#...I started writing by writing just dialogue...

[azzibueckers5]

chapter 3: i wanna know peace again (wanna sing a different song)

cross posted on ao3 here, and tumblr chapters 1 & 2 here

chapter 3: in which azzi worries for paige's nutrition levels and appreciates good countertops

content warning: explicit sex (wc: ~6k)

AN: suprise, surprise, these two wouldn't leave me alone. at the expense of my gpa. happy finals? ummm. this is entirely plotless. like completely. hopefully I managed to capture their dynamic shift the way I was intending? idk you guys tell me. I wanted to make sure they were still paige and azzi at the end of the day. ummm I'm not as proud of this as I was about the other two chapters but I can't tell if that's because it's actually not as good or if I just really like writing monologuey angst and hate writing dialogue/smut. uh. without further ado, six thousand words of pure nonsense!

the thing about being best friends for eight years and teammates for at least half of that time is that you see each other in various states of undress quite often. (especially when you’re an eensy weensy teeny tiny bit more than best friends and practically live inside each other’s skin.)

you would think this fact would have at least minimally prepared azzi for the whole getting-naked-to-have-sex thing. this is tragically not the case. 

like. okay. azzi knows, objectively, that paige is a very attractive person. has noticed the cut of her abs, and how nice her hands are, and how biteable (yeah. she said it. biteable.) her jawline looks when she tilts her head. but the difference between thinking all those things and having paige actually underneath her, with miles of smooth skin to put her hands (and mouth. hopefully. if she can pick it back up off the ground, where it’s been for the last minute.) is entirely overwhelming. 

she feels dizzy with all the things she wants to do, doesn’t even know where to begin. paige is looking entirely too smug, however, laid out underneath azzi in just sweat shorts and an old, thin calvin bra and smirking like she knows every thought buzzing around in her head, so azzi decides kissing her is a decent place to start.

(azzi called her a slut when she discovered that paige hadn’t worn a shirt underneath her sweatshirt. paige had simply said yeah, for you. and well. here they were, fifteen seconds later, azzi straddling her on the bed.) 

this kiss is slower than their previous ones, less desperate, but it stokes the fire that’s been burning in azzi all the same, and it only burns hotter when paige’s hands slide up underneath her tank top to cup at her breasts. 

evidently, paige gets tired of the material in her way after approximately 10 seconds and mumbles out “ off ,” tugging at azzi’s shirt. 

she tugs it up over her head, but before she can busy herself with the skin below paige’s collarbone that’s been calling to her, she gets distracted by the look on paige’s face, like azzi just made a half court buzzer and not that she’s merely exposed her nipples. 

“ azzi,” paige practically moans, looking dazed.  

and then she blinks and all of a sudden she’s looking up at paige from underneath her, both arms pinned above her head with one of paige’s hands, the other dragging featherlight touches down to trace at azzi’s nipple, goosebumps erupting across her chest. 

paige kisses her again before she has a chance to protest her inability to touch, and it distracts her decently for a few minutes, until paige begins trailing her mouth down to suck a bruise into azzi’s throat and her mouth is freed.

“ paige,” she whines, “wanna touch.” she wriggles her hands a bit, testing her grip. if azzi really wanted to, she could break free in seconds, and by paige’s eyebrow raise when she pulls her head up from azzi’s neck, she knows it too.

“can’t concentrate when your hands are on me, baby. you gonna be good f’me? ” and. okay. that’s. azzi feels herself throb. 

she swallows back the whine that desperately wants to rip from her throat and lets out a “yeah,” voice high and breathy. 

paige’s “ good,” is pressed into the skin of her collarbone, and then she trails lower, mouthing at one of azzi’s nipples. 

she doesn’t think she’s ever been this turned on in her life and and paige has barely touched her yet. fuck’s sake.

paige releases her hands when her mouth moves south, migrating down azzi’s stomach and bringing the hand that was just pinning azzi’s up to thumb at her nipple, dragging her mouth across the smooth, dark skin of her abs. she takes her time tracing the ridges of muscle with her tongue and overall being a general tease, but azzi’s hand stay above her head, hips twitching whenever paige nips at her navel.

the blonde pauses her descent down azzi’s stomach when she gets to her waistband, looking up at her through half-lidded eyes.

“we don’t. we don’t have to have sex if this is all like. too much.” paige says, and despite how much effort it looks like it takes for her to say it, azzi knows with certainty that she means it, would roll off of azzi in an instant if asked and just bask in her presence. 

the sincerity somehow makes her impossibly wetter. 

she throws an arm across her face to try and mask how much the sentence affects her.

“paige- i swear to god if you don’t touch me ,” she muffles, through her forearm, and she can hear the smirk in paige’s reply. 

“eager, are we?”

“ yes,” and she can’t even bring herself to be embarrassed because then paige makes an approving noise in the back of her throat and tugs off azzi’s sweats. 

it is entirely impossible to feel self conscious with the laser focus of paige’s eyes on the wet patch of her panties, but azzi squirms anyway, suddenly almost entirely bare to the heaviness of paige’s gaze.

“ jesus, az.” she breathes, hands flying out to trace at the patch of moisture. her touch is feather light but azzi is already a livewire, and the brush of her fingers against her clit isn’t enough to do anything except make her keen quietly, desperately. 

paige seems content to just look, which would be nice. if azzi wasn’t already soaked through and needy.

she decides getting paige out of her clothes is a good way to move this show along, so she reaches out to drag the older girl back up and strip her out of her shorts and bra to even the playing field a little bit. she tugs paige’s shorts off first, and then pauses, a slow grin spreading across her face. 

“paige madison bueckers, are you wearing a matching set?” her grey, simple calvin underwear matches the faded fabric of her bra, and. azzi is so, so gone for her. 

she grins, not even a little bit embarrassed, and says, proudly, “nothin’ wrong with bein’ an optimist, ma,” before crawling fully over azzi and bending to slot their lips together again. 

paige planks above her with one arm next to azzi’s face, the other tracing lines down her abdomen, pausing when they get to her panties.

“can i?” 

“ please,” is all azzi can muster, hips shifting in anticipation. her blood is simmering already, from paige’s kisses, but she needs more like she needs the air in her lungs to breathe. 

paige smiles, tipping her head down to azzi’s shoulder to watch as her hand slips under the silk of azzi’s underwear and slides into the wetness she finds beneath. 

they both moan at the contact, and azzi’s hips twitch again, begging for more. 

and then paige's thumb is pressing on her clit and she sees stars , keening high in her throat. paige pulls her head up to watch azzi’s reactions, and slips a finger inside, gazing in awe as azzi arches her back up in a bow, drawn taught with need. she slides her finger out, before curling it right back in and repeating the motion, all the while rubbing at azzi’s clit, and azzi feels wetness slide out of her and drip onto paige’s hand. 

and then paige adds a second finger and she goes from turned on to desperately close in a matter of seconds, moaning paige’s name and reaching up to grip at her blonde hair as her mouth returns to azzi’s chest. 

she watches the veins on paige’s wrist move with the motion of her hand, and listens to the slick sound of her fingers moving in and out, and. fucking hell she’s going to come. 

paige fingers curl particularly hard on one thrust, and she’s suddenly aware of the ring still on one of paige’s digits, now probably covered in azzi’s slick, and.

“paige, paige, m’gonna come, fuck.”

and then paige tears her hand away from azzi’s cunt, leaving her clenching around nothing, and she whines in despair, finger scrabbling at paige’s back.

“shhh, baby, wanna taste you that's all,” paige says, mouth already dipping lower to drag across azzi’s breast.

“ mean-” is all azzi can get out in response, still reeling from the taste of her high in such close reach. 

“i’ll make it up to you,” paige promises, from her navel, and azzi knows she means to sound cocky but it comes out breathless instead, like she’s just as affected by this as azzi is.

azzi believes her.

paige traces the waistline of her panties with her tongue, before reaching up to tear them off and exposing azzi fully to her gaze. her hips twitch at the weight behind her stare, and her cunt throbs in anticipation as paige reaches out to drag a finger down through azzi’s soaked folds.

“ fuck,” azzi breathes , just as paige mumbles out a dazed “you’re so wet for me, hmm?”

azzi is going to combust. and then, paige drops a kiss to her clit, before attaching her mouth for real, and forget combustion. azzi has ascended to a higher plane. 

paige takes her time with it, tracing her tongue up and down azzi’s folds, and she feels like she’s being lit on fire by her mouth, trying to wriggle her hips to get closer to the flame. she was so close just a minute ago, and she still is, but she needs more to get off, itching for a finger, more pressure on her clit, anything .

“paige, i need it” she whines, and she doesn’t even know what she’s asking for, exactly, just knows that paige can give it to her. 

“you need more, baby?” she questions, words vibrating into azsi’s core. 

she moans in affirmative, but before she can give a verbal agreement, there are two fingers back inside of her and all she can do is wail instead, surrendering to the pleasure that paige is pulling out of her.

and then all of a sudden paige goes from light strokes of her tongue and only minimal pressure on her opening to sucking on azzi’s clit, hard , and thrusting her fingers inside at the perfect angle, and azzi sees stars, thrashing a little bit in ecstasy. 

her words are incoherent now, just a mush of paige’s name and various pleas, and lightning builds up again in her abdomen in no time, heat curling in her core. 

and then paige nips, slightly, at her clit, timed perfectly with a curl of her fingers, and azzi shatters, entire body tensing up as she comes. 

she feels paige flop down next to her, but the world is still buzzing, toes tingling, and she can only muster up the energy to squeeze their fingers together in thanks, vision still white. 

she’s never come that hard in her life.  

when her breathing returns to normal, and her body starts to feel less like she’s floating away on a different plane, she’s reminded of the feral part of her that wants to touch and pleasure the girl lying next to her, and she straddles paige, leaning down to kiss her and moaning at the taste of herself. she breaks the kiss for a second to finally drags paige’s bra off and fling it behind her, and then miles of unblemished skin are staring back at her, just begging for her mouth.  

she bites at paige’s collarbone, before dipping down to take a nipple in her mouth, smiling a bit at the hitch in her breath. she explores a little more, leaving marks as she goes for good measure, and then she brings her fingers to the waistband of paige’s underwear, asking silent permission. paige nods, and azzi moves back up to kiss her for a bit as she traces her fingers through the pool of slick, dipping her fingers under the elastic and swallowing the quiet moans that paige releases.

paige is so, so wet, and azzi needs to put her mouth on her right now. 

“can i eat you out?” she mumbles, pressing the words into paige’s skin.

paige’s hips twitch, and she moans, wantonly, before breathing out “ c’n do whatever you want, az.” 

she doesn’t need more encouragement. 

“‘ve never done this before, can you- can you tell me how to make it good?” she asks, voice shy. 

paige just looks at her for a second, wild and turned on, before replying, voice hoarse, “s’you, azzi, it’s gonna be good.” 

azzi rolls her eyes, because: unhelpful, but allows it for now anyways, and scooches down, mouth catching everywhere she can on her descent. 

she tugs the offending material off, eyes catching on the meat of her thighs, and then situates herself between her long, endless legs, just looking for a second, admiring paige splayed out before her and exposed, just for azzi . 

she’s not even trying to be a tease, but there’s just so many things she wants to do and she can’t keep her mouth on one place for too long, sucking a mark into the pale, unmarred skin of paige’s pelvis, and then one on her inner thigh for good measure, leaning back to admire her handiwork. 

“azzi, baby, you’re killing me,” paige moans, sounding wrecked, and she hums before finally focusing on the patch of wetness at paige's core. she curls an arm under paige’s thigh and drapes it back across her hips to hold her steady, and then licks a tentative stripe up paige’s center, humming happily at the taste and intentionally sending vibrations into paige’s cunt 

she blonde makes a high, needy sound azzi’s never heard before above her, and she doubles down at the encouragement, sucking at paige's clit into her mouth and humming again in warning when her hips try and lift up to grind against azzi’s tongue. 

she looks up, and notices that paige’s eyes are closed, so she lifts her head briefly, requesting, “wan’ you to look at me, p,” and savors the way her blue eyes fly open, strangled sound escaping her mouth. 

“ jesus christ,” she whines, when azzi’s mouth returns, and she mumbles out a string of curses when her tongue trails down to trace at paige’s hole, but doesn’t break eye contact. 

a secret, possessive part of her mind relishes on the thought that paige has probably been fantasizing about some version of this moment for a long, long time. azzi is determined to live up to her dreams. 

she drags her mouth back up to paige’s clit, and slides the hand not currently pinning paige’s hips down on the bed down to run her fingers against the wetness pooling at her opening, sliding her fingers back and forth. 

“ please- azzi-” is all paige gets out, but it's enough, and azzi slides a finger in, sucking lazily at her above it. paige is so wet, and her walls clench down on azzi’s finger when she crooks it, and she knows she just came, but azzi may or may be getting off on this too. no one has to know. 

she adds another when paige lets out a particularly delicious whine, and she feels drunk on the sounds coming out of paige’s mouth, of the taste of her cunt on her tongue. (she is definitely, definitely into women. one hundred percent confirmed.)

it only takes another minute of azzi’s mouth on her clit, fingers curling inside, before paige is coming with a cry, thighs clenching momentarily around azzi’s head. she keeps her fingers pumping slowly, working her through it, until paige whines in overstimulation and drags azzi’s head away with the hands that are still tangled in her hair. 

she looks ruined, pupils blown and chest heaving, and azzi takes a second to kneel above and admire how pretty she looks like this, flushed and covered in marks.

“tha’ was nice,” is what paige decides to say first, still breathing hard, arm thrown across her face. idiot. 

azzi hums, amused. “should do it again sometime.” 

“i’d prolly be down.” 

azzi just rolls her eyes and crawls up paige’s body to lie closer to her, tangling their legs together and curling up under her chin. “yeah, yeah. prolly. okay, champ.”

“you did not just call me champ.”

azzi presses her laugh into the nook between paige’s neck and shoulder, like she has a million times before, but now there’s sweat cooling on their skin and pleasure still buzzing through her veins, and she feels a new kind of comfort in her favorite place. 

she smiles into the open skin in front of her, nipping at it lightly, and paige giggles- giggles - above her. she feels giddy with all the happiness radiating off the blonde, her own contentment settling into every crevice of her mind. 

“you’re gonna be a problem f’me aren't you,” paige mumbles into her hair, affection ruining any chance at seeming annoyed.

azzi hums, dragging her fingertips through the hair at the base of the blonde’s neck and lets contented silence settle around them. 

and then, because she can’t help it: “i made you finish faster.” 

paige squaks and rolls them over, planting herself above azzi and looking like the picture of indignation. 

she gloats again, “i’m just sayin’. i’ve never even gotten a girl off before and you only lasted, what, like, four min-” 

paige cuts her off with a kiss, pressing the brunette back into the mattress and slidling a leg between azzi’s to nudge her between her thighs, right where she’s already wet and waiting again. she detaches their mouths for a second, mumbling out a “four minutes, i’ll show you four minutes ,” and starts mouthing kisses down the column of azzi’s throat.

