#and instead of backing straight back towards me....

[szatears]

comfort zone, modernau!smoke.

summary: just smoke spoiling his girl.

pairing: modernau!smoke x fem!black reader

warnings: some descriptions of reader, cunnilingus, also munch!smoke because we all deserve it.

notes: this sinners brainrot will not leave me alone and i love it !!! also we hit 100 followers after just a couple days... i love you all so bad 🫶🏾

It was around 6 in the evening when Smoke came home to you. He'd been away in Atlanta for two days, a business trip as usual. You knew what he did, the type of people he worked with and what that came with. You didn't really care because at the end of the day, the most important thing to you was your relationship with him.

Everyone knew him as Smoke, but to you he was just Elijah. As soon as he walked through the huge doors to your shared home, he stopped being Smoke and Elijah came out instead.

Whenever he was away, you'd usually occupy yourself with something just fine. Going out with your girls, catching up on your own work, visiting family and so on. Anything to help take missing him off of your mind.

Today, as you waited for Smoke to come back, you decided to get a manicure. A little touch up on your nails could never hurt. It didn't take too long either, a half hour drive there and back in just under two hours. God, did you love your nail tech.

You had them done blue, Smoke's favourite colour on you.

You lounged around the house waiting for him, your only other companion being the small rottweiler puppy that Smoke had gifted to you. He whined as you patted him, rolling over next to you.

"I know, baby, daddy's coming home soon." You frowned, scratching behind his floppy ears.

The sound of keys turning in the door had those floppy ears turning straight real quick. Before you could even turn your head to the door, your puppy was already there, scratching at the back of it whilst Smoke attempted to get through.

"Man, move───" he muttered, trying to get through with a bunch of shopping bags and a puppy nipping at his legs.

You smiled, a part of you exhaling a sigh of relief that he'd come back to you in one piece.

It was never easy to see Smoke leave, the thought of him never coming back to you was always looming over your head. But just like he always reassured you he would, he came back seemingly fine.

You walked towards them, Smoke's facial features gradually relaxing at the sight of you. "Hi," you spoke smoothly, your arms around his neck as you pulled his face towards yours, kissing his lips.

You took a moment to run your hands over his body, the black compression shirt that he wire doing wonders for him. It always drove you crazy.

"Hey, baby," he kissed you back, dropping the bags gently on the floor giving his hands space to grab at your ass. "You been good?"

"Mhm," you answered, letting your nails scratch gently at the back of his neck. That always did the trick. You looked down at the puppy by your feet, breaking away to pick him up. He was getting heavier as each day went by.

You held him up to Smoke's face. "Say hi to your son, Elijah."

"That ugly ass thing ain't my son," he kissed his teeth, waving you off as he started moving the bags into the living room.

Laughing, you carried your puppy to its playpen, giving you snd Smoke some peace of mind for now.

You came back to find him emptying his pocket contents on the coffee table: gun, wallet, keys, and stacks of money. Instead of putting the money on the table with the rest of his stuff, he walked over to you.

He pulled the strap of the tank top that you wore, using it to tuck the money into your bra.

"What's this for?" you smiled, looking up at him. He was always giving you money randomly, various amounts for various reasons.

"For looking pretty," he kissed your cheek. "That's for you too," he nodded his head towards all the shopping bags that he brought in.

Your eyes followed to the bags, feeling so much appreciation overwhelm you. Smoke's love languages were most definitely gift giving and acts of service; he would use any and every opportunity to spoil you, but the minute you bought anything for him, he'd be telling you off for spending your money on him.

"You didn't have to," you pouted, sitting on his lap as you kissed all over his face. "You spoil me too much, I don't even have space for it all."

"I don't spoil you enough," He mumbled, kissing you back. "Come on, do your lil' try on thing you always do for me." He tapped the back of your thigh.

You giggled, "You mean a haul?"

"Yeah, that."

And that you did. Smoke had gotten you bags, clothes, lingerie, new makeup products... things you already had but according to him, could never have enough of.

You tried on each item, except for the lingerie. You said you wanted to surprise him with it another day, and he wasn't complaining.

At the end of your haul, Smoke helped you put everything away, making a comment to himself about having to expand your walk in wardrobe.

Now you two lay on the bed, cuddled up as a random show was on the TV. You loved moments like these, when he was yours. Not the rough Smoke that everyone else knew him as, but as your soft and loving boyfriend.

"You good?" Smoke stopped rubbing his hand gently on your body when he noticed you let out a sigh.

"I'm more than good," you smiled dreamily, like you were drunk just off of his affection.

He took your word for it, lifting your body onto his. His hands wrapped around your lower back whilst your chin rested on his chest, looking right at him.

"You know I love you, right?" He said.

"Yeah. I love you too."

Smoke smiled, his large hands squeezing at your ass. "And I love this ass too."

"You can never stay serious, can you?" You laughed, reaching back to move his hands. Instead, he flipped the two of you so he was now on too, your hands pinned on either side of your head.

"You know damn well how serious I can be."

And that you did. There was only a handful of times when Smoke had gotten serious with you, times when he was more Smoke than Elijah with you. One of the things he loved most about you was that you brought out the side of him that didn't immediately resort to violence, the one that still had hope that he could be loved like he once thought.

He leaned down, kissing you gently, softly. You kissed him back, your hand pulling his head even closer, nails grazing over his low cut. He caught a flash of blue as he pulled back from the kiss, removing a hand from your side to look at your hand properly.

"Look at you repping me," he teased you, running his fingers over your nails.

"Had to let 'em know," you shrugged.

"Damn straight," he mumbled against your lips. He could never get enough of you, you were like a drug to him.

He kissed from your lips down your neck, to your collarbone, nipping and sucking as he went. He loved marking you, you don't know when it started but you knew sure as hell it wasn't gonna stop.

Smoke let his runs run all over you, until you tugged at his shirt, frowning. "Why you poutin', baby?" He tilted his head, knowing the answer but wanting to drag it out of you.

"Take it off," you said.

"Yes ma'am."

As he pulled his shirt off, you watched on, smiling at your man's toned body. You let your hands rake over his abs as he leaned back down to you. "Your turn," he tapped your side.

You sat up a bit, pulling down the straps of your tank top before taking it off, no bra underneath. Smoke wasted no time, latching onto your breasts before you could even lay back down.

You let out a loud moan, like you haven't felt his touch in ages. Whilst he worked on your breasts, sucking and biting, he let his hand slide inside the shorts you wore, grazing over your clothed pussy. He could feel how wet you were just from a few touches.

"Fat ma missed me, huh?" he joked. You kissed your teeth, groaning as he rubbed gently.

"Elijah... do something," you moaned.

"Aight, baby, lift up for me." he took your shorts off when you lifted your hips, along with your panties. He settled in between your legs, lying down so he was face to face with your seeping pussy. He looked at you, knowing he was absolutely about to devour you.

The first lick had you throwing your head back, your thighs immediately closing around Smoke's head. If he could've died right then, he would've died a very happy man.

As he licked up and down, sucking your clit, you writhed underneath him, struggling to stay still with how he was doing you.

He gripped your hips, forcing you to stay in one spot. "If you keep moving, I'ma stop." he mumbled with his lips still on you, sending vibrations through your body.

You nodded, knowing he was dead serious about that. One thing about sex with Smoke? The overstimulation was real.

He continued to lick bold stripes up and down your fold, kissing at deeply as he went. You could feel that coil deep in you about to snap, your whimpers and moans getting louder as Smoke used his fingers to rub your clit.

"Fuck, baby, I'm almost─── Oh, fuck, I'm gonna cum!" you moaned as you came, but Smoke still didn't let up, lapping up all your juices as you rode out your high.

You panted, trying to push his head away, already feeling like you could tap out. But when he looked at you, his moustache and goatee coated in your cum, you knew this was only the start.

"You boutta tap out on me? Hm?" he asked.

You shook your head, guiding him back to your folds. You felt his smirk on you, his lips going back to doing what they did best.

You always did love when he came home to you.

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

Get Your Fuckin Ass Back Home 🏡

Jey Uso x Bratty!Reader

WARNING: Brat taming, creampie, rough sex, heavy dominance and submission themes, consensual power imbalance, safeword use (“blue”), face fucking, throat fucking, hard spanking, overstimulation, claiming and breeding kink themes, slight spit play and spit kissing, light degradation, possessive behavior, slight humiliation kink, minimal aftercare, and explicit sexual content (18+ only).

NOT BETA READ! LIGHT EDITING (I took my lunch break early for this.)

INSPO from pic above.

requested by: @acknowledge-reigns

bffls: @spiicii @cheappop @love4brutality @isabella-2025 @maineventabbey

You weren’t trying to start a fight with Jey.

But then again, you weren’t trying not to either.

You knew exactly what you were doing when you pushed back, rolled your eyes, tossed that slick little “whatever, Josh..” over your shoulder like you weren’t poking a damn bear.

Jey’s jaw clenched so hard you swore you heard it crack.

“You gonna fix that fuckin’ attitude, or do I gotta fix it for you?” he asked, low and dangerous.

You just smirked, shrugging, playing dumb like you didn’t know the heat rolling off him was a warning.

Instead of answering, you grabbed your purse and headed toward the door.

“I’m going out with the girls,” you said sweetly, “Don’t wait up.”

You could feel Jey’s stare burning through you as you slammed the door.

⸻

Four hours later, you were three shots in, two tequila sodas deep, laughing too loud at a shitty joke at the bar.

Your phone buzzed once on the sticky table.

You ignored it at first. Then it buzzed again.

And again.

Rolling your eyes, you snatched it up and saw his name light up the screen.

And attached to the latest message — a picture.

One you knew he kept for when he meant business.

A picture of Jey standing near the edge of your shared bed — shirtless, legs spread, his cock bulge through his sweats with that pretty little champion belt he was always so proud — glaring straight into the camera.

The caption underneath was simple:

“Bring your ass home. Now.”

Your whole body heated instantly — not just from lust, but from that possessive command dripping off the words.

You shifted in your seat, thighs pressing together, your stubborn heart still trying to hold the line.

You typed back:

“Maybe I’m busy.”

Not even fifteen seconds later:

“Last fucking warning before I fuck your throat so hard you won’t be able to talk for a fucking week..”

You stared at the screen, your chest tightening. Your instincts wrestled with your bratty need to push.

But you knew better.

Knew what would happen if you ignored that tone one more time.

With a huff, you snatched your bag and muttered something about feeling sick to your girls.

—

The ride home was torture.

Your thighs rubbed together the whole way.

Your pussy throbbed.

Your mind ran wild with all the ways Jey was probably going to handle you the second you walked through that door.

You fumbled with your keys at the door, nerves and excitement tangling together in your gut.

When you stepped inside, you barely had time to blink before a large hand wrapped around your throat and pressed you back against the wall.

“You think you grown now, huh?” Jey rumbled against your ear, voice thick and mean.

Your heart skittered wildly, whimpering without thought.

“Talkin’ back… leavin’ like that… Ignorin’ me…” he growled, nipping sharply at your jaw.

“You asked for this, baby.”

You squirmed under his touch, pretending to be bratty still — but he wasn’t having it.

“You gonna learn tonight,” he promised, his free hand slipping down between your legs, cupping his pretty little pussy that he knew would be soaking through your panties.

You writhed under his grip, still trying to act like you weren’t five seconds away from crumbling.

Still batting your lashes like a brat, even though every second was turning you on even more.

“Awww, poor Daddy is mad ‘cause I went out without him?” you mocked, smirking even as your chest heaved.

The fingers around your throat tightened — just enough to make your toes curl — before he yanked you forward, dragging you by the back of your neck through the living room, down the hall toward the bedroom.

“You gon’ keep runnin’ that smartass mouth, huh?” Jey muttered darkly, kicking the bedroom door open.

“You want it rough, baby? You gonna get it rough.”

He shoved you down to your knees by the bed, your hands instinctively catching yourself on the floor.

You looked up at him, lips already twitching into a smirk.

“So what, you gonna spank me and call it a night?” you taunted, tipping your head to the side.

Jey barked a short, humorless laugh.

“Nah, lil’ mama. I’m boutta break you tonight.”

He leaned down, gripping your chin hard between his fingers, forcing you to look at him.

“You listen good now you filthy slut..” he growled, his forehead pressing against yours, voice dropping so low it vibrated in your bones.

“Your safeword is blue. You say it if you need to. Otherwise, you take what I fuckin’ give you.”

You clenched violently.

But you still couldn’t help yourself. You still had to mouth off.

“I dunno,” you said airily, blinking up at him. “You sure you got the stamina to back all that talk up, old man?”

His nostrils flared.

Without another warning, he pulled his cock free, thick and already leaking at the tip.

Before you could get another word out, he gripped the back of your head and thrust deep into your mouth.

Your eyes widened as he sank all the way down your throat in one brutal glide.

No teasing.

No warning.

Just pure throat fucking.

You gagged immediately, nails digging into his thighs for balance, but he didn’t ease up.

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, holding your head still while he fucked into your throat at a savage rhythm.

“Yeah… that’s what I thought,” Jey grunted, looking down at you, dark eyes blazing.

“Smart lil’ mouth… finally put to some good use.”

You tried to glare up at him, tried to glare even with tears prickling your lashes, but it only made him snarl and thrust harder.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that,” he panted. “Go on. Be a little brat. See where it fuckin’ gets you.”

You whimpered around him, half from the way your throat burned, half from the wetness pooling between your legs.

Your hands fisted the sheets behind you, legs trembling.

You wanted to be mad.

Wanted to stay bratty.

But you were drowning in him — specifically his power — and it was breaking you down minute by minute.

Jey yanked out of your throat abruptly, strings of spit connecting you as he tilted your head up.

“You done bein’ a fuckin’ brat yet, mamas?” he asked, voice rough with dominance.

You panted, spit running down your chin, mascara smudged, chest heaving — and somehow you still found a way to smirk.

“Not even close,” you croaked out, defiant.

Jey grinned — a feral, predatory flash of teeth.

“Good,” he said, dragging you up onto the bed, flipping you onto your stomach and second your body hit the mattress, smack— his hand came down hard across your ass, the sound echoing through the room.

“‘Cause I’m just gettin’ started.”

You jolted forward with a sharp gasp, but before you could catch your breath — SMACK — another slap, harder.

“You think you run shit, huh?” Jey grunted, landing another vicious spank, his palm connecting with the same tender spot.

You bit your lip, trying to muffle the whimper that climbed your throat.

“You think you can walk out,” smack, “mouth off,” smack, “and not get checked?” SMACK.

Your ass burned, the sting radiating up your spine. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes — not from pain alone, but from the way your body ached for him, despite your pride screaming not to give him the satisfaction.

He landed one final, punishing slap, making you yelp.

Your fists twisted the sheets under you.

And still — still — you couldn’t help yourself.

When he leaned down over your back, you huffed out:

“That all you got, bitch?”

Dead silence.

You couldn’t even turn your head before he grabbed your hips roughly, yanking you up onto your knees.

You barely had time to gasp before he slammed into you from behind with one brutal thrust, splitting you wide open.

You cried out, your walls fluttering helplessly around him.

“Keep talkin’ now,” Jey growled, snapping his hips against you, setting a ruthless, punishing pace right from the start.

The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, filthy and hot as fuck.

You clawed at the sheets, your body lurching forward with every savage thrust, but he just dragged you back onto him over and over again.

“You want rough?” slam

“You want punishment?” slam

“You fuckin’ got it, baby.”

He gripped your hair again, yanking your head back so you had no choice but to feel every inch of him stretching you to your limits.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, but you still bared your teeth — biting back your whimpers.

Jey let out a possessive moan deep in his chest — a dangerous sound — before he flipped you over onto your back in one brutal move, not even bothering to slip out of you.

You cried out from the sudden shift, thighs trembling from how deep he hit inside you now.

Before you could do anything, he grabbed both your wrists and slammed them above your head, pinning you down hard into the mattress with one massive hand.

His hips never stopped snapping into you, brutal and relentless, making the bed frame crash against the wall.

You squirmed beneath him — one last surge of bratty fight — but he just pinned you harder, grinding deep until you screamed his name without meaning to.

“Uh-uh, don’t run now,” he snarled.

“You was big n’ bad an hour ago you fucking slut..”

You shook your head weakly, tears sliding down your cheeks, your body betraying you completely — clenching around him, aching for him, loving the way he manhandled you.

“Say it,” Jey demanded, his forehead pressing to yours, hips punishing against yours.

You whimpered, trying to turn your face away.

He bit his lip and snapped his hips hard, making you cry out again.

“Say who you fuckin’ belong to!”

You panted, shaking, the fight finally leaving your bones.

The orgasm building between your legs made your head spin.

“You,” you sobbed brokenly beautiful.

“I belong to you, Daddy!”

Jey groaned in approval, slamming even deeper, grinding hard against your sweet spot.

“That’s right, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing your tear-stained cheek.

“All fuckin’ mine.”

He kept your wrists pinned, kept you trapped under him, until you shattered around him — your walls clenching so tight around his cock that he finally let go too, cumming deep inside you with a loud, guttural moan.

Pinned, claimed, ruined — exactly where you belonged.

You barely had a second to catch your breath before Jey’s rough voice rasped against your ear:

“Lemme taste you, baby.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, lips parted — but you were too weak, too wrecked to stop him even if you wanted to.

Jey slid down your body slowly, his hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide, ignoring your feeble whimper.

You tried to squirm — still too sensitive, your pussy clenching around nothing — but desperate for something.

And then —

He buried his face between your thighs without mercy.

His tongue lapped greedily at the mess leaking from you — his cum, your cum, all mixed together — and he groaned deep in his chest like you were his last meal on earth.

You cried out, trying to twist away, the overstimulation making your legs kick, but he just gripped your thighs harder, forcing you to take it.

He devoured you shamelessly, not caring how sloppy, how wet, how absolutely filthy it was — in fact, he seemed to love it even more.

Your hands scrambled for the sheets, looking for something to hold onto as your body trembled uncontrollably.

When he finally pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with you, his eyes were molten.

But he wasn’t finished.

He crawled back up your body, pinning you down again easily, his mouth hovering over yours.

You could see it — the juices dripping from his bottom lip — seconds before he crushed his mouth to yours.

He kissed you hard, messy, his tongue forcing your lips apart, feeding you the taste of yourself mixed with him.

You whimpered into his mouth, too wrecked to fight it — tasting everything, gasping as he groaned into the kiss.

He pulled back just a little, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you panting.

“You taste so fuckin’ good, babygirl,” Jey murmured, his thumb brushing your swollen lower lip.

“You taste like mine.”

You whimpered again, your thighs rubbing together instinctively, even though you were already so wrecked you could barely think.

Jey smirked down at you as he brushed your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

“You got one more in you, baby?” he asked, voice dark and teasing.

“Or you tappin’ out?”

And god help you —

Even after everything, that bratty little fire in you flickered again.

You blinked up at him and whispered:

“…Is that all you got?”

[laceandlipstick]

hunt me down | d.w

dean winchester x f!reader

MDNI

word count: 5.8k

summary: one bed, one reckless night, and nothing between you and dean would ever be the same again.

warnings: one bed trope, rough p in v, oral f!receiving, dirty talk (dean’s silly like that), slight restraint (if you squint), let me know if i missed any!

a/n: this was a passion project for my bsf @sudsnribbons hope u enjoy my love

The first time you met Dean Winchester, he nearly shot you.

In fairness, you had just tackled him to the ground inside a crumbling barn, both of you hunting the same vampire without realizing it. Your heart hammered as you lay sprawled across his chest, pinned down by his broad hands, the glint of a silver blade flashing dangerously close to your throat.

Then he smiled — all crooked grin and cocky confidence — and the heat that surged through you had nothing to do with adrenaline.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, sweetheart,” he rasped, his voice a low roll of thunder. “Otherwise you’d be leaking all over this floor.”

You shoved off him with a muttered curse, cheeks burning hotter than the midday sun.

Dean just laughed, brushing dust from his jacket, the rich rumble vibrating straight down your spine.

You should have left it at that. You should have walked away and never thought twice about him.

But of course, that wasn’t how your story with Dean Winchester was going to go.

⸻

Two weeks later, you’re riding shotgun in his ’67 Impala, salt-and-burn job behind you, night bleeding dark and heavy across the open highway.

The radio hums something low and bluesy, and Dean’s fingers tap absently against the wheel. Every now and then, his green eyes flick toward you — quick, assessing glances that make your skin prickle with awareness.

You stare out the window, pretending not to notice. Pretending the air between you isn’t electric.

It’s a losing battle.

“So,” he says finally, voice lazy but laced with something sharper. “You ever gonna stop playing shy and tell me what your deal is?”

“My deal?” you echo, keeping your tone light.

Dean smirks. “Yeah. You’re a hell of a hunter. Quick, smart… sexy as hell. Yet somehow, you’re still flying solo. Why’s that?”

You snort, shifting in your seat. “Maybe I like my own company.”

Dean’s gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate. “Honey, if I were your company, you’d never be lonely again.”

The words settle in your gut like a lit match dropped in gasoline.

You swallow hard, willing your pulse to steady, but it’s useless. Dean Winchester is an inferno in denim and leather, and you’re standing way too close to the flames.

“Careful, Winchester,” you murmur, finally daring to meet his eyes. “You might not be able to handle me.”

Dean grins, slow and devastating. “Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “I can handle you just fine. Question is… can you handle me?”

You tear your gaze away before you do something stupid — like pull the car over and find out exactly what he means.

Instead, you settle deeper into the seat, pretending to relax, pretending you don’t feel his eyes burning into you like a brand.

The silence that follows is filled with unspoken promises.

⸻

The next motel you hit is a run-down little place off the main highway. Neon lights flicker overhead, buzzing like hornets in the humid night air. Dean cuts the engine, and for a second, neither of you move.

Finally, he tosses you a smirk. “One room left,” he says. “Manager said it’s got two beds. Hope you don’t snore.”

You arch a brow. “Hope you don’t talk in your sleep.”

Dean chuckles, low and rough. “Oh, sweetheart. You’ll be wishin’ I was asleep.”

The words hang there between you, daring, suggestive. You push open the door before you can embarrass yourself by blushing again.

Inside, the room smells faintly of stale smoke and cheap cleaner. One bed is pushed up against the wall, the other closer to the window. You drop your bag on the nearest mattress, trying to act casual, but Dean is too close behind you, his presence a solid, burning thing at your back.

You hear the soft rustle of his jacket hitting the chair, the creak of the bedframe as he sits down.

“You gonna hog all the hot water, too?” he asks, voice all lazy amusement.

You shrug out of your jacket, feeling his gaze scrape over your shoulders, down your back. Every nerve ending lights up like a live wire.

“Guess you’ll have to be fast,” you toss over your shoulder, heading for the bathroom.

Dean’s chuckle follows you like a touch.

And when you close the door, you lean against it for a second, breathing hard, feeling heat flood your cheeks.

This was going to be torture. Sweet, unbearable torture.

You shower quickly, but not quick enough to escape the images playing in your mind — Dean, sprawled out on that bed, long legs stretched, green eyes half-lidded with heat. Dean, close enough to touch. Close enough to taste.

You curse under your breath, toweling off fast.

