hands, you let out a muffled version of “That’s not true!” that came out more as “Daffs noft thwu!” 

When Morgan successfully pries your hands off your face, you’re surprised to see Reid’s moved from the board to behind Morgan, half leaning half sitting on the table, curiously watching you. 

Morgan turns around to look at the door behind you, making sure the coast is clear before he says, “Kid. Be real with me for a sec… are you blind?” That was not the question you were expecting. 

You must have looked so lost because he continues, “Hotch cares for you. Deeply. And not in the same way he does for us. You’ve gotta have felt that, kid.” Funny, you are starting to feel like a kid– the only thing missing are his hands on your shoulders to complete that huddle pep talk experience. 

“That’s just not–” you try to start. But Reid swiftly raises his hand, signing you to stop–

“Did you know that every morning Hotch makes sure all the pens and mug handles on your desk are pointing to the right– the way you need it to be– in case the night janitors move any out of place?”

“Or that he never really ate lunch in the office before but started bringing sandwiches and other food he could microwave, while timing his lunches with yours presumably so he could strike up a conversation with you during break?” 

“Or do you remember that one time the AC in the bullpen broke and we were all sweating badly, and I said the heat was making me too thirsty then he disappeared into his office and came back with a bottle of water and an orange juice box only to give it to you?” 

Morgan lets out a loud laugh at that one while Reid pouts playfully, “I mean I was genuinely dying then.” 

Not without his own input, Morgan smiles softly at you with a raised brow “Did you know he personally restocks your favorite hot chocolate in the pantry and on the jet? Including the marshmallows.” 

You breathe in deeply, the revelations sounding too good to be true but winding nonetheless. You crack a small joke, trying to play it off “And I thought the bureau was just feeling really generous.” 

The two, who have grown to be such brothers, give you the exact same look of Really? 

As Reid rounds the table to go back and stand by the board, Morgan catches your attention and holds your eye, “Look, there’s so much more, kid. But they all point to the same thing.” He says this as softly as possible, as if to not scare you away. 

You let out a soft, breathy laugh. Shaking your head, “That just can’t be true.” 

With all three of your backs to the door, you don’t notice Rossi nearing. You just suddenly hear his voice from behind, rounding the table and settling the coffee cups in front of all of you, “Coffee, anyone?” 

As if trapped in the null of the previous conversation, you’re still looking at Morgan as you lean back in your chair, slumping further to seek non-existent cover. Reid, who is now back in his own world with the board, is handed a cup by Rossi, who didn’t even turn to look- only stretching out an arm to receive it and mumbling a distracted “Thanks.”  

Rossi, who is simply too smart for his own good, impressively senses something hanging in the air, nonchalantly asking about the tailend of a conversation he was not supposed to hear, “So… what can’t be true?” 

Back to lounging excessively on a chair that is a tad too tiny for him, with legs outstretched and feet on the corner on the table– Morgan spouts, “That she’s Hotch’s girl, and has no reason to be jealous of Seaver– who by the way needs the HR orientation more than Penelope and I.” 

-

Now– all of your backs are to the door except Rossi’s. Not one of you tried to move due to fatigue, let alone look.

Unbeknownst to you, Morgan, and Reid, on the way back to the precinct from the hotel, Hotch had the genius thought of picking up Rossi so the latter wouldn’t have to walk a block with trays of coffee on hand.

Hotch and Rossi arrived together. And as Rossi went around the table to give you your cups of coffee, Hotch stayed behind– leaning on the doorframe with arms crossed, watching you and the team.

Imagine his surprise, hearing what Morgan just said. His heart skipped a beat, his stomach dropped. His entire being froze entirely.. What? Jealous? 

In his mind, he had two choices: Act like he didn’t hear it and save you from embarrassment or use it to his advantage and make his intentions clear..ish. 

-

You gasp loudly at his bluntness– and in front of Rossi! Straightening in your chair and pointing an accusatory finger at Morgan, “You little– I am NOT jealous! and I am NOT Hotch’s–” 

Cut off by someone loudly clearing their throat from behind all of you, you all freeze, including Reid who hasn’t been actively paying attention until now. 

The hair on your neck stands up as you hear the nearing footsteps, already envisioning digging your own grave in your head when finally, Hotch is standing right beside you. 

You’re all still pretty frozen, save from the slow movement which is your eyes slowly lifting its gaze to the man in question until they meet his hazel orbs. He holds your stare as he leans on the desk, arms straining in his shirt– 

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Rossi fighting a smile, and just as you’re about to mentally curse him in your head, you’re broken out of your thoughts by a deep voice, 

“You don’t think you’re my girl?” 

[earthtooz]

jealous ratio bc i wont him, inspired by the simulated universe occurrence, banter about marriage hehe

"Dr. No. 5 asked me to be his research partner today," you mumble half-heartedly to Veritas. It was an ordinary night, you're curled into his side with your phone in hand, watching the latest series you've been invested in whilst he occupies his mind with a book, held by one hand whilst his other is wrapped around you.