…

round two (or is it three? she doesn’t really know how to keep track of when one starts and another begins) comes to a begrudging halt when azzi hears paige's stomach grumble, loudly, for the second time in under a minute. and then she thinks about how she hasn’t eaten since 11am, and it's probably getting on to be 7pm, and she makes an executive decision to extract herself from paige’s limbs and go find them something to eat. 

both objectives prove to be difficult. 

extracting herself, because paige has decided that now that she can touch azzi whenever and however she wants, she has to be touching azzi at all times, however she wants. she allows this until paige actively tries to stop her from putting on a shirt, claiming that she’s being unfair and latching onto azzi’s back to press kisses to her shoulder and making it impossible for her to pull the faded graphic tee she finds thrown on the desk chair over her head. 

this results in some light making out against paige’s dresser until her stomach rumbles for the third time and azzi is reminded that they’ve both played a full 40 minutes of basketball and gone multiple rounds without sustenance, and despite paige’s insistence, azzi is not sufficient enough for dinner. 

they compromise on clothing by each throwing on a pair of faded boxers that paige digs up, and azzi steals the calvin bra that paige had been wearing earlier, which delights paige, who in turn  throws on the tank top azzi had been wearing. 

she smacks paige on the shoulder when she nudges their socked feet together and drawls “thank god we didn’t take our socks off. was worried we was bein’ gay.”

ridiculous. she’s ridiculous.

her “you’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” lacks heat and is muffled into paige’s shoulder, because smacking her had turned into being pulled into a hug, just because. 

“you sure you believe that?” is the response into her hair. azzi pinches her waist and ignores the subsequent yelp. 

and something warm and fuzzy solidifies in her stomach at how easy this already is- the coexisting and the sharing clothes and the physical intimacy. 

it’s not like she was worried that it would be awkward, that the sex would be bad, but the reassurance that she and paige are just as compatible as they’ve always been- even more so now that they are solidly on the same page- makes her feel like shitting rainbows or puppies or some equally as idiotic metaphor that is always used for people who are ridiculously happy. 

she buries her grin in paige’s shoulder and just takes it in for a second. 

but also. food. 

finally dressed enough to brave the massive windows that line the kitchen, azzi pulls herself from paige’s embrace and goes to walk through the door, but is stopped by a hand on her hip. 

“nah, nah, wait a second, baby. gotta give you the proper attire.” 

paige disappears into her closet, and azzi is left standing in the doorway, confused, because paige had just been throwing an absolute fit about azzi hiding any more skin, before immediately groaning when paige returns wearing a large, wide brimmed brown cowboy hat and holding an equally as ridiculous looking tan one in her outstretched hands. 

“i am not wearing that.” she crosses her arms in protest, mouth twitching to hide her grin.

“i told you. it’s mandatory here, az. this one’s my favorite.” she flips it, to show off the paige written across the side. “hat police are gonna getcha if you don’t. i’m just protecting you.”

“you just wanna see me in a hat that has your name on it,” is her response, but she lets paige place it on her tangle of curls anyway. 

she still feels a little bit like she needs to be sent to an asylum, because hello, but as her and paige traipse down the hallway, bumping hips and hat brims every five seconds and laughing like it’s the funniest joke in the world, she figures paige will have to be sent there right along side her, and. well. that doesn’t sound half bad at all. 

she leaves the other girl to the task of fishing their phones out from the various spots they were abandoned in the living room and wanders into the kitchen to evaluate the food situation. 

and here comes the difficulty of her second objective, because paige has, like, nothing to eat. their mini fridge in storrs had more nutrients than the empty monstrosity that is paige’s stainless steel refrigerator. 

“i don’t understand how you’re alive,” she states, when she hears paige’s feet on the hardwood floors returning back to the kitchen.

“ummm door dash. obviously,” is her response, as she places their phones on the counter and hooks her head on azzi’s shoulder. “think there’s chicken in there that hasn't expired, though.” their hats bang together, almost knocking them both off, and paige’s hands shoot immediately from azzi’s waist to the tops of their heads, fighting to keep them both balanced. 

affection wells up so strongly in azzi at the stupid gesture that she just has to turn around and kiss her. 

this does knock paige’s hat off, and it falls to the floor behind her, but it's fine because her hands have returned to azzi’s skin where they belong and her tongue is tracing azzi’s lower lip and actually. maybe this is enough sustenance. 

she shivers, partly from the finger currently brushing her nipple through the thin cotton of her (paige’s) bra, and partly because she’s standing directly in front of the open fridge . 

which beeps. loudly. because it’s been open for too long. and okay yes. food. they need food. 

“gettin’ cockblocked by my own damn appliance is a low,” paige mumbles, when azzi pulls away to turn back around. 

“we’re not having sex again until you can go more than five minutes without your stomach grumbling.”

“bro. you kissed me .” 

her stomach rumbles. 

at azzi’s pointed look over her shoulder, “yeah, yeah. lemme see if i have tortillas.”

paige hip checks her on her way to the pantry and the domesticity of it all has azzi grinning like a fucking lunatic as she pulls the ( barely non-expired) chicken and some cheese from the drawers and finally closes the doors. 

there is nothing even remotely resembling a vegetable in paige’s kitchen, but azzi figures chicken quesadillas are as good as they’re gonna get for now and lets paige bumble around getting a skillet on the stove while she sits on the counter to supervise and check her texts. 

she has 27 from the team group chat which she ignores in favor of the 3 waiting for her from aaliyah.

5:09 lili: bro where’d you go 

5:21 lili: azzi fudd u little slut

6:48 lili: so im guessing ur not coming to team dinner

she giggles at her phone, and, just as it always used to be, summons paige in exactly four milliseconds, the blonde sidling up beside her to peer over her shoulder, never one to miss out. 

she laughs, too, when she sees the texts, and snatches the phone from azzi’s hand when she nods at paige’s silent request. she backs up and takes a photo of azzi, sitting on the counter, cowboy hat askew and probably smiling at paige behind the camera like a freak.

paige shows her the photo before she sends it, and. jesus. azzi looks positively debauched, hair wild around her face under the hat, the paige on the brim front and center, and marks littering her neck. she’s looking at the camera like the sun is shining out of paige’s ass, and. 

she looks so happy . and so utterly paige’s.

she doesn’t realize that paige sends the photo accompanied by she’s looking at her dinner until after.

“ paige,” she whines, when she sees, but paige is already reopening the camera and sending another photo, this time of herself, tongue sticking out and self satisfied smirk present across stupid, beautiful face, marks of her own visible on her collarbone. 

they watch, in real time, as aaliyah sends back a string of nonsensical letters. and then, simultaneously, both their phones start buzzing incessantly. aaliyah has apparently decided that their old uconn group chat that had fallen out of disuse when the two of them stopped being able to interact needs immediate updating. snitch.

CD’s favorites +paige 😛✌️

lili: [2 screenshots of her texts with azzi]

lili: GUYSFHDSJKALFG

lili: WE PRAYED FOR TIMES LIKE THIS

kk: NO FUCKING SHOT

nika: RU SERIPUS 

ice princess: YALL R BACK TG?????

they watch in amusement as more people begin to chime in, and even though some of them are under the impression that they’re back together, it doesn't matter. the responses get particularly funny when people start sending in tweets of clips of the two of them from the game. 

caroline: should’ve known yall were back on ur bs

caroline: [link to a tweet with the caption oh they are soooo back tg above a video of their interaction in the first quarter: giggling at each other and touching for way longer than necessary under the pretense of azzi helping paige up. it has 5k likes.]

azzi sends a simple im never texting you anything ever again aaliyah. 

kk: dont u have dinner to enjoy

paige, who has grabbed her phone while azzi was crafting her text, giggles at her own phone next to azzi. 

paige: yes. she does. 

paige: muting this gc now 

paige: nosy freaks

and then, she plucks azzi’s phone from her hands, mutes the gc, and drops their phones down on the counter. 

“not ready to share you. we can text them later.” she grins at azzi, and tries to slide between her legs, head coming in for a kiss.

azzi gives in to a chaste peck before pulling back. “dinner first. kissing after.”

paige groans, but obliges when azzi shoos her back to the stove, hopping off the counter after her to assist with the assembly. 

as she digs around in the cabinets to find cooking spray, she prompts, “so. tell me how dallas has really been.”

the chat as they cook, filling each other in on the bigger things that have happened in the last year as they move seamlessly around the kitchen, like bob getting promoted and azzi getting a new car. and it’s a little bittersweet, at the reminder of the distance that’s grown between them, but azzi finds herself simply wanting to know more, share more. they can’t change the past, redo the last year and figure their shit out earlier, but she’s surprised to find herself beginning to be okay with that as long as she has paige now, and in the future. 

the warm simplicity of it, the domesticity of moving around the kitchen in sync, makes azzi’s heart feel like it's about to burst out of her chest. and she knows she must be really gone because paige gently smacking her ass every time she passes by is somehow cute. lord help her. 

“missed this,” she says quietly at one point, when paige comes to stand behind her at the stove to flip one of the quesadillas. it's the understatement of the century, but she knows paige will understand the thousands of meanings embedded into the two words.

“yeah,” she agrees, dropping a kiss to azzi’s shoulder. “me too.”

they decide to eat on the floor, backs against the kitchen cabinets, because it allows for them to be touching in multiple places, paige’s legs splayed out in front of them and azzi practically in her lap, balancing their shared plate on her knees. she ignores how ridiculous she feels at the fact that being able to be as close as possible to paige takes precedence over the convenience of sitting at an actual table. 

her prefrontal cortex has been replaced by a picture of paige’s face. whatever.

as they scarf down their quesadillas, azzi hears one of their phones vibrating on the counter above them with a call. she reaches above her, fumbling around without looking to try and find it so she doesn’t have to stand up, and smiles triumphantly when her hand makes contact with the buzzing plastic. 

of course it’s her mother. 

paige grins, and swipes to answer it before azzi can protest. 

katie’s opening line is “34 points! i’m so proud of you, honey!” and they can hear tim echoing his agreement in the background. azzi knows very well that this is a front and that the last thing she’s calling about right now is basketball, but she plays along. 

“hey, mom, thank you,” she says, suspicious. 

“any particular reason you were playing so well, anything to do with that phone call we had last week?” 

and. ah yes. there it is, not even ten seconds into the call. paige looks like she just won the lottery, the bitch , shit-eating grin sliding across her face. azzi mouths don’t and tries to feign innocence. “nope, just. y’know, felt good today.” 

tim’s voice adds on to the humiliation ritual that is azzi’s life, asking, “not showing off for anyone or anything?”. 

“nope.” she says, popping the p and letting them sit in silence for a second. 

she sees paige open her mouth in her peripheral and lunges to try and cover it but its too late, and paige’s cheerful “hi katie, hi tim!” is muffled through azzi’s hands.

paige is so, so dead. azzi is going to withhold kisses from her for like. at least 10 minutes. 

her parents are immediately a chorus of smug hellos and laughter on the other end of the line. they all suck. 

“so you guys finally figured your shit out, huh?” her mom asks, and what is happening? why is azzi being subjected to this?

“azzi’s fault,” paige claims, amidst the younger girl’s protests. “do you know how dumb your daughter is?” she continues, showing off for azzi’s parents like the absolute kiss up that she is. azzi mentally extends the no kissing time frame by another 10 minutes.

“well of course! that’s why you’re the favorite.” says her dad, laughing on the other end, and azzi groans into paige’s arm. 

“ oh my god. i’m hanging up on you guys. we’ll call you tomorrow,” she whines, but the laughter only continues. 

her parents and paige chat briefly, getting updates on their lives with azzi chiming in occasionally with commentary, and her mother begrudgingly lets them hang up after informing them she was going to call amy like the absolute gossip she was. 

paige tries to kiss her in the silence following the dial tone, but azzi’s mental timer is still running and she’s not about to let paige start something on the floor of the kitchen, so she pushes paige up off the ground to start the dishes. 

she decides to put on music while the blonde begins loading the dishwasher, and slides back onto the counter, grabbing paige’s phone so she can connect to the speakers she knows are hidden somewhere in the room (paige has too much money for her own good, but at least she has taste.)

“what’s your password?” she tosses at paige. it's weird having to ask, and it's a melancholy reminder of the last year, but then.

silence in response. she glances up, confused, and immediately laughs at paige’s caught expression. 

“ oh my god. you love me so much,” she exclaims, typing in 3505, the same as it's been since that first summer session before azzi’s freshman year. “this is a new phone, too, i can tell.”

“yeah, yeah, okay. chill. changing it felt wrong.” her voice is bashful, almost embarrassed, and, well, that just won’t do.

she pulls the blonde over and traps her between the vee of hips by tangling her ankles behind paige’s back. her arms wrap around paige’s neck, and azzi takes in how beautiful she is, faint blush painting her cheeks. she knows there must be some lingering insecurity, god knows azzi would need centuries of reassurance to come back from the amount of time paige spent pining, and she tries to pick her words carefully to squash as much doubt as she can in one go. 

“i’m sorry it took so long for me to figure out, but i am so, so in love with you. like a concerning amount.”

paige’s blush deepens, and azzi’s heart swells at how happy she looks, here in the dim light of her kitchen in azzi’s tank top.

“ sap.” paige tucks her grin into azzi’s shoulder, before pulling back to look at her. “s’okay. we got here eventually.” 

and, yeah. they did. 

she leans in to kiss azzi, who meets her halfway, and then the open dishwasher and pan in the sink is forgotten in favor of paige’s mouth on her throat, her stomach, her thighs, her cunt.

she eats azzi out slowly, reverently, like she’s trying to memorize every sound she makes, every nerve ending, every shift of her hips. paige works her up in mere minutes, azzi’s back arching against the marble countertop and paige’s name tumbling from her lips. she keeps her there, on the edge for a second, just looking up at azzi, taking it in.

and it's nice, or whatever, that paige wants to savor the moment, but azzi wants to come. she doesn’t even know the words that are coming out of her mouth, begging for paige to do something, anything, babbling incoherent strings of baby and paige and please. 

her fingers curl in paige’s hair and tug, and then paige is slipping two fingers into the heat of her and sucking her clit in her mouth and that’s all it takes for azzi to break, the world around them ceasing to exist.   

paige pulls away, dazed, and azzi drags her back up for a kiss to taste herself, licking into paige’s mouth and humming in content. (azzi has her so pussy drunk that she doesn’t even make a dessert joke. life is so beautiful.)

but then paige frees her mouth from azzi and mumbles “just so you know, i’m winning. it’s 4-3,” sly grin spreading across her face. azzi is confused for all of three seconds before she shrieks and shoves paige off of her. 

“are you counting orgasms?”

“i’m just saying -”

“oh my god. you’re keeping track of orgasms . paige madison-”

“you’re just annoyed ‘cause you’re losing, ma,” she shrugs, and pats azzi's thigh in mock consolidation. azzi loves her so much that she feels like she doesn’t know what to do with all of it.

she figures a good place to start is to drag paige down the hallway and back towards her bedroom to even the score. she’s never been very good at losing.