When you step out in your sleep shorts and a loose T-shirt, Dean is stretched across the bed nearest the window, boots kicked off, TV remote in hand. His shirt is rumpled, his belt undone but still looped through his jeans. The sight of that loose belt — the suggestion of it — sends a molten rush straight through you.

Dean glances up, and for a moment, he says nothing. His gaze skims over your bare legs, the curve of your hips, the shadow of your collarbone beneath your T-shirt.

You shift your weight, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of bare skin.

“You clean up nice,” he murmurs, voice rougher than before.

You clear your throat. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Dean smirks, slow and sinful. “Sweetheart, the ideas I have… you couldn’t handle ’em.”

Your stomach flips. You yank back the covers on your bed, climbing in quickly, tugging the blanket up to your chest like armor.

Dean chuckles again, turning his attention back to the TV. But you can feel him still watching you, feel the weight of his gaze like hands trailing over your body.

You pretend to sleep. You pretend not to notice the way Dean shifts, getting more comfortable, the way the low rumble of his breathing fills the room.

You pretend you don’t imagine crawling across the short space between the beds and letting all that cocky bravado melt away under your touch.

Sleep is impossible.

⸻

You don’t know how long you lay there, staring at the stained ceiling, listening to Dean breathe.

At some point, the TV clicks off.

Dean shifts, the bedsprings groaning under his weight. You squeeze your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep, but you can feel him watching you again — like a tangible thing, heavy and hot in the darkness.

“You awake?” His voice is a low whisper, rough and full of something dangerous.

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Dean exhales, a soft curse under his breath. The mattress creaks again as he stands. You hear the soft pad of his boots hitting the floor, the rustle of denim sliding down legs. You swallow hard, biting your lip to keep from making a sound.

When you dare to crack one eye open, Dean is climbing into bed — your bed.

You stiffen instinctively, heart hammering.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, voice barely audible.

Dean smirks in the dark. You can see the white flash of his teeth. “Window’s drafty. Cold as hell over there.”

You narrow your eyes. “There’s another bed.”

Dean shifts closer under the covers, his bare arm brushing yours. His skin is warm — almost too warm — and you can smell the clean, woodsy scent of his soap still clinging to him.

“I’ll behave,” he murmurs. “Scout’s honor.”

You snort softly. “Were you ever a Boy Scout?”

“Nope.” His grin widens. “But I look damn good in uniform.”

You turn away, facing the wall, but it doesn’t help.

Dean’s heat seeps into your side, his breath stirring the fine hairs at the back of your neck.

Minutes pass.

Long, slow, torturous minutes.

You shift, pulling the blanket higher. Dean shifts with you, the mattress dipping. His thigh brushes yours — not an accident.

You freeze, barely breathing.

Dean’s voice is a low rumble against your ear. “You’re killing me, sweetheart.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“You think you’re the only one suffering?” you whisper, before you can stop yourself.

Silence falls between you — heavy, loaded.

Then Dean laughs, low and dangerous.

It’s the kind of sound that promises very, very bad things.

Good things.

You don’t move when his hand drifts across the small space between you, fingers ghosting the curve of your hip over the blanket. A featherlight touch — asking, not taking.

Your body lights up like a struck match.

“You want me to stop,” Dean murmurs, his lips so close to your ear that you can feel them move, “say so.”

You bite your lip, fists clenching the sheets. Your whole body screams for him to touch you harder, deeper — to take — but something stubborn in you holds the line.

Not yet.

Not yet.

Instead, you whisper, “You’re gonna regret starting this, Winchester.”

Dean’s hand stills.

His breath is ragged against your neck.

“Baby,” he growls, so low it’s almost a snarl, “I’m already too far gone.”

You dare to glance back at him, just a little — enough to see the way his jaw is tight with restraint, how his green eyes are dark and burning.

One move.

One move, and you could have him.

But you don’t.

You turn back toward the wall, every nerve in your body straining.

Dean swears softly. His hand retreats, but not before dragging slowly — deliberately — over your waist, your hip, your thigh.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trembling.

Neither of you sleep that night.

⸻

The morning light creeps in through the thin curtains, pale and dusty.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep — if you even did — but when you blink your eyes open, the first thing you notice is that Dean is still there.

Still close.

Too close.

His arm is slung heavy across your waist, his bare chest pressed along your back. You can feel the slow, steady thud of his heart against your spine — the heat of his skin, the solid, unmistakable weight of him.

And something else, too.

Something thick and hard, nudging insistently against the curve of your ass.

You freeze. Your pulse skyrockets.

Dean shifts behind you, groaning low in his throat, like he’s trying to get closer even in sleep. His hips roll, just a little, and the thick press of him drags along your backside, hot and heavy.

You bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

“Dean,” you whisper, but it comes out broken, needy.

He stirs — awake now.

You feel the exact moment his body goes tense. His breath catches, a soft, strangled sound against your neck.

“Fuck,” he mutters hoarsely. His hand flexes on your waist, like he’s torn between pulling you closer and pushing himself away.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice rough with sleep and hunger. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

Instead, you push back — just a fraction of an inch — enough to feel the full, hard length of him against you.

Dean swears viciously.

“You’re playing with fire,” he growls.

You tilt your hips, teasing him. “Maybe I like it.”

That’s it.

That’s all it takes.

Dean flips you onto your back in a single, fluid motion, caging you beneath him. His hands are planted on either side of your head, muscles flexed, every line of his body taut with restraint.

His face hovers over yours, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath. His green eyes blaze down at you — hungry, desperate, feral.

“You have no idea,” he snarls, “how long I’ve been wanting to do this.”

And then he kisses you — hard, bruising, devastating.

It’s not soft, not sweet. It’s claiming.

Dean kisses like he’s starving, like he needs you to breathe, and you open for him willingly, moaning low in your throat as his tongue sweeps into your mouth, hot and demanding.

You fist your hands in his hair, dragging him closer, tasting the hunger in every rough pull of his lips, every desperate scrape of teeth.

Dean breaks the kiss with a gasp, forehead dropping to yours.

“Fuck,” he pants. “Tell me you want this.”

You meet his eyes — blown wide with lust, desperate and raw — and there’s no hesitation, no fear.

“I want you,” you whisper. “I want all of you.”

Dean growls low in his chest, deep and primal.

“You’re gonna get it, sweetheart,” he promises darkly. “Every goddamn inch.”

He peels your T-shirt up over your head in one swift motion, groaning when he sees you — bare, flushed, wanting. His calloused hands skate over your skin, reverent and rough all at once, mapping every curve, every shiver.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mutters, like he’s talking to himself. Like he can’t believe you’re real.

You tug at his own shirt, desperate to feel him, to get your hands on that broad, strong body you’ve imagined a hundred times over.

Dean strips it off, baring a chest dusted with light hair, muscles flexing under golden skin.

He’s a force above you, a living furnace, and when he ducks his head to kiss down your throat, your collarbone, your breasts — you arch up, gasping, fingers clawing at his back.

His mouth is hot and wet, teeth scraping lightly, teasingly, until you’re squirming under him, whimpering his name.

“Dean—”

He shushes you with another searing kiss, grinding his hips down, letting you feel exactly how hard he is for you. Exactly how badly he needs you.

You moan into his mouth, rolling your hips up to meet his, desperate for more friction, more everything.

Dean curses again, voice wrecked.

“Need to taste you,” he growls against your skin. “Need to hear you fall apart for me.”

You don’t have time to answer before he’s sliding down your body, nipping, licking, worshipping every inch of skin he uncovers.

When his mouth finds the apex of your thighs — bare, aching, ready — you cry out, threading your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer.

Dean groans like a man tasting salvation.

And then he devours you.

Dean’s mouth is sin, pure and devastating.

He licks a long, slow stripe through your folds, groaning deep in his chest like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. His tongue works you open — slow at first, deliberate — every flick, every swirl designed to unravel you molecule by molecule.

You’re already a mess, gasping, writhing under him, clutching at the sheets.

Dean chuckles against your core, the vibrations making you whimper.

“Goddamn,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “You’re fuckin’ perfect. Sweetest thing I ever had.”

You moan brokenly, hips bucking up into his face.

Dean moans and pins your hips down, forcing you to take everything he gives.

He slides two fingers inside you, thick and perfect, curling just right, and at the same time his tongue circles your clit, hot and relentless.

The pleasure is too much.

Too sharp. Too perfect.

You shatter — screaming his name, coming hard against his mouth, against his fingers — your body jerking helplessly, every muscle locking tight before falling boneless into the mattress.

Dean doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking you through it, drinking you down like he’s starving, savoring every tremble, every moan.

Only when you’re gasping, too sensitive, does he finally pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a cocky, filthy grin splitting his face.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful when you fall apart,” he rasps.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Dean’s crawling back up your body, grabbing your thighs, spreading them wide around his hips.

You feel him — hot, hard, heavy — pressing against your entrance, still clothed in nothing but throbbing need.

“Condom?” he pants, forehead pressed to yours.

“Bag,” you manage, voice shaking.

Dean fumbles in your duffel at the foot of the bed, cursing under his breath when he finds it. He rips the foil packet open with his teeth, slicks himself quickly, and then he’s back between your thighs, pushing your legs up, lining himself up with you.

His eyes lock with yours — wild, hungry, burning.

“You sure, sweetheart?” he growls. “Last chance.”

You wrap your legs around his hips, dragging him closer. “Dean,” you whisper. “I need you. Now.”

He swears — low, broken — and then he’s pushing in, the thick head of his cock stretching you, making you cry out.

“Fuck,” Dean groans, burying himself slowly, inch by devastating inch. “So goddamn tight. So perfect.”

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into muscle as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours.

You’ve never felt so full, so claimed.

Dean drops his forehead to your shoulder, trembling with the effort not to move.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he mutters. “Feelin’ you around me — fuck — like you were made for me.”

He draws back, almost all the way out, then slams back in, hard and deep.

You cry out, head tipping back.

Dean finds a rhythm — deep, punishing thrusts that leave you gasping, clinging to him, desperate for more.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he pants, thrusting harder. “Take it. Take all of me.”

You meet him stroke for stroke, the slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room.

Dean growls, grabbing your thigh and hiking it higher, angling you so he can drive even deeper.

You see stars. You can’t even think.

His hand finds your throat — not squeezing, just holding, possessive — and the shock of it makes you clench around him, wringing a raw moan from his lips.

“You like that, baby?” he snarls, fucking into you harder. “You like me takin’ you like this?”

“Yes,” you sob. “Dean, please —”

He covers your mouth with his, swallowing your cries, his thrusts rough and wild now, desperate.

“I’m not gonna last,” he groans against your lips. “Too good. So fuckin’ good.”

His fingers find your clit again, rubbing quick, brutal circles, sending you hurtling toward the edge.

“Come for me,” he commands, voice dark and filthy. “Come on my cock.”

You fall apart again — shattering, screaming his name, every muscle clenching, your body spasming around him.

Dean follows with a growl, driving deep, grinding his hips against yours as he spills inside you, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moves.

You just cling to each other, panting, wrecked.

Dean buries his face in your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses there, his body still shuddering slightly.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs against your skin. “You hear me? Mine.”

You smile, dazed and sated, threading your fingers through his sweat-damp hair.

“Yours,” you whisper back.

Dean stays inside you for a minute, still pressed tight against you, catching his breath. His weight is heavy — comforting — and you cling to him, fingers sliding up and down the slick muscles of his back.

Neither of you says anything.

No words needed.

Finally, Dean groans softly and shifts, pulling out with a low grunt that makes your cheeks heat all over again.

He ties off the condom quickly, tossing it toward the trash without even looking.

You expect him to roll away, maybe pass out like most guys would.

But Dean surprises you.

Instead, he reaches for you, tugging you against his chest, wrapping you up tight in his arms. One big, warm hand cradles the back of your head. The other strokes slow, soothing lines up and down your spine.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs against your temple, voice low and wrecked but gentle now.

You nod, still a little dazed.

Dean chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through your whole body.

“Fucked you good, didn’t I?” he teases, but there’s something raw and vulnerable underneath the cockiness — like he needs to hear you say it. Like he needs to know he didn’t break you, only made you his.

You smile, sleepy and sore and ridiculously happy.

“The best,” you whisper. “No contest.”

Dean pulls back just enough to look at you, his green eyes warm, soft, utterly wrecked with affection.

He brushes a few sweaty strands of hair from your forehead with surprising tenderness.

“Yeah?” he says, grinning that stupid, boyish grin that melts you faster than the sex ever could. “Guess that means you’re stuck with me now.”

You laugh, burying your face in his chest. His skin smells like sex and sweat and soap, like everything you never knew you needed.

“I think I can live with that,” you murmur.

Dean kisses your hair, slow and lingering.

“You better,” he says, voice low and rough. “Because I’m not lettin’ you go. Not after this. Not ever.”

You fall asleep like that — tangled up with him, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady and strong under your ear.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Wrapped up in Dean Winchester’s arms.

[solastarr]

Ms.NotSoIndependent

Stack Moore(Sinners2025)x black reader:

Genre: smut with very little angst

Summary: once stack comes from chicago. he realizes how independent you've become and the tension you have towards him

Preview: “I knew you’d be mad... but you been treatin’ me like I'm just any other normal ass nigga. Like I don’t mean nothin’ to you,” he said, squatting in front of you so you were eye level.“Obviously, you forgot who the fuck I am... so let me remind you real quick.”

Word count: 1,192

Warning: the content with in this story contains sexual themes of aggressive conversations, fingering, smut, cunnilingus

It had been about two weeks since Stack came back into town after he and his brother's unannounced trip. He returned thinking the same sweet, charismatic, and loving girl he left behind would greet him with hugs and kisses. Instead, he was met with a cold, nonchalant, and independent woman who wouldn’t even give him a passing glance.

He knew leaving without telling you was wrong, so he had been trying to make up for it by helping you reach dishes on the top shelf, fixing the leaky sink, even offering to carry your groceries home. But every time, he was either ignored, brushed off, or straight-up told you didn’t need his help. Stack had been trying to keep his cool, hoping you’d eventually break out of this bratty phase. But today... you pushed him too far. And he snapped.

You were already having a rough day. The chores around the house stacked up as high as the dishes in the sink. Your mood was on edge when Stack decided to stop by.

“What you got planned for today?” he asked, trying to start a conversation.

You didn’t even bother responding to the man whose voice irritated you every time he spoke.

“Okay… still being a brat,” he mumbled under his breath. You turned around and shot him the dirtiest look you could manage.

Leaning lazily against a chair in the kitchen, he stayed unfazed. “Me and my brother are having the grand opening of the juke joint tonight. I want you there for me.”You immediately responded, almost cutting him off, “Not interested. I got too much to do around the house anyway.” You went back to scrubbing the dishes without giving him another look. Stack took it as another chance to lend a hand. “Well, then let me help you. I really wa—”, “I don’t need your help, Stack!” you snapped, swinging around too fast. The dish in your hand slipped and shattered across the floor. “Shit,” you muttered under your breath. You dropped to your knees to pick up the broken pieces carefully. “I don’t even know why you’re here. You left me. I’ve moved on. You need to do the same.”you said coldly.

Stack’s face dropped. His patience finally ran out. “You know I’ve been tryin’ to be nice to you,” he said lowly, the tension in the room thickening. The house grew suffocatingly silent.

Stack started walking toward you, the crunch of porcelain under his boots echoing off the walls.

“I knew you’d be mad... but you been treatin’ me like I'm just any other normal ass nigga. Like I don’t mean nothin’ to you,” he said, squatting in front of you so you were eye level.“Obviously, you forgot who the fuck I am... so let me remind you real quick.”

You stood up just as he did, trying to hold your ground.“I don’t know what the hell you talkin’ about.”He stepped forward, closing the space between you, backing you into the kitchen counter.You could feel the heat radiating off his body.“Boy, move,” you warned, trying to slip past him, but he grabbed your wrists, holding you in place. He leaned into your ear. “You forgot what it felt like when daddy was here to take care of you. But I'm back now... and I ain't goin’ nowhere.” His words made your breath hitch.

Your eyes scanned his face, trying to tell if he was serious. He started kissing down your neck, rubbing your curves, slowly lifting your dress. You gasped at the way his hands roamed, but you had longed for his touch for too long to push him away. “Stack... move,” you tried to protest, your voice trembling with hidden moans.His mouth found your sweet spot near your jawline, making your knees buckle. Stack noticed immediately, smirking against your skin.

“See? All that 'I don’t need you' bullshit...” he murmured. “But your body can’t lie to me, baby.”

You hated how your body betrayed you.But with Stack... you couldn’t even fight it.You barely registered being lifted onto the counter until you felt the cold countertop on your skin, making you gasp. Stack ran his hands up your thighs, giving small squeezes, reaching your panties.The rough pads of his fingers and his husky cologne made you melt.

He stopped, looking you directly in the eyes as he rubbed you through your panties.

Your moans slipped out despite yourself.He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough. He leaned closer, only inches away from your face.

“Tell me you want me to leave... and I'll go.”You wanted to slap him. Push him away. Cuss him out for the pain he caused when he left. But no words came out, only breathless moans. Because deep down, you didn’t want him to leave. And he knew it.

Stack smirked, feeling your surrender.

He ripped your panties off, slipping two fingers inside you, massaging your breast with his other hand.“I know you’re mad at me for leavin’,” he growled, “but daddy’s back now. And I’m gonna take real good care of you, okay?”He slowed the movement of his fingers to an agonizing pace, waiting for your answer.“O-Okay,” you finally whimpered out, desperate for him to keep going.

He chuckled lowly. “...Okay what?” he teased, stopping again.“Okay, Daddy!” you cried out. Proud, Stack laughed in your face, cocky as ever. “There’s my girl.”

He slipped his fingers out and pushed them into your mouth.You sucked eagerly, happy to have your man back. Then he kissed you, a long, heated kiss that felt like a lifetime of waiting poured into it. When he finally broke away, he stared at your swollen lips, the hickeys blooming on your neck, the sweat forming on your skin.“Let me take care of you. Make up for lost time.”

Stack dropped to his knees between your thighs, kissing you everywhere until he reached your pussy. Without hesitation, he started devouring you, like he had been starving for you.You almost lost control instantly, gripping the back of his head, moaning his name.When you started grinding against his face, chasing the high he was giving you, he locked eyes with you.The sight nearly pushed you over the edge. But just when you were about to cum, Stack abruptly pulled away.

“Wait—Stack, please,” you whined, desperate for more.

He smirked, standing up, adjusting his suit while your juices still coated his face.

“And you said you didn’t need me,” he teased. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small wad of cash and tucked it between your breasts, brushing your skin just enough to make you shiver. “Now go get you a new dress, shoes, and get pretty for me. Cause we're going dancing tonight” He kissed your lips one last time before heading to the front door.Before closing it behind him, he turned and shot you a wink with his signature smirk. You couldn’t help but smile, still aching for the touch you swore you didn’t need.

~ first post I hope yall like it!💫

[wosospacegirl]

Stuck with you - part 6

Summary: Y/n’s used to Alexia’s overprotectiveness and the pressure of her career—but Kika? The shy, socially awkward teammate who’s starting to make her feel things she didn’t expect.

Warnings: Y/n's sulking in self-inflicted isolation, slow-burn grief over yelling at the girl you like, Alexia being distant and silent (which is worse than yelling), unexpected bedroom interruption and a dash of jealousy over a certain training partner.

Word count: 7.5k

a/n: Again, still angst! The pic of Jana and Kika is there for a reason :)

Masterlist here

Alexia’s grip on her arm was probably tighter than it needed to be.

Y/n wasn’t exactly resisting–hobbling along with the bulky brace on her leg, trying not to stumble over the smallest step–but it still felt like overkill. 

She didn’t dare say anything, though. Not with the way Alexia was glaring straight ahead, lips pressed into a thin line like she’d rather scream than speak.

The silence was suffocating. Not the kind that made things easier, but the kind that made Y/n’s insides twist with guilt. Every step toward the front door felt like marching toward her own execution.

Alexia opened the door without a word and guided her inside, her hand never leaving Y/n’s arm. 

It wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t gentle. It was steady and unrelenting, like everything Alexia had ever done. They stepped into the living room.

“Oh! Hey!” Olga’s voice came from the sofa, bright and warm. “You’re back–”

Then her eyes landed on Y/n’s leg.

The smile vanished.

Alexia didn’t even glance at her. 

She helped Y/n sit down–well, “helped” was generous. 

She more or less shoved her onto the sofa with a sharp exhale through her nose. Then she stood over her, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

“You’re going to tell everything to Olga,” Alexia said, voice low but steady. Dangerous.

Olga blinked, eyebrows raised. “Tell me what?”

Y/n’s mouth felt dry. Her shoulders curled in, like she could physically shrink away from the shame settling in her chest.

“I lied,” she said quietly. “My ankle wasn’t better. It was–is worse. And I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to be benched.”

“Cariño…” Olga said softly, her voice a total contrast to the tension in the room.

Y/n didn’t look up. “I also asked Kika to lie for me,” she mumbled. “I told her not to say anything to you. And she didn’t. Not until the end. She told Alexia, and then I… yelled at her.”

The words felt heavier as they came out, like saying them made everything worse. 

Her throat tightened, her eyes stung, and she could feel the heat building behind her lashes. Y/n looked down quickly, she didn’t want them to see her, not right now.

She waited.

Waited for the explosion. For Alexia’s voice to finally snap, for Olga to use the sharp tone she only ever used when Y/n really messed up. The one that always made her feel small, like a kid again.

But none of that came.

Instead, Olga moved closer.

She sat on the sofa beside her and pulled her into a hug without saying anything, gently resting her chin on Y/n’s shoulder. Her arms were warm. Steady.

Y/n didn’t move at first, too stunned to even breathe.

Then she leaned into it. 

Just slightly. 

Not enough to fall apart–but just enough to let herself be held.

Y/n stared down at her lap, fingers twisting together in a nervous knot. Her eyes were full, but she refused to let go. Not yet. She didn’t want to cry, not in front of them.

“I yelled at her,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “I yelled at Kika when she was just trying to help.”

The silence that followed made everything worse. It stretched too long, thick with disappointment and something even heavier.

But then she felt Olga sit beside her again, closer this time.

“Está bien, mi nena,[it’s ok, my girl]” Olga whispered gently.

That was all it took.

The tears came hot and fast, stinging her eyes before she could stop them. 

Her face crumpled, and she let out a shaky breath, trying to hold it in–but it broke through her anyway, quiet and aching.

Olga didn’t say anything else. She just wrapped her arms around Y/n tighter, tucking her head against her chest and holding her like she used to when Y/n was smaller, when scraped knees at training were her biggest concern.

Across the room, Alexia's jaw tensed. She’d been standing the whole time, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. But when she saw Y/n finally cry, her expression softened–just a little. Just enough.

She moved toward the sofa and sat down slowly beside them, not saying a word.

Her hand came to rest on Y/n’s back, warm and grounding, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of her hoodie.

..

The boot sat heavy on Y/n’s leg, like a physical reminder of everything she didn’t want to think about. She hadn’t left her room in two days. 

No physio, no crutches practice, nothing. Just her bed, the soft hum of the TV playing reruns in the background, and the dull ache in her ankle that medicine couldn’t quite kill.