However, when he registers your confession, he tenses, slightly scrunching the pages of his book as the arm around you stiffens, muscles contracting.

"And what did you say?" He asks, feigning collectedness.

"I agreed."

His book slams shut and he shoots upward to a sitting position, baffled by the nonchalance of your tone. How cruel, you have betrayed him in the most despicable of ways, do you not care? Agreeing to be someone else's research partner is akin to that of spitting on his heart and stomping it flat, have you no respect for the laws of academic loyalty (there is no such thing), or is he the only one in your relationship devoted to it?

An idiot. You will be working with an idiot and you somehow see no flaw in that, where is your integrity as his lover?

"What does that fool have that I don't?" He all but cries, yanking your phone from your hands and setting it on his bedside table.

"What are you blabbering about?" You ask, looking up at him with inquisitive eyes, confusion shining in your irises.

"I'm supposed to be your only research partner, I cannot believe that you've gone and betrayed me like this."

"Pray tell, Veritas, how is this a 'betrayal'?"

"I would never choose to be anyone's research partner if I'm not yours, but today I've discovered that my devotion is not only unreciprocated, but unappreciated! How unfathomable."

The purple-haired turns his muscular back to you, giving you the cold shoulder. Slowly you sit up and lean on his toned body, hand resting on his deltoid and you can already see the way he tries to fight the effects of your touch. "Dear, you wouldn't be anyone else's research partner because you think majority of people are 'idiots' and aren't worthwhile academics to invest time into."

"Precisely why I cannot believe that you have agreed to work with No. 5, who is undeniably, irrefutably, and undoubtedly, a simpleton!"

You bite your tongue when it threatens to spill that you think No. 5 is not as bad as Veritas assumes, but that would outrage the scholar even more and you do not want to spend the better half of your day purposefully ruining it.

"The pay was good," you reason, daring to place a kiss to his neck. "But you are still superior in my heart, Veritas. Do not fret, if I am to seek a research partner, you would be my first and only choice."

"How long will your project span for?" He asks begrudgingly.

"6 months of research, writing, and editing. After that, I am not too involved with the publishing process."

"Oh how it stains me picturing your name beside another imbecile's."

You sigh, sitting up straighter to wrap both arms around his neck. "Your name could be beside mine permanently if you got down to one knee and presented me a ring, but alas, perhaps I shall be waiting another few research papers for that to happen."

You can't see the fond smile on his face, but you yelp when he turns around suddenly to push you against the comfort of your mattress, his lips claiming yours.

© EARTHTOOZ 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[rafey-baby]

sweet treat 3

construction worker!rafe is very grateful when shy!reader offers to help with his tense shoulders...

c/w: rafe in a desperate need of a massage, fluff, some heavy making out, slight dry humping, suggestive, 18+ mdni!

wc: 1.4k

meant to write something cute but knowing them it turned into something filthy (who's surprised) hope you enjoy xx

part 2 & part 4 part 5

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

Rafe has had a tedious workday on the construction site. The ardent sun making him melt like ice under the searing yellow rays and the clock ticking as if it was an ancient turtle not helping one bit.

Even after he’s washed the sweat and the dirt off and changed into a clean pair of clothes, his shoulders are strained; muscles aching and legs hurting.   

Every time he tries to move his limbs into a more comfortable position on his couch his face scrunches up into a pained expression. It makes her furrow her brows, asking what’s wrong with worry painting over her features.  

“Nothing, just a bit tense,” he dismisses her, rolling his shoulders back, trying to alleviate the soreness that’s tormenting him; disturbing him from the movie they’re trying to watch as they wait for the casserole he’s made to bake in the oven. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you— do you want me to give you a massage or something?” She suggests, wanting to make him feel better.  

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it, Sweetheart,” he murmurs, turning his attention back to the television.  

“No, but Rafe you’re hurting…I wanna help,” there’s a slight pout forming on her mouth as she takes the remote, pausing the film.  

He turns the sapphires of his eyes to face her. The look she’s giving him tugs at his heartstrings and for a moment he wonders what he did to deserve such an angel wanting to take care of him.  

“Yeah? Wanna help me?”  

She nods. 

Then he’s turning around and bending his legs to sit cross-legged on the sofa; presenting his solid back and broad shoulders to her.  

“Also, I’ve had some practice but I’m no masseuse, so don’t get your hopes up too much,” she says as she scoots closer, raising on her knees behind him in order to reach his tall frame. 

“You give massages to a lot of people?” He asks, teasing, seemingly nonchalant but there’s a part of him that’s eager to find out whether he’s getting special treatment from her. 

“No, I just meant when I was little me and my friends used to do these massage therapy circles and we’d take turns. But now I’m a little rusty since it’s obviously been a while,” she explains.  

“Good,” is all he offers in response, making something abstruse in her tummy flutter.  

She then settles her hands on his wide shoulder blades that lie underneath the white fabric of his t shirt, digging into his skin; feeling the sturdy muscle under her fingertips.  