AN: hi hello i hope you enjoyed. as always please tell me if you did PLEASE I'm a slut for validation and it will probably make my month. im gonna say very definitively that this is the last chapter, but an angsty paige prequel is hitting my line so you might get that at some point too? idfk. if the smut was terrible I deeply apologize I've never actually written it before so please allow for some grace as I discover how many synonyms of the word vagina there are and how somehow NONE OF THEM sound the way I want them too. sorry for the tangent love you xoxo

[heyimash06]

in my senior year dual-credit English course, the professor started the year by giving us the opening chapter of a book that talked about writing, learning how to write, and what qualifies as ‘good’ writing.

i could talk for way too long about it but i won’t, so TL;DR, learning and growing in writing is a lot like riding a bike. you don’t start learning to write by only focusing on the sentence structure just like you wouldn’t start with only focusing on the pedals of a bike. the author mostly meant it in a structural / grammatical sense (it was a normal English class, after all), but i think it’s true for storytelling as well. you don’t start by only learning and practicing to write a satisfying character arc or how to write natural-sounding dialogue, you just write a story.

so don’t get discouraged if you fall off your metaphorical bike or struggle learning at first, just write what makes you happy and have fun.

Writers: You're not going to learn everything at once... and that's okay.

There's an absolute glut of technical writing advice out there. It can be tempting to try to gobble it all up, and overwhelming when no matter how much you've read, you're still spinning your wheels on your WIP.

But remember: Learning to write is a long game. No matter how much stuff you read, no matter how much good advice you get, you can't cram all the knowledge into your brain at once and then wake up the next day a perfect, brilliant writer.

You learn how to write by writing. And thinking about writing. Reading about writing. Reading other writers. Critiquing other writers. Writing again. Getting critiqued again. Writing some more. Reading a little tidbit of advice that clicks. Using that tidbit. Finding another tidbit...

It takes a while. Mechanical knowledge becomes second nature eventually, but it happens over years.

Hang in there. Enjoy the process. Let your banana peels and egg shells become compost (they will, I promise). You've got all the time in the world.

[darkmatilda]

𝐮𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a trip to the amusement park was supposed to be fun. and fun it was �� especially the surprise of running into an old friend, seaver. at least, for spencer. because her appearance makes a certain someone start acting…strangely, casting a tense shadow over the rest of the evening.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, trip to the amusement park with morgan and garcia, reader’s wearing heart-shaped sunglasses for the vibe, ashley seaver (but shes not portrayed as a bitch lmao she doesn’t deserve that) reader adopts some random guy like a stray dog off the street, both of them are jealous idiots like omg shut up and kiss already (they almost do lool)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 4.5k

𝐚/𝐧: request | no idea why it turned out so long i really enjoyed writing the dialogues here <3 marathon masterlist

"Remind me, babygirl, how did we end up here?" Derek asked, walking to the left of Spencer in a tight gray T-shirt and motorcycle sunglasses perched on his nose.

He was, of course, addressing the two women a few steps ahead of them, who were walking arm in arm and chatting so intently that they hadn’t even noticed how far ahead they had gotten. Only his question pulled them out of the giggling trance they had fallen into. It was impressive how, despite being completely focused on each other, they still managed to weave through the hundreds of people gathered that early evening at the amusement park with a model-like stride.

Penelope turned around over her shoulder, adjusting her ponytail.

"Because I wanted to try something new with you," she announced in a tone full of a certain warning — that she expected nothing from them that day but pure fun and, in the end, a tearful thank you for coming up with the idea to go there. "To plant sweet kisses on the foreheads of your inner children because, no offense, you all deserve it. I'm going to win a giant teddy bear. You, handsome, will have the chance to show off at the High Striker. Spencer...well, I'm sure you'll find something for yourself. Maybe they have a little geography quiz corner for especially naughty kids?"

"But geography quizzes are pure pleasure, why would they be for naughty—"

"And you, gorgeous?" she interrupted, turning to the woman right next to her. "Is there anything you'd like to try?"

Her eyes were hidden behind red heart-shaped sunglasses, but even so, Spencer sensed that her gaze landed on him. It frustrated him internally that he couldn't read her intentions or even the intensity of her look through the dark lenses.

"Run Reid over with a go-kart," she replied without hesitation. "then grab some cotton candy."

He sighed.

"With those sunglasses, I can't tell if you're joking or not, so allow me to just ignore you," he suggested.

She slowed her pace slightly, letting him catch up. Meanwhile, Garcia and Morgan beside them had launched into a conversation that somehow slipped past Reid’s attention once he found himself closer to the woman. Her head was tilted ever so slightly, arms folded across her chest, and he could feel the sensation of careful analysis on his profile — oh, he didn’t need to see her whole face to perfectly picture that expression. 

"So you're saying that normally my eyes give away my sarcasm?" she asked.

He shrugged.

"I was more thinking that deadly serious threats coming from a woman in heart-shaped sunglasses have something unsettling about them. I’m staying on high alert."

Her elbow against his ribs. Intended as a jab, but without real hostility, so he felt it more like a light, harmless brush.

"Calling it a threat already," she muttered, wrinkling her nose slightly. "You're so sensitive. All these years in this job and you still haven't gotten used to people trying to kill you?"

"The thing is, I did get used to it," he replied, letting out a short laugh a moment later. "Got used to it very well. But today’s my day off, so... it’d be nice to get a break from it."

He threw the words out without much prior analysis. They weren’t having a deeply intellectual conversation; his mind was relaxed. In fact, he was surprised himself by how good he felt, considering he usually didn’t go to places like this. The sheer number of people around was compensated for by the crisp weather, the noise at a manageable level. What helped the most was focusing on a conversation with just one person, which made all the unpleasant stimuli around him lose their intensity.

In any case, Spencer Reid felt good.

And he certainly didn’t expect his colleague to turn slightly towards him, moving with grace and effortlessly walking backwards, looking as though she was considering something.

"We'll see," she said with a slight shrug. The half of her face not hidden behind the sunglasses looked rather soft.

To Spencer’s surprise, it didn’t strike him as suspicious. It didn’t make him uneasy, or send him spiraling into psychoanalysis over what might be lurking beneath it.

Then suddenly, one corner of her mouth curled upward.

"But not because I feel sorry for you. I'm just having a good day”

And it got better after she got her cotton candy. At least the threat of getting run over by a go-kart had faded into oblivion.

Still, Spencer was about to suggest they start with something else, even beginning to glance around, when he accidentally caught someone’s gaze. It had clearly been fixed on him for a while, as if trying to confirm whether it really was him.

“Spence?”

A surprised voice came from a woman with long blonde hair draped over her shoulders, already making her way toward them.

A slow smile began to form on her lips—one that widened considerably when she spotted Penelope and Morgan as well.

“Hi, guys! Oh my god, I can’t believe this!”

Garcia’s ponytail bounced against her back as she came to a sudden stop, clutching a freshly acquired swirl of yellow cotton candy in both hands.

But she wasn’t the first to speak. It was Derek, arms spreading wide in greeting.

“Seaver, who would’ve thought!”

Running into a former member of their team was a very pleasant surprise. So much so that Spencer even let her hug him in greeting—something he usually tried to avoid. Briefly, over her shoulder, he noticed the woman slowly lifting her heart-shaped sunglasses to rest them atop her head.

Seeing her eyes uncovered for the first time that day, Reid found himself falling headfirst into the trap of her gaze—where he unintentionally held Ashley a second or two too long.

“I’m so happy to see you guys,” she said, pulling back with a smile.

“You here on your own?” Penelope asked. 

“With friends, but they all went on the Ferris wheel. And me and heights—” she waved a hand dismissively.

“Great! I mean—not great that you're scared of heights, but great that it means you can hang with us until they’re back. What do you say?”

“Really? That would be awesome!”

That’s how their little group grew by one. A lively conversation sparked up right away—it had been quite some time since they’d last seen each other. Reid, though genuinely glad about the reunion and curious about her new job, only took part for a moment.

Shortly after, before he even realized what he was doing, he drifted away from the group to fall into step with the woman who still had her heart-shaped sunglasses perched on top of her head. She was walking with them, but not quite with them, casually studying a theme park map in one hand, a tuft of pink cotton candy in the other. Technically, she looked focused on it, but Spencer doubted she’d be too upset if he interrupted her a little.

Besides, he needed to ask where the nearest bathroom was.

Before he could open his mouth, she noticed him approaching and gave him a brief, not-so-subtle (and not particularly interested) glance. Then let out a short snort.

“What?” Reid asked.

“What what?”

“What…” he echoed her earlier snort.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t answer right away. After a short pause, she went on.

“Call me nosy,” she said, “but I’m genuinely intrigued. A pretty blonde calling you Spence—who’s not JJ. Something going on there? Or used to?”

Completely caught off guard, Spencer blinked twice.

“Seaver?” he asked unintelligently.

And he already knew what was coming.

“No, Marilyn Monroe—”

“That was seriously a bit nosy.”

“I’m taking that as confirmation.”

“No-” he started, but immediately cut himself off. First of all, maybe, just maybe, a long time ago, something had happened on his end, but not enough for it to matter in this moment. Second of all, even if it had, he wasn’t about to explain himself for her curiosity. He shrugged. “Not seriously. It’s just Ashley. You should recognize her. She was with the BAU for a while.”

She shook her head.

“First time I’ve seen her.”

“I’m sure you’ve met her before.”

He felt mildly irritated by her bold stance. Because as he said, he was sure that they’d worked together on a case at least once. Of course, they hadn’t been close, as evidenced by the fact that Seaver greeted her with a mere hi, skipping any hugs. Which Spencer wasn’t surprised by at all. Her resting face and overall aura weren’t exactly inviting for hugs. Well, for most people. For the rest, sure, but in the way that beautiful, poisonous fruits tempt you to taste them.

“I must’ve just not remembered her face,” she replied dismissively. Then suddenly, she looked at him, her brows furrowed slightly in thought. He couldn’t tell whether it was genuine or fake. “Oh, wait, I think I remember now, when you mentioned her name. Ashley Seaver. She’s that daughter of the serial killer who helped you guys with the investigation.”

Spencer wanted to say something, just to interrupt her, but couldn't decide on the right words, so an unidentified sound escaped his mouth instead. She had said it so loudly that he immediately turned around to see if the woman they were talking about had overheard. He wasn’t even sure how she knew about it, but he didn’t want Seaver to think he had casually shared her past behind her back in an amusement park.

“You didn’t have to add that,” he said defensively.

“I didn’t? So, it’s not true? She’s not—”

Anticipating what she was about to say, he looked around desperately, unsure how to shut her up. A very simple idea popped into his head, one that didn’t require any props, but it was so absurd that he dismissed it immediately. Then, he thought of something else—he reached for the cotton candy in her hand, tore off a piece, and shoved it into her mouth, brushing his fingers against her lower lip.

She swallowed the sweet because, well, she didn’t have much of a choice. Spencer, watching her do so, found himself pondering what quote he might put on his gravestone.

“I’ll run you over with that go-kart,” she said with unsettling calm.

The sunglasses no longer covered her eyes, so he could clearly tell she wasn’t joking.

*

“Ooh, what if we tried competing in pairs?” Penelope suddenly suggested, clapping her hands, already excited by the idea.

Then she turned toward them, her gaze landing first on her own obvious partner (Morgan, of course), and then shifting to the remaining three—an uneven number.

The remaining trio also looked at one another. To make the situation painfully sitcom-like in the most awkward way, Spencer happened to be standing directly between the two women, whose heads turned toward him in perfectly synchronized motion. Then, toward each other. In silence.

“I don’t have to join,” Seaver broke the silence with a light shrug. “I mean, you all came here together, and I’m just waiting for my friends.”

“Or you could just go as a trio,” Derek suggested with a casual hand gesture. Then he threw a quick glance at Garcia. “Might actually make the teams a little more balanced.”

His gaze drifted to the woman in heart-shaped sunglasses, subconsciously sensing that if he said it out loud, she’d probably back him up—what with her unwavering belief that she could do anything better on her own.

But she wasn’t looking at any of them. Her eyes were fixed on some point in the distance as she lowered her sunglasses slightly down her nose. Combined with a brief, beckoning wave of her hand, it had such a hypnotic effect that Reid, entranced, didn’t even realize she was actually calling someone until a completely random guy appeared in front of them—a guy wearing a cap that suggested he worked at the amusement park.

He walked over with a step so light it was as if he were gliding, his dopey gaze locked on the woman who had summoned him.

“Are you off your shift?” she asked, arching a brow at his cap.

Spencer exchanged a confused glance with the rest of his friends. Derek’s mouth was pulled into a crooked grin, like he couldn’t wait to see where this was going—and was clearly entertained. Spencer, personally, was not.

“Yeah, like, five minutes ago,” the guy replied, swallowing hard. “Oh.” He looked up at the brim of his cap and quickly took it off. 

“Great,” the woman muttered, with absolutely no genuine enthusiasm in her voice. “You’ll be my partner, then.”

Morgan couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. The other women looked amused too, and Ashley was honestly a little impressed by how effortlessly she wrapped a complete stranger around her finger. It was obvious the guy wasn’t going to object.

Spencer didn’t find it impressive. He found it terrifying—but what did he know?

Watching the park employee drop his cap and awkwardly bend to pick it up, Spencer let out a sarcastic huff—directed not at the guy, but at the woman.

“Good luck winning, then,” he muttered in her direction, leaning in just enough so it’d be for her ears only.

Completely unfazed, she took off her sunglasses and hooked them onto the neckline of her top—which, of course, lowered slightly. She didn’t notice. She wasn’t looking there.

She was slowly turning her gaze toward Reid.

“After I kissed you, you acted like you were having a stroke for three days,” she noted, her voice quiet but unmistakably clear. “So try to be understanding with my new partner.”

She gave his shoulder a pat after saying that and walked off first to join the ring toss game.

And as Reid watched her go, a very, very treacherous warmth crept into his cheeks.

*

Maybe he should be more understanding of her new partner (Steve, as it turned out) (a genuinely nice guy, as it also turned out).

The combination of his knowledge of every game they tried and the demon of competition that seemed to possess her body (she was still merciful to Morgan and Garcia, but he and Seaver had no hope of anything more than being brutally chewed up and spat out) meant they won every single round.

And well, Spencer had originally planned to treat the whole thing as a friendly pastime where everyone ends up feeling like a winner—because hey, they were all clearly having a great time together—but he couldn’t quite swallow the bitter aftertaste of watching Steve hand her the massive duck-pond prize: a stuffed bear so huge that when she hugged it, it folded in half, and as she walked away, it looked like she was dragging an unconscious, fluffy body behind her.

“Spencer, what about getting something to drink?” Seaver’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

He turned to her, her question reaching him with a slight delay. He noticed she had mentioned only his name—so she meant…just the two of them.

He didn’t really want to split off from the friends he came with, but he glanced over at Garcia and Morgan, currently locked in an intense battle with the claw machine, and at the other pair…who were, apparently, talking. If you could call it that.

Steve was saying something, a little nervously, with shy hand gestures, while the sunglasses were back on her nose and it was hard to tell if she was even listening.