Y/n could swear this was some kind of punishment from Alexia, making her stay in the house all day–but la reina said it was doctor’s order…bullshit.

Olga was like an annoying mom. 

Y/n told her she wanted to be left alone, but Olga always pretended she didn’t hear her.

Like clockwork, around lunchtime every day, she knocked twice and let herself in. No pity in her voice. No questions she didn’t want to answer. 

Just her usual: some snacks, juice, and whatever weird story she listened to on the news.

Today was no different.

Y/n heard the door creak open.

“I’m coming in–don’t throw anything," Olga said, voice casual.

“I’ve only thrown a cushion at you when I was fifteen. When are you letting this go?” Y/n said, from under the blanket.

Y/n huffed but sat up slightly, reaching for the glass. “I love you.”

They sat in silence after that. Y/n sipped her juice, pretending not to feel Olga’s gaze locked onto her.

“So,” Olga said eventually, “I think we need to talk about it… You know? Eventually?”

They hadn’t spoken about the whole lying-about-the-injury thing. Not properly. 

After Y/n had a meltdown like a two-year-old in the living room, Olga had just helped her to bed without asking for an explanation. 

Since then, Y/n hadn’t left her room.

Whenever Olga tried to bring it up, Y/n changed the subject. 

When Salma, Vicky, and Jana texted, she ignored them. 

She didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to see anyone. Because now she knew what happened when she got close–she hurt people. She yelled. Like she did with Kika.

“I don’t wanna talk about anything,” Y/n muttered.

“But I do,” Olga said, more firmly this time, using a tone she normally left for important conversations.

Y/n shot her a look, but there wasn’t much fire behind it. “You gonna yell at me too?”

“No,” Olga said. “That’s Alexia’s job.”

Y/n turned away at the name, jaw tightening. “She’s doing a great job at ignoring me instead.”

“She’s furious,” Olga said simply. “But not just because you hid the injury. It’s because you didn’t trust her.  Or me. Or anyone.”

Y/n blinked hard. Her throat tightened, and she looked down at her hands gripping the glass.

“I know,” she whispered. “I just…” Her voice faltered. “It’s like she hates me now.”

Olga tilted her head, concern etched in every line of her face.

“She doesn’t hate you, cariño.”

“She won’t even look at me,” Y/n said, her voice smaller now. “She’s been ignoring me for days. And I get it. I lied, I made everything worse, I yelled at Kika, and now…” Her words trailed off, her breath catching.

“She took me in when I was still a kid,” she added, voice shaking. “But I’m nineteen now. I’m not her responsibility anymore. What if this was it? What if I pushed her too far and now she’s just… done with me?”

Olga’s face softened even more.

“My parents didn’t want me either,” Y/n said quietly. “They left. They didn’t care. What if Alexia’s the same?”

Olga reached out immediately, wrapping her arms around Y/n and pulling her close.

“No es verdad, nena,” she murmured, holding her tighter. “ Eso nunca va a pasar.” [It’s not true, babe/That will never happen.]

And that was it.

Y/n’s tears fell fast, hot, and silent as she buried her face in Olga’s shoulder. 

Again, she was crying again.

Olga didn’t say anything else–just held her, firm and steady, like she wasn’t going anywhere.

Y/n sniffled, wiping her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. “Okay, ew, I’ve cried more in the last two days than I have in like… five years. Disgusting. Never again.”

Olga let out a soft laugh, brushing her hand over Y/n’s hair. “Liar.”

Y/n groaned. “Shut up. Don’t ruin my reputation.”

..

Later that day, Y/n heard the front door close.

Alexia was home.

Like usual.

She didn’t even look up from the book she was reading. For the past few days, Alexia’s routine had been the same–come home, move around quietly, and never once step into Y/n’s room. 

It was a silence that screamed, and Y/n had learned not to expect anything else.

So when her door creaked open, Y/n’s heart jumped. She looked up, startled. Alexia stood in the doorway, holding a small bowl in both hands.

“Here,” she said, stepping in.

Y/n blinked. “…What is this?”

“Fruit salad,” Alexia replied, voice clipped but not cold.

Y/n frowned. “...Why?”

“Fibre is good for healing,” Alexia said simply.

Y/n squinted at her, suspicious. “Did Olga make it?”

“No.” Alexia exhaled through her nose. “I did.”

Y/n stared at the bowl, then back up at Alexia. “…Thank you, Ale.”

Alexia didn’t smile. She didn’t soften. But she gave a small nod, eyes scanning the room before turning to leave.

At the door, she paused.

“You need anything else?” she asked, still not looking back.

Y/n opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then tried again. “No,” she said quietly. “Just… thanks.”

“Jana, Vicky, and Salma are coming tomorrow,” Alexia said, not asking, just stating.

“I don’t wanna talk to anyone,” Y/n mumbled.

“You can’t only talk to Olga for the rest of your recovery,” Alexia said.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to only talk to Olga if you would stop pretending I didn’t exist,” Y/n snapped, her voice low but sharp.

Alexia’s jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat, Y/n thought she was going to snap back. She opened her mouth, ready to unleash every reprimand she had been holding in. 

Instead, Alexia pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled sharply.

“I’m not talking to you because I don’t want to say things I’ll regret,” she said, voice low. “I’m still very mad.”

Y/n’s shoulders slumped, and she glanced down at the fruit salad in her lap, unable to meet Alexia’s eyes. She dipped her head once, a small, silent nod.

Alexia’s gaze softened just a fraction. “I’m sure you know what that feels like,” she added quietly.

Y/n stayed silent, her eyes fixed on the glossy strawberries and melon cubes. The room settled into heavy stillness, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator.

Y/n blinked, convinced Alexia had already turned and left the doorway. But then, so softly she almost thought it was her imagination–she felt warm lips press against the top of her head.

And then Alexia’s hand settled gently on Y/n’s shoulder. No words followed. No more anger. Just the faintest promise that she wasn’t gone.

Then she slipped out of the room without another word.

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t closure. But it was something.

And that night, Y/n ate the entire bowl of fruit salad. 

The next morning, Y/n knew she needed to eat something real–breakfast with Olga and Alexia, the kind of meal that felt normal. 

She didn’t want to stay cooped up in her room any longer.

She made her way downstairs, every step sent a dull throb through her leg, but she didn’t care–she couldn’t stay in her room for another second.

Alexia looked up first from the kitchen table, mid-bite of her toast. Her chair scraped back with a harsh sound.

“Stop,” she said sharply, already crossing the space between them. “Why didn’t you call one of us?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Y/n muttered, trying to wave her off.

Alexia didn’t answer. She just slipped an arm around Y/n’s waist, the other steadying her under the arm as she helped her over to the table. Y/n didn’t fight her.

“I just… couldn’t look at the walls of my room anymore,” Y/n mumbled as Alexia settled her into the chair.

“Next time, call me,” Alexia said, her tone curt, almost annoyed. “I mean it.”

Olga looked up from the counter, brow lifting in mock exasperation. “About time you left the dungeon, cariño—breakfast’s getting cold.”

Y/n didn’t respond. Olga offered a soft smile from her seat as she pushed a mug of coffee toward her.

“Black. No sugar,” Olga said.

Y/n cracked a small smile, accepting the mug. “Thanks.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet hum of the kitchen wrapping around them.

Then Alexia spoke again, her voice low but direct. “Have you talked to Kika?”

Y/n stiffened. She didn’t look up. “No.”

Olga glanced down at her plate, suddenly very interested in her eggs.

Alexia didn’t let up. “You should.”

Y/n kept her eyes on the coffee. “I don’t know what I’d even say.”

“Figure it out,” Alexia said. “She looked upset yesterday at training. And don’t pretend like you don’t care, because I know you.”

Y/n blinked, jaw tightening. Then, quieter: “How do you know?”

Alexia stilled.

Y/n finally looked up, her voice cracking. “You keep saying I care, like that’s obvious. But it’s not. Not to me. I lied, I dragged Kika into it, and when she tried to help, I lashed out. I hurt her. So how am I supposed to believe I’m the kind of person who cares, when all I’ve done is prove otherwise?”

The silence was thick.

Alexia didn’t look away. Her voice was softer now, but firm.

“Because people who don’t care don’t sit at the kitchen table looking like their whole chest is caving in. You’re guilty, you’re scared, and you’re hurting. That’s not nothing. That’s not someone who doesn’t care.”

Y/n didn’t respond. Her eyes dropped back to the coffee, jaw clenched, like she was holding something in with everything she had.

Then Olga spoke, her voice quiet but sure. “You’re not a bad person, Y/n.”

Y/n’s head tilted slightly, like she wasn’t sure she heard right.

“You did something wrong,” Olga said, setting her fork down. “But that doesn’t erase who you are. It just means you’ve got something to fix. And I think you want to.”

“I messed up pretty badly,” Y/n muttered, the guilt settling deep in her chest.

“Yeah, you did,” Alexia replied, matter-of-fact. “Dragging someone into your mess, then acting like they betrayed you for telling the truth? That’s bad, Y/n.”

Y/n’s stomach twisted. The coffee didn’t taste so good anymore.

“Alexia!” Olga said, her voice a little sharper. “Maybe tone down the tough love for a second?”

“I didn’t mean to yell at her like that,” Y/n started, then stopped herself, unsure of how to explain.

“I know,” Alexia said, the words simple. The truth.

The rest of the breakfast passed in silence, save for the clink of forks and the weight of everything unspoken between them.

Later that day, the girls arrived.

Y/n collapsed onto the couch, booted foot propped on a cushion, and grabbed a controller. Jana flopped in next to her, grinning, while Salma and Vicky claimed the other seats. The TV displayed a bright start line for their favourite kart‑racing game.

3… 2… 1… Go!

Their digital engines roared to life, sparkles flying as each racer shot forward.

Y/n swerved one way, trying to dodge a banana peel. “So,” she grumbled, keeping her eyes on the screen, “how’s training been without me?”

Salma clipped past Y/n on the left. Calm as ever, she didn’t even glance back. “Kinda boring, actually. We keep looking for you to complain about something random at eight am, and you’re not there.”

Jana, who’d already taken the lead, laughed and flicked her kart’s boost. “Well, we can’t deny it’s… peaceful without one of your moods floating around the pitch, you know?”

Vicky slammed her kart into a wall. “Hey! You can’t say that to someone who’s literally bedridden.”

Y/n veers around a corner and takes the lead, barely missing a barrier. “Okay, Vicky, I don’t know if you’re defending me or insulting me,” she said.

Salma drifted beside Y/n’s kart. “You’re doing great.” Her tone was soft but encouraging. “Really—no one’s as clumsy with a controller as you.”

Y/n shot Salma a grumpy look. “I’m not clumsy. The game is rigged.”

Jana zipped past both of them and shouted, “Rigged in my favour!”

Y/n’s kart spun out of control on a hairpin turn. She slammed her controller down. “Okay, that’s it–no more talking. Focus on the race.”

They kept playing, but Y/n’s mind kept drifting to one person. 

Her gaze kept flickering toward her phone, her fingers itching to check for any update on Kika.

The few times she’d asked Alexia about how Kika was doing, Alexia would just shrug and tell her, “Ask her yourself.”

But that wasn’t helpful at all. Y/n wanted to know how Kika was really doing–not just the surface-level stuff, the stuff Alexia wouldn’t tell her. 

She knew she needed to talk to Kika, but the guilt from their last conversation made that feel harder.

“Okay, so… more training updates, please,” Y/n huffed, leaning back into the sofa, trying to distract herself from her thoughts. She crossed her arms and shot a glare at the TV. “Before I lose my mind.”

Salma, her kart cruising calmly in the lead, slowed down. She glanced over at Y/n with a raised eyebrow.

 “Honestly, it’s fine. We’ve been doing drills, working on our passing. Nothing too exciting.”

“And how’s, like…everybody?” Y/n asked casually, swerving her kart past Salma’s, bumping Jana out of the lead as she did.

Jana grumbled, throwing a playful glare in Y/n's direction, but her eyes stayed glued to the screen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Y/n shrugged, her gaze flicking to Salma. “You know, just like... everybody. How’s everyone doing?”

“Fine,” the three girls answered in unison, focused on their race, not missing a beat.

“Just fine? Nothing more happened?” Y/n asked, her eyes narrowing as she passed Jana’s kart again, earning another growl from her friend.

“What would you expect to happen?” Vicky asked. “You’ve been out for what, four days?”

Y/n huffed and raised an eyebrow, sitting up straighter, still trying to get a rise out of them. “I don’t know, maybe... You know, someone getting a little too close for comfort? A fight breaking out? Some drama? I’m just asking.”

“Kika asked about you,” Salma said, super casually–like it was no big deal. Maybe for her, it wasn’t. But for Y/n? Yeah, kind of a big deal.

Her chest even did a weird little skip.

“Oh, she did?” Y/n asked, trying not to sound too eager. “What did she say?”

“She asked if you were getting better,” Jana replied before Salma could. “We told her we didn’t know, because it’d be easier to contact you via smoke signal than get a text back.”

Y/n groaned, blushing. Great. Add that to her imaginary list of how Kika saw her:

A rude teammate who yelled at her.

An emotionally reclusive hermit who ghosts her friends.

A dishonest player who hid an injury.

She didn’t even notice she’d zoned out until Vicky casually said, “Oh, Jana’s gonna hang out with Kika this weekend too.”

Y/n blinked, her foot twitched beneath the blanket, and nerves suddenly lit up. “Wait–what?”

Salma tilted her head, still playing. “Yeah, she’s showing her around the city or something.”

“It’s not a date,” Jana said quickly, barely glancing over. “She just asked for recommendations.”

Y/n sat up a little too fast. “So you’re, like, spending the whole day with her?”

Jana raised an eyebrow. “I mean, not the whole day. We’re getting food, maybe walking around. Why, you want to come?”

“No,” Y/n said immediately, too sharp, too fast. She cleared her throat and leaned back. “Why would I want that?”

Vicky, still completely oblivious, added, “Yeah, it’s actually nice. Kika’s been kind of quiet since you two…fight? Was that considered fighting? Anyway, she probably needs a break.”

“Right,” Y/n muttered, staring at the screen even though she wasn’t really seeing it anymore. “Makes sense.”

Salma didn’t say anything, but glanced sideways at Y/n, like she was starting to notice something off.

Jana leaned forward, tapping buttons furiously. “I was thinking about that new restaurant, the one you told me about?

“That one would be cool,” Y/n said flatly. She nudged her joystick a little harder, keeping her eyes on the screen. “She asked you, or you asked her?”

Jana shrugged. “I offered. Thought she’d like a change of pace.”

Y/n nodded, lips pressed together like it meant nothing. “Right. That’s nice of you.”

“Oh, and I’ve been partnered with Kika at training,” Jana added, still focused on the game. “Since you’re not there to partner with me and those two can’t seem to share with me.”

Y/n glanced over, raising a brow. “Really?”

“Yes, but I  kinda miss training with you,  you’re fast. Kika’s nice, though, really nice actually. She doesn’t talk much. But she’s funny when she does.”

Y/n didn’t say anything, just nodded a little and pressed her lips together, pretending she was laser-focused on not crashing her kart again.

Hours later, the girls said goodbye and headed out the front door. Y/n barely looked up, barely mumbled a goodbye, and then–slowly–got to her feet.

Brace squeaking slightly with every step, she made her way upstairs.

Alexia and Olga were curled up on Alexia’s bed, finally getting a moment alone. Olga had just leaned in–eyes soft, fingers brushing against Alexia’s jaw–when…

BANG.

Their bedroom door flew open without warning.

Y/n stood in the doorway. Her big black ankle brace practically took up half the hallway, her sock slipping slightly off her good foot, eyes stormy.

Alexia flinched and Olga yelped, scrambling apart like guilty teenagers.

“Qué coño—Y/n!” Alexia hissed, face pink. “You can’t just barge in!”

“Dios mío!” Olga gasped, grabbing the nearest pillow and hugging it to her chest like a shield. 

Y/n barely blinked. “Alexia,” she said, voice dark. “I have a serious question.”

“Are you blind?!” Alexia asked. “Out!”

Olga was flailing silently in the background, still clutching the pillow. “Can you knock?! We always knock on your door!”

Y/n blinked slowly. “You left the door open.”

“We did not–!” Olga protested, then paused. “Okay, maybe it didn’t latch, but still!”

Alexia dragged a hand down her face, shoulders tensed, clearly trying to switch from horny to responsible in five seconds flat. “This better be good.”

“It is,” Y/n said, limping. “It’s serious.”

“Did something happen to your ankle? Are you okay?” Olga asked, concerned.

“I’m just–” Y/n began, but it looked like it was hard for her to say the right words.

Alexia sat up straighter. “Wait, wait. What happened, nena?”

Y/n took a deep breath like she was about to ask the most important question of her life.

“Can you…” she paused. “…as captain… forbid two players from partnering up in training?”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“…What?” Olga asked.

“Like, can you… Make a rule?” Y/n insisted. “To stop people from… pairing with people they shouldn’t pair with?”

“Shouldn’t pair with? Alexia blinked, clearly confused. “What players are you talking about? Who can’t pair with whom?”

Y/n looked at her, deadpan. “Doesn’t matter.”

Olga looked like she was about to combust from embarrassment, but Alexia, still not sure what was happening, frowned. 

“You barged in here at 11 pm to ask me this question... and you don’t even tell me who the players are?”

Y/n nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

Alexia stared at her in disbelief. “You’re serious right now?”

“Yes,” Y/n said, crossing her arms and pouting like the world was against her. “It’s important, okay?”

Olga, now slightly calmer but still shaking her head at the whole situation, looked at Y/n. “You know, you could’ve just asked her in the morning, right?”

Y/n shot her a look that said, ‘I don’t have time for logic’, and turned back to Alexia. “Look, I just need to know if you can do it or not.”

Alexia sighed, rubbing her temples. “Y/n, you’re unbelievable. But sure, I can. I’ll talk to Romeu. But next time… knock?”

There was a pause.

Y/n opened her mouth like she was about to fire back, but then her eyes flicked to Olga–still curled up in bed, still hugging a pillow to her chest–and then to Alexia, who looked mildly traumatised and thoroughly unimpressed.

Her expression faltered.

“Oh,” Y/n said, blinking. “Shit. You were like… I interrupted–” She winced. “Oh my god”

Olga gave her a wide-eyed, slow nod.

Y/n’s face went a little red. She reached up and scratched the back of her neck, avoiding eye contact. “Okay. Yeah. That was maybe not my best entrance.”

“You think?” Alexia deadpanned.

“I panicked, alright?” Y/n mumbled. “I didn’t think it through. It felt urgent.”

Alexia raised a brow.

“…It wasn’t urgent,” Y/n admitted, shoulders slumping. “I’m gonna go. And like. Sleep. And pretend this never happened.”

She turned toward the door, then stopped and glanced back, still flushed. “Also, I did knock. Just, like… in my head.”

“Goodnight, Y/n,” Olga said gently, smiling despite herself.

Y/n nodded quickly, then shut the door behind her with a little more care this time.

Alexia stared at the door for a moment before flopping back into the bed with a groan. “Unbelievable.”

Olga laughed, settling beside her again. “You love her.”

“I do not,” Alexia muttered, but she didn’t sound convincing..

Alexia sank down on the edge of the bed, cross‑armed and still flushed from Y/n’s dramatic entrance.

“She really ruined my mood,” she said, eyes fixed on the empty doorway.

Behind her, Olga slipped in quietly, hands settling on Alexia’s shoulders. She pressed soft kisses along Alexia’s neck. “Amor,” she whispered, voice gentle. “She didn’t mean to.”

“She barged in at eleven o'clock,” Alexia grumbled, her voice still thick with frustration. “And demanded I make a rule about training pairs. She didn’t even say who. Just showed up like that, like–” She waved her hand in exasperation. “I get it, she’s serious, but really?”

Olga chuckled, brushing Alexia’s hair back. “She trusts you. That’s why she came to you.”

Alexia rolled her head, finally meeting Olga’s eyes. “She’s impossible.”

“But she’s our impossible,” Olga said, pulling Alexia into a tender hug. “Now, forget her for a second.”

Alexia gave in to a small smile, but it quickly faded as Olga’s lips pressed lightly against hers, the kiss slow and deliberate, almost teasing. 

Olga’s hands slid to the back of Alexia’s neck, guiding her deeper into the kiss, her breath warm against Alexia’s lips.

When they finally broke apart, Olga’s voice was low and sultry. “You’ve had a rough night, amor. Let me help you relax.”

Alexia let out a breath she didn’t realise she was holding, her body responding to the softness of Olga’s touch. 

“I think you might be the only one who can,” she murmured, her hands gripping the edge of the bed as Olga’s lips found the sensitive spot just below her ear.

Olga’s hands moved lower, sliding under the hem of Alexia’s shirt, caressing her skin with the same tenderness that made Alexia melt every time. “Relax, love. I’ve got you.”

Alexia’s breath hitched as Olga’s fingers teased along the waistband of her shorts, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. 

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” Olga whispered, her lips brushing against Alexia’s neck.

Alexia’s head fell back slightly, a quiet moan escaping her lips. “You’re dangerous,” she whispered, hands trembling as they slid into Olga’s hair. “But yes... help me.”

Olga’s smile was mischievous as she kissed Alexia deeply again, her hands sliding lower. “I plan to,” she breathed against Alexia’s mouth before their lips met once more, a promise of passion and tension waiting to be released.

..

The kitchen was quiet, morning light filtering through the windows in soft, golden streaks. 

Y/n sat at the table, lazily stirring her cereal around, the spoon clinking against the bowl. She wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t even tired anymore.

Mostly, she just felt... unsettled.

It was too early — way earlier than she needed to be up — but sleep had refused to come, her brain trapped in a loop of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.

Today was her first day back at the training centre. Not for real training, not yet.

Just physio. Just recovery.

But somehow, it felt even scarier.

The soft thud of footsteps snapped her out of her spiralling thoughts. She stiffened automatically, already knowing who it was without looking up.

Alexia and Olga shuffled into the kitchen, both of them still half-asleep, still wrapped in their morning routine.

Alexia was rubbing her eyes, hair sticking up in every direction. Olga followed, yawning into her sleeve, the hem of her oversized Barça sweatshirt hanging halfway down her thighs.

“You look ridiculous when you wake up,” Olga teased, grabbing the coffee pot with practised ease.

Alexia snorted, not missing a beat. “I always look good, even half-dead.”

Without thinking, she reached out, wrapping her arms around Olga's waist and pressing a lazy kiss to her temple. "Don't forget it."

Y/n stared down into her cereal like it had personally offended her.

Her face burned.

God, why did they have to be so... so normal about it? So affectionate, like it was just a part of breathing?

It made something twist in her chest.

Desperate to break the moment, Y/n coughed — loud enough to get their attention.

Both Alexia and Olga froze like they had been caught stealing cookies, and then slowly turned to face her.

“Y/n?” Alexia blinked, clearly surprised. “You’re up? This early?”

Y/n shrugged, awkward, defensive. “Couldn’t sleep.”

There was a beat of silence, thick with everything unspoken — the nerves, the anxiety, the way Y/n kept wringing her hands under the table.

Olga softened first, stepping away from the coffee machine and leaning on the counter casually. “Nervous about physio?” she asked, her voice warm and calm.