“You want me to take my shirt off? So it’s easier?” He casually suggests and her cheeks heat up. 

“Oh— um…yeah, if you want,” her voice does not sound as indifferent as his which makes the corners of his strawberry mouth curl up as he plucks at the collar of his shirt, exposing solid back muscles and soft skin to stare back at her.  

She blinks.  

Hesitantly, she rests her hands on top of his shoulders once again and begins kneading her fingers into his brawny structure.  

A heartfelt groan rumbles from his chest, making her swallow at the lewd sound as she continues to press into the parts that feel the most strained.  

“Just tell me if something feels bad or if you want me to focus on a specific spot and stuff,” she murmurs as her thumbs sink into his tense flesh, feeling him beginning to unspool under her ministrations.  

He hums out a soft agreement, contentment coating his tone.  

However, when she presses into a particularly taut part of muscle tissue, he suddenly lets out a low-pitched noise from the back of his throat, sounding almost obscene to her ears; reminding her of the night they shared a few days ago.  

It makes her squeeze her thighs together, trying to drag her head out of the gutter.  

“Fuck, that feels nice,” he grunts out, closing his eyes in ecstasy. He thinks she lied when she said that she wasn’t too good because he’s not sure if his shoulders have ever felt this mellow.  

He’s practically muddy clay under her tender fingertips and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be right now. He feels so relaxed he could almost fall asleep. 

She continues digging her thumbs into his achy flesh for some time until her fingers begin to feel so sore, she thinks they’ll fall off if she doesn’t stop.  

“Sorry, my fingers hurt, can’t anymore,” she softly apologizes and he turns around to face her again; a lazy grin coating his grateful countenance.  

“It’s all good, feels so much better now. Thanks, Sweetheart,” he says while he rolls his shoulders back for emphasis; no hint of any sort of agony in sight.  

“Of course, if um— if you need me to do that again, just ask, okay?”  

“You’re so good to me, you know that?” Carolina blue is peering down at her with a certain tenderness that makes her feel all fuzzy and tingly inside.  

“That was nothing. I mean, it was the least I could do after all the times you’ve driven me home and stuff.” 

“I’m serious, you just spent almost an hour turning my muscles into jelly. Let me thank you properly,” he murmurs.  

“What— what do you mean?” Her breath hitches.  

“What I’m saying is, haven’t been able to stop thinking about you grinding yourself on top of me, you know?” He says as he lifts his left arm in order to tuck a loose strand of her behind her ear; fingers lingering on her jawline. 

She freezes, not sure how to respond as his thumb strokes along her cheekbone and he tips her face up with an index finger tucked under her chin.  

“Was so caught up in it all, forgot to kiss you…” he drifts off, clouded gaze flitting over her features. “You want me to?” 

“You mean…right now?” Her eyes round out, barely managing to shove the words out from the gaps of her teeth.  

“Unless, you have somewhere else to be?” The edges of his mouth tilt and when she shakes her head, he leans closer, pressing his lips on hers in a tender kiss.  

However, when a faint noise of surprise escapes her, he deepens it; warm tongue prodding at the seam of her mouth, coaxing her to open.  

When she eventually does, he slips his tongue in, groaning when he can taste the muted sweetness of the vanilla chapstick she’s wearing.  

Something that was meant to be soft and sweet turns into something heated and primal as she holds his face in her palms. He paws at her waist, bringing her closer and lifting her to sit on his lap with a steady grip on her hips.  

She’s straddling his thighs as his hands travel down to squeeze at the flesh of her ass, forcing her to let out fragile whimpers into his mouth as he continues to swallow her up.  

“There we go, Sweetheart. That’s a lot better, yeah?” He murmurs between soft pecks and sloppy kisses.  

Their spit-slick lips lock together again and again; her thighs becoming sticky and mind wandering in a hazy vapor.  

“Rafe…” she nearly whispers and she doesn’t even realize she’s rutting against the bulge in his pants until he’s grunting, blunt nails denting her skin.  

The slight pain makes her whine and then he’s pushing her against his hardening cock firmer, pillowy lips smearing on hers all wet and messy; turning her into a moaning jumble, trying her best to keep up with his hungry mouth.  

All of a sudden, completely out of the blue, the timer of the oven begins ringing. It makes her jump in surprise; nearly falling off his lap, if not for his beefy arms holding her upright, not missing a beat.  

He lets out an airy chuckle against her swollen lips and presses a few sweetened pecks on them, reluctantly pulling away. His heavy panting fills her ears for a few seconds as she tries to even out her own rickety respiration.  

Then he’s gently setting her on top of the couch cushions and standing up on his feet; a disconcerted pout following his movements.  

“Shit, better go check on the food so it doesn’t burn, yeah?” He’s sporting a lazy, taunting smile as he offers his right palm to her; lifting her up on unsteady legs that try their best to follow him like a needy kitten as he disappears into the kitchen that bathes under the burnt orange of the setting sun.