But Spencer knew she was—he recognized the tilt of her head, ever so slightly to the side. She looked the same way earlier, when he had been explaining something to her just after they’d arrived at the amusement park.

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” he replied after a moment of silence.

As they walked away, he caught a glimpse of the heart-shaped-sunglasses face subtly turning in their direction.

It seemed like Ashley wanted to bring something up, but she stayed quiet until they had walked off and bought brightly colored lemonades in clear cups.

“Your friend is…”

Spencer let out a quiet sigh, already knowing where this was going. It’s not like she’d been openly rude to her, but she had ignored her with a certain…passion.

“Annoying?” he suggested.

 “Intense,” Seaver finished at the same time, giving him a slight smile. Spencer raised his eyebrows, surprised. “She has a bit of a thing for competition, right?”

“I think it’s more about proving she’s the best of the best in every possible field,” Spencer muttered under his breath, not even sure if his colleague had heard him.

She took a sip of her drink through a straw. She seemed slightly amused.

 “And above all, better than me. She didn’t really like the fact that we ended up on the same team. I mean, you and me.”

Reid even stopped walking for a moment, completely failing to grasp her logic.

“No, I don’t think that’s it,” he said. They were nearing the rest of the group again—he saw the subject of their conversation standing with her back turned toward them. “If I were with her, she couldn’t compete with me or prove that I suck, which she just loves to do,” he added with a snort.

“Oh, I’m not saying she wanted to be with you,” Seaver corrected, and Spencer looked at her in confusion, because in his reasoning, that’s exactly what she had just said. But she shook her head. “I’m just saying she doesn’t like that you ended up with me. Oh, look, my friends are back. Time for me to go.”

She raised her hand to wave goodbye but hesitated for a second, her gaze drifting to the side as she gently bit her lip. Then, carefully not to spill her lemonade, she gave him a light hug. Over her shoulder, past the loose blonde hair falling across it, Spencer met someone’s gaze—one so intense that, if it weren’t restrained by sunglasses, it might have set something on fire.

Once again, he let it take hold of him, and once again it caused him to hold onto Ashley a moment too long, not breaking eye contact with the woman.

At some point, she took a visible breath, after which her posture relaxed into something resembling indifference, and she turned back to her new companion.

Spencer remembered he was holding a cup in his hand. Taking a sip of the lemonade, he thought to himself that this whole situation was really starting to mess with his head.

*

“What a shame Steve had to leave,” Spencer said.

They’d been standing in line for the Ferris wheel for a while now—since dusk was falling, the ride promised to be particularly scenic, and quite a lot of people had signed up for it. Each gondola could only hold two people, so the four of them had played a particularly intense round of rock-paper-scissors, in which Morgan was clearly cheating. But when Reid pointed it out, he got yelled at, since apparently, according to the others, it was impossible to cheat at rock-paper-scissors.

The woman stood next to him with her arms crossed over her chest. Quite close—something the line required of them—yet a visible distance had still opened up between them. They were talking, but it felt more like an exchange of cold updates, so he’d rather just stay quiet, not really sure why that was.

“Who?” she asked.

 “Oh, don’t pretend,” Spencer rolled his eyes, glancing at her with a scoff.

She responded with a dismissive shrug, which in turn drew a grimace from him.

“Don’t try to tell me you don’t even remember his name. You two were having such a great time together.”

“Why do you care so much whether I remember the name of some random guy or not?”

“He won you a teddy bear…wait, what did you do with that bear?”

He had only just noticed the giant stuffed animal had completely vanished and gave her a suspicious look.

Her tired sigh, her eyes rolling upward.

“I doused it in gasoline and danced an occult ritual around the bonfire it created I GAVE IT TO SOME LITTLE GIRL what else was I supposed to do with it?”

Her voice had the sting of a bite, and Spencer quickly backed off—God, he had only been asking. 

“I don’t know, take it home maybe,” he mumbled the suggestion, which she dismissed with nothing more than a mocking snort.

Their turn to board the yellow gondola came. It had a single long bench inside. He let her go first, and in silence she took a seat right in the middle, rather than sliding into a corner. Which meant he had no choice but to sit so close their shoulders almost touched.

"What a shame your friend Ashley had to leave," she said, crossing one leg over the other and keeping her gaze firmly away from him.

There was sarcasm in her voice. The kind of sarcasm that made Reid pause, openly studying her profile, analyzing it the way only he could. Slowly, he drew in a breath, something in his mind starting to click into place.

"I think so too," he said with a small nod.

"Obviously you do," she replied flatly, her words carrying a cool breeze of indifference.

He rested his elbow on the back of their seat so he could stay turned toward her. Her posture remained straight—she always took up a bit more space than she physically needed—there was an alluring aura around her, a boundary over which one could lose their senses, unless they were immune. Spencer considered himself to be.

“I think I know why you’re more unbearable than usual today,” he began, swallowing. She didn’t notice—she wasn’t looking at him. Not because she felt intimidated or anything like that, but simply because her gaze was something one had to earn.

“Go ahead, enlighten me.”

“You didn’t like Seaver being there.”

She turned her head toward him and even pushed her glasses up to the top of her head. Spencer slightly tensed his shoulders—this had a stronger effect than he’d expected.

“You really think that the addition of someone I’ve never interacted with, whose face I wouldn’t even recognize in a crowd, could seriously affect my mood? That’s something only unhappy people do.”

The Ferris wheel started moving, lifting them slowly, and Spencer had no intention of backing down from his theory. In fact, with each passing moment, he felt even more certain of it.

“That’s exactly what I think,” he said. “Because it meant less attention was on you.”

“Less attention on me?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow. “The teddy bear I got was bigger than you.”

"You can’t stand the fact that I was paying you less attention," Reid finally blurted out. "Because, well, you don’t even have to like someone or treat them decently—but you still want them chasing after you. And it’s way more satisfying for you when it’s me doing it, not some random guy looking at you like you’re a masterpiece."

She turned slightly more toward him, their knees brushing—something she didn’t seem to notice. Spencer did, but only registered it fleetingly—his focus was entirely on her expression. Alert, chin tilted subtly in his direction. Her lips had a faint shine to them, likely a sugary trace of cotton candy.

“And what, in your opinion, sets you apart from those random guys?” she asked challengingly.

“I literally just explained that.”

She looked at him for a moment in silence, her expression unreadable—before letting out a laugh. Spencer smiled too, though it was a smile edged with clear irritation, almost mocking her in return. Of course it was easier to laugh him off than actually engage with what he said.

But then his smile faded into a deep inhale as he realized he was staring at her—the way she laughed with her head turned slightly away from him, not looking at him at all—like she was the masterpiece.

“Spencer, please,” she said, rolling her eyes.

She met his gaze again. The only thing that crossed his mind was how humiliating it would be to kiss her then. To give in to the impulse creeping into his nervous system. To act like a complete hypocrite—probably the exact word her lips would leave imprinted on his skin. But he’d only notice it after the cotton candy sweetness had faded. Sweet sweetness. A distinctly human trait—choosing small pleasures and following desire instead of thinking about the long-term consequences of one's actions.

Like the typical human he was, he leaned toward her lips, ready for their meeting—when suddenly the Ferris wheel jolted and came to a stop, their gondola pausing at the very top. They heard a single frightened scream, but neither of them were the type to panic easily. They just glanced around.

Forgetting entirely what had just been about to happen.

Spencer nervously licked his dry lips, taking advantage of the fact that she wasn’t looking at him. He hoped no one had actually fallen out, but if someone had—he was fucking grateful to them, because they’d unknowingly stopped him from doing something incredibly stupid.

But a person falling out was actually the rarest reason for Ferris wheels to stop.

 “It’s most likely a power outage,” he explained.

The woman leaned forward with interest to peek out gently from the structure. And she chose to do so on his side, which meant leaning over him—bringing with it third-degree contact with the scent of her hair and her entire presence. Closing his eyes in exasperation at himself, he continued,

“Could be an engine issue, or a sensor malfunction. Or…could you please just go back to your seat?”

He addressed her firmly, that familiar anxiety flaring in him when someone did something risky right in front of him—even if she had only leaned out slightly. She gave him a somewhat amused look.

“I don’t want to be accused of pushing you on purpose,” he added.

She sighed, but did as he asked. Sat exactly where she had before, while Spencer pressed himself a little deeper into the corner of the seat to increase the distance between them. Thankfully, the machine started moving again shortly after—because if they’d been stuck up there any longer, he would’ve been completely lost.

There was nothing he needed more in that moment than the touch of solid ground beneath his feet.

After a moment, Morgan joined them—along with Garcia, whose legs were visibly trembling.

“Guys, I was sure we were all going to die…”

Everyone collectively allowed her to release the panic that had clearly built up in her chest. He, for one, was grateful for the chance to stay silent for a while.

It was then that he caught, for the last time that evening, the woman’s gaze—lingering and piercing, plainly indicating that she wasn’t stupid and knew exactly what he’d been about to do.

Moment later, she slid her heart shaped sunglasses back down onto her nose.

[daryltwdixon]

𝐚𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥

Bitch!!! I ain’t even a series girl and there’s multiple in here!!! Who is she!!! And look at me tagging a fluff fic!! Turning a new leaf round here. If you see something you like please let these wonderful authors know by showing them some much deserved love Sorry this is late! I was traveling and literally haven’t touched my laptop in days

Bicep biting by @tinysunshine

Daryl Dixon x you one shot summary: you kiss daryl’s arms and have to explain what cuteness aggression is after you bite his bicep ♡ my thoughts: I feel like woodchuck todd from easy a when he’s gobblin’ on that wood log LET ME GET A BITE OF THAT BEEFY ARM, DIXON

literally anything by @cavillscurls

(bitch I’m such a fan we got a whole damn list to get thru)

daddy next door

joel miller x you ongoing series summary: It’s summer in Texas, and when the dashing Joel Miller moves in next door, your less than favorable life gets completely turned around. my thoughts: ohhhhh my heart. such a different version of joel than im used to (rich & fancy) but it really hits the spot. cute romance and I see you in so much of this!!!

ass man

joel miller x you drabble summary: joel miller is an ass man my thoughts: what I wouldn’t do for this man to put his hands all over my best ass(et). Mya showed me this after I went off about joel in fact being an ass man and I was eternally horny grateful

Inescapable 🕊️

clint (freaky tales) x you one shot summary: Clint always gets what he wants—this time, you’re going to give it to him. my thoughts: YES SIR YES SIRRRYYYYYYYY mya has already heard all my praise but we’re gonna say it again holy SHIT Clint smiling into my neck as he puts a baby in me?!?! SIR MAAM YES PLEASEEEEE this has been a fave trope of mine lately. Captive reader who used to scream and beg for him not to touch now loving every second of it sorry bit dark it’s giving “run” vibes which was rec’d on last month’s list!!! And that shit is one of my faves so I knew this would tickle my pickle in the same way. I wish I could be eloquent about this shit but my GOD it’s so good trust.

Joel in glasses by @mushgloomz

peepaw!joel x you drabble summary: what the title says my thoughts: I’ll just put this here and you tell ME you don’t feel some type of way: “ain’t i old enough to be your daddy, darlin’?”

of rage and ruin 🕊️ by @corazondebeskar-reads

werewolf/alpha!joel x you ongoing series summary: Joel Miller made it twelve years into the apocalypse without getting bit. He turns into a much different kind of monster than he expected, though. my thoughts: no no no you don’t understand. You don’t GET IT. Is this omegaverse? Yep. I’ve been dabbling. And the others just don’t do it like you do baby 😭 I read this way too fast and now I just wait for the updates but holy shit. No one puts my baby in a shock collar 😭😭😭😭

Idle Threats by @pearlessance

jackson!joel x you series summary: Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for. my thoughts: I’m so glad I didn’t post this fic rec on time because holy mother of god. I blew through this so quickly because of how fucking beautiful the writing is. Joel Miller feeling dirty about liking a younger woman? Check. Religious themes denouncing god for his one and only girl? Check. I’m sorry I’m so sorry I don’t usually add this but some of this dialogue is 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 “Because if anyone but me ever called you a slut an’ I heard about it?” He presses your clit harder, grinning when you start panting. “I’d have to kill ‘em, baby.” .....Like W H A A A A A a a a aaaa 😵‍💫😵‍💫

[fixyourwritinghabits]

Do you have any ways to check in a fanfic is written by AI? I have no trouble detect if a work email is written by AI but when it comes to fanfic, I just can't. English is my second language too. There are a bunch of fics of this one author on Wattpad that when I was reading, it feels weird? A little bit uncanny. I don't want to misunderstand them if it's just a me problem but I also hate everyone using AI to write so I'd appreciate a method or a tool to check. Thank you.

I don't have any solid indicators, however, if it feels off, you're likely noticing something off about the writing. The "em-dash" claim (that AI uses em dashes a lot) isn't really something to rely on.

(A better way to identify AI is an overuse of bullet lists, which, uh, I'm about to do, so here goes.)

Inconsistencies and repetition. This is a tough one right out of the gate, but all writers have a style. There's a turn of phrase, sentence structure, or common words that tend to pop up in their writing again and again. AI, on the other hand, does not stick to a distinctive style. It may repeat the same sentence structure over and over, or seem overly formerly written, especially in dialogue. The longer a document/fic, the more repetitive writing structures you will see.

Lack of depth or subtlety. Do the descriptions feel stilted or odd? Are the metaphors mixed together in a way that doesn't make sense (describing something dark using a comparison to something bright, odd comparisons that you've never heard before, etc)? Does it feel like the emotions are flat and not connecting to the story? All of these things could be things to watch out for.

Perfect grammar. I'm still finding grammatical errors in stories I wrote years ago. No amount of spellcheck will save me from a typo. AI never has that problem, but it also won't use punctuation to make a point (like using commas to indicate a speech pattern).

Updated too damn fast. If someone is uploading thousands of words a day, there's no way they're writing the story themselves. Massive, rapid-fire updates are something to keep an eye out for.

Now, all of these things alone do not indicate someone is using AI. Everyone's written a bad metaphor before, some people are great at grammar, and folks new to writing may have an inconsistent writing style. As you have noticed, speaking English as a second language makes folks overly prone to being flagged as using AI, which is also not helpful.

There's also no perfect AI checker, as most tend to throw up false positives. But the longer the story, the more indicators will pop up. Scenes might get repetitive, or sex scenes start to feel the same.

I also, unfortunately, don't have any advice for what to do if you feel like AI is being used to write fanfiction. You certainly don't want to falsely accuse someone of using it publicly (though I'd reach out to friends to see if they have the same suspicions). Ultimately, the best case scenario is that people will identify when they use AI (there's a whole tag for it on AO3), but I don't know how common that will become. In a pinch, when I suspect something has been plagiarized or written by AI, I shift the writer to my "do not read" pile and move on.