Y/n nodded, keeping her gaze fixed on the swirling milk in her bowl. “Yeah. I mean... It's just physio. It’s not even real training yet. But...”

She trailed off, not sure how to explain the weight pressing down on her chest.

“You don’t have to pretend it’s nothing," Alexia said, squeezing her shoulder as she walked past. “You’re allowed to be nervous. It's normal.”

Y/n gave her a tiny, half-hearted smile, appreciating the gesture even if she didn’t know how to say it out loud.

Olga grabbed two mugs from the cabinet and started pouring coffee, glancing over her shoulder.

“I’ll drive you,” she said casually. “Alexia’s leaving with the team for the away game, but I’ll take you. We can grab lunch after, if you want.”

Y/n looked up, startled by the offer.

“You don't have to,” Y/n said quickly, panicking a little at the thought of being a burden. “I can take an Uber.”

Olga smiled, soft and patient. “Don’t be silly, I want to.”

“And,” Alexia added with a teasing grin, already pouring protein powder into a bottle, “if you don't take her offer, she’ll just go anyway–she’s been craving some weird sandwich she saw on Instagram.”

Olga shrugged, not denying it.

Y/n ducked her head to hide the stupid, small smile that tugged at her mouth.

“Alright, you drive me and we’ll have lunch after.”

..

The training centre was quiet.

Too quiet.

Y/n limped through the hallways, her boot thudding softly against the floor, the distant echo of her steps the only thing filling the silence. 

The rest of the team was away for an away game, and for once, she was grateful. No stares. No whispers. No conversation of ‘I know you’re gonna be back soon.’

She thought she would be more upset about missing games.

But the truth was that pain didn’t even compare to the heavier guilt dragging at her.

Disappointing Alexia, lying to Olga, hurting the team’s trust... hurting Kika — that stung far worse than missing a few matches.

Games could be won again. Trophies could be earned later. But the damage she had done to people who trusted her? That wasn’t so easy to fix.

The thought of facing Kika again made her stomach twist uncomfortably.

Y/n was a coward.

And she still didn’t know how she was supposed to look Kika in the eye — or what she was going to say when she finally did.

Unfortunately, the thought of not seeing Kika was also uncomfortable too. 

So for now, it was good, just her. And the physiotherapist.

The physio room was bright with natural light pouring through the windows, a soft breeze drifting in from the open ones. 

It smelled faintly like antiseptic and eucalyptus cream. Familiar and sterile and oddly calming.

“Morning,” the physio greeted her with a warm smile. He helped her settle onto the padded table and gently removed the boot.

“First day back,” Y/n muttered, leaning back on her elbows. “Can’t wait.”

He chuckled, running practised hands over her ankle and calf, checking the swelling, the tension, the way her skin twitched when he pressed certain points.

“You’ve still got a bit of inflammation,” he said after a beat, frowning slightly as he moved her foot gently. “I know the scan looked decent, but your muscle’s a little more aggravated than I’d like.”

Y/n’s brows pulled together. “So…?”

He paused before responding, professional but honest. “We’ll take it day by day, but don’t be surprised if this goes a little longer than two weeks. Maybe closer to three. A week and some change, at least.”

Y/n blinked at him, then stared up at the ceiling. “Fuck.”

“It’s not a setback,” he added quickly. “It’s just… your body asking for more time. You pushed through pain longer than you should’ve, so now it needs more care.”

Y/n let out a humourless laugh. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

They didn’t say much after that. He walked her through some gentle range-of-motion exercises, icing, and light stim. It was boring. Repetitive. But it kept her mind from spiralling too far.

Still, as she sat back and watched the ice wrap tighten around her ankle, all she could think was: another game I’ll miss. Another day watching from the sidelines. And even worse, Alexia was right.

She didn't know why that stung so much.

Maybe because it meant she’d messed up even more than she thought.

Maybe because she wasn’t sure how to fix it.

..

The next day, the girls were back at training, following their usual routine while Y/n sulked into the physio room.

Y/n sat on the edge of the physio table, ankle freshly iced, her leg propped up, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of her shorts.

The window in front of her gave her the perfect view of the training pitch. She hadn’t meant to look. But she couldn’t stop once she saw her.

Kika.

Out there in her bright training kit, laughing at something Jana said, her ponytail bouncing behind her as she jogged toward the rondo circle. 

She looked light. Relaxed. Like everything was normal.

Y/n stared longer than she should’ve. Long enough to realise she was looking for any signs that Kika was hurt, that Kika was mad at her. 

When she had yelled at Kika, Kika hadn’t yelled back; she stood composed, and just let Y/n say whatever she wanted. 

Alexia and Jana had both said Kika was quiet after it happened. Sad, maybe. Withdrawn. But now? Kika was out there with Jana, playing, moving, laughing.

Like she didn’t miss her at all. 

And why would she? Y/n wouldn’t miss someone who screamed in her face for trying to help or for, well, caring.

Y/n sighed, leaning back slightly on her hands. Her ankle throbbed, but not half as much as her pride. Because in the end… she’d stormed into Alexia and Olga’s room for nothing.

When they all sat down for breakfast this morning, pretending, Alexia looked at her sideways. They hadn’t had an opportunity to talk about that, since Alexia had left quickly yesterday.

“So… which two girls did you not want training together?” She asked, trying to sound casual as she passed the toast to Olga. 

And that’s when it hit her.

How stupid she must have looked. How ridiculous the whole thing sounded once it was out in the open.

So Y/n just mumbled that it didn’t matter anymore and asked Alexia to drop it.

Which she did… eventually. But not before Alexia took a long, dramatic pause, scanned every expression Y/n made like she was solving a case, and promised herself she’d figure it out on her own.

Y/n, however, didn’t budge.

And now here she was.

Stuck in the physio room.

Still kind of mad.

Still kind of heartbroken.

And Kika just kept training.

Y/n shifted in her seat, uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with her ankle. Her stomach twisted. Her chest, too.

Was it guilt? Jealousy? Something in between?

Y/n didn’t know. She just knew it didn’t feel good. Y/n needed to apologise. That much was clear. But not yet. Not like this.

She was still too wound up, too raw, too snappy. And Kika didn’t deserve another version of her that couldn't get her emotions in check. She deserved someone steady. Honest. Calm.

Someone that Y/n didn’t feel like right now.

Besides, there was another match in two days. The team needed to focus. 

Kika needed to focus. And the last thing Y/n wanted to do was drag her into more drama right before a game.

She would give it time. She would let her own head settle first.

Then maybe, when her voice wasn’t edged with guilt or deflection, when her heart wasn’t beating weird in her chest just from seeing Kika smile at someone else, then she’d figure out the right words.

For now, all she could do was watch.

And hope Kika was doing okay.

..

After physio, Y/n trudged toward the locker room to grab her things, her brace thudding heavily against the floor.

Her body ached, her headache, and all she wanted was to disappear into her room and sleep for a week.

She had managed to avoid Kika the entire day — hiding behind corners, ducking into empty hallways like a criminal.

Not her proudest strategy, but it had worked. So far.

She pushed the locker room door open and froze.

Jana was sitting inside, tying her shoes slowly, looking up with a small smile, when she spotted her.

Y/n nodded back, cautious. She knew Jana. Knew her too well. Since they were fourteen, Y/n could always tell when Jana had something to say — and right now, the way Jana’s knee bounced nervously gave it away immediately.

Y/n stuffed her water bottle into her bag, pretending she didn’t notice.

“Hey,” Jana said casually. “How’s physio going?”

Y/n shrugged, zipping up her bag. “Bad. They pushed my rehab from two weeks to three.”

Jana winced. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Y/n said shortly, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She was two seconds away from bolting when she caught Jana fidgeting again.

She sighed. “Just spill it, Jana.”

Jana blinked. “Wow. You sound like Alexia now.”

Y/n stiffened, narrowing her eyes. “What do you want?”

Jana laughed a little, but there was still something hesitant about her. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then said, “Just be honest with me... does it bother you that I’m pairing up with Kika?”

Y/n nearly dropped her bag.

Her face went up in flames instantly. “What? No! Of course not!” she said way too fast, way too loud.

Jana just raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“It’s just…” Jana continued carefully, “Alexia’s been weird lately. Super intense about who pairs with whom during drills. And then after I told you that Kika and I were training together... You kind of got quiet?”

Y/n stared at her, frozen, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

“I mean, it’s fine if it does,’ Jana added quickly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay, I can partner with Esmee or–”

Y/n forced a laugh, waving a hand. “It’s not—it’s nothing, really. You’re reading too much into it.”

Jana gave her a knowing look.

Not pushing.

But not buying it, either.

“Okay,” she said simply, grabbing her bag and heading for the door.

Y/n stood there for a second, heart hammering, cheeks still burning, feeling like she had barely survived an ambush.

When Y/n finally made it outside, she spotted Alexia’s car parked near the entrance, engine running. Alexia was in the driver’s seat, tapping her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel.

Y/n hobbled faster, threw her bag into the backseat, and climbed into the passenger seat with a grunt.

The moment the door shut, Alexia sighed dramatically. “Ay, qué demora!” [You took too long,] she muttered under her breath.

Y/n turned to her, glaring. “Have you ever been subtle for a single day in your life?”

Alexia blinked, confused. “Qué?”

“You!” Y/n said, flailing a little. “Are you going around during training, staring at who pairs up with whom?”

Alexia looked at her like she was the crazy one.

“You asked me to!”

“I know!” Y/n said, throwing her hands up. “But I thought you would be more subtle about it!”

Alexia scoffed, pulling out of the parking lot. “And how exactly am I supposed to be subtle if you don’t even tell me which players you’re worried about?”

Y/n groaned, sliding down in her seat. “Oh my god. Forget it. I’m not telling you anything anymore.”

“Good,” Alexia said immediately. “Maybe then I won't have a nineteen-year-old walking in on me and my wife at eleven pm.”

“Let it go, tio!” Y/n exclaimed, “I already said I was sorry!”

The drive was mostly silent.

Both of them were sitting there, arms crossed, matching stubborn frowns on their faces. The tension between them hung heavy in the air — not angry, exactly, but dense with unspoken words.

Y/n stared out the window, pretending not to care. Alexia kept her eyes on the road, pretending not to glance over every few minutes.

Finally, Alexia sighed quietly, soft enough that Y/n almost missed it.

“I didn’t mean it,” Alexia muttered.

Y/n blinked, turning to her. “What?”

“I didn’t mean…” Alexia shrugged, one hand loosening on the steering wheel. “I didn’t mean to say that I’m glad you won’t tell me stuff anymore, I want you to, you can talk to me about anything.”

Y/n stayed quiet, fiddling with the strap of her bag.

Alexia cleared her throat awkwardly.

“Look, I’m captain. I know what happens in the team. Sí?”

Y/n nodded slowly. “Yeah... and?”

“And…” Alexia tapped her fingers on the wheel, searching for the right words. “I’ve known you since you were a little girl. Since you couldn’t even tie your own boots properly.”

Y/n’s face flushed, but she didn’t argue.

“I’m just saying,” Alexia continued, voice a little gentler now, “that maybe... hypothetically... if you had feelings for someone—” she waved a hand, casually, like it meant nothing “—you could tell me. I wouldn’t be mad. Or weird. Even if they were from the team.”

Y/n’s entire body stiffened, heat rushing up her neck like a fire.

“I mean, you know,” Alexia added, half-smiling, “we already have a few couples. It’s not a big deal.”

Y/n whipped around, absolutely burning red.

“What made you think that?! I don’t— I don’t like anyone!”

Alexia bit her lip, clearly fighting a smile. “I didn’t say you did. I said if you did.”

"Well, good," Y/n huffed, crossing her arms tighter over her chest. "I'm glad you don’t think I do because I don’t!”

Alexia snorted quietly but didn’t push it further. She just drove, humming lightly under her breath.

Meanwhile, Y/n stared out the window again, jaw clenched, willing her heart to stop racing — and trying very hard not to think about a certain brunette that she still owed apologies to.

..

I had so much fun writing the scene where they're playing video games + yn walking in on Alexia and Olga haha!! Hope you guys enjoyed it!! <3

[pomelace]

amber liquid

pairing: frank langdon x afab! reader

content warnings: not proofread, no physical desciptors used for reader, implied age gap (about 11 years), takes place after s1 of the pitt, mention of breakup & divorce, alcohol consumption, intoxication, emotional vulnerability, flirting, kissing, mild smut (nothing to graphic, I can't write smut to save my life). as always let me know if I missed anything!

magui speaks! : this legit came to me at 2 a.m. when I should've been sleeping, but honestly, when you have a good idea, you have to write it. I wanted to try writing smut but gave up — I legit can't do it; all props to those who can. let me know if you guys want more fics like this! I really enjoyed writing it and stepping outside of the usual hospital setting. as always, I hope you enjoy, and requests are open! (someone pls request)

word count: 3504

Maybe you should’ve seen it coming. Maybe you should’ve guessed he wasn’t ready. And maybe—just maybe—a small part of you wasn’t either.

But guessing that he didn’t want to be together anymore?

That had never even crossed your mind.

Six years together. Six years of laughter, of holidays spent hand-in-hand, of whispered promises in the dark. You thought you were happy. You were sure he was too.

So what went wrong?

You don’t have an answer as you sit hunched at the bar of the restaurant—the same restaurant where, less than an hour ago, your boyfriend dumped you.

It was supposed to be date night. A special night. You had curled your hair, slipped into your best dress, painted your lips the shade he said he loved. You had even dared to hope he might propose.

Instead, he gave you a goodbye.

Now, you sit at the bar, your hair slipping loose from its carefully pinned bun, staring blankly ahead as the waiter slides a shot of tequila toward you.

You toss it back without hesitation, the liquor scorching your throat, leaving a burn that barely registers. Another. And another. You drink until the line between anger and sadness blurs, until your own misery drums in your ears louder than the soft music playing overhead.

It’s a slow night. Quiet. You barely notice when someone slides into the seat beside you.

You keep your eyes down, tracing the rim of your empty glass.

“What are you drinking?” a voice asks—a man’s voice, low and easy.

“Tequila,” you reply, your voice quick, almost defensive. You glance up—and meet his gaze.

He’s older than you. Not ancient, not graying, but maybe a decade your senior. His blue eyes catch the warm light above the bar, sparking just a little.

Before you can say another word, he lifts a hand to the bartender.

“Another shot for her,” he says, smooth and sure.

You manage a small smile—your first real one tonight—as the fresh shot slides in front of you. You raise the glass, clink it lightly against his, and down it in one quick swallow.

He mirrors you—less gracefully—coughing once as the burn hits him harder than expected.

“Celebrating something?” he manages between coughs, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“More like mourning,” you murmur, your fingertip circling the rim of your glass.

He coughs again, this time from surprise, struggling to find the right words.

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry for your loss,” he says finally, voice soft, almost tangible in the way it wraps around you.

You laugh—a sharp, unexpected sound. He looks confused until you set the record straight.

“No one died,” you say. “My boyfriend broke up with me.”

For a second, Frank just looks at you—then relief floods his face, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh. Well... in that case,” he says, shifting to face you fully, “the guy’s a goddamn idiot.”

You blink at him, caught somewhere between a laugh and a scoff.

“Smooth,” you say, dry.

He shrugs, utterly unapologetic.

“Hey, I'm not here to win points. I'm just telling the truth.”

For a moment, you just look at him. The easy way he smiles, the unbothered tilt of his shoulders, like nothing in the world could hit him too hard. It’s a little annoying. A little comforting, too.

“I'm Frank, by the way,” he adds, tapping his chest like you might’ve been dying to know.

You glance up, eyeing him with a bit of suspicion.

“Well, Frank, are you always this charming, or is it just the tequila talking?”

He shrugs with a grin, clearly unfazed.

“Maybe a little of both. But I assure you, the charm’s mostly natural.”

You snort. “Natural, huh? More like 'forced'.”

“Hey, I'm not the one drowning tequila like it’s water,” he points out, raising an eyebrow as he gestures to your empty glass.

“I think you’ve got your own coping mechanism.”

You roll your eyes but can’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips.

“Touché. So, what, you just come to bars to offer unsolicited life advice and overpriced shots?”

“Nah,” Frank says, leaning in slightly with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“I’m here to save you from a night of self-pity. A public service, really.”

You stare at him for a beat, then shake your head with a quiet laugh.

“God, you're a piece of work.”

He grins, unrepentant. “You’re welcome.”

You set your glass down with a soft clink, taking in the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Alright, Frank Langdon. You’re buying the next round, right? Or am I supposed to keep drowning my feelings while you play bartender?”

He lifts his hand in a quick motion, signaling the bartender.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got this. I’m here for the long haul. Just don’t expect me to let you drink your problems away.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what, you think one more round of tequila will fix it?”

He leans back, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“Maybe not, but it’ll definitely make it more interesting.”

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

By the fifth shot, the tequila had softened the sharp edges of reality.

The hollow ache you'd carried has dulled, replaced by something lighter—something dangerously close to joy. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the stranger at your side, but for the first time all night, you feel a little less alone.

Tipsy now, you and Frank lean against the bar like old friends, shoulders brushing, each too stubborn to admit just how much easier the night feels with the other there.

He’s in the middle of telling you a story about the time he stitched up his own hand in med school—because he was, in his words, “too stubborn and too drunk to admit it hurt”—and you’re laughing so hard you nearly spill your drink.

“You’re such an idiot,” you gasp, clutching your stomach.

“Certified,” Frank says proudly, slamming his shot glass down. "Got a degree and everything."

You shake your head, grinning. “You’re lucky you didn’t lose a finger.”

He holds up his hand and wiggles his fingers dramatically. “All ten. Still sexy.”

You snort into your glass. “Debatable.”

Laughing, he flips his hand over, showing you a faint scar that cuts across the fleshy part between his thumb and forefinger. Your eyes catch on the mark—small but jagged, like the story behind it—and for a second, you're almost charmed by the ridiculousness of it all.

Almost.

Because that’s when you notice it.

The thin silver band, sitting there plain as day on the fourth finger of his left hand.

You blink, the drunken haze clearing just enough to register what that means.

He’s married, you think, the realization landing with an uncomfortable thud in your chest.

You sit back a little, the weight of what you’ve just seen settling heavier than any amount of tequila.

Frank doesn’t notice at first—still grinning like an idiot, clutching his chest like you’ve mortally wounded him. You watch him, every instinct firing warning shots in your head.

“You wound me, sweetheart,” he says dramatically, tapping a hand over his heart. That cocky, lopsided smile is back—the one you’re starting to realize isn’t an act. It’s just him.

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” you say, your smile fading clean off your face.

He catches the shift instantly, leaning in with a teasing glint in his eye.

“What should I call you, then?” His voice drops a little, playful but not heavy, the kind of flirting that feels easy, harmless—if not for the ring still sitting heavy on his finger.

You open your mouth, ready to fire back something sharp—but all that comes out is a scoff. Your brain is too clouded with tequila and the sudden, sour taste of disappointment.

That’s when he notices. The coldness he hadn’t seen before. Confusion flashes across his face, and he leans in again, trying to catch your eye.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asks, his voice quieter now, genuinely concerned, as if he has no idea what he's wearing.

You tilt your head, voice sharper than you mean it to be: “Does your wife know you’re out here handing out pity shots to heartbroken strangers?”

His smile slips, just a little. A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face before he sits back in his stool, schooling his features into something easy again.

“No wife,” he says. “Not anymore.”

You arch a skeptical brow.

He huffs a low, humorless laugh, reaching for his glass and twisting the ring around his finger.

“Divorced,” he clarifies. “Signed the papers six months ago. Just... haven't taken it off yet, I guess.”

You study him now, properly. The easy charm, the quick wit—it’s still there. But underneath it, you can see the cracks. The exhaustion. The way some people carry their hurt like it’s stitched into their skin.

“Why keep it on?” you ask before you can think better of it.

Frank shrugs, the barest lift of one shoulder.

“Habit. Guilt. Laziness. Pick your poison.”

You don't have an answer to that. So you just nod and reach for your drink, letting the silence stretch out between you, strangely easy, strangely human.

Frank’s eyes stay on you, a little too intense now, like he’s not quite sure whether to keep poking the fire or step back.

He leans in slightly, his grin returning, though it’s more of a soft, knowing smile now—like he’s trying to find the right words, but not quite sure how to approach it.

“You know,” he starts, his voice low but playful, “I could’ve been a counselor, right? Deep stuff, just me and a couple of shots of tequila. I’d charge you, but I’ll give you a free session for tonight.”

You snort, trying to fight the grin threatening to tug at your lips.

“Uh-huh. What’s your rate, then?”

He gives you an exaggerated, thoughtful look.

“Well, it’s a sliding scale. But for you? Free. For now. We’ll work out the details after you pay with a drink.”

You roll your eyes, but the laughter slips out anyway.

“You’re ridiculous. What else do you charge for? Self-pity sessions?”

“Of course,” Frank says with a deadpan expression.

“I’m a pro at helping people feel bad about themselves while simultaneously offering unsolicited life advice. It’s a talent.”

You chuckle, shaking your head.

“I think you’re selling yourself short. You could really make a business out of that.”

“Hey, it’s a full-time gig,” he grins, leaning back in his chair.

“It’s all about commitment to the cause.”

You shake your head, feeling the liquor starting to work its way through you, loosening your muscles, softening the edges of the night.

“I guess I should be grateful. I was about to start feeling sorry for myself. Instead, I get a free therapy session.”

“Least I could do,” Frank says, his voice taking on a quieter tone.

“But don’t expect any miracles. I’m no miracle worker.”

His words hang in the air for a moment, and something shifts between you two. He isn’t joking anymore. There’s a sincerity to the way he watches you, like he can see something in you that maybe you’re trying not to acknowledge.

The silence lingers just a beat too long, and you can’t help but feel a tug in your chest.

You glance away first, clearing your throat as you take a long sip from your glass.

“Guess we’ll see if the tequila does its magic, huh?” you say, trying to brush it off.

Frank nods, but his eyes stay locked on you, searching, like he’s trying to figure out what’s behind your smile.

“I think it’s already doing its job,” he says softly, his gaze lingering.

“But maybe not in the way you think.”

You meet his eyes, and for a moment, it feels like the air is charged, a quiet tension settling between you two. The playful edge from before has softened, replaced by something more unspoken, more intimate.

For a second, you almost wish you could just forget the world outside of this conversation, forget the hurt that brought you here, forget the ring on Frank’s finger that keeps reminding him of the reality he lives in now.

But the weight of it all presses down, and you break the silence with a soft laugh, the sound forced but somehow real.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

Frank had insisted he take you home, by that, he meant riding a cab with you. You two were far too drunk to get behind the wheel, and to walk straight without stumbling.

The cab pulls up in front of your house, the engine humming to a slow stop as the late-night air wraps around you like a cool blanket. For a moment, you just sit there, staring out at the dark, quiet street.

The lights from the porch are soft and welcoming, but the weight of the night presses in on you like a fog.

The door opens, and Frank is the first to step out. He moves with that same easy confidence, like everything in the world is exactly where it should be. He stands outside the cab, waiting for you to follow.

You hesitate for a second, your mind buzzing with a mix of tequila and too many unanswered questions. The cool breeze hits your face, clearing some of the fog in your head. Frank turns back toward you, catching your hesitation, and gives you a playful grin.

“You know,” he says, his voice teasing but with an edge of something softer, “I’m not gonna carry you to the door if that’s what you’re waiting for. I’m already pushing my luck by not falling over on the sidewalk.”

You laugh lightly, the sound a little more genuine than you expected. You push the door open and step out, the ground under your feet feeling a little less solid than it should.

“Good thing I can walk myself,” you say, brushing past him.

He hands the cab driver some money and asks him to wait as he follows you at a leisurely pace, matching your steps but keeping his distance—just enough to give you space, but close enough that his presene is felt.

As you approach your door, the key feels heavier in your hand than it should. You fumble with it, trying to fit it in the lock, and Frank steps up beside you, leaning slightly against the doorframe as if he's been here a thousand times before.

“You need help with that?” he asks, his voice a little quieter now. The playfulness has faded, replaced with something that feels almost... careful.

You shake your head, finally getting the key to turn. The door clicks open.

“Thanks for making sure I got here,” you say, your voice quieter now, more serious.

“I probably would've ended up face-down in a bush if I tried it alone.”

Frank chuckles, a low sound that rumbles in his chest, easy and warm.

“Of course,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

As you reach for the handle and push the door open, you almost stumble, your balance slipping for a second.

Frank moves instinctively, a hand shooting out to catch you, but you tighten your grip on the handle just in time, steadying yourself with a small, breathless laugh.

You turn back to him, lingering in the doorway, the porch light throwing a soft halo around the two of you.

“I want to say I'll see you around,” you murmur, sincere and soft, "but we probably won't."

Frank’s smile falters, the grin fading into something smaller, more real. He scratches the back of his neck, looking suddenly, painfully sober.

“Who knows,” he says, a thread of hope weaving through his voice.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Then you offer him a small smile — the kind that feels like a goodbye and a maybe all at once.

Before you can turn away fully, Frank shifts his weight, like he’s fighting with himself. His hand brushes lightly against the doorframe, hesitating.

“You’re not the only one who needed tonight,” he says, voice low, almost rough.

You freeze, heart catching somewhere between your ribs. The air between you stretches, electric and fragile. For a moment, neither of you breathes.

Then you’re moving — or maybe he is — it doesn’t matter, because the next thing you know, you’re reaching for him, pulling him by the collar of his jacket.

Your mouths collide in a kiss that's messy and desperate, all teeth and heat and aching need. His hands find your waist like he’s done it a thousand times before, anchoring you against him.

The cab outside gives an impatient beep beep — a harsh reminder of the real world waiting just beyond your front porch. Frank breaks the kiss for half a second, glancing back toward the street — then without a word, he guides you inside and kicks the door shut behind him, the soft thud echoing through the quiet house.

And then he's on you again — gripping your hips, your back hitting the inside of the door with a soft thump. You gasp against his mouth, and he swallows the sound, kissing you harder, hands sliding up under the hem of your dress like he can't get close enough.

Clothes, decisions, consequences — they all fall away, unimportant in the face of this electric, reckless need.

Frank lifts you with startling ease, and you wrap your legs around his waist without thinking, your arms tightening around his neck.

He carries you a few steps deeper into the house, bumping blindly into a wall, laughing quietly against your mouth like he can’t quite believe any of this is happening.

You break apart just long enough to catch a breath, your foreheads pressed together, both of you panting. His hands skim down your thighs, rough and reverent all at once, as if grounding himself to reality through you.

“Bedroom?” he murmurs, voice wrecked and breathless.

You nod, dazed, and point down the hall.

Frank doesn’t hesitate — just turns, still holding you close, and starts down the hallway, kissing you between every few steps like he physically can't stop himself.

The world narrows to the feel of his mouth on yours, the strength of his hands on your skin, the way he murmurs your name like a secret he’s afraid to lose.

When he finally finds the door, he shoulders it open and stumbles inside, both of you laughing breathlessly through the haze of want.

He drops you onto the bed with a gentleness that doesn't match the wildness in his eyes, then crawls over you, kissing you again — slower now, deeper — like he’s determined to memorize every inch of you.

You thread your fingers into his hair, tugging him closer as his mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, down the line of your throat. He lingers there, breathing you in, his hands splaying wide across your ribs like he’s trying to steady himself.

“God, you’re...” he starts, voice breaking like he can’t even find the words. He kisses you again before he can try.

Clothes become an afterthought — a barrier that both of you work to strip away with frantic hands, punctuated by soft gasps and half-laughed curses when fabric gets stubborn or tangled.

Frank pauses every few seconds, checking your eyes, searching for any hint of hesitation. But you just pull him closer, giving him your answer without a word.

When there’s nothing left between you but heat and skin, he looks at you like he’s seeing something he doesn’t think he deserves. His thumb traces the line of your cheek, gentle, reverent.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he says, rough and honest.

And then he’s kissing you again — slower, more deliberate now, like he's savoring every second, like he’s afraid it’ll be ripped away.

His hands map your body with careful, aching thoroughness, every touch setting your nerves on fire.

His hand roams down the curve of your sternum, slow and sure, until he cups one breast in his palm. You gasp, the sound spilling from your lips before you can catch it, your back arching into his touch.

He strokes his thumb lightly over your skin, reverent, almost awed, as if he’s memorizing you one careful inch at a time.

He touches you with such aching tenderness, like you're something precious — fragile, irreplaceable — something he’s terrified to hurt or lose.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs against your collarbone, his voice so low it’s almost a prayer.

You shake your head, threading your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer.

“Don't stop,” you whisper, barely audible, but it’s all he needs. His mouth finds yours again, a little more desperate this time, his hands mapping every curve of your body like he’s trying to brand the memory of you into his skin.

You cling to him just as fiercely, drowning in the way he feels, the way he makes you feel — alive, needed, wanted.

Tonight, you’re not thinking about tomorrow.

Tonight, you’re just feeling.

©pomelace 2025

[rositaslabyrinth]

Breaking point - Beau A

Beau Arlen x fem!reader

A fight between you and Beau spirals out of control, exposing all the fear and love you’ve been too afraid to say out loud — until the only way left to hold on is to feel it.

Content warnings ; fighting, smut, angry sex, p in v (don’t take after their example), fingering, morning sex

Word count ; 2,429

Minors please do not interact !!!!

It started small.

It always did.

First it was the late nights. Beau not answering your calls after a long shift.

The way he stopped reaching for your hand without thinking.

The way his eyes started looking through you, sometimes, instead of at you.

You knew the signs.

You’d been through enough goodbyes in your life to recognize the beginning of the end.

And it hurt.

But what hurt worse was that he wouldn’t talk to you about it.

Every time you tried, Beau just smiled that same tired, careful smile and said, “I’m fine, darlin’. You’re worryin’ too much.”

It made you crazy.

It made you angry.

Because you weren’t stupid.

You could feel him slipping through your fingers and he was acting like you were imagining it.

Tonight was supposed to be different.

You’d stayed late at the station, waiting for him. Brought him dinner from that little place he loved — the one you used to sneak off to during slow shifts, eating in the truck bed under the stars.

You sat there for two hours.

Waiting.

When he finally came out, Beau didn’t even look surprised to see you.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t say he was glad you waited.

Just said, tired and stiff, “You didn’t have to do that.”

You stood there, holding the damn takeout bag like an idiot, heart dropping straight into your stomach.

“Yeah,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I’m starting to realize that.”

Beau sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Already shutting down. Already pulling away.

That was it.

You snapped.

“You gonna keep pretending everything’s fine, Beau?” you demanded, stepping closer. “Gonna keep feeding me bullshit ’til I finally give up and leave on my own?”

He stiffened.

That slow, defensive posture you knew way too well.

“Don’t put words in my mouth, honey.”

“Someone has to!” you shot back, chest heaving. “Because you sure as hell aren’t saying a damn thing worth listening to.”

People were starting to glance over from the parking lot, but you didn’t care.

You wanted him to feel it.

To feel you.

“God, Beau,” you laughed bitterly, blinking back furious tears. “You say you care. You say you want me. But you act like you’re just waitin’ for an excuse to let me walk away.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

“That what you really think of me?” he said, voice low and ragged.

You stared at him, your whole chest aching.

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” you whispered.

And you meant it.

For a moment, Beau just looked at you — so much pain in his face it almost knocked the breath out of you.

But then he shook his head, muttering something under his breath, and turned toward his truck.

Without thinking, you grabbed his arm.

Tried to pull him back.

“Don’t you dare walk away,” you hissed.

He turned — fast, eyes flashing — and for a second you thought he might actually yell. Might finally break that damn wall between you.

Instead, he bit out

“Get in the truck.”

You blinked, stunned.

“What?”

“I said, get in the truck,” Beau repeated, voice low and furious. “You wanna fight? Fine. But not here.”

You hesitated — heart pounding, half of you wanting to scream at him right there — but something in his face stopped you.

Something scared.

So you climbed into the passenger seat, slamming the door.

And Beau drove — silent, tense — back to his place.

The second you walked through the door, the second it shut behind you — you turned on him again, the pressure finally boiling over.Beau was right behind you, voice rough and biting.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me.”

You spun around, chest heaving. “What else am I supposed to do, Beau? Stand here and beg you to care?”

His jaw flexed. His hands were fisted at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to grab something — grab you.

“You know damn well that’s not what this is about.”

You laughed, bitter and broken. “Then what the hell is this about?” you shot back, your throat already tight. “Because you sure as hell don’t act like someone who wants to stay.”

For a moment, Beau didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you — really looked at you — like he was seeing every inch of hurt you’d been hiding.

Then, low and dangerous, he said:

“I never wanted to hurt you, honey. But you think pushin’ me away’s gonna hurt less?”

Your breath hitched. You hated him for sounding so soft when you wanted to stay mad.

“You already hurt me,” you said, voice cracking despite yourself.

And that — that — was what broke him.

One second he was across the room; the next, he was in front of you, grabbing your wrists and pressing you back against the door with his whole body.

Not rough. Not cruel.

Desperate.

Like he thought if he didn’t hold onto you right now, you’d disappear.

“You think I don’t fucking care?” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, his breath shaking. “You think lettin’ you go wouldn’t kill me?”

Your mouth opened — to yell, to cry, you didn’t even know — but Beau kissed you before you could say a word.

It wasn’t soft.

It was teeth and tongue and the salt of both your tears, messy and furious and so goddamn needed.

You shoved at his chest once, in blind anger — and he caught your hand, lacing your fingers together, pinning it against the door.

“Don’t,” he growled into your mouth. “Don’t fight me on this, sweetheart. Not now.”

You whimpered, your whole body arching into his without meaning to.

He kissed you harder, grinding against you, his hands already moving — yanking your shirt up and off, not even bothering with the buttons. His palms were everywhere, rough and hot, like he couldn’t touch you fast enough.

“You’re mine,” Beau muttered against your throat, voice wrecked and low. “Mine, honey. Been tryin’ to be gentle but fuck, you make it so damn hard.”

You gasped as he bit down just enough to leave a mark, dragging a hand down to pop the button on your jeans.

“Beau—” you choked, but you didn’t know if you were trying to tell him to stop or to hurry up.

He shoved your jeans down your legs, dropping to his knees in front of you.

Looked up at you with those glassy, furious eyes — like you were the only thing keeping him breathing.

“Sweetheart,” he rasped, hands squeezing your thighs. “Look at me. I need you to know. I’m not lettin’ you go.”

Before you could even nod, his mouth was on you — hot and filthy and so fucking good you sobbed his name out loud, back hitting the door again.

“That’s it,” Beau groaned against your skin, licking you like he could memorize the taste. “Goddamn, honey. You were made for me.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, needing something to hold onto. He groaned again — the vibrations making your knees buckle — and he only gripped your hips tighter, dragging you even closer to his mouth.

You were already falling apart, shaking so hard it was all you could do to gasp for air.

“Beau, Beau, Beau,” you whimpered, over and over like a prayer.

When you came, it wasn’t pretty — it was sobs and shaking and Beau pulling you down to the floor with him, cradling you against his chest like he thought you might break apart.

You thought maybe you already had.

But Beau wasn’t done.

He kissed you again, messy and deep, lifting you easily into his arms, carrying you to the bedroom. His hands roaming your body like he needed to make sure you were real.

You could feel how hard he was — the thick, aching press of him against your thigh — and your breath hitched again, more tears slipping free.

“I need you,” you whispered, voice raw. “Please.”

“You got me, darlin’. Always had me,” he said, wrecked. “I’m yours.”

He didn’t rush — even angry and desperate, Beau was careful as he pushed into you, inch by thick inch, keeping his forehead pressed to yours the whole time.

The stretch burned, but you welcomed it — welcomed him — wrapping your arms around his shoulders and clinging.

He cursed under his breath, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in hard enough to make you cry out.

“Goddamn,” he groaned. “Feel so good, honey. So fuckin’ good for me.”

The rhythm was brutal at first — hard and deep, every thrust knocking the breath out of you — but as the seconds dragged on, it changed. Softened. Deepened.

Turned into something almost unbearably tender.

Like he was trying to tell you everything he’d never been brave enough to say with words.

“I love you,” you sobbed against his neck, not even thinking, just feeling. “I love you, Beau.”

He froze for half a second — just long enough for you to panic — but then he crushed you to him even harder, thrusting up into you with a broken sound.

“Love you, sweetheart,” he panted. “Love you so damn much it hurts.”

You came again with his name on your lips, shaking so violently he had to hold you through it.

Beau followed you seconds later, spilling into you with a hoarse, broken groan, his whole body shuddering against yours.

For a long time, neither of you moved.

You just stayed tangled up together on the floor, breathing hard, clinging like if you let go the whole world would fall apart.

Finally, Beau lifted his head, brushing his thumb across your tear-streaked cheek.

“Ain’t lettin’ you go,” he said again, softer now. “Not ever.”

You nodded, throat too tight to answer.

Because somehow, somehow, even after everything — you still believed him.

You woke to the feeling of him already looking at you.

It was a slow thing — consciousness dragging you up from heavy, dreamless sleep — the first thing you felt was warmth.

His body wrapped around yours like a second skin, his hand resting just beneath your ribs, holding you like you’d disappear if he let go.

“Darlin’,” he whispered, so low you almost thought you imagined it.

You blinked against the morning light slipping through the curtains.

Turned your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him.

Beau’s hair was a mess. His eyes were raw, bloodshot.

There were bruises under them, like he hadn’t slept at all — even though you’d passed out together not long after he’d wrecked you the night before.

“Hey,” you croaked, voice rough from sleep and leftover tears.

Beau just shook his head, pulling you closer until your face was tucked against his throat.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice breaking. “God, I’m so sorry.”

You pressed your forehead into his chest, breathing him in.

He still smelled like you.

Like the desperate, furious love you’d torn into each other with just hours ago.

“I know,” you whispered.

His hand slid up your back, slow and careful, like he was scared he’d hurt you.

You shivered, but not from the cold.

“Didn’t mean none of it,” Beau said hoarsely. “Not the way it sounded. I just— I get scared sometimes, honey. Get so twisted up in my head… think if I keep you at arm’s length, maybe it won’t hurt so bad when you realize you deserve better.”

Your throat closed up.

God, if he only knew.

You pulled back just enough to see him.

Cupped his face in both hands — traced the scruff along his jaw, the little line between his brows.

“Beau Arlen,” you said, voice trembling, “you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

His eyes slammed shut like the words hurt him.

“You don’t have to say that just ‘cause—”

“I’m not,” you interrupted fiercely. “I’m sayin’ it because it’s true. And if you keep pushing me away, Beau, you’re gonna break both our hearts.”

He cracked open at that.

You could see it — feel it — the way he exhaled like he couldn’t hold it in anymore, forehead dropping to press against yours.

“I don’t wanna lose you, baby,” he whispered. “Don’t think I could survive it.”

Tears stung your eyes again, but this time you didn’t try to fight them.

“You won’t,” you promised. “You won’t lose me.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved — just breathed each other in, your heartbeats pounding in the same frantic, relieved rhythm.

And then Beau kissed you.

Soft, this time.

No anger, no desperation.

Just a slow, reverent kind of hunger — like he had all the time in the world to learn every inch of you.

He kissed you like an apology.

Like a prayer.

You sighed into it, letting yourself melt into him, feeling every ounce of regret, of fear, of love he was trying to pour into you with nothing but his mouth and his hands.

When he pulled back, Beau’s thumb brushed under your eye, catching a tear before it could fall.

“Love you, darlin’,” he whispered, so quiet it almost didn’t reach your ears.

Your breath hitched.

“I love you too, honey.”

The raw relief in his face almost undid you.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmured against your skin. “Let me make up for it.”

You nodded, already dizzy with the feel of him — his hands sliding under the covers, fingers finding your bare skin like he’d die if he didn’t touch you.

And this time, when Beau moved over you, there was no anger left.

Only worship.

Only love.

He kissed every bruise he’d left.

Whispered sweet nothings into your skin between soft, aching kisses.

“Honey… sweetheart… my darlin’ girl…”Every word was a balm, sealing the cracks between you.

And when he finally slid inside you — slow, deep, overwhelming — you clung to him like he was your whole world.

Because he was.

He always had been.

Beau moved with you, for you, like he was trying to stitch you both back together from the inside out.

Whispering your name.

Whispering “I’ve got you, baby. Always got you.”

And this time, when you came undone in his arms, it wasn’t with fury.

It was with forgiveness.

With hope.

With love so fierce it left you both trembling, gasping, clinging to each other in the soft, broken light of morning.

Liz talks : hihihi i miss Beau so I wrote this lmaoo, I’m thinking of starting like a little Beau series (I say with a billion series that I already have and haven’t touched in forever) but oh welllll.

Tag list : @deansbbyx , @sunsbaby , @starzify , @bluemerakis , @aambearr , @blossomingorchids , @littlesoulshine , @daylighted , @wchswift , @emeraldcrs , @bossyblondie , @lunaleah , @pieandflannel , @sunnyteume , @deanswifeyy , @tinas111 , @kimxwinchester

To be tagged in any future works of mine check out this post !!

To find my my masterlist check out this post !!!

Any engagement is highly appreciated <33

[itsnesss]

max verstappen x fem!reader having a little dessert date

𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐬 | max verstappen × fem!reader

summary | you and max share a sweet, intimate dessert date in, filled with teasing, laughter, and love

warnings | pure fluff, romantic, teasing and flirtation

word count | 0.9 k

box | thanks anon for asking for this which i didn't know i needed 🤍

🖇️ more mv1 🖇️ f1 masterlist

Going out with Max was never boring, but there was something special about those nights without paparazzi, without roaring engines, without the need to go from one event to the next. Just him, you... and a mutual obsession with desserts.

“Are you sure you want something sweet after the pasta?” he had asked while walking hand-in-hand through the quiet streets of Monaco.

“Since when do you ask me that?” you laughed, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Good answer. Let’s find something. And no gelato,” he said, pulling you gently toward a hidden street where he knew there was a café open late.

The place was small, almost secret. Only three tables occupied, warm lights hanging from the ceiling, and a glass display case shining like a jewel under the lights. Max left you at the most secluded table and went straight to the counter.

He returned a few minutes later, a mischievous look on his face and two small plates in hand.

“What did you do?” you immediately asked.

“Nothing bad... except maybe I fought an old lady for the last slice of your favorite,” he said, placing it in front of you. “I won, by the way.”

“Max!”

“Shh. It’s in your hands now. The crime has been committed. Enjoy.”

You gave him a soft tap with the spoon, but the smile on your face was impossible to hide. You took a small bite, the mix of mascarpone and coffee melting on your tongue.

“It’s ridiculously good.”

“I know,” he said, watching with satisfaction as you enjoyed every bite. “Can I try?”

“Of course not. You said it was for me.”

He shrugged, already digging into his own. “I figured you’d try to steal mine.”

You gave him an amused glance, but your smile gave you away.

“Maybe I regret not ordering that,” you said, eyeing his dessert—a chocolate lava cake with melting vanilla ice cream on top.

“Now you want to share, huh?"

“Shh. Just give me a bite.”

He offered you the spoon but didn’t leave it in your hand. Instead, he held it right in front of your mouth.

“Say ‘ah.’”

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, but you did it anyway, noticing how his eyes sparkled when he saw you try it.

“Better than the tiramisu?”

“I can’t choose. It’s like comparing you to Charles,” you said, knowing exactly what you were doing.

“What?” Max leaned in closer, feigning indignation. “You’re comparing me to Leclerc on a date?”

“I’m joking,” you laughed, wiping a bit of chocolate off your lip with the napkin. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous. I’m just offended you’d mention him when I’m the one who got the best dessert and the best company tonight.”

Your cheeks warmed. He noticed, of course.

“Are you blushing?”

“No.”

“You’re red.”

“Shut up!”

“Know what would make you blush more?” he asked, resting his elbow on the table and lowering his voice.

“What?”

Max leaned in again, just inches from your face. His gaze flickered down to your lips, then back to your eyes, a mix of tenderness and mischief.

“This.”

And he gently swiped his thumb across the corner of your mouth, wiping away the tiniest bit of cream.

“You had something here.”

You couldn’t speak. The air seemed to vanish. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, not moving away.

The atmosphere became more intimate, slower. The background music was soft, a late-night jazz melody that seemed made for just the two of you. Outside, the city lights blinked against the dark sea.

Max reclined slightly in his seat, crossing his arms and watching you with a smile that melted more than his chocolate cake.

“Do you know why I like nights like this so much?” he asked.

“Because of the desserts?”

“Because of you. When you don’t have to worry about anything. Not work, not someone watching us. Just you, relaxed, happy... with me.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“Sometimes I forget you’re Max Verstappen. The world champion and all that,” you said softly.

“And I forget I have to be that all the time. With you, I’m just... Max.”

The sincerity in his voice disarmed you. You took his hand across the table, interlacing your fingers with his.

“Thanks for bringing us here.”

“Thanks for being with me,” he said, and then he leaned in slowly.

There was no rush. Just the gentle brush of his lips against yours, warm and sweet from the chocolate. The kiss was slow, careful, as if he wanted to savor it as much as the dessert.

When he pulled away, his eyes remained closed for a second longer. Like the moment deserved to be kept.

“Definitely better than tiramisu,” he murmured.

“I want you to write that down.”

“I’ll tattoo it if necessary,” he said, kissing you again, this time a bit more boldly.

The waitress passed by, and Max pulled back just slightly, like a teenager caught in the act. You laughed. He did too. But still, he didn’t let go of your hand.

[im-so-tired-sorry]

high!kiribaku x gn!reader

cw: mentions of weed and being high, flirting, pet names, slight mention of greening out

a/n: guys pls believe me when i say im working on requests just taking a break to get back some creativity and not get into a writers block (not to mention i just finished finals). late 420 post that i started but was celebrating the day too much to finish. also lowkey not edited (?) so it’s kinda bad

——

“well, if you like my ‘gorgeous, big arms’ as you so politely called them, mind if i wrap them around you?” his eyes half hooded and turning into a pink tint, kirishima wraps his arms around your waist and pulls himself closer, tilting his head down to face you. you couldn’t deny the blush spreading across you face, so as you exhaled the smoke from your shared joint, you aimed towards his face. his face scrunches as he blows the smoke away.