[thevoidstaredback]

Sometimes I work better under pressure. Last year, I wrote 50k words in barely under a week. I still have not recovered

Anytime I start a project that doesn't have magic or superpowers in it, I lose interest and scrap the whole thing. I just can't not have them! It's a requirement to live at this point

I'm an actor before a writer, so if I'm having trouble with a scene or dialogue or something, I'll put on a one person show of it in my room to make sure the flow's good

I can't write if anyone/thing is speaking. People, TV, music, etc. none of it can have any kind of lyrics or speaking. If it does, I get monumentally distracted and can't focus for a good 15 hours

I can't verbally talk about my WIPs. I can wax poetic about them for hours, as long as you don't ask for a verbal report. If you do, I can say exactly 5 words before I lose the ability to speak

If my own writing doesn't make me feel emotions, I redo the scene until it does

I have story notes in so many places, it's actually really funny. I have never misplaced a single one (the files being hidden is not my fault and doesn't count)

No one has ever been allowed to look at anything I was working on except for 1 time. I was so embarrassed by what was said that first time, that all of my stuff is hidden from everyone but myself until I'm ready to present it online

I don't usually agree with canon, so I use a lot of fanon in my works. My original works, however, have hours upon hours of deep dives and rabbit holes put into each line of dialogue/world building

I can describe, in great detail, how someone/something looks as long as I write the description down. If I am asked to say it or draw it, I'd rather be shot in the head

Why was this so hard for me? Because I hate talking about myself. This was actually a lot of fun! Who's next?

✨ 10 chaotic writer facts you didn’t ask for but are getting anyway ✨

I write 1,000–3,000 words a day. Not because I’m disciplined, but because I have no social life and mild control issues. It’s fine. I’m fine.

Before I ever touched a keyboard, I was an artist. Like, sketchbook-at-recess, drew-my-own-manga-level obsessed. I’ve been drawing since I was five. Now I use those powers to procrastinate writing.

I talk to my characters like they’re real people. I once argued with one out loud in a grocery store. We’re not on speaking terms anymore.

I name all my WIPs things like “pain_project” or “he cries again.docx” because I enjoy foreshadowing my own breakdowns.

I collect empty notebooks like a Victorian ghost who died tragically in a stationary store.

I have cried because a character forgave someone. That’s it. That’s the fact.

Sometimes I start new projects just to avoid editing old ones. This is not a healthy system but it is a personality.

I finish a gut-wrenching scene and then go eat cereal like nothing happened. Cold emotional whiplash is my brand.

I regularly forget what my characters are supposed to know, and when it happens, I just give them sudden intuition or full-blown memory loss.

I’ve rage-deleted whole chapters because a side character took over and made the main one look bland. And yes, I made the side character the lead.

Okay, now your turn—drop your own ✨10 chaotic writer facts✨. I know you’ve got them. Don’t leave me screaming into the void alone. Reblog this with your chaos, I want to see the beautiful mess.

Love u all!

[grayandthyme]

my ground gives out beneath you | oneshot

masterlist

pairing: tommy miller x f!reader

synop: While gardening, you make the wrong move. Slipping through a door you had no right to be near in the first place. Tommy is mad. Really mad. He can't lose anyone else. Especially not you.

warnings/tags: fluff, slight angst, sexual suggestions, showering together, implied sex, use of swearing, mentions/depictions of violence, self-deprication. no use of y/n. reader is lowkey kinda silly for going outside but oh well.. gardener!reader.

a/n: the miller boys and getting angry about you almost getting hurt. typical. also I loooove writing dialogue for tommy... emotional sassy man.. wanna lick that mustache pls

w/c 4.6k (super short, kind of a drabble)

You wiped the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, careful not to smear more dirt across your face—not that it mattered. You were already covered in the stuff: jeans caked to the knee, boots sunk half an inch in soil. Your fingers dug into the earth, turning old till with practiced motions, pressing it down again like it was muscle memory.

Jackson had its charm. Quiet. Steady. Safe enough that you’d stopped flinching at every shadow. And somehow, you’d found a purpose here. Strange little corner of peace in a world long laid to hell. Resident gardener. Crop overseer. The one who brought a pop of color to porches, or laid flowers at graves no one else could visit.

It wasn’t just a job. It was something to do. A way to keep your hands busy. A way to keep moving forward. You planted things. Grew things. Helped life come back in the smallest ways.

Then you went home. Washed the dirt from your skin. Letting the man you love gently scrub the rest from your back. Sat close enough to him that neither of you have to speak.

For the end of the world it was good. Sometimes, too good. Some days it felt almost normal.

But today wasn't one of those days.

Your eyes skimmed the seed packets laid out in rows—carefully labeled, sorted. One bag near-empty, light in your hand: tomato seeds, your favorite project of the season. You drummed your fingers along the edge of the garden box and stood, stretching the ache out of your spine.

"I'm gonna go grab the rest of the bags—you guys good in here?" you called over your shoulder.

A chorus of “Yes ma’am!” and “Thank you!” followed you out, and you slipped through the wooden corridor of the greenhouse.

Outside, the sun had started its descent behind the mountains. Jackson glowed in that late golden hour—the kind of light that made it feel like nothing bad had ever happened here. The smell of roasted meat from the Tipsy Bison floated on the breeze, kids screamed with laughter at the wooden playground, horses clopped along the gravel paths with saddlebags full of supplies.

You weaved through the garden plots—mounds of soil, rows of orange tree saplings, rusted shovels leaning like old men against fence posts. You passed rows of sprouting herbs and markers scribbled with names that felt like promises. Toward the farthest edge of the land, just before the great wall of Jackson rose up like a fortress, you spotted the stash.

Stacks of seed bags. Five feet high, months of scavenging and trading packed into burlap and plastic. A quiet kind of accomplishment.

You sifted through the bags, fingers brushing over worn burlap, each one so familiar that you could almost name the seed inside by scent alone—mint, coriander, marigold. It was second nature by now. Kind of pathetic, maybe.

Blowing out a short breath through your nose, eyes flicking across the row. No tomato seeds in sight. That same low-grade frustration began to simmer, a small, annoyed huff escaping you. Maybe hangry.

"The hell…" you muttered, dirt-smudged fingers raking through your hair, tugging strands away from your face. Definitely hangry.

That’s when you saw them.

Just outside the gate. A few bags—stacked a bit haphazardly—barely ten feet away, resting against the outer fence. You could practically touch them. Tomato seeds among them, you were sure of it.

A metal door stood between you and them. Heavy, rusted, barred from the inside.

It’s not like anyone’s out there, you told yourself. The walls were manned. Watched. This spot was under a watchtower, practically inside the town. It wasn’t like you were heading out into the goddamn wasteland. It was… what? Two minutes outside the line?

You didn’t want to radio someone to fetch it for you. That felt worse. Weak. Like asking meant you weren’t capable. That you were soft. Cowardly.

Hell, Tommy had gotten you into Jackson in the first place. Pulled strings. Gotten people to vouch. And ever since, it felt like you owed something. Like every seed you planted was penance for a favor you didn’t know how to repay.

Your hands were already moving before you could talk yourself out of it. You unlatched the thick metal bar with a quiet grunt and slipped the door open just wide enough to slip through. The hinges creaked like they hadn’t been used in weeks. Still, you stepped through.

The air outside was different. Feral. Thick with the smell of pine and iron. Just past the threshold, nature had taken over—overgrown grass curled around your boots, vines crept up the base of the watchtower, and fallen branches tangled in forgotten fencing. You’d said it before: this would be prime land for garden expansion. You’d even told Tommy. But no one ever followed up.

You navigated through the dirt and gravel with careful footing, the uneven earth crunching beneath your boots. Kneeling by the stack, you moved fast—hands brushing over the coarse burlap, the scent of earth and dried seed rising up to meet you.

"Gotcha," you muttered, fingers closing around the tomato seed bag and tugging it free from the pile. It was heavier than you remembered—forty, maybe forty-five pounds—but you managed to hike it against your hip, adjusting for balance.

The weight pressed into your side as you made your way back, sidestepping tangled roots and patches of wild grass. You moved slow, cautious, but confident. The door was just ahead, right where you left it. Still cracked open. Still safe.

See? Easy. No problem. You worried for nothing.

A snap. Not from beneath you. From the trees. Somewhere off to the right.

The seed bag dug into your side as you slowly turned your head. Not fast—fast would make noise. Fast would mean panic. And panic meant death.

You scanned the trees. The underbrush. The shadows stretching longer now that the sun had nearly dipped below the horizon.

You shifted your grip on the bag, inching one foot back toward the open door. Then it screamed.

That god-awful, bone-splitting screech—somewhere between a person and a demon—ripped through the air. From the treeline, it lunged.

Runner.

No time. You dropped the bag, stumbling backward as the infected barreled toward you, all limbs and rage, its mouth gaping open with the promise of ruin. Its hands stretched, fingers curled like claws.

Its arms missed you by inches, but its momentum dragged you both down in a vicious spiral—crashing through the underbrush. You tumbled, slamming through dirt and dead branches, pain flaring in your back and ribs. The runner snapped its jaws in blind rage, its limbs clawing at the earth beside you but never quite finding skin.

You slammed against the base of a tree, disoriented, vision split by branches. You kicked and swung out, again and again, keeping the thing’s flailing body at bay.

BANG.

The shot split the air. The runner seized, neck jerking. It dropped. Silent.

Your breath caught in your throat as you lay there, heart thundering. Then the sound of boots barreled down the hill—furious boots.

Tommy’s hands were on you before the world came back into focus. “What the hell were you thinkin’?” he snapped, grabbing you by your shoulders, shaking once—not rough, just enough to remind you you were alive.

“No bite,” you gasped. “Didn’t touch me, I swear—”

“I don’t give a shit what it touched. You shouldn’t’ve been out here alone.” His voice cracked halfway through, like it betrayed him. His jaw clenched. “You know better. You know better.”

You blinked at him, eyes wide. His were burning.

“I almost put a bullet through it too late,” he continued, quieter now, but heavier. “You realize what that would’ve done to me? What it would’ve meant if I saw that thing sink its teeth into you?”

You stayed silent. There was nothing to say.

Tommy looked away, like even meeting your eyes hurt. He ran a hand down his face and muttered, “Jesus… You’re not just some fuckin' girl. You’re part of me now. And I ain’t got the kind of heart left to bury another person I love.”

He hauled you up—not gently—and slung your arm over his shoulder. His grip was tight. Protective.

“You want tomato seeds?” he growled, voice dark and cracked with anger. “You ask. I’ll bring the whole damn field if it keeps you behind the gate. But you don’t get to pull stunts like this."

"Not now. Not with me.”

You nodded, throat tight. The weight of what almost happened still ringing in your bones.

As he guided you back toward the wall, you could feel it in the tension of his body—he wasn’t just mad. He was terrified.

. . .

You’d misread him.

He wasn’t just upset—he was seething. Quiet, tight-lipped fury. The kind that didn’t need to be shouted to make your chest ache. The walk back to town was heavy with it. No words. No looks. Just the clamp of his hand on the back of your jacket, guiding you forward like a soldier escorting someone who’d stepped out of line.

You hadn’t even gotten to finish your shift. No chance to wave off the other gardeners. The stares were the worst—dozens of eyes trailing after you, low whispers cutting the air. Concern. Pity. Fear. You weren’t the survivor today. You were the reckless one, the fragile one, the woman who nearly didn’t come back.

Tommy’s grip never loosened. Not once. Like if he did, you’d vanish into the ground or go running back out again.

By the time you reached the house, your heart was pounding with the quiet shame of it all.

He finally spoke, voice flat and firm, the words razor-sharp in their simplicity.

“Go get changed.”

“We’ll talk later.”

And then he disappeared—into the hallway, into the silence, into himself. You stood there in the entryway, mud drying on your boots, hands still trembling from the brush with death, and it hit you.

It felt like punishment. Maybe it was.

A few moments pass, and you finally make your way upstairs to the bathroom.

You peeled off your clothes in silence, careful with every movement. Each scrape, each bruise, each patch of gravel-burned skin lit up angry and raw against the parts of you that were still whole. It all stung now—the sting of adrenaline gone, leaving nothing behind but pain and consequence.

You sat on the edge of the tub, sockless feet pressed to the cold tile floor, your arms folded tightly across your chest like they could hold you together. But they couldn’t.

The bathroom light buzzed above you, casting your reflection in the mirror like a ghost. And then, finally—finally—you let go.

A breath broke. Then a sob. Then another. And another.

No gasping. No theatrics. Just that hollow kind of crying that seeps up from your ribs, thick and unrelenting, like grief had been waiting patiently behind your teeth.

It wasn’t about the fall. Not really. It wasn’t even about the runner. It was the look on his face. The way Tommy hadn’t spoken to you. It was knowing, deep down, that you scared him. And that scared you more than anything else. It was an accident. You tried to convince yourself it was an accident. That you didn't go through with it because you were tired of being Tommy's sheltered girl. He's lost so much, how could you add to that?

You’re part of me now. And I ain’t got the kind of heart left to bury another person I love.

The sobs didn’t stop—they just changed. Softer now. Like something had cracked wide open inside of you and there was no stuffing it back in.

You slid from the edge of the closed toilet, knees curling beneath you as your bare skin pressed against the cool, aged wood of the floor. Arms braced out in front of you, hands shaking against the boards like they could hold up the weight of the world. Like they could hold you.

But they couldn’t.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that. Time blurred at the edges. Pain and shame blurring with it.

A knock.

Soft. Careful. Still heavy.

Tommy.

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t need to.

You didn’t answer right away—couldn’t—but you heard the way he shifted just outside the door. Boots scuffing against the floor. A sigh, quiet and worn.

“I ain’t gonna ask to come in,” he said finally, voice low, rough around the edges. “But you’re hurtin’. And I’d rather be in there hurtin’ with you than standin’ out here pretendin’ like I ain’t.”

Silence.

“I was mad,” he added, slower this time. “Still am. Don’t mean I don’t love you. Don’t mean I ain’t scared shitless at the thought of you not comin’ home.”

You swallowed hard, head still bowed. The words splintered something in you, but not in a way that hurt. In a way that made you feel seen.

You reached for the towel near the counter, dragging it close, wrapping yourself in it like armor.

“C’mon in,” you whispered, voice wrecked.

The doorknob clicked. The door eased open.

Tommy stood in the frame, his expression unreadable—somewhere between fear and fury and a heartbreak he’d never admit to. But he stepped inside without a word, sinking to his knees beside you.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmured, eyes glassy, but jaw tight. “And I can’t. You hear me?”

“…’m sorry…” you manage to gasp, the words catching and breaking in your throat like brittle glass. Each sob lurches out of you, wild and raw, dragging your chest tight. The tears keep falling—hot, carving burning paths down your cheeks.

You’re still on the floor, still bare, shivering from the cold and guilt. The wood beneath you bites at your skin, goosebumps rising in waves. You feel stripped open, not just of your clothes—but of everything.

Pride. Defenses. Sense. Though the entire thing was your fault.

Tommy doesn't speak right away.

He just kneels there, next to you. His fingers twitch—tight, twitch, release—over and over, like he’s working through something bigger than he knows how to say.

Then, quiet and flat:

“Don’t apologize for survivin’.”

You blink up at him through the haze of your crying, eyes swollen, lashes wet.