“heyyyy rude.”

“sorry sorry... want another hit?” you show off the joint in your hand as you offer. kirishima just kindly nods give a little “thank you baby” and you slip the joint between his lips. as he inhales, he raises his eyes to your own, sending you a wink and then a following shiver down your spine. kirishima normally was a gentleman when it came to intimacy; mainly by always asking for reassurance that what he was doing was acceptable. him being romantic would mainly be cheesy pickup lines or straight up admiration for your achievements and talents.

when he was high, he was more… dominant. confident in that he knew you. what you liked, what were you ok with. wrapping his arms around you, being charming in his actions. he would obviously still ask if what he was doing was what you were comfortable with, but instead of being approached with an “is this okay hun?” he would give you a “you like that baby?” and when he flirted, it was filled with phrases he knew you make you blush.

and it would give you butterflies every single time.

kirishima moves away from the joint between your fingers and after his second inhale, he exhales in your direction, causing you to react the same way he did.

“c’mon dude!” you say as you fan away the smoke.

“you gonna share or do you two plan on smokin’ the entire thing yourselves?”

bakugo announces himself as he closes the balcony door, bringing out the ashtray. once he sets it down on the small glass table, he walks over to the pair of you. you tuck the joint between his lips and he steals it out of your hand, adjusting it between his own two fingers as he sits on one of the two chairs on either side of the table. the sight of the chairs give you the need to sit, but kirishima had his face in the crook of your neck, his arms protecting the small of your back from the railing you were leaning on. you guide your red-headed boyfriend back to the other available chair. he takes the joint from bakugo as you sit on the blonde's lap; one hand wraps around your waist as the other lands on your thigh, guiding your legs to settle over his.

“how was your shift katsuki?” kirishima asks as he hand the joint over.

bakugo only shrugs and talks about a villian robbery being the only exciting part of his day as you grab the joint and begin to inhale the smoke. though, you realize you’ve inhaled too much, so when you exhale, a couple short coughs escape your lips. bakugo rubs your back as kirishima offers you water or lemonade. you shake your head as you lay the joint on the ashtray.

the smoke in your brain cause a light headedness that has you lay your face in the blonde’s hair, taking in the smell of his shampoo. his head vibrates due to his deep, quiet voice as he speaks and you begin to notice that the voices from your two boyfriends’ conversations sound distant and muffled. you automatically know this is a symptom of the weed and, though hesitant and reluctant, you figure it best to head inside for some cooler air. you stumble your way off of bakugo’s lap and through the door and head straight for the couch, face planting into the cushions and throw pillows.

you hear your boyfriends entering the room moments later, with kirishima telling bakugo that he can “finish the joint if you want.” bakugo stands by the open door to take in the last couple hits before putting out the flame on the ashtray while kirishima heads to the kitchen to, what you assume, fill up a glass of water.

you zone out from all the noise until a big hand is slowly rubbing your back.

“you ok?” you nod, glad that your hearing has returned to normal, but giving verbal answers seemed like too much effort.

“here baby, sit up and drink this.”

you slowly make your way to sit up, kirishima by your side. your eyes are barely open to see the straw peeking from the top of the glass. slowly, you begin to sip the water.

“wow. your eyes are soooo red.”

“you say that like yours aren’t.” bakugo sits on your other side, placing a hand at your waist and rubbing your side as you continue to drink.

“yeah i guess we all smoked a lot.”

you finish your glass and immediately fall back to lay on bakugo. you hold on to his arm, tracing his biceps up and down, and just gaze at the beautiful structured arms he’s built for himself. as he put on a movie to watch on the tv, bakugo subtly flexes his arm, making you giggle and blush.

“guess you like his big arms too, huh baby?” you turn to kirishima and you nod, earning a chuckle from both boys.

“not as much as his big “gorgeous” arms, as you called them earlier, right?” bakugo sends you a smirk and a quirked up brow. all you do is cover your heated face.

“shut uuupp. both of you.” your boyfriends giggle as kirishima set a blanket around you three. bakugo insists you drink another glass of water and you three snuggle in for a movie, ending your night in a high note. ( ;) )

[freezerbnuuy]

I wrote a guide on my main blog on writing SimLit a while back, but I figured I'd amend it to make it more suitable to Tumblr and post it here as well.

Please note, that there is no one way to write SimLit; creative work is always subjective. You do not have to do everything in this guide, obviously- just focus on the bits that apply to you and what you want to write. This is a gathering of my own ideas, the way I do things, and other options as well. Depending on your writing style, some of this will be more relevant to you than other bits will. This is both for the challenge players and the people who write stories with little basis off anything going on in the game.

I have made a story / challenge-planning document that you can read about here that will give you a place to put all your ideas!

The fun part...sort of...is coming up with all your rough ideas. Things to think about are:

. Where you'll put your story: The most popular place for SimLit these days seems to be Wordpress, but there is always Blogger and LiveJournal as another option for a place to put your story. Tumblr is a great place for stories that are more picture-based and less textual, or if you plan to only have dialogue for your story text. Have a look at what different platforms have to offer to see what suits you.

Whilst I would say Blogger is a bit harder to properly customise than Wordpress and you have to rely on custom templates made by other people and some HTML editing if you want a nice blog template, it is very generous in terms of picture limit. To my knowledge, any image under 2048 on the longer width won't count toward your Photo space (as of 2025).

. Narrative or Gameplay-Driven: Some writers will write commentaries to go alongside images of challenges they're doing. Some write commentary for their general gameplay. Others use Sims solely as a way to 'direct' a story they've come up with themselves instead. Others make comics. Some do a mix of various things... Have a think about what kind of story you want to do. It might even change halfway through writing, you never know!

. Genre: You won't always have an easily-defined genre for your story, but you might have some ideas. Romance, Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Horror, Family...the options are more or less endless. 

. Custom Content: If you use CC, it can help to look for CC you might need for your story- whether that's poses, CAS items or Build/Buy items. 

. How you will plan your story: Some SimLit authors write entirely around the game and don't pre-plan anything (brave people you are going by the seat of your pants, I used to do this but now I could never), but others like to plan story points and character notes beforehand. There are plenty of ways to plan your story, whether that's jotting ideas in a notebook or on a word processing document. There is one I already made linked at the beginning of this section.

There are also programs like Scrivener designed for writers to plan stories (it's not free, though). It depends how in-depth you need to plan things out before you write. With me, it really depends. Some story ideas, I have most of the plot planned in my head from the get-go. Other times, I only have a rough idea and have to go from there.  

. What challenge you will do: If you want to write a commentary/story around a challenge, look for one you'll find fun first. Long or short? What rules will you change or omit? How much will you let the challenge and game drive the story? Will you be writing commentary, or will you be writing in a narrrative-type style inspired by what happens in the challenge?

. Rough plot / character ideas: Write down any plot or character notes that immediately come to mind, even if you don't know if you will use them. Anything that comes to you straight away is a good place to build on later and should be jotted down whilst it's still fresh in your mind.

. How you will write your story: - Commentary VS. Narrative: Will you write a commentary around your screenshots/gameplay, or will you write it in the style of a prose-like story? You can also mix both of these approaches in various ways.

Or do you want to go about it in a different way? Maybe you could use your screenshots to make a comic-style story. Another option is to possibly have something like an epistolary novel (written almost entirely in letters) or even a 'scrapbook story' (a story told in multiple ways with multiple artifacts- letters, newspaper clippings, phone calls, almost anything).

- Tense and Viewpoint: Will you write in past tense or present tense? Will you write in third person, or first person? How many different characters' viewpoints will you have if you write in first person? (...Or are you like me, and will accidentally switch between tenses throughout the whole story?)

. Themes: It's good to think more in-depth of what themes will appear in your story. Family bonds, friendships, relationships in general, dealing with various aspects of life, prejudices, overcoming fear...the list goes on forever. Whilst I personally don't like reducing stories to tropes, tropes are always a place to start if it works for you.

. General length: Do you want to ideally write a short story, or something longer? This won't always be something you'll have in mind straight away, but that's fine. 

. How much to plan and when to start: It's up to you how much you need to pre-plan and when to start writing, but I don't start writing until I'm at a point where I know that the story can be resolved. I don't start writing straight away, in case I end up with a story I somehow can't finish. 

. Upload frequency: You won't always stick to this, since most of us are busy, sad and tired adults- but it's good to try and think about how often you want to upload chapters. Are you aiming for weekly, monthly, or just whenever you manage to get a chapter out? What I will say is please TRY NOT TO STRESS about schedules. If your readers are impatient that's their problem and they can wait until you're ready!

. Gather inspiration: Whether it's authors, shows, films, art, music...anything that gets you in the right mood and frame of mind for what you want to do. Moodboards are sometimes a good idea as well for collecting inspiring pictures. Make inspiring playlists of songs that get you in the mood for the story or characters.

. The sliding scale of 'Utopia' and 'Dystopia': On a scale of 'Paradise' to 'Hell-hole world', what's the rough state of the world in your story like? Maybe it isn't that simple, but it helps to have an idea if it's thematically relevant somehow.

. Any messages or lessons: Are there any messages you hope to get across in your story, or anything that a reader may be able to learn from it at all? Not always the case with every story, and this is not the sort of thing that you'll do intentionally. For my own story, it's very much just a snapshot of history so there isn't really much of a defined moral to the story.

This is geared more towards people who are writing mostly story-driven SimLit, since commentary and gameplay-driven stories often don't require any sort of major world-building. That, and the challenge you are doing might already have the worldbuilding situation laid out for you, like the Apocalypse Challenge or the Alien Adoption challenge, but I'll build on this a bit too.

As someone who has been Game Master for DnD and Pathfinder, I'm used to fleshing out worlds, building on lore and the like- and being a Game Master often requires you to do it on the spot sometimes. For me, it's good to have some level of lore and world-building written out. I like having a certain set of 'rules' to stick with, mainly to help keep consistency of the universe's 'rules'. This is especially important with my Magic Universe since the magic system needs a level of consistency I have to try and stick to. (That said, I have occasionally changed tiny less-significant bits of lore as I go...shh...don't tell anyone!)

But where do you start with such a thing? First off, this isn't something you have to do in massive levels of detail (unless you want to!).

Here's the general way of how I do things. Feel free to pick and choose which bits will apply to your story; you don't have to pre-plan every little last detail about your world if you don't need/want to.

--Starting with the already-established relevant worlds and lore--

I almost always start out with the 'official' stuff first. You can find this in-game, in item and world descriptions, in trailers, and on Sims Wikis. Sims isn't the most lore-heavy game for obvious reasons, but now and again you've got something to work with. It all depends on exactly what you're writing about, and how much your story will revolve around the actual Sims universe. 

--Seeing what I want to keep from the already-established worlds and lore, and what to get rid of--

I don't keep everything all of the time, and it's unlikely you will either. Sometimes your idea is better, or fits better with what you've already got in mind. Or perhaps the Sims 'lore' behind the thing is too comical and wouldn't fit a slightly more serious story.

Start stealing ideas! (Go careful though)

Writers worry way too much about originality, but everyone takes little bits of ideas off each other all of the time- everything is inspired by something. That, and in my opinion there’s absolutely nothing wrong with doing a story that’s a ‘love letter’ to a genre with all the tropes and cliches you can think of. 

So gather up some inspiration and see what ideas others have; have a quick read of SimLits that are similar to your idea. Look at the lore behind shows or video games that are the same genre as you are writing. Think about your favourite shows, films and video games as well. Or even look at the official Sims forum or Tumblr to see what people have done with worlds, premade characters and the like. On the official forum, there are a lot of ‘What have you done with…’ threads where people discuss what they have done with premades and in-game places.

One thing I tend to focus on the most when worldbuilding, is the sort of socio-political aspect of the world. 'But why does everything have to be political?', you say, but everyone's life is governed by social and political ideas - some more than others, so for me it's what makes up a big chunk of the worldbuilding because of how much it influences the characters living in that world. That, and a few big historical events I tend to think of as well to flesh the world out. If this sounds like something you feel like delving into, then here's some ideas:

NOTE: Some of this won't apply to your world or focus, so just ignore the stuff that isn't relevant to your story.

--Events in history leading up to your story--

This will depend entirely on what you story is about, but events to think about are:

. Inspiring figures from the past: For example, if you're writing about vampires, are there any in history who are still iconic to this day? What made them iconic?

. Any miscellaneous important events? My more specific ones are geared more towards conflict, but there's always going to be important events that happened that stay with people that happen in the world and they aren't always going to be bad. (Yes, the author of Divided really did just say that.)

.Changes in laws and/or major attitudes towards groups: Were there any rules or legislations that came into play that completely shook the world of your story?

.Conflicts: Wars and other major conflicts in history will linger around for years and years in various ways

Modern society 

This is looking at your present day in the story in more depth. This can help you with characterisation as well- how has modern society affected your character and their development and current attitudes? 

. Attitudes towards certain groups: Who or what is celebrated in society? Who has to deal with negative attitudes and why? How are people choosing to fight back, positively or negatively, against positive or negative change? Is there any prejudice at all, or is your world almost entirely accepting of different types of people?

. General morale: How happy are the different groups of people in your world? Is there still need for change, or are people more or less okay with the way things are? Is there an imbalance in the welfare of different groups and why?

. What's/who's popular: From people to events relevant to the story you're trying to tell, what's popular and well-known? Are there any events or people that are causing change or debate that might be addressed later?

. Fashions: It helps to think about what's fashionable in your universe sometimes, but maybe that will all depend on what kind of CC you can get a hold of.

. What the future holds: What ideas do people have for the way things may change as time passes?

-

Magic, superpowers, or other power systems

If your story has some kind of system of 'special' power- magic, or superhero powers, certain chemicals, powers granted from deities or the like- it's good to have some rough idea for how they work:

. Is this power innate? Can it be learned? Is it within the person, or is it an outside source of some kind?

. Is this power a finite or infinite source? Is it a physical object, is it ethereal/energy, a chemical, etc?

. What limits are there to the use of this power? When can it/can't it be used? What downsides are there to using this power (illnesses, magical overcharge, death, etc)? What consequences are there for overuse of the power?

-

Beliefs and belief systems

Your story might have some sort of 'collective' belief systems- common superstitions, or religions like Sims Medieval’s Jacoban or Peteran faiths, or maybe even cults. If so, it's good to outline those, though the amount of detail you'll need for it will depend on the kinds of beliefs and the story you're telling.

. What are the core / defining rules / lessons /ways of living of this belief?

. What actions/attitudes etc are rewarded, and what attitudes are frowned upon? What rewards and punishments are there for such things, if any?

. How has this belief system affected other people outside of that belief system? What do 'outsiders' think of the belief and the people that practice it?

. Are there any key figures in this belief system? Are they real objects/people, metaphysical beings, or are they not real at all? 

. Are there any specific meetings or practices etc. associated with this belief? 

. Do people of this belief own specific special clothes or objects? What significance do they have?

IMPORTANT SIDE NOTE: When it comes to world-building, ALWAYS go careful when using any real-life cultures, beliefs or events outside of your own culture etc- especially those of marginalised groups. Try to do your research as thoroughly as possible.

To avoid potential upset or misrepresentation, I either rely on fictional creations or keep things vague. For example, I'm using the lore behind the Sims Medieval's Jacoban and Peteran religions in an upcoming story to avoid making a fictional religion that people might mistake as a parody of an existing one.

Do any research you need to do

Once again, how in-depth you go depends on how far you want to go- how realistic you want it to be, how historically-accurate you want it to be...Sometimes it's good to just have enough to get a rough idea of something to add on to. For example, if you're doing a historical story, it might be worth just seeing what big events happened, social taboos, etiquette etc. just to get a feel for the rough world of your story. For anything that isn't an important topic, I'm not bothered if it's inaccurate. For example: if it turns out the soft background science of something in my work is a bit wonky, I don't entirely care. However, for serious subjects like mental health etc, I always make sure to get a good idea of what I'm doing before I write it. If I get it wrong, I could end up spreading massive misconceptions and that's the last thing I want to do. -

World-building towns and cities

Not everyone's story is going to have a huge deal of focus on this sort of thing, and additionally to the top you might want to go even further with building onto what's already given to us. So here's some other things that might be worth thinking about if you want to do a bit of extra fleshing-out for the game worlds. When I say 'individual world' I mean the actual playable worlds on their own as opposed to the ts4 worlds altogether at once. If you're doing a challenge and the challenge has worldbuilding aspects, like Alien Adoption Challenge or the Apocalypse Challenge then that is a brilliant thing to give you some level of a framework for some aspects of your story's world.

. Rough population of the individual world etc.

.Landmarks and their significance

.Tourism, what do other people like to do whilst they're there

.What sorts of people tend to live there

. What the individual world is known for the most, what puts them 'on the map', so to speak

Characters are my main focus as both a writer and a reader. I can have a good story with great characters and a thin plot, but a story with a great plot and boring characters is never going to interest me. They can also be difficult to come up with ideas for. Here is a rough idea of how I come up with characters, and how I build on pre-made characters.

Some people have written 'character interviews' - these can sometimes be helpful. You fill them out from the characters' point of view, or from a third-person perspective but about the character. The 'Marcel Proust' character interview is a great one to use, since it asks questions that will no doubt be relevant to both the character and the plot later on. Some of them have questions about favourite food, colours etc. but for me, this is more often extraneous than not. Then again, knowing too much about your character for some people is better than not knowing enough.

My own character 'interview' is here. It's technically not an interview and is just a list of things to consider about your character. You may get some use out of it.

First off, before anything: think of what to base your character on, roughly. Think of the traits of people you know or have known, think of aspects about yourself. Of course, we can't forget basing characters off of your favourite fictional characters! 

If you are writing a premade character, and you're unsure on what to expand on, first off look at their in-game traits, any information provided in trailers/promotional material, and then look at fan theories and ideas about the character. Those are good places to start if you're using a premade Sim.

As well as specific characters, think of your favourite traits, archetypes, and development types as well. One of my favourites is the downfall of a character, a tragic character whose constant screw-ups land them in a deeper and deeper mess. Even better when they start going off the rails a bit as well. I also love characters who struggle with others' kindness, who learn to let themselves be loved over time.  

Then you can get to outlining them.

The basics about your character

. Name: Is there any meaning behind this name in-story? Did the character choose it themselves or is it their birth name? What nicknames do they have, if any? Which do they like, and which do they hate? (Names don't have to have meaning. I only use meaningful names in certain contexts- most names are just names I like, names that just fit for some reason, or that a character's parents thought sounded nice). 

NOTE ON NAMES: If you want an authentic name for a character from a specific time period, look at census records for the country if they're available or see if you can find articles on people from that country and time period. You can also Google naming conventions, as they can change within a country over time as well. I also recommend avoiding baby name websites or baby-related websites when you want authentic names for characters that aren't English or American. It's best to find blogs written by people from that country. Sometimes travel blogs for the country will sometimes talk about names, authenticity and such. Sometimes Wikipedia has lists of names as well, but it's worth double-checking any info found there.

. Rough description: Height, rough weight, colours of skin/hair/eyes, the general 'vibe' of their attire or a more in-depth description. Anything notable about them, like specific jewellery, clothes, tattoos or scars/other injuries?

. Identity: This could be anything from where they grew up, gender, race, sexual orientation, or if they are an occult sim or some other made-up species or race. How has their identity affected their life? Do they face any prejudice or mistreatment for any of it at all, or does it give them more of an advantage over others?

. Family: People in a character's family, whether blood family or found family.

.Beliefs: What they do (and maybe don't) believe in.

. Protagonist or antagonist: Not always this black and white for every character, but good to think about your character's rough place in the story. Of course, one can become the other as the story progresses.

-

Character-defining aspects 

. General personality traits: You can use in-game traits and Randomise to give you ideas, or you can think of your own personality traits for the character.

. Upbringing: What it was like growing up for them. Who was good to them? Who wasn't? How have these people and experiences shaped who they are today? How was the world different growing up to what it's like now? Does the character mourn the old ways of the world or do they like the change?

. Social class: How has this affected their life?

. Education: Might also connect with upbringing here- how was school/university etc. for them?4

. Goals/dreams: Almost everyone has a goal, even if they never achieve it. Even if it's just getting out of bed to make breakfast and then getting back in again.

. Social life: Extrovert, introvert or somewhere in the middlle? What do they do when they hang out with friends etc?

. Fears: What are they afraid of? What do they do to avoid that fear, if anything?

. Any conditions, illnesses, or neurodivergence: (ONCE AGAIN, go careful when writing things like this and do research where it's needed.) How have they affected the character's life and their outlook in general? How does it affect how others percieve them, if it does at all? If applicable, what caused them?

. If not that, then general physical/mental health: How well (or not) does the character look after themselves in these ways? What do they do for self-care and distraction?

. Likes and dislikes: People, things, events, hobbies...What makes them happy and what makes them want to punch a wall? 

. Character 'flaws': Flaws don't necessarily have to be absolutely-horrible things, it can be just things that can hold the character back in some way. Some things that characters may overcome in a story might not necessarily be flaws as well- for example, introversion isn't a flaw (I wish writers would stop treating it as one), but possibly some characters may seek to try and 'come out of their shell' socially a little. Most characters have some kind of flaw or personality 'aspect' to overcome or learn to deal with, but the best kind of character flaws are the ones that actually get in the character's way in the story. The joy is in seeing how the character overcomes these flaws...or even how the character gives into them more and more as the story goes on. Wretched excess is fun sometimes!

. What they're good/bad at: Where do they excel, where do they need a little practice, and what are they absolutely terrible at?

. Any special ablities or powers: What can this character do? What are the limits of this power? How do they feel about this power? 

. Things they are known for: Whether by friends, family, colleagues or the world. What are they known for? What do people like and dislike about them?

. Ideas for development: How do you (at the moment) see the character changing? If you have any ideas for it, who or what will help to influence that change?

. Relationships with other characters: How they do (and don't) get along with other established characters, and maybe why. -

Things to think about character-wise when writing your story

Once you get to writing your character, here's a couple of things that it helps to think about- though some of it is more relevant if writing in the first person.

. What your character does and doesn't notice: How do they approach the world around them? What sort of things do they notice first in their surroundings?

. Manner of speech: Formal, or informal? Do they have any mottos, catchphrases or words they use often? Do they speak about feelings a lot? Do they lie, and how often? Sometimes what isn't spoken can say as much as what is spoken.

. How they socialise and deal with others: Do they overthink things in discussion? Do they pick up on social cues? Do they often over-analyse the actions of others, or do they let everything go over their head? Are they confident in socialising, or not? Maybe their out-of-dialogue musings are complex, but they keep to not revealing much in their speech.

. How they cope with negative emotions: Do they break down, or blame others? Or do they power through it?

. In connection to some of the above points, think about your character both from the outside and inside: How do others see them? How do they think they come across to others? How do they come across to themselves? And finally, who are they really on the inside?

An important aspect to think about especially is character motivation. I've written this one separately from the bullet points since I think it's especially important given character motivation will play a major part in driving the plot along, as well as relationships with the other characters. This might not be something you'll have a solid answer to until you start writing, but it's good to have some starting ideas.

. In the broadest and simplest sense, what does your character want? Money, fame, honour, redemption, happiness, revenge...Have a think about what it is that they strive for deep down. (If you're struggling for ideas, maybe it might help to look at the in-game Aspirations, or maybe even the Traits will give you some ideas).

. How far are they willing to go to get it? Are there limits they won't go to in order to get what they want? Or are they willing to step on whoever's toes? This might be a change that occurs over the story, that's always an interesting concept. Seeing the well-behaved character slowly and gradually challenge what is acceptable...

. Who, or what 'kickstarted' this motivation? Some people just naturally come to want something, maybe as they grow up and/or their general interests, hobbies etc. change. Some motivations are brought on by events, though. Maybe harm done to a loved one motivates them to seek revenge, or something they did in their past motivates them to seek forgiveness or redemption for their actions. 

For challenge players, you can always define your characters through funny commentary, I always like seeing that. One story had one generation founder constantly break the fourth wall and be the only one who realised they were in a game and it made them stand out in a comical way.

 Let me start off by saying: Plot is my weak point. I struggle to organise ideas when both reading and writing, I always have done. As usual, for plots it's best to think of your favourite plots from stories or a 'stock plot' like The Hero's Journey, Wretched Excess etc. It's also good to think about any potential plot points that come to mind straight away, so then you have starting points and can fill in the gaps- this is generally what I do. And honestly, I don't think it's that bad to re-use themes and plot pieces sometimes. Sometimes it works better to stick with what you're familiar with, than it is to try a thousand things at once that are new or different to you.

Do you see yourself as a 'plotter' or a 'pantser'? I'm a bit of both, though I'm leaning towards more of a plotter now. I wish I could write everything by the seat of my pants, but sadly I can't. 

The way I initially began planning for a longer, more in-depth story is by making a table in a word processing document that is one column wide, with loads of rows. Just one giant row of loads of columns. Each box in this table will be for specific notes, and the order of these notes in the planning table goes like this:

. Title ideas/preliminary ideas: What it says on the tin, and the very, very first ideas for the story.

. Rough story ideas: Any ideas that come to me in the pre-planning stage go here. Ideas for anything at all- screenshots, scenes, lines of dialogue, anything!

.Background information to be aware of: Any relevant lore or research goes here. Sometimes I keep story research in a separate document.

. Previous story points to be aware of: Any previous characters or events to be aware of to aid in consistency.

. Current plot threads: Keeping track of plot threads that need to be resolved in some way, to help prevent plot holes.

. Character info: Character information in varying levels of depth. At this point, this usually only covers main characters.

. Character Development:  This almost always changes halfway through, but this is my plan for how characters will change as the story goes on, and the events and characters that will be catalysts for that change.

. Backstory: Character backstory goes here instead, to keep things organised.

. Ideas for future chapters: Any ideas at all for upcoming chapters, no matter how vague. This also includes things that absolutely have to happen later on.

. Story ideas: Various boxes, all of which have more detailed story ideas. At the moment these are defined by specific events, and these are just for the direction of the story.

. Chapter (X): The main story planning, with one box for every chapter. This is where the story starts to be sorted by chapters as opposed to just events. Things always get swapped around during the writing process: Some things get moved until later, moved to happen earlier, or omitted/changed entirely.

The general idea as I'm going, is that each chapter has to move at least something forward. We learn something new about someone, a character's actions have changed something or caused a consequence, a character has learned something, etc. Somehow things have to be different from the beginning of the chapter to the end of the chapter and that is generally how I go about it. Whilst a lot of people frown on whole chapters that 'info-dump', for some stories it might be necessary- especially for futuristic or alternate history stories where the author will need some filling-in on the general state of this unfamiliar world.

Again, how much you want to/need to plan depends on what you're doing. Nowadays I write narratively, and the game has little bearing on the actual story.

If you're going with a gameplay or challenge-driven story you probably won't need much planning, if any at all.If it helps, it's worth doing what you can to create associations of some type within your planning- whether it's symbols, bold/italic, colour-coding, anything. That might aid you in keeping important bits of the notes tied together somehow, whether it's done by scene, character, important plot points etc.

It may help to highlight important bits as well in your word processor, so you can easily find things you know you have to go back to soon. I sometimes do this since I easily get lost in my own notes...

-

Other Planning Ideas

. Starting from the end: It might be easier to go backwards if you come up with your ending before your intro. You can always start with your end point, and then figure out how you got there. 

. Mind-maps: If a massive list of boxes doesn't sound ideal, it might help do a sort of mind-map or flowchart. This is better if you are the sort of person who'd rather take in small bite-sized pieces at a time. You could have one mind-map for the beginning, middle and end, and then do little branches off for different events. And then from those branches, possibly add more for other details surrounding that specific story event, or things to remember for later on down the line. 

. 'Snowflake method': Put simply, it's writing down a simple plot point or idea and then continually expanding on it until it's at the level of detail you need for your plan- the way a typical snowflake's points branch out. As a random example: - Dave goes to get some cheese. - Dave has discovered a monster in his kitchen, and it demands a block of cheese or Dave's life. Terrified, Dave goes out to get some cheese to appease the monster. - A monster that can only live off of cheese is used to eating the bits of dropped cheese off Dave's kitchen floor, but Dave has decided to do more cleaning now his girlfriend is moving in. Desperate for survival, the monster has escaped its hiding place, demanding a block of cheese from Dave for its survival. If Dave does not supply cheese, he will be killed by the monster.

. 'Five-part narrative'/Pyramid: Breaking down your story into the five main parts of most stories: - Exposition: This is mainly setting up the world of your story - the setting, the main goings-on in the area, the characters we will be following throughout the story, and also the driving point which sets the main characters ahead doing plot stuff. - Rising action: The rising action is generally the part where the characters' antics, or possibly something caused by the world around them, sets stakes higher and puts more pressure on them. Perhaps the character has made a grave mistake. People could be after them. Or perhaps some kind of natural disaster has caused massive issues for the character. How will they come to navigate all of this? - Climax: The rise up to the 'turning point' or the height of the drama in your story. Maybe your character finally has some kind of breakdown, their actions have led them into the worst situation possible, but good can arise from this...or your character can just keep going down the slippery slope. - Falling Action: This is generally the process of gradually resolving all that has happened during the story. Maybe the main characters have realised their mistakes and aim to solve them, or perhaps your characters have overcome the main antagonist, or possibly made peace with them somehow. - Denouement: The resolution to the story, or at least where the characters end up. Then again, who's to say that everything will be resolved by the end if you want to make a series rather than a one-off? And who's to say the resolution will be a clean pretty one?

. For the challenge/game-driven writers: It helps to make notes of anything that happens in-game that could become a plot idea. Whether it's something from a mod, Lifestyles, Sentiments, or other autonomous actions- anything that gives you idea for a potential relationship change, conflict or story point, jot it down and maybe you can build on it later. If your Sims end up with positive or negative Sentiments for each other, then maybe it could be fun to come up with a reason why they feel that way.

My biggest piece of advice is: If you are stuck with what to do next in a story, let the game do some of the storytelling for you if you need to. Look at what happens autonomously, Likes/Dislikes, traits, anything caused by mods that add story depth to the game, Sentiments that people have for others etc. You probably even have mods that actually add some real depth to the game that you can go off of. It's a great way to help you get new ideas. It's gotten me through a lot of brick walls in the plot.

. Do not use ChatGPT or any generative AI! The whole point of creative writing is the CREATIVE part and neither of these are at all creative. Don't bother writing a story if you can't be bothered to do the writing.

. Be sure to try and use content warnings for aspects of the story that may need it. You can use the trigger tags and can warn in chapter headers. You can't catch everything, of course you can't, but it's a helpful way to help a reader decide whether or not it's worth getting into a story, or whether they may want to skip a page or chapter. My own story has a lot of potential triggers so I warn about them as much as possible.

. Portrayal is not automatically endorsement. Your story does not have to be entirely morally-pure and neither do your characters. Not every story is about the perfect people who do no wrong and somehow manage to tick every box on how to be the perfect Leftist. You also don't have to provide disclaimers on the fact you are not okay with what's being portrayed, but you can do so if you want to save your own skin.

. Do not worry too much about word counts. Some people like to keep an eye on word counts, but make sure you're not letting it dictate your entire workflow. It's great to have goals to keep you going, but to let them define your work entirely can get stressful. If you miss your goals, don't beat yourself up about it. 

. Use online generators if necessary! Names, plot points, rough plot outlines, there are generators for everything online. They are there both for fun and to help you get a starting point, and you are NOT cheating for using them! No other writer ever does absolutely everything themselves. We all get ideas from somewhere, so there's absolutely zero shame in using generators for ideas and such. 

. Do not get hung up on looking for writing advice. I know, I just gave my advice and yet I'm saying this! Over the years I've looked at so many writing advice blogs, and almost all of it has been useless to me in the long run. Most of my learning has been from reading others' writing, and I have also learned from other kinds of art as well- films, pictures, etc. Do not rely too much on one person's style or advice. It's no good wanting to be someone else, and take that from someone who's been super jealous of loads of creators over the years. Whether it's art or writing, I've learned more from looking at others' art than I ever have from people who've told me how to do it.  On top of that, don't let others' advice dictate what you do too much. After all, people are so quick to label absolutely anything as 'bad writing' these days. Continuing on from this point...

. Do not let others' writing advice become super-strict rules. Including my own! The problem with some people and their advice, is that they tend to think their way is the only way, for everyone. And as I mentioned earlier, people are quick to slap the latest cool 'smart writer's term on anything. Remember when Mary-Sue/Marty-Stu started off as an overpowered character who never faces consequences, but then seemingly became any character with supernatural powers and/or unnatural hair and eye colours? Remember when we got taught 'said is dead' in primary school, and then authors and Internet writers suddenly became obsessed with it to the point where you were terrible for using 'said' at all?

All of those writing blogs demanding complete originality when every conceivable story is inspired by something, subconsciously or otherwise? Getting thrown overboard for using clichés? The same three authors being used as a style model? It's great to take inspiration from other people, but don't think that others' writing advice is always 100% going to improve your writing because as I have said ad nauseum throughout this whole thing- art is subjective. Even if the advice-giver is an excellent author that's been published 1205 times, that doesn't necessarily mean their way is the only way for everyone. My likes and dislikes are not ultimate. Neither are theirs, and neither are yours. Write the clichéd character, add the cool thing because it's fun, use 'said' all of the time, enjoy yourself.

. Also worth adding that just because someone writes their writing 'advice' in an incredibly harsh or 'my way is the only way' manner, it doesn't mean they're 100% right and that you should change how you do things because a bored stranger on the Internet thinks they're the last word on how to create things. You are not going to please everyone, and that's fine. And let's face it- some people are never pleased. Ever. Don’t write to please these types of people, it’s not worth it. I've come across them plenty of times in the past on creative websites, and I've fallen into the trap of trying to do what they say because they must be right, right? And really, why should I? Why should anyone?

Don't fall into the trap of feeling like you have to do what the angry man on Wordpress told everyone to do. Maybe these types occasionally have something good to share, but you should only use writing advice you find genuinely helpful to you.

. When it comes to doing research on things like stereotypes or tired archetypes / plotlines for certain marginalised groups, be aware that everyone has a different opinion on what is harmful and what isn't. You cannot write a character of any experience that every single person will agree with or consider to be a sympathetic portrayal. One man's good representation is another man's problematic.

You are also occasionally going to find some people writing these portrayal guides who will consider every experience out of their own individual one to be wrong (I've come across plenty of 'how to write autistic characters' guides where the autistic writer is convinced their experiences are the only kind of 'proper' autistic experience... and we are all very different people in reality!). Try to get a rough idea from multiple sources and go from there.

. In addition to the above: Go careful where you get your research/advice from. I will happily admit when I don't know what I'm talking about sometimes. Other people, not so much. Go careful who you choose to do any research from. On top of that, when you are looking for advice specific to a culture or identity, most of the time it's best to find things written by people who are actually a part of the group. It's good to be as thorough as you can.

. Be imperfect. No-one is a perfect writer, though some certainly think they are! Perfectionism is common, but in my opinion it holds people back a lot of the time. Don't stress too much- SimLit is meant to be a fun hobby.

. Always aim to finish your work. Even if you have to pull a plot point out of your backside to do it, try to finish everything where you can. I have only ever discontinued one story, and that was only five chapters into it. If you're having trouble, don't be afraid to leave a project for a while. I find in the meantime, I come up with new ideas. Sometimes a necessary distance to a project is needed to see it in a different light, and then any issues can be (hopefully) figured out.

. Don't get caught up in the 'reboot loop'. It's a dangerous game, to constantly want to re-do your work. I'd know - I have a personal project that's been rebooted over 10 times and still not completed that's been a work-in-progress since almost 2014. Don't get caught up in it otherwise you'll never finish anything. If there's something you don't like, assess first if it's best to just move on with the story despite it. In connection to my above point, I'd rather a story be finished badly, personally, than not finished at all.

. Do not get put off by low reader numbers or lack of comments. It's part of the creative process- either you'll get feedback or you won't. People nowadays tend to go for shorter stories either due to not having time, language barriers are also a thing that can put people off a longer prose-based story, or due to the modern age trying to make everything as succinct as possible - and like I said earlier, a lot of people are tired busy adults and likely won't have time.

Some things are also typically more niche than others.

Do not publicly whine or guilt-trip people over lack of feedback or attention. There are always going to be times where lack of attention to your work will get you down, and in my eyes, that's a good sign to take a break from it until the passion for creation comes back to you. Otherwise the story will likely suffer for it as will your wellbeing.

. Do not get put off by negative critique. Critique can be helpful, but let's face it, many people often don't know how to write a good or useful critique and a lot of people nowadays want to be a edgy, feisty caustic critic, might as well say it. Even if someone is nice about it, your first reaction might be ‘owch’.

Keep the useful critique in mind, bin the rest. You don't need to change anything about your story, at the end of the day nobody can force you to do that - but it's also not healthy to ignore absolutely all critique completely. Sometimes others' ideas can be helpful. Sometimes.

. Jarte - A free fancier version of Wordpad that I use for note-taking and plot-planning.

. My planning document and character questions linked earlier.

. MyNoise - If you like background noise to focus but music isn't for you, these are various noise machines. It includes chanting, white noise, natural sounds (thunder, rain etc), bar ambience and much more. There's an amazing selection.

. Writing Plot Prompts and Generators - A bunch of generators for plot-related events. Rough plots, possible things that could go wrong, ideas for how characters meet and general writing prompts. 

. Character Generator - A bunch of character-related generators that will generate all sorts of ideas- from rough descriptions, to in-detail outlines, to causes of death, and a separate generator for ideas for LGBT+ characters as well.

. Evernote- a free (with paid options) note-taking app for mobile and for PC. It allows you to create to-do lists, clip whole web pages, screenshots, articles PDFs and bookmarks - great for storing research or other important things! You can also sync your PC notes with your mobile ones so you always have a space to dump your ideas wherever you come up with them.

. Random Town Name Generator - with some fun tidbits about town naming in general.

. Fantasy Map Generator - for the super-world-builders!

I hope this has given you something of a starting point, or has otherwise given you something else to think about. Happy writing!

[deangirlsstuff67]

Oops… Wrong Number- Part 2

Jensen Ackles x Reader

Summary: Who knew texting the wrong number could be so much fun !

Warnings: Fluffy Jensen, drinking, sexual build up slightly

Authors Note: I love Jensen and his family. This is purely fiction and for entertainment purposes only. Short but sweet!

Catch up here.

—————————————————————————

“I’m sorry, you accidentally text who?!”

It had been a solid week since you mistakenly saved your best friends number wrong in your phone. Later that night you had Facebook messaged her asking for it again. After talking with her and Jensen for a week straight you made the decision to go visit Texas.

Not like you had a reason to stay in a city where you know barely anyone. You’re a writer, you can do your job anywhere which is nice.

Change of scenery might be everything you need.

So here you sit, on her back porch sharing a beer and catching up with her. Just like old times. She has always been your person, the one you call when things are good or when they are completely falling apart. Y/f/n has always been supportive, but it doesn't come without her own opinions and thoughts being laced into it.

You're an adult and she respects that, I am however famous for making dumbass choices in life... especially my love life.

“Caught me completely off guard. Out of all the numbers, his was the one I typed in instead of yours.” Shaking your head, you still don’t believe it. You’ve never been close to that lucky before.

What she doesn't know is that you are still talking to Jensen. While you want to do nothing more than brag about talking to your celebrity crush or tell her how he can always make you smile or laugh when you want to cry, you neither want to lose his trust and you don't think she would approve of the age difference in anyway.

You've kind of been the girl who goes for the older men. They haven't worked out obviously, Jensen happens to be the oldest man you've ever showed interest in. Though until a week ago you never did think you'd get the chance to meet him, let alone text him, yet here you are.

Man my life is fucking weird.

She goes back inside mumbling to herself about how she needs some of my luck. You softly chuckle staring out into the big beautiful Texan sky.

Ding.

Jensen: Did you land safely sweetheart?

Naturally the smile spreads across your face as you read his message. It's cute that he checks in on you. You are a no body in his world, literally a woman who accidently text him one night. Somehow, and you aren't sure how, you both have gotten comfortable exchanging messages daily and just talking about everyday life.

Jensen has slowly borrowed his way into your heart. You wouldn't even say it was in a romantic way. Would you love a chance to have this beautiful man take you out and sweep you off your feet, well duh! Who the hell wouldn't. It goes deeper than that though. He has become a good friend. Someone who you want to talk to and tell the most boring daily details.

There isn't many people in my life that I feel that strongely towards.

Me: I did. Enjoying a beer on her back deck absorbing what Austin has to offer.

Jensen: Seriously? Austin?

Me: Yeah I know right. This getting creepy for you yet?

Jensen: Haha no it hasn't Darling. I'm actually kind of excitied about it.

Me: Oh really? Do tell please.

Jensen: Oh I don't know I have this beautiful woman who I enjoy talking to visiting the wonderful city I live in and I happen to be home for the summer. I don't know about you but this sounds like an opportunity ;)

Me: She sounds pretty amazing, you're pretty lucky!

Jensen: Smartass

Your friend comes back out with a fresh beer for you both, sitting down beside you again. Neither of you speak, enjoying the silence and beauty in front of you.

Me: Yes I am! Stick around, it gets worse honey.

Jensen: I like it. So what are you ladies going to do tonight?

Me: Nothing special. Staying in, she has to work tomorrow. I'll be on my own adventuring I guess.

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

The night went on, you watched the sun set over the hills behind her house. Eventually she wondered to bed after a night of laughs, smiles, and hearing how her first week has been with work and living in a new state.

Between her and Jensen, the urge to move to this amazing place is getting worse by the minute.

Jensen: So you are all alone now?

Me: Kind of, she's in bed for the night. I am still running on the high of being here. Once upon a time I wanted to live here... still kind of do.

Jensen: Why didn't you?

Me: Life got in the way and took me in a different direction at the time.

Jensen: That ex who left you for his best friend?

Me: Life's a bitch I guess.

Jensen: Nah sweetheart, life is wonderful and full of surprises and adventures, look at you and I. That was nothing short of both a surprise and an adventure. Your ex boyfriend is a bitch.

Me: Won't hear me agrue that point. Can I ask something that might freak you out?

Jensen: Sure... I'm scared.

You take a huge sip of your beer before you ask your question. Liqour courage for the win.

Me: There is like a 12 year age difference between you and I.

Jensen: That's more of a statement than a question darling.

Me: Now who's the smartass?

Jensen: Guilty! Stick around sweetheart, I get better ;)

Shaking your head as you read the words you voiced to him already. Those three dots appear again.

Jensen: To answer what I'm guessing is your question, no I don't have a problem with it. I enjoy your company and considering you are still texting my old ass I'm guessing you enjoy mine. In the end that's all that matters.

Me: Oh did I forget to tell you, your mom is paying me to be your friend Jay ;)

Jensen: Keep it up and I'll have find other ways to occupy that mouth sweetheart.

Me: Haha bring it on old man.

Jensen: Brat.

Me: Me? No.

Jensen: Jesus christ woman. Does it bother you?

Me: Being a brat, no I like it alot actually ;)

Jensen: I'm warning you!

Me: Gotta find me first handsome hehe.

Me: No, it doesn't bother me. You're my type actually.

Jensen: Oh?

Me: Green eyes, tall, texan, southern drawl, can act, can sing, plays guitar, and legs meant to be wrapped around a horse... yeah definitely my type.

Jensen: And the age thing?

Me: Is perfect. I'm off to bed though honey. Talk tomorrow?

Jensen: Of course! Good night sweetheart.

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

Taglist:

@deansimpalababy @jayhalsteadfan-2417 @bitchykittenconnoisseur @nancymcl @tspmoff @kimxwinchester @maggiegirl17 @mostlymarvelgirl @idontwannabehere78 @neii3n @leigh70 @multiversefanfics @spnaquakindgdom @lessons-of-red @yvonneeeee @syrma-sensei @foxyjwls007 @senjoritanana @jamerlynn @supershygirl @impala67rollingthroughtown @justwhisperingfantasies @barnes70stark

[puriiinz]

POSTED | smau abby a.

VI; ROLY-POLY

a/n: i only had the time to write this out bc they closed the schools after an earthquake 😭😭😭

contains: yn being kinda insecure? meds mentioned once, mental health mentioned with a slight joke, cursing and dumb bitches leading eachother

masterlist | next

yn woke up in the least flattering way possible; face smushed up, drooling on her pillow and an ache in her neck that made her wonder if sleeping was even worth it. blinking a few times to get used to the light coming in through the blinds, yn reached for her phone on instinct.

the notification staring right back at her, as if it was daring her to even think about reacting, made her want to turn back time and never wake up. freezing after realizing what it was saying and who it was from yn sat up and read it again.

and again.

and a few times more.

and then she threw her phone down on the bed because she couldn't scream (her neighbors would kill her).

it literally didn't even mean anything. abby always tweeted absurd and cryptic stuff. she was the type to make a post about someone instead of subtweeting, then acting like she wasn't shading anyone. it was just abby.

but abby being 'just abby' wasn't apparently enough for yn, because she went back and read abby's tweet for the nth time. no one's name was there, but yn's name wasn't there either. nothing and nobody was tagged except for her stupid hashtag that she loved to use when she wanted to stir something up. it was vague, open ended.

but it was the timing that made yn suspicious.

no. nope. yn wasn't doing this. she was NOT letting fucking abby anderson live in her brain, especially before even having breakfast. she was stronger than that.

maybe not really though...

the second yn opened her front door to take the trash out, she nearly walked straight into ellie's big ass head.

again.

"what the fuck." yn said, stepping back.

dina just smiled sweetly, holding up a bag of muffins from yn's favorite bakery. this only meant one thing: they were plotting something and needed yn to think critically (and not get angry).

"we come bearing gifts!"

"and questions," ellie added. "mainly questions."

yn sighed but let them in, deciding to be a good friend (she wanted muffins) and she didn't want to be alone, just to think about abby fucking anderson all day. especially not about her smile. and that day when she got too close to yn on the couch. no.

"so," ellie started, plopping down onto yn's couch and looking at her phone for a second before locking it. "you saw abby's tweet, i assume?"

yn tilted her head "why would you assume that?"

ellie rolled her eyes. "because! did you see it or no?"