“That’s what that was,” he continues, voice a little rougher now. “You didn’t go out there ‘cause you’re stupid. Or reckless. Or tryin’ to piss me off.” A bitter huff. “Though you damn well managed that last two.”

He pauses, jaw ticking. His gaze doesn’t quite meet yours. It hovers just over your shoulder, as if looking straight at you might shatter him, too.

“You went out there cause you thought you had to. ‘Cause no one ever taught you to let someone else help. You don't owe me anythin'." His voice softens, quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

“Well, I’m here now. I’m right here. And I ain’t lettin’ you bleed alone on a bathroom floor. Got it?”

You don’t answer.

But you nod.

And that’s enough.

Tommy reaches for the towel, tugs it a little higher over your shoulder, making sure you’re wrapped tight. Then he shifts, lowers himself beside you, pulling you gently against his chest. You curl into him—still trembling, still raw—and he just holds you there, like he’s trying to put all your broken pieces back in place with nothing but his hands and the steadiness of his heartbeat.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “You’re safe now. And I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You sink into him like soft wax against a flame—malleable, undone. His arms encase you, dark and steady, holding you like a thing he refuses to let shatter. You let your fingers roam in small, quiet passes—mapping the constellation of moles and sun-darkened spots that speckle his skin like old stories. Scars like soft warnings, sunspots like prayers. He feels real beneath your hands. Solid. Warm.

Your voice is barely more than breath.

“Tommy?” A pause. The weight of his name clings to your tongue. “…Is it a bad time to ask if you’ll… shower with me?”

For a moment, there’s just the sound of the house breathing around you. Wood creaking. Pipes humming. Your chest rising and falling where it rests against his.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes scanning your face—searching, measuring. Not for lust. Not even really for permission. But for intent. For what you need.

His voice is quiet. Rough, like gravel smoothed down by the years.

“Darlin’,” he says, “I’d carry you in there if you asked me to.”

"I'm a big girl, I can walk…" You jest, a small laugh slipping out from your crying demeanor.

His eyes are soft as they meet yours. Thumb brushing across the back of your hand before he drifts to undo the buttons of his flannel. There’s something hesitant in the movement, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to stop. He doesn’t want to push you, doesn’t want to make you feel anything more than what you’re willing to give.

But you can’t stop the way your body moves towards him. How your lips lift, barely brushing against his as you reach up to gently pull his shirt from his shoulders, your fingers trembling as you guide it down his chest. His breath hitches, a low sound escaping him when your lips meet his neck, soft, fleeting. Like each soft kiss is an apology.

I'm sorry for being stupid.

There’s no hurry. No franticness. Just the weight of everything you’ve been through, pressing in, and the need to feel something real. Something that isn’t broken. You press your body against his, and he inhales, his hands coming up to your face, brushing your tears away, though you’re not sure when they started again. Maybe his presence.

You pull back for a moment, your breath shaky. You don’t say a word. But the look in his eyes tells you everything. It’s soft, but it’s fierce. Like he’s terrified of what’s been lost and what could slip away in an instant.

You kiss him then. Slow, soft, desperate in its quiet way. Your hands slide over his chest, fingers slipping down the curve of his torso, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. He doesn’t stop you.

It’s not about sex. It’s about the quiet, desperate need to be together in this chaotic world. To remind each other that you’re both still here. That you’re alive.

When you finally break apart, you let the fabric fall between you both. His shirt, your clothes—discarded in a pile against the old wooden floorboards. His arms circle around your waist, pulling you into the shower with him, close under the hot water. Feeling the weight of everything you didn’t say, everything you didn’t need to, pressing against you. You kiss him again, this time deeper, pulling him closer, seeking solace in his warmth, in his scent, in the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

"I'm sorry," you whisper again, the words barely rising above the hum of the water. They cling to your throat like thorns, fragile and raw, curling out with a trembling breath as your fingers curl into the warmth of his skin.

"I'm so fucking sorry," you repeat—choked, hoarse—like it’s not a sentence but a prayer. A desperate offering to something bigger than the both of you. Maybe to him. Maybe to the pieces of yourself that still believe you deserve to be held.

Tommy doesn’t say anything at first. Just rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, like he’s trying to breathe you in. His hands move over your spine, slow and deliberate, anchoring you there like you might otherwise drift apart. The warm drip of the water.

“You think I don’t know what that guilt feels like?” he says lowly, voice gravel-worn and edged with something close to ache. “I’ve carried it so long, I forgot what it feels like to walk without it.”

You keep your face pressed to his chest, lips parted but speechless. The silence says everything you can't.

He exhales, slow and tired. “I can't bury you. That ain't somethin' I can do… You go, and I go with it. There'll be nothin' left of me."

There’s no venom in it. Just truth. Just the kind of pain that sounds like anger because love doesn’t always come out gentle.

“I ain't mad you went out there,” he continues. “I’m mad 'cause you didn’t think twice about what it'd do to me. About what I'd be without you.”

Your breath catches. He feels it.

“I ain't like the others, never have been,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “I don’t shut it down when I care about somebody. I feel it. I feel all of it.”

You look up then, blinking through the mist, your thumb brushing over the scar on his forehead.

“I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Tommy’s jaw clenches. “You’re not a burden. You’re mine. My girl. My woman—" He hesitates, a deep inhale, "And mine don’t die alone in the goddamn dirt.”

He says it like a vow.

"If you asked me to lay down n' die, I sure as hell probably fuckin' would…"

His words don't burn anymore.

You kiss him again—slow and firm and full of every word you can’t manage. And he lets you. Holds you like the world might split if he doesn’t.

Your fingers find his hair—thick, dark—and you curl them there, anchoring yourself in the strands like they’re the last solid thing in a world built on rot and ruin. A gentle tug, not out of desire but out of need. Something quiet and aching. Like you're trying to make sure he stays.

The kisses taper off, each one slower than the last, until your foreheads rest against each other and the only thing left between you is breath. Steam swirls around your tangled forms, the water falling soft.

You're both still, tucked into each other beneath the muted warmth. Spaced out. Safe, for now.

And then your voice breaks the hush, small and hoarse but real: “How’d you know I was there?” You pause, fingers still laced in his hair. “I thought you were out on patrol.”

Tommy exhales through his nose, his arm tightening slightly around your waist.

“I was,” he says, voice thick with something unspoken. “Checkin’ the perimeter like I’m supposed to.”

He pauses.

“But then I saw one of the watch guys… leanin' over, squintin’ toward the south gate. Looked nervous.”

His jaw ticks. You can feel it against your temple.

“And I don’t know what it was—just somethin’ in my gut. Cold, sick feelin’. I ran. Didn’t even think. Just ran.”

His voice quiets, but it hardens too.

“Don’t ever make me feel that again.”

You swallow, guilt catching sharp in your throat.

Tommy shifts then, just enough to look at you. His hand comes up, thumb brushing a drop of water from your cheek.

“I know you’re strong. I know you’ve survived a helluva lot. But don’t you dare think you gotta prove it to me by gettin’ yourself killed.”

There’s no accusation in his voice, just a worn-out sorrow, like someone who’s lost too much and refuses to do it again. The silence returns, but it’s softer now. Heavy with feeling, but not drowning in it.

The water runs warm for a little while longer, soaking into your skin like ointment against old bruises. Tommy doesn’t say much more after that. Doesn’t have to. His touch stays—steady, grounding. You stay curled against him in the falling water until your fingers start to prune and the steam fades into the cold edges of reality.

Eventually, he murmurs, “We should get out. Water’s goin’ cold.”

You nod, not really wanting to move. But he helps you, carefully untangling your limbs, stepping out first to grab two towels from the wall hook. He tosses one over his shoulder before turning to wrap the other around you, gentler than you expect. The fabric scratches your scraped knees, but you don’t flinch, it only stings a bit.

You dry off in silence, your breath fogging the mirror, his silhouette moving behind you as he runs a hand through his wet hair. He’s quiet, but there’s still a charge in the air between you, something unspoken and taut—less like a rope about to snap, and more like one that just pulled someone back from the ledge.

He watches you in the mirror, eyes flicking to each fading bruise and open scrape across your shoulder and collarbone. “You got lucky,” he says, voice low, gruff.

“I know.”

There’s a beat where you think he might say more, maybe even get mad again. But instead, he moves in behind you, pressing a hand flat against your back.

“You hungry?”

Your eyes dip in the mirror, watching his hand round your hips, tough calloused fingers resting right below your bellybutton.

"I don't know," You exhale, eyes flicking back up to meet his face in the mirror, "You angry enough to not give me what I want?"

His eyes practically dilate—soft fingers once resting on your stomach, now curling into a deepened hold. Pushing your waist against him. The angular feeling of his bare body pressing against the taut arched form of your hips against the granite. His free hand comes up to brush some of the hair from behind your back, over your shoulder. Soft kisses peppering shoulder blades. His lips trace up, the feeling of his facial hair tickling against soft vulnerable skin. A gentle kiss to the lobe of your ear, and a whisper.

"Don't ask for shit you can't handle."

. . .

You curl toward him instinctively, limbs tangling with his. One arm under your head, the other slung across his ribs. His hand settles between your shoulder blades, thumb grazing slow circles into your spine.

He smells like soap, saw dust and sun-warmed cotton. And for the first time in hours your chest doesn’t ache from holding it all in.

Minutes pass like that. The silence between you is full—but not heavy. Not yet.

Then, his voice, low and rough in the dark: “I heard the runner before I saw you. Screechin’ like it was already eatin’. Thought I was too damn late.”

You don’t say anything. You just press your forehead harder into his collarbone.

“I’ve seen what those things do to people. What they leave behind.” His voice cracks a little. He coughs, as if to clear it. “You don’t get to do that to me.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whisper.

“I know.” A pause. “But intent don’t mean shit when the ground gives out beneath you.”

You tighten your grip around him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur again, but he shushes you this time, mouth brushing your temple.

“Not tonight,” he says, voice softer. “You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

You let yourself believe him. Let your eyes fall shut to the rhythm of his breathing. Let the warmth of him hold the pieces of you together while you rest.

Tomorrow will ask more of you both.

This isn't fixed.

. . .

[lokiswifeduh]

Hi! I just recently found your blog and love your work! I couldn’t see anywhere that said if your requests were open or closed, but if they’re closed, just ignore this. But I love the detail you put into your pieces, how you show what the different characters are thinking and the dialogue and how you involve multiple people. The ones I’ve read so far have also been very relatable and the way you write what the reader is going through is very realistic so anyway I was hoping to request something with Bucky and reader that is going through a tough time and really taking it out on herself. Like a depressive episode but she stops taking care of herself (self isolating, stops taking meds, stops eating, sleeps all day, can’t sleep at night, doesn’t want to shower, etc) so Bucky and the team step in to pick her back up. Even if she’s reluctant to it they don’t let her self destruct even if that’s what she’d rather do. You see the team and Bucky being concerned and trying to figure out what to do but eventually they get her to therapy, help her start eating, make sure she takes her meds, etc. This may be partially inspired by Thunderbolts* and partially inspired by current life events. 😬🙃

Take care of you

Pairings: Avengers!Bucky x Fem!Depressed!Reader

Summary: You and Bucky have been going through a rough patch, which has made you completely shut down and isolate yourself from your friends and family, including Bucky. But they're always there to pick you back up.

Warnings: ANGST, Self-destruction, talk of eating disorder, insomnia, sad!reader, neglectful Bucky (happy ending promise), self-isolation on the reader's part, depression, anxiety, arguing between Bucky and Reader, eventual fluff, use of Y/N.

WC: 1.9k

A/N: Thank you so much for this request!! I am definitely open to requests, and I loved writing this. I hope it's what you were hoping for! I LOVEEE writing/reading angst.

masterlist

It all started when Bucky got back from a particularly rough mission. Something had made him internally angry, and you were just there, taking the brunt of it. That was several weeks ago, and it hadn't gotten better.

"Will you just stop fucking nagging me?!" Bucky screamed, slamming his metal arm down on the countertop, making the corner of it split and crack.

You felt like your heart had cracked a small bit, just like the marble.

You stood there in silence, genuinely shocked at your boyfriend's outburst. You and Bucky had been either arguing or not speaking for weeks. Sleeping in the same bed, yet backs were turned toward each other.

You didn't know why. He wouldn't talk to you. But this, this was the final strike. Your mental wellbeing couldn't take any more. So you nodded, walking down the hall and slamming the door to your bedroom as you crawled into the safety of your bed. You smelled his sandalwood scent on your sheets, letting the tears fall freely. Hearing the door to your shared apartment in the tower slam, you let out a sob, crying yourself to sleep.

TWO WEEKS LATER

"Has anyone seen Y/n?" Natasha walked into the Avengers' shared kitchen, grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, and went to sit by Steve, who was filling out mission reports.

"She hasn't been out of our room yet?" Bucky questioned back, chopping up some vegetables for the stew he was helping Wanda make. He knew you loved her food and hadn't been feeling too well lately, so he knew her homemade beef stew would cheer you up...He hoped.

Steve glanced up, still filling out a report as he spoke, "What's going on with you guys, Buck? The energy is off between you two."

"The energy?" Natasha smirked, turning her head to Steve.

He rolled his eyes, looking back down at what he was doing, "Something the spidey kid taught me, I don't know."

Natasha laughed but looked back up at Bucky, "Seriously, what is going on? She hasn't been going on missions, I barely see her at team dinners, and Friday said she hasn't seen her pick up her prescription from Med Bay in weeks."

Bucky stopped chopping the celery, setting his knife down and looking at the redhead. "She hasn't been taking her meds?"

Natasha shook her head, "Have you seen her go to therapy lately?"

Now that Bucky was thinking about it, he hadn't. He hadn't paid attention to whether you were taking your meds or eating. He really hadn't noticed if you even came to bed most nights.

"I..." Bucky looked back down, continuing to chop the food, "We're just going through something right now, I'm sure it'll pass."

It didn't.

A week later and Natasha had had enough. You had stopped coming to the kitchen, opting to stay in bed all day. You had even started calling in for every mission Steve threw you on. Something was wrong.

"Y/n?" Natasha knocked on the door, not hearing anything from the other side. A couple more knocks later, and she was fed up. Sliding a bobby pin from out of her braided hair, she slipped it into the lock and moved it around until she heard the gears unlock the door.

Walking into your shared apartment, she was shocked. The curtains were all shut, blacking out the living room. Dishes were untouched in the sink, and it looked like Bucky had made a permanent bed on the couch, his dog tags still lying beside the pillow.

Moving down the hall, she squinted in the darkness as she stopped in front of your door.

"Y/n?" Natasha knocked, making your head snap up in response. Pulling your weak body from the bed, your raspy voice called out, "One sec."

Natasha silently let out a breath, thank god you were awake and she didn't have to unlock another door without your consent.

You slipped your feet into some house slippers and wrapped your robe around your body, tying it in the front so Natasha couldn't see how much weight you had lost.

Opening the door, you tried to smile as best you could. Nat could see through it, of course. "Hey, Nat, is everything okay?"

Natasha looked at you, like really looked at you. Your eyes were dull compared to the light that was usually there. Your cheekbones had sunken in a little, and the bags under your eyes were as dark as your room. The redhead gulped, "Why don't we come in here and talk for a minute?" You wanted to decline, opting to go back to bed, but it was Natasha; you knew she was only being nice and not giving you tough love for your benefit.

"Y-yeah, okay." Closing the bedroom door behind you, you both made your way down the hall and into the kitchen. Natasha flipped on the light, making your eyes water as you hadn't been around anything compared to daylight in more than a few days.

"How about I make you something to eat? A sandwich? Or even some pasta?" Natasha kept talking over your mumbling protests, knowing she was making you food whether you wanted it or not.

You sighed, sitting silently as you watched her pull out some sandwich meat and a loaf of bread; surprisingly not molded out by now.

"Nat?" She stopped, looking at you with worried eyes. "What's going on?"

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and handed it to you, "We're worried, Y/n."

She was about to continue when Bucky opened the door, making you drop your head and stare at your lap as you played with your nails. You hadn't really talked to him, let alone see how far gone you were. He didn't seem to care, so you thought.

"Doll?" Bucky walked over, making Natasha move from her seat and continue working on the food she was preparing for you. "Honey, can you look at me?" You did, bringing your eyes to his ocean blue ones.

His heart dropped seeing the dark circles under your eyes, paired with the way you looked like you had lost half of your body weight. Tears came to your eyes as you saw the way he looked at you.

"You hate me."

"W-what? Why would you ever say that, doll? I don't hate you." Bucky cupped your slender cheek with his hand, his heart cracking even more from those three words you spoke.

"You won't talk to me, I-I realize i'm not physically attractive to you anymore and I nag you and-" "Shh, doll, stop." Bucky quietly calmed you down, "What are you talking about?"

Natasha quietly stepped out after putting the plate of food up on the kitchen island next to you, wanting to give you and Bucky some privacy.

"I don't know, I've just been...not myself lately, and I don't know what to do anymore, Buck." You nuzzled your hand into his palm, feeling the tears seep down your cheeks as he held your head up.

"Have you been taking your meds?" You shook your head.

He sighed, "When was the last time you ate something or even slept a full night?" You stared blankly at his chest, genuinely trying to think. "I don't remember."

Bucky silently moved forward, kissing the crown of your head. "I should've paid more attention sweetheart, I'm sorry."

You started to protest before he shook his head. "No, there's no excuse. I should've seen what was going on, and I didn't. I'm so sorry, doll."

You let your body melt into his as you cried, listening as he apologized over and over. His hand rubbed up and down your back as your tears soaked his shirt. He could feel the bones of your spine as he comforted you, hurting his heart even more.

He knew he could fix this. He would bring you out of this hole you had fallen into, even if it's the last thing he did.

-

"So what do we do?" Natasha spoke up. Everyone on the team was sitting in the lounge as Bucky walked in, having just tucked you into bed after holding you for hours. It was in the middle of the night, but with your mental wellbeing on the line, no one cared if their sleep schedule was a little messed up.

"Do we take her somewhere to get help? Like an in-patient situation?" Sam asked, making Bucky shake his head. "I'm not sending her away. She's depressed, she doesn't need to think we don't want her here." The team nodded, making Tony suggest, "What about getting her back into therapy and making sure she's taking her medication?" "I thought she was already in therapy." Wanda looked up at Bucky.

"She is, well, is supposed to be. I got an email from her therapist saying she hasn't come in for the last fifteen sessions."

"What about someone new?" Steve offered, "Sam, don't you know some people you used to work with over at the Veterans Center?"

"I might know a couple, but she's not a Veteran Steve, they only take people who've been victims of war."

"We have some contacts in different offices for Shield Agents who might take her even though she's on the team." Tony took a swig of his drink, feeling hurt over the whole situation. You were like a daughter to him, and he had been so caught up in his work lately, he never noticed.

"A female therapist." Bucky spoke up, "She'd only talk to a woman."

Tony nodded, pulling out his phone, "I'll see who I can find. Just make sure she goes."

A WEEK LATER

"It's gonna be okay, doll." Bucky sat in the waiting room with you, holding your hand as you shook your knee up and down anxiously.

You nodded, looking around as the entire team had come to support you. Natasha, Steve, Sam, Tony, and Wanda were all sitting with you, taking up almost the entire waiting room as other clients sat in awe of the Avengers next to them.

The past week had been hard but good. Sam got you out of the house and took you on a drive upstate.

Natasha got you back into the gym and helped you regain some strength.

You helped Tony out in the lab, holding a flashlight as he worked, even though he had robots that could easily have helped.

Wanda talked to you as you sat in the kitchen, watching her cook meals for the team.

And Bucky. Bucky was the one who made you start to feel like yourself again. He took you on picnics near the newly made compound. He made sure you were taking your meds and would help you wash your hair when you didn't have the energy.

Bucky held you at night like you would suddenly slip away. He kissed you with such gentleness that you believed you didn't deserve.

As the therapist called your name, you stood up on shaky legs, turning towards Bucky. "I promise I'm fine, I don't need to go, Bucky please."

"Doll," Bucky shushed you and placed a hand on your jaw, "I just want you to feel better, and this is a part of that." He kissed you softly on the lips, "We're all here for you. Every single one of us will be here when you get finished, and we'll be here to support you."

You wanted to object, but you knew you needed the help. Sighing reluctantly, you kissed Bucky once more before he wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug.

"I'll always be here, doll. I'll always take care of you." -

masterlist

[yumiyawning]

sensitive!Reader x blunt!Ushijima

cw: afab!reader, post-timeskip, established relationship, kinda smutty. . .(literally ushijima going down on reader), eater!Ushijima save me!!!, fluff, weight talk (?), well ya'll got the gist with dialogues...

ও blunt!Ushijima who watches you, eyes filled with awe and love, as your thighs shake on each side of his head, as you cum. You always looked pretty in his opinion, but right now? What a sight for sore eyes you were. All flushed and panting and whimpering, overstimulated by the way his tongue rapidly circled your clit while coming down.

ও blunt!Ushijima who, unknowingly start groping your thighs to bring you closer to his face, deeming you to not be wrecked enough, when he notices it: your thighs have gotten plushier, bigger, and oh— so warm; Ushijima's masculine features form a frown, not a displeased one— oh no, no. A focused one; the one's you'd typically see him with when playing volleyball.

ও blunt!Ushijima who glances up at you, when you asked him what was wrong, oh so innocently. How could he explain to you, that you gaining weight, somehow turned him on, beyond explanation? "Your thighs are....pleasant." This made your eyebrow raise, confused and slightly amused by his choice of wording. "...Pleasant? How so?" you asked, curious, and pulling him closer to you by his back.

ও blunt!Ushijima who, reluctantly, accepts your move and lets you pull him up and brings you in for a searing kiss, almost making you forget about your question. However, he pulls away with a grunt, remembering about your question and glances down at your thighs, a slight blush decorating his chiselled cheekbones. "...They've gotten bigger. I like it" He says, bluntly, as if he hadn't just had a flash-fantasy of them choking his face.

ও blunt!Ushijima whose head tilts in confusion when you blush and stammer about you feeling insecure about your weight lately. "...Oh— I, uh, I— thank you..?" You answer, quite stunned and taken aback. He nods and hovers over you, hunger crystal clear in his eyes, latching his mouth to your neck, and grabbing your waist, before pulling your thighs over his waist, pressing his manhood closer to your drooling pussy. "Let me show how much I do."

ও blunt!Ushijima, who after blowing out your back, massages your thighs lightly, making circle motions with his palms. However, you do suspect it to be more for his own enjoyment, rather than yours, considering how he hums into the skin of your neck. Can you blame him tho? He just found out, he loves his girl chubby, and is on the edge of feeding you veerryy throughly, for the rest of your relationship. :(

彡AN: GAWD, THIS WAS SOOOOOOO HARD TO WRITE....this is also my first EVER writing smut so..... 😥😥 kinda nervous on your impressions guys. by the way (not me yapping bye) my "bf" actually just wanted to plant his seeds in my secret garden so... 😰😰 yeah. anyway lmk what ya'll think, love ya'll!! eat, sleep and drink well!! MWAH <3

𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽: @the0ishere, @nekomaniac, @wordsofelie (guys send me a message if you get tagged, i don't bite i pinky promise)

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ: "Still Monster" by Enhypen (lomls UGHHH 💔🗣)

[cloakedpress]

🖋️ WRITING DIALOGUE THAT DOESN’T SUCK (EVEN A LITTLE BIT)

Filed under: Writing Tips, Writer Problems, Mysteriously Good Prose

So. You’re writing a scene. It’s tense. Maybe someone just confessed to murder—or worse, love. You lean back, crack your knuckles, and then…

Your characters start talking like they're auditioning for a soap opera in purgatory.

Don’t panic. Cloaked Press is here to help you un-suckify your dialogue.

🌕 1. IF IT SOUNDS LIKE A SCREENPLAY FROM THE VOID, DELETE IT. Bad dialogue often tries too hard to sound dramatic. You know the kind:

“I can’t believe you, Veronica. After everything.” “Don’t you see? I had to steal the emerald dagger. For us.”

No one talks like this. Not even cursed pirate lovers from the 18th century.

Try this instead:

“You always think I owe you.” “I didn’t do it for you. I did it so we’d both live.”

Still dramatic. Still juicy. But believable.

🌘 2. EVERY LINE SHOULD DO SOMETHING. Dialogue isn’t filler. It’s not there to kill time until the next werewolf attack or necromancer duel. It should:

Reveal character

Build tension

Advance the plot

Or be so charming we want to tattoo it on our forearm

If it doesn’t do any of those, cut it like it just betrayed the protagonist.

🌒 3. GIVE YOUR CHARACTERS DIFFERENT VOICES (NO, REALLY) All your characters shouldn’t sound like you with a thesaurus. One mumbles. One over-explains. One says “fuck” like it’s a comma.

Think of dialogue like fingerprints. No two should match.

🌑 4. SUBTEXT IS YOUR DARK AND GLORIOUS FRIEND. What characters don’t say is often more powerful than what they do.

“You’re late.” “Traffic.” “Right.” She doesn’t ask why he smells like blood.

That’s tension. That’s mystery. That’s 👏 how 👏 we 👏 do 👏 it.

🌗 5. READ IT OUT LOUD. CRINGE TEST ENGAGED. If it makes you wince when you read it, congrats. You found the bad line. Fix it or bury it under the floorboards.

Bonus: hearing it aloud helps you catch rhythm, pacing, and any unintentional comedy.

✨ Final Spell: Great dialogue feels natural, but it’s actually sneaky and intentional. Like a fae bargain. Or your favorite villain.

So revise. Listen. And don’t be afraid to make it weird.

Darkly yours, —The Cloaked Press Team 🖤

[the-astronome]

Found a curious little thing in P3 Quarantine, which took me aback ngl

This is going to be quite a post, but I won’t place a tldr because I’m an annoying asshole (scroll down the post, the aforementioned detail is there)

Those who played P1 know that the game was always very vague about its time period. I covered it in another post of mine, but basically Patho Classic takes different features and aesthetics from several decades, namely from the 1910s and up to the 1940s. This is augmented even more by the subtle references to real literature/media/events, which created a sense of the game world being weirdly familiar but you couldn’t grasp what exactly made you feel this way.

Patho 2 (especially the Marble Nest) writing became less subtle, with open (or not that obscured) references to real events and literature. One of the brightest examples is Artemy’s mentioning of the Civil War continuing for the third year already ("Уже третий год идёт гражданская война.". That's a touch quote for the revolver). And this immediately “lands you back to earth” in a way; you understand “Well, this must be the early 1920s then” (obviously with the assumption that it's the Russian Civil War we're talking about). This replica of Haruspex doesn’t necessarily break the immersion, but it makes the storytelling a bit more direct.

And then comes Patho 3 Quarantine. All that I’m going to talk about below started as a mere joke for myself: on Day 8, when the Bachelor tries to board a train, we find ourselves in the middle of the Steppe at night. A bright, full moon is shining.

We know that Pathologic takes place in September. Moreover, on Day 5, at Stillwater on Bachelor’s desk, there is a calendar, which indicates September 3rd (я календарь переверну-AHEM sorry). If this detail is anything to go by, this means the game starts on August 30th, therefore, Day 8 is September 6th.

You might say, “OP, but this might be just a random detail, that doesn’t mean anything”. HAHA do you think I’m called the astronome for nothing? Remember the full moon on Day 8? Assuming that we constrain our range of years to 1910-1940 (explained above), we can calculate for what years the moon was at its brightest on Day 8. Moreover, just the phase is not enough. We need to make sure that the moon was seen at night on that day (i.e. wasn’t below the horizon) on that latitude. I’m taking northern latitudes between 51 and 55 degrees, a typical coordinate for major Siberian cities (I���m taking Novosibirsk, Irkutsk and Ulan-Ude as references here).

I’m using Stellarium, but you can check it just with Google really (I did that as well), it will all have the same result. We have a full moon (or at least a phase close enough to it) for 1914 (phase 95.4%), 1922 (99.6%) and 1933 (96.8%). The moon is above the horizon, and tbh if I had the exact time when the Day 8 sequence happens, I would've tried to approximate the latitude used in the game (if there is one). Anyway, this is just a set of years. That's not that interesting, right? Would have been so, if not for the Bachelor's replica in dialogue with Filat.

(yea it's in russian ik) I'm talking about the second answer option (the highlighted one). There, Daniil inquires if the Termitary has been closed for the sixth day already, since Tuesday. This dialogue takes place on Day 5, September 3rd. Do you see where this is going? If September 3rd is the sixth day since the Termitary's closure, then it was sealed on August 29th. And it was Tuesday. Using New Style (i.e. Gregorian Calendar), August 29th was Tuesday in... 1922 and 1933. Using Old Style (after all, it was used in Russia until 1918), the closest ones are 1923 and 1934. In all honesty, if I were to choose just one of these years, it would be 1922. It makes sense in terms of the moon phase (it got the closest illumination percentage to the full moon, 99.6%). It coincides nicely with that Tuesday situation, assuming that in their country a Gregorian calendar is utilised. The game's aesthetics, Capital's architecture, and overall design are a clear reference to the European 1920s. More importantly, do you remember Artemy's note on the Civil War duration? Yes, technically, the Russian Civil War started in 1917/1918 (thus the third year is 1919/1920). However, I think this is where Pathologic gets back to its usual subtlety in writing. Indeed, the dates are not exact, but it's close enough to ring a bell for most players. Why did IPL include this in Quarantine? There is a certain chance that all the aforementioned details are not intentional and are just a mere coincidence. Maybe it's deliberate. This is, imo, a choice of the player. Eye of the beholder and all that. (for people who scrolled down without reading) Regardless, Pathologic 3 seems to take place in 1922 or, less likely, 1933. Now you are also burdened with the knowledge of it.

[coffinclownery]

Clinical Trial Impressions

Firstestly before spoiling the whole game here's my tl:dr

Unfortunately I think this is a great game. Like sorry, there's a lot of care and thought that's been put into this game that makes it difficult for me to dismiss it as simply a "barely disguised fetish" kind of game. There's a lot of details from the character-writing to the art to even the ways the dialogue works that's just...good. This is unfortunate because it means that instead of easily dismissing this and moving on with my life I'm left thinking about this game weeks after watching playthroughs and playing it myself. Lot of thoughts have been provoked out of me.

Is it perfect? No. There's things that definitely could have been changed and/or expanded upon. And I don't think it's for everyone. While nothing is shown or told in graphic detail there's things that happen to the characters that can be triggering because of how well-written it is and the events preceding it. And while I argue the endings both make sense for the most part I don't blame you for not vibing with them.

So yeah, need to stop checking out playthroughs from manlybadasshero because he keeps finding games to Haunt me and I don't appreciate it. I recommend playing it if you feel comfortable with the content warnings. It is a free game so the worst thing that can happen is that you'll be Haunted like I am without spending a dime.

The content warnings on the itchio page does not cover everything, so I'll put my list below under the cut before going into more spoilery opinions. A lot of the content warnings come from what happens at the last hour, so it's going to spoil you.

Content Warnings: Needles, Pixelated Gore, Mentions of SA, Mentions of Familial Abuse, Mental Health Struggles related to ADHD symptoms and trauma responses, Taxidermy, Stalking and Surveillance, Obsession, Theft of personal items, Mentions of Suicide, On-screen depiction of suicide in one ending.

If you think I missed any let me know. Now here's more spoilery opinions below the gif.

Hey here's a scorching hot take.

Stalking...

...

...

...

Is bad.

Thank you thank you I'll take my Nobel prize now.

This is still at the end of the day a free 3-4hr game, mainly made by one person. So I'm not going to dock points or demand an imaginary refund when I say it felt like there could have been more or things could have been slightly different. As a lot of folks mentioned this game starts at a nice slowburn but then things go at a breakneck pace right at the end. I myself think the pace is pretty good up until the big reveal. After that I think things get a little wonky.

I still think they have all the bones in the right place (which can't be said for Brandon huehuehue.) Both Lee's obsession with Angel and what he ultimately did for them needed to be revealed, and it makes sense that the shrine was revealed first. Because let's be honest here, in the realm of fiction killing a bastard is not that controversial. And here they made the bastard as unlikable as possible, where even the man about to kill him is uncomfortable touching him. Like he was such an unrepentant pathetic loser that it almost became comical. So if we discovered the body in the basement first I think it would have been very easy to go "good job!" and not really digest what else is going on here.

So having the shrine first is important, because it is an affront to Angel themself. He stole their jacket! He did something to it without their consent! Angel already went through a horrendous event, and now here's somebody they placed their trust in using them in another way. And even without the jacket it's creepy to collect someone else's body mass like hair or blood from tissues. It's up to Angel whether they can accept this, but it doesn't remove the fact that this is still A Crime done to Angel. It's what shaped why the murder was actually sorta bad? It's not the morality of it all, it's the repercussions Angel themselves might face because of what Lee's obsession led to.

So it's important for the shrine to be seen first so we know who we're dealing with. We might be cool with a bastard dying slowly in a dug-out basement (again in the realm of fiction blah blah blah) but not cool with someone stalking, stealing personal items, deifying someone and then no matter how unintentional incriminating someone for murder by not even cleaning up before inviting guests. Even if we somehow predicted this twist this is the creator's way of going "are you SURE you want to get down with this dude?" and I can respect that. Like yeah no Lee is unarguably a freak and ultimately you need to choose if you're cool with that before finding the body.

And I think the endings fit well enough. It's easy for folks to deem End 1 as the Bad Ending and End 2 as the Good Ending. And that fits if you think of Lee being the main character. Because he's ultimately the one who gets punished in End 1 for what he did to Angel. It's certainly his Bad Ending if he's rejected by the person he deified and obsessed over first and only later fell in love with. Things might have been easier for Angel if they cooperated with Lee, and it does look bleak if you believed everything Lee said. But that's the path Angel chose to take and I think the open-endedness of it is good. Neither us nor Angel know what'll happen when they leave, but that won't stop Angel from moving forward. No matter how bleak it is Angel still has a future, while Lee denied his.

And End 2 works as well, because it's still Angel making that choice to accept both his freak and his body count. Angel's the one who gets to choose what happens at that moment, with full* knowledge of what Lee's done. They're the one choosing to help cover up a murder, and they're the one who choosing to move in with Lee afterwards. Because Lee wasn't going to make Angel stay, he just needed Angel to cooperate so Angel themselves doesn't get into trouble. And even if they might live happily for awhile, I think the music at the end of End 2 hints at an eerie feeling. There's still a chance things can go very wrong down the line.

*Except maybe the jacket if you don't check the washing machine. I feel like that should have been discovered at the shrine before the choice.*

Although with End 2 I don't blame people for calling it the "canon" ending giving it has a more detailed cutscene. And if you look at the creator's game profiles you can tell they clearly care for the two as a couple, but they note anything they post that's not in the game is not canon so...there's that.

I still think the pacing could have been a little but different. Between the discovery of the shrine and the discovery of a basement there was a brief cooldown that I think messes with the tone. If the only two endings are going to be Accepting both discoveries or Rejecting both, I feel like this cooldown should be removed altogether. Have Lee only catch up with Angel after they discovered everything, then they can slowly digest wtf is happening and make a decision. Or make the gap between the shrine and the body wider.

I also feel like some of the dialogue could have been resorted. I think all the dialogue is important, and I'm against removing stuff that'd make Lee less of a freak (you cannot put the freak back inside the bottle once its out im sorry) but the order in which things are said felt a little off. It didn't cross my mind that Angel could be implicated until its stated after the choice to Accept or Reject, which is a weird priority when faced with a Body.

I feel like either:

A: The choice should have been about accepting or rejecting that Lee committed a murder first and foremost. The dialogue can stay roughly the same in the Reject, when Lee is trying to find a way to remain in Angel's life, but in Accept have Angel more blatantly offer to help cover up the murder themselves, since in this version Angel's priority is wanting to stay with Lee.

Or

B: Angel should have had more time to process the body on the ground and come to the realization that they'd be a main suspect before Lee arrives, hear what Lee did and what steps he's already taken to avoid suspicion, and then make the choice. That way the choice is more focused on whether Angel cooperates with Lee or not.

Either way I also think in the Accept version of events there should have been a re-establishment of Angel's feelings. Like after Angel says they'd have to move of they stay will Lee have Lee go "wait, you still want to stay with me?"

Also, maybe in the Reject ending, have Angel call Adri. In week 5 Adri could have offered her number or Angel asked for theirs and let that be a Chekov's gun. You can still have Angel not receive messages (because Angel probably went awol on everything after what happened to them, so Adri assumed they weren't interested and gave up contacting) and make Angel choose to reach out to Adri. Angel refused Lee's help, so they're going to find help themselves. Would also give Adri's presence a more obvious purpose.

...But again this is a free game written by one person, so I'm not going to judge the creator too harshly for not doing things perfectly in a way that'd satisfy this specific stranger on the webs. Any of these changes would inevitability require more lines, more time, more programming, and maybe even more art be put into the game. Ultimately the creator put what was absolutely necessary for the story to work, which is what mattered.

This is all just me conjecturing on a remake in 5 years called Clinical Trial Ultra Mega Deluxe Remix 1.5 Medical Grade Edition you know?

I need to run errands so I'll be generous and let you be on your way here. On the next post I'll talk about the details I liked in this game and how it differentiates itself from other horror games featuring questionable and datable stalker killers.

[antianakin]

Andor is still a show that has some of the best acting, visuals, editing, and cinematography in Star Wars, and honestly it DOES still have good writing in terms of its dialogue and speeches and things like that. But the pacing is all over the place, the character development is being told to us instead of shown to us, and those two things are making the story have a lot less impact than it did last season.

The Ghorman Massacre works in part because it is the only real storyline this season that has had multiple episodes of build up and set up before it finally got its pay off. And it's GOOD, there's a LOT of impact to seeing that episode, especially when we all know what's going to happen not even just because Rebels has already told us what's happened but because the show itself has spelled it out and shown us the trap the Empire created and the rebels walking right into it from the beginning. That sense of inevitable doom obviously is important to Andor in so many ways, it's sort-of the lynchpin upon which the emotional heart of the show has always sat. And leveraging it again for Ghorman does work really well.

But I think we lose it in other places. Mon's choice to leave her family behind. Cinta's death. Bix leaving Cassian. Cassian connecting with K-2SO. Luthen starting to lose control of things. Saw's degrading mental state. We touch on some of these things and then have to move away so quickly that we don't really get a chance to see the greater impact they have on the characters and their trajectories. We have to get told about how the characters have developed in-between arcs instead of being allowed to see it happen. Relationships change between seasons, characters suddenly become leadership material between seasons, trauma is healed between seasons, etc. It's confusing and it removes a lot of the satisfaction of getting to see the pay off of those stories because I don't entirely understand how we got there in the first place.

[galaxymagitech]

1 and 30 for the fic questions!!

Thank you for the ask!!

Fic Writer Ask Game

1. What fic of yours would you recommend to someone who had never read any of your work? (In other words, what do you think is the best introduction to your fics?)

Hmmm. I think it really depends on what you’re there for, because I have two completely different versions of Bruce Wayne living in my head.

fool me thrice is a good introduction to how I write Batfamily dynamics, my characterization of the Batkids, how I develop a plot across scenes, tackle questions in my writing, and write an abusive Bruce Wayne while still maintaining his internal life and not demonizing him. This fic is pretty characteristic of my Bad Parent Bruce Wayne fics, and my writing style in general. If you want to read my Bad Parent Bruce Wayne fics, I’d recommend this as a starting point for how I see things playing out.

Olive Branch, on the other hand, is the introduction I’d recommend for Good/Okay Parent Bruce Wayne. It shows how I deal with misunderstandings, uncertainty, and at least somewhat unreliable narration (which is very common in my fics). Like fool me thrice, it involves extended dialogue and relationship work, but unlike fool me thrice, it is a single scene. In general, the writing style and the way I portray Jason’s internal thoughts vs what he says are a pretty good example of how I normally write.

But honestly, unless it’s in a series, any work is a good starting point I think!

30. Have you ever written something that was out of your comfort zone? If so, what was it, and how did it affect your approach to writing fic thereafter?

I routinely try to push my comfort zone in small ways, such as by trying to write a romance fic or write two characters who I haven’t written interacting before. But I think the second farthest outside my comfort zone I’ve written is actually my most recent multichapter fic, once you cross the line (will you be satisfied?), which is on 2/5 chapters. It’s a TimSteph fic—which is outside my comfort zone due to being romance and not a pairing I’ve read a ton of—but it also contains frank discussions of sex and birth control and on-screen making out. No on-screen sex (I am unwilling to research how people having sex works in practice) but still the only fic that I’ve ever rated M for sexual reasons. I think writing this fic has made me open up a little bit to including more sexual elements in my stories, and it’s also made me think more about tagging practices on AO3.

Surprisingly, the farthest outside my comfort zone I’ve gone was a complete accident. I wrote a fic that was supposed to be dark and kind of messed up, but the first draft fell off the deep end. I decided I couldn’t post it, because I’d unintentionally added subtext. And if I could see that subtext, other people definitively would.

The fic underwent extensive edits. Some of these edits were really, really stupid, such as the Find and Replace incident. In hindsight, I would’ve done it differently, but at the time I was just happy that I brought the fic back into my comfort zone. This story became Graveyard, which doesn’t quite manage to say what I originally intended it to, but at least it doesn’t say anything I didn’t intend it to.

This fic actually did inspire a change in my writing process. Before I write my fics, I now lay out every way I think the fic could be interpreted and decide which interpretation(s) I am okay with and want to explore. And then I develop a plan for how I am going to emphasize the interpretation(s) I intend to emphasize while de-emphasizing alternative ones. Obviously, I can’t control how people view my fics, and people could easily be misinterpreting them. But incorporating this calculus into my writing process at least means I’m not blindsided and can avoid another Graveyard incident that messes up the fic.

This started out in an anxious way, but now it’s more for clarity’s sake. When I write, I have something I want to communicate. Sometimes there’s ambiguity in that, but only specific, intentional ambiguity. But I don’t want to have cracks in my stories (or poems) that lead to validating misinterpretations of my original message. I’m a lot more intentional about what I write now. So overall I think this incident has improved my writing.

[vahkas]

Some context: this is Eunice. She's one of the Bachelorette characters from the Wii-era farming sim Rune Factory Frontier, who the player can court and marry. She is notable for being one of the only fat/plus-sized marriage candidates in the entire franchise, even 5 entries later.

Eunice is a complete sweetheart! She's the innkeeper's daughter and can be seen doing chores and domestic maintenance around the inn property all day. She starts off a bit lonely in the small town the game takes place in, but quickly befriends most of the other villagers who move in over the course of the first year. She will describe her off-screen interactions with them to you, exchanged gossip and tea-time hangouts. She loves flowers and sweets, and is a delightful character by the standards of Rune Factory at the time.

So it is beyond heartbreaking when the game narration and her own dialogue draw attention to her weight. It is further outrageous when, after befriending her a bit, the game asks you whether or not Eunice should go on a diet and slim down, through her asking the player their preferences in women. If you respond that you prefer them thinner, she will then start on her diet, no longer accepting sweets as gifts from the player. Over the course of a few in-game seasons, she will eventually complete her diet, gaining a new portrait to reflect this.

It is only *after* her losing weight that Eunice will join the other Bachelorettes in a regular summer activity, hanging out at the beach in their swimsuits. During beach season, she will awkwardly refuse the idea of going there. In practical game terms, there is simply less Eunice content to enjoy unless you change her body to resemble everyone else's. While fat, she does not exist on the same footing as other Bachelorettes.

The player *can* marry Eunice without her undergoing this diet, and she has all the bridal gown portraits and CGs to account for this. But for all the love and acceptance you can give her, Eunice will still not go to the beach, even years deep into a marriage. Loving her is not a path to her overcoming insecurity. In spite of everything that there is to appreciate about her as a Bachelorette marriage candidate in a silly old farming sim, the gentle voice acting, diligent work ethic, and social agility, the game itself will always treat her fat body as undesirable. It is something to be looked past, not shown off too much, and an incredibly frustrating mark against RFF all these years later.

It flies in the face of the art at the top of this post, drawn by Minako Iwasaki with what only feels like admiration. Soft, buoyant, cozy, and clearly not something in need of fixing. This one jagged, cutting decision in the writing, even as an attempt to bring forth the topic of body image to their first and sole fat Bachelorette, can only feel cruel. I could hope that Rune Factory takes another, more thoughtful swing at this, that it would try to vary body types, skin tones, and other features among its "desirable" characters just that little more, but it's not looking promising.

Every day I am so fucking mad on her behalf.

[keferon]

Monster hunter au part 9

I wanted to cook a bit more fluff before I get back to drama hehe

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