"what tweet are you talking about? did she manage to get cancelled because of her eating habits or something?" trying to play it cool, yn tried her best to look and sound confused.

"the one saying 'some blah blah so cute blah blah when confused'. ring a bell?" ellie asked while melting into the couch.

"yeah because half of your sentence being 'blah blah' really helped me." yn sighed, "but yes. i saw it," yn said reluctantly. "it's vague."

"sadly, you're right." dina said. "that's why we're here," sitting next to ellie and sliding a muffin towards yn she added, "we're going to figure out who it's about."

yn nearly choked on air. "can i ask why i, fuck, even you would ever do that?"

"oh my sweet baby shnookums... because we're nosy, remember?" ellie said proudly. "and abby never tweets shit like that, like she was mental hospital level insane, so i can confirm she doesn't like life that much, let alone appreciate it. she tweets about needing to shit or something."

"so? people can change, you know?" yn tilted her head.

ellie put her hand on yn's shoulder, shaking her head sadly, "she's on meds baby..."

yn just stared at ellie with her mouth open.

"so," clapping her hands, "who do we think it is?" dina asked, already opening her notes app like she was doing something completely logical and serious.

yn stayed quiet, hoping they'd jump to her first, for god knows why. she didn't even like abby.

they did not.

"what about mel?" ellie offered. "she's kinda dumb, no?"

dina hummed. "maybe... but i don't think abby even talks to mel that much. also, doesn't mel have like, a whole ass kid now? don't think abby's into that."

ellie sighed, "you're right."

"what about maya from the gym?" dina wondered.

yn blinked. "maya?"

"she's super hot." ellie exclaimed. "and she definitely has a dumb little sister energy."

"the sister part wasn't necessary..." yn mumbled.

"pretty sure she almost walked into a pull door twice last week," dina added. "that must be abby's type, right?"

yn was beginning to regret letting them in.

"i don't think it's maya," yn muttered..

dina looked at yn with a glint in her eyes. "you got another suspect?" making yn shrug, trying to seem chill. "just saying... it might not even be someone we know."

"or maybe," ellie leaned forward, trying to look intimidating. "it is someone we know and abby's just being sneaky about it." taking a bite out of her muffin, ellie leaned back. "like maybe it's me."

"you?" yn echoed.

"i don't know, i'm cute?"

"you also think there are six continents..."

"exactly! clueless and cute!" ellie grinned, pointing at herself.

"i don't- whatever. i'm still on the maya train, " dina said, staring at her phone like it was supposed to answer her questions. "abby said she was helping her with her like, squat form or something last week. that feels suspicious. also tense."

yn was starting to wonder if, maybe, she was the delusional one. had she completely misread everything? the tweets? the grocery store mishap? the way abby leaned into her? was she desperate for love? pfft. no way.

maybe it was maya. or mel. or ellie with her dumb continent takes.

maybe abby was like that with everyone. maybe yn had just misunderstood because of abby. not because she was desperate, or egoistic.

"okay!" ellie said, standing like she was about to give a powerpoint. "we need to find out who she's talking about. and we can't just ask her because she would just lie. so, we need to catch her off guard. set a trap, perhaps."

"a trap?" yn asked.

"yes," dina said with full confidence. "you'll-"

yn looked like dina had admitted to committing war crimes. "wait. me?"

dina narrowed her eyes at yn, daring her to object. "yes, you. as i was saying... you'll talk to her. casually. and slip in a question like 'oh, haha! so funny. anyway who were you tweeting about?' and then bam! read her face."

"that's literally just asking her." yn stared at dina.

"it's not."

"also- how am i supposed to know who she's talking about by reading her face? will the persons name get spelled out on her face or something?"

dina rolled her eyes. "can you just... i don't know, interrogate her?"

yn stared at them with confused eyes. "you want me to interrogate her?"

"it's not an interrogation," ellie said. "it's... journalism."

"derective work," dina corrected. "consider it for charity, but for two people... and you i guess."

yn buried her face in her hands. "i hate you both."

"you'll thank us when you're her maid of honor." ellie sing-songed.

yn threw a wet wipe at her head.

[glassbxttless]

I'd like chicken and swiss on white, please.

That's all I need, but if the sandwich artist thinks it needs more, I'm willing to try it. 🥰

Since We Were 13

billy knight x fem!reader

word count: 2.3k+

summary: Sandwich Shop Request from wheels-of-despair | You and Billy are best friends going on Holiday— the room you check into isn’t the double bed you booked.

warnings: Doesn’t mention any of the neglect and abuse Billy’s gone through, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. They kiss but that’s about it.

notes: First sandwich order, served hot just for Wheels! This was a lot of fun to write and it’s my first Billy fic! I hope yall love it as much as I do. Big thanks to @prettycalla for reading it over! and more thanks to @peachyproserpina as always for editing!

Hauling your suitcase up the stairs, you’re cursing under your breath about charming old inns and their complete disregard for elevators. Billy’s just a few steps behind you, breathing a little heavier than usual but he’s still smiling, wearing his duffel bag over his shoulder like it’s nothing.

“You want me to get that too?” he offers, reaching out towards your bag without even really thinking about it.

You wave him off, with a huff. He knows you’re more stubborn than an ox, so he pulls back his hand, settling to holding the duffel strap. “Nah. ‘M stronger than I look.”

Billy just chuckles under his breath, that low, warm sound that rumbles out from his chest that you’ve known your whole life. He wants to argue with you— he wants to scoop your bag up like he could carry the burdensome weight— but he also knows better than to push you. You’d probably hit him with it if he tried. So instead, he hovers close enough that the back of his hand brushes your arm every few steps. Each touch makes him dizzy in a way he doesn’t really understand, not after all this time. Not after knowing you for so long. Since childhood. Shouldn’t he be used to you by now? The way you touch, the way you smile, the way you laugh. But he’s not. He doesn’t think he ever will be. When you finally reach Room 6, you jiggle the key in the lock, muttering about sticky doors and good old-fashioned charm. Billy fidgets behind you, as he takes a look about the hall. He’s rocking on his heels, the strap of his bag feeling heavier and heavier every moment, until it felt like it was cutting into his shoulder. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous all of a sudden. It’s you. It’s always just you. And maybe it had something to do with the 7 days you were about to spend together, alone. Usually a group of your mates would split accommodations, but this time— it’s just you and Billy. 

You swing the door open, and then you both step inside. The room is tiny. A shoebox with a door, really— there’s a cracked dresser, a rickety old nightstand, and one bed. One. Only big enough for two people who wouldn’t be trying very hard to keep their distance. A bed made for those not afraid to declare their love to their best friend. Billy freezes when he sees it. His brain short-circuited at the same time as yours. He’s quiet for a second, registering the bed before anything else. He can feel his heart jump straight up into his throat. “I thought you booked a double,” he chooses his words carefully, his voice a little higher than it normally is.

“I did book a double,” you say and sigh, your eyes wide as you scan the room like maybe there’s a second bed tucked behind the dresser. And for a second, neither of you moves from the doorway as you just take in the scene in front of you. Billy’s not stupid. He knows what this looks like. Knows how dangerous this is for him, how much harder it’s gonna be to keep his heart where it belongs— hidden deep in his chest, where it’s quiet and safe. But he also sees the way your mouth twitches, trying to hold back a shaky laugh, and it wrecks him just a little. “It’s fine,” you say finally, tossing your suitcase down with a thud. You two had been driving too long and had climbed too many stairs to go back and fight with the front desk now. “We’ve shared worse.”

Billy nods, a little too fast. He’s glad you’re not looking at him. “Yeah. ‘S fine. Totally fine.” He places his duffel down on the opposite side of your suitcase. And he busies himself with it, pretending he’s looking for something important. A shoe, underwear, t-shirt, anything really. Because in reality, he’s trying his hardest not to look at you— he’s failing, really. But he knows what’ll happen deep inside him if he looks at the way you stretch, your arms over your head, that shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin. God, he’s fucking hopeless. You start changing without much ceremony, turning your back to him. You shimmy out of your jeans and into a pair of flannel sleep shorts. Billy’s brain tries to shut down the thoughts he’s having entirely. Just one look. So he sneaks a glance, just once— he tells himself it’s purely by accident, but somewhere in that brain of his he feels guilty. Perving on his best friend— but the sight of you, casual and soft, in your panties and just so close nearly undoes him. He yanks his gaze away from you finally, his cheeks burning bright. He can feel his neck running hot and the tips of his ears have to be giving him away. He’s fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt like it’s going to save him whatever embarrassment is going to come as soon as you catch him.

But when you turn back around, you don’t tease him. You’re just pulling your sweatshirt on, catching him mid-fidget. His eyes flick up guiltily to yours. “Sorry,” he mutters, throat dry as he pushes his hand through his hair. “Wasn’t… I wasn’t tryin’ to stare.”

You just laugh, a relaxed grin spreading across your face. “Relax, Bill. It’s… It’s just me. Yeah?” You’re the only one that calls him that anymore.

That’s the problem, he thinks. It’s you. The you he’s been in love with since you were thirteen and dumb. Taking on the world on your walks to school, lunchboxes in hand. The you, who was his first kiss because, “It’s good practice, Bill.” The you who let him touch you under your shirt when he talked about wanting to lose his virginity. You’re his dream girl. Always have been. And he’s kept it on lock down for so long, and it’s all threatening to crumble right now. But now you’re both climbing awkwardly onto the bed, staying near the edges like you might catch fire if you get too close. Billy’s wearing a white t-shirt, his sweatpants clinging to his legs. He keeps his hands folded on his chest, eyes trained firmly on the water stained ceiling.

He really can’t remember the last time he felt this nervous around a girl— around you. Sure he’s been through worse, objectively he’s survived worse— his head has been worse than it has been— but nothing makes him feel more like he’s balancing on a high wire with no netting than lying next to you, pretending he’s not head-over-heels in love. A silence stretches between you. It’s heavy and humming, and he feels like he’s about to combust. So he risks a glance sideways at you. You’re already facing him, one hand tucked under your cheek, eyes half-lidded but still awake. He should stay quiet. Keep his mouth closed. He knows he should. But the words slip out before he can even register he’s talking, like they’ve been sitting just under his tongue for far too long. “Y’remember that fair we went to? Two summers back?”

You hum, soft and sleepy, eyes blinking shut before opening them again. “Yeah. We got caught in the rain right outside the funhouse. You gave me that grey hoodie with the hole in the sleeve. S’your favorite.”

Billy smiles, the memory swirling happily in his brain. “You looked ridiculous. Thing was so big on you, felt like it came down past your knees.”

“You looked worse than I did,” you tease gently, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of his hair behind his ear. “You were shivering like you had a chill in your bones.”

Billy chuckles, heat blooming in his chest at your touch. He remembers— he remembers everything about that night. How cold his hands had been when he shoved them in his jeans pockets, how he’d pretended he was just fine in a t-shirt that had been soaked through just because you’d curled up against his side without thinking twice about it. How he’d spent the whole train ride home, dripping wet and telling himself not to fall for you any harder than he already had. “I think—” His voice catches and he sighs. He clears his throat, tries again, it’s now of never. “Think that’s when I realized I was… properly fucked.” 

You turn your head a little against the pillow, peeking at him. The moonlight glimmering over his face and settling over those pretty brown eyes. “Fucked how?”

Billy exhales shakily, turning his head away from you again. He stares up at the ceiling, like the water stains might save him. “Fucked like… in love with you,” he says, his voice so quiet you weren’t sure you would’ve heard it if you hadn’t been listening closely.

The words hang there between you, fragile, huge, and life changing. He braces himself for you to laugh. He expects you to brush it off and say something like we’re best friends, that’s all, because it’s safer that way. Just friends. But you don’t say that and you don’t laugh, instead, after a long— aching pause, you reach across the tiny gap between you and find his hand still pressed against his chest. And you slip your fingers between his.

“I love you too, Billy,” That same sleepy smile toying at your lips as you speak. Your voice sounds a little wobbly, like you can’t believe what you had confessed to either. Billy turns his head, eyes wide and glassy. For a moment, neither of you really dare to breathe. Afraid that you may be dreaming. Then he carefully squeezes your hand and lets out a shaky breath that sounds half like a laugh.

“Can I…” He trails off for a moment, face burning in the moonlight pouring through the window. “Can I kiss you?”

You nod, a bit faster than you’d like to admit. Billy leans in slowly, like he’s afraid this is all some cruel joke. Like if he moves too fast, you’ll come to your senses and he’ll definitely wake up back in his own lonely little bed with nothing but the echo of your words in his head. Your hand tightens a little in his, still pressed against his chest. That tiny, desperate squeeze gives him the courage to close the distance. His nose bumps yours first. He’s clumsy. Too eager. Much like the first time he kissed you all those years ago. He pulls back, heart lurching up into his throat. God he’s gone and fucked this up. But then he hears it, you’re laughing— this soft, breathless little sound— it’s sleepy and lovely and suddenly it’s not embarrassing, it’s just you. He tries again, a smile on his own lips this time. Maybe a giggle of his own slipping between them as he tilts his head more carefully this time. Your mouth brushes against his— a whisper of a kiss, it’s barely even there. Billy’s never really been good at first moves. His hands always tremble too much, his heart stutters, his brain second-guesses every goddamn thing. But with you… even the awkward parts feel okay. Like you know exactly what he’s gonna do before he even does it. And somehow that makes it less awkward.

Your lips are warm against his. They’re a little dry from the cool air. The kiss still feels a little unsure, like you’re both waiting for the other to pull away. But you stay there, your body scooting closer to him. Close enough that he can feel your shaky breath mingle with his. Billy tilts his head just a little more, nudging your nose aside. He fits his mouth more solidly against yours as his hand slips away from yours to cup your cheek in his palm. His lips move against yours slowly, reveling in the way that this may be the best kiss he’s ever shared with anyone. 

And you kiss him back just as slowly— The hand laying at his chest, stroking small circles against the fabric of his t-shirt. You’re learning him, what he likes and what feels nice, one soft touch at a time. And it’s messy in the way that (second) first kisses usually are: your teeth click lightly when you both move at the same time, your noses bump again, and again, and again, and you both pull back for half a second, eyes gleaming at each other in the moonlight as you laugh quietly. You’re breathless, too caught up in one another to care. And then Billy’s forehead presses against yours. He lets out a breath full of relief as his nerves finally begin to calm. He sucks in another breath, holding it in before finally letting out a quiet laugh. He had so much damn love for you in his chest, he doesn’t really know where to put it all.

“Sorry,” he whispers, even though he doesn’t really know what he’s apologizing for. For bumping you? Knocking your teeth? For wanting this so fucking badly he could scream? For being Billy Knight and not someone smoother, better? But you just smile, your eyes are closed now as your foreheads relax together. You lift your hand to place it over the one of his cradling your cheek. Your fingers brush over the back of his hand, turning your head to press a kiss against his palm.

“Don’t be,” you whisper back.

Billy lets out another shaky little laugh. He doesn’t know if he’s ever been happier before, and ducking his head down against your neck, and then he feels you pull him a little closer. Your hands sliding down from his to wrap around his middle. When he lifts his head and he kisses you again, it’s slower. He’s more sure of it. This isn’t a joke. Sure, it’s still awkward— God, he’s still so awkward— but it’s sweet and real and you’re his, even if you haven’t said it. And that’s all he’s ever wanted, ever since he was thirteen.

You.

tags ;; @meetmeatyourworst @getaapologist

[winningmymind]

Part 3 Kevaaron/Andreil based off this aftg au post. Part 1, Part 2

Andrew blankly stares at a yawning Aaron. “Why are you here?”

They're standing in the parking lot. The four of them.

“Night practice.” Aaron tiredly replies, not bothering to mask his yawn. He's lugging an overstuffed backpack full of notebooks and a secondhand laptop.

Immediately, Andrew turns his sharp gaze onto Neil and Kevin, who are pretending to look innocent, idly hanging back a safe distance just in case it all goes south. At least Neil has the guts to look Andrew straight in the face. Kevin just glues his eyes to Aaron's sleepy demeanor.

He offers up his last energy protein bar from his pocket, the one that actually tastes decent, unlike the bland flavors Kevin attempts to urge the Foxes to eat. Aaron absently takes and devours it, unaware or uncaring of Kevin’s tiny prideful smile at the brief grazing of their fingers.

“You two are up to something. Don't like it.” Andrew clocks the strikers in a heartbeat, but doesn't press any further. Not now. He stalks off to the car and the rest of them obediently follow.

In the bleachers, Andrew and Aaron take a seat while Neil and Kevin run through drills. Andrew would usually take a nap or watch the Exy junkies with a bored expression until it was time to go. This time his attention is solely on Aaron, who's sitting a few spaces to the left of him reviewing notes. 

Aaron isn't sparing a single glance at his brother, although he can feel Andrew's demanding stare that they should talk to each other. He's always doing that when Aaron's in the middle of studying nowadays. Another non-verbal cue Bee suggested Andrew do to get Aaron’s attention, a softer way of expressing want instead of his usual rough edges. It both irritates and pleases Aaron.

“What?” Aaron gives in and angles his head to the side.

“You're at night practice, but you aren't practicing.”

“Could say the same for you.”

“I'm the driver. Your excuse?”

“Ask them for the details.” Aaron points at Neil and Kevin running across the court like madmen and then returns his focus on studying.

Andrew doesn’t need to be told twice and stands up, scaling down the bleachers. The sudden movement startles Aaron for a moment, and he watches his twin march like he’s on a mission. Kevin and Neil notice from their peripheral, jogging up to meet Andrew halfway.

“Finally come to join us?” Kevin’s too pumped from adrenaline to remember how foolish that sounds.

“Silence.” Andrew presses a finger to his lips, shaking his head at Kevin's frown. He turns to Neil next, locking eyes with him. “I've warned you once. Don't make me say it again.”

“We haven't even done anything.” Neil wipes the sweat from his brow, lying through his teeth. He didn't think Andrew would catch on so soon.

Kevin nods in agreement, feigning ignorance. “Andrew, you're interrupting training. Either gear up and play or standby.”

“You aren't fooling me.” Andrew tells them, slightly tilting his head in his twin's direction, who shouldn't be here at all. “You two don't talk to what's mine unless I say so. And I never gave permission.”

It's true. On the court and during Wymack's mandated practices, Kevin and Neil are only allowed to talk directly to Aaron in a team setting, or if Nicky’s present, never ever alone. Reason being is that they're not exactly subtle. Every one of the Foxes knows Kevin and Neil have the hots for Aaron and Andrew. Except for, maybe, Aaron. 

He's somehow both bright and dense and completely untrained in realizing someone wants him if not explicitly told. A fact that amazes/annoys Andrew and tickles Nicky silly.

Aaron never picks up on Kevin's favoritism. Nicky's been Aaron's only exposure to guys flirting and coupling up, and since Kevin isn't nearly as flashy or intense or bold, Aaron remains clueless. 

Andrew, however, was able to pinpoint Neil's exact fascination toward him from the special treatment he keeps receiving. Neil always comes to Andrew seeking genuine conversations, not the standard small talk he does with the rest of their teammates, and constantly looks elated whenever he discovers anything new about Andrew like a pirate getting lost treasure.

This day was bound to happen. Andrew just lying in wait, preparing for when the Exy junkies would want more than a runner's high as their fix. Whatever they’re planning, it would get them nowhere in the Minyard twins’ pants, Andrew would make sure of it.

“We didn't abduct Aaron. If that's what you're thinking. He came on his own free will.” Kevin says.

Andrew isn't impressed. “Playing dumb still? You will regret it.”

“Too late for that. Aaron's going to tag along until finals.” Neil shrugs.

Andrew quirks a brow at that. “Exy or exams?”

“Both… I think?”

“You're a dead man walking.” Andrew’s eyes light up dangerously. Neil doesn’t fold.

“Eh, heard it before.” Then Neil’s voice takes on a teasing lilt. “Plus, you wouldn’t want to get rid of me too fast. Not when Aaron and I cut a deal where I look over his math? You know how sensitive he is about his grades.”

Andrew clenches his fists and spins on his heel, leaving Neil and Kevin to return to the bleachers, less he slice them up with his many hidden knives should their conversation continue. Neil and Kevin can practically see the murderous mood he's in. In the time that they were talking, Aaron had made his backpack a pillow and fallen asleep, the protein bar not enough to keep him awake. Andrew sits closer to Aaron's outstretched form like a guard dog, staring daggers in Neil and Kevin's direction.

“Could've gone worse. I'd count this as a success.” Neil’s satisfied.

“Remind me. How is this a success again?” Kevin huffs.

Neil looks at Kevin with wide eyes, like Kevin should be able to read his thoughts and simply get it. That makes Kevin scowl deeply at him and Neil sighs.

“I made a loophole to speak to Aaron without consequences and Andrew cares too much about Aaron to fuck that up, meaning I’ve postponed my death by his hands so far.” Neil explains and then he pokes Kevin in the chest. “Now, it’s up to you to find a way to bypass Andrew’s Don’t-Talk-To-My-Twin rule for us to really woo them.”

“How do I do that?”

“Common ground.”

“Like what?”

“Two words.” Neil holds up two fingers. “Medical history.”

And the intangible light bulb floating above Kevin’s head cuts on, shining brightly like his eyes as Neil's genius comes into fruition. There’s a plethora of documentaries about medicine, doctoring, and diseases that Kevin knows will pique Aaron’s interest for a marathon on a Saturday afternoon or Sunday morning when they’re visiting Columbia. He could get Aaron to laze about with him on the couch for hours, bonding maybe, make it a routine, make it their thing even.

Kevin Day has never been so ecstatic that his and Aaron’s majors smoothly overlap for this to be considered possible.

"I'll distract Andrew. You handle Aaron."

They clack rackets and then get back to night practice drills. 

tagging @icangotwiceashigh @little2nerdy @luadusk @a-had-matter @aceadoxography @emilibs

[starryeyedwolves]

Focus, Black

It started with a crumpled bit of parchment, an ink blot in the corner, and Sirius Black dramatically flopping across the Gryffindor common room couch like a Victorian damsel.

"I'm going to die," Sirius moaned. "It's over. They're going to kick me out. My legacy will be nothing but my face on a warning poster and a failing Charms grade."

Remus didn’t even look up from his book. "Bit dramatic, even for you."

Sirius rolled over, upside down now, head dangling off the side of the couch, hair sweeping the rug like a dark curtain. "Moony, I got a D. A D! You know what that stands for?"

"Don’t care?" Remus offered dryly.

Sirius squinted. “Detention. Doom. Dunderhead—"

"Deserved," Remus said, turning a page.

"You're meant to be comforting, not cruel!"

"You skipped class for three days straight to prank the Slytherins with a self-singing toilet."

"It was a bloody masterpiece and you know it."

Remus sighed, finally closing the book and setting it on the armrest beside him. "Right. Sit up."

Sirius blinked. "What?"

"You want to pass Charms?"

"Desperately."

"Then you're getting a tutor."

Sirius narrowed his eyes. "Who’s the sucker?"

Remus leveled a stare at him.

"No. No way."

"Yes way."

"Moony, I can’t learn from you. You’re… you. You know too much. I’m going to look like an idiot next to you."

"You are an idiot next to me, but that’s not the point. You’ve got two weeks until the next exam. We’re fixing this."

"You’re evil," Sirius grumbled.

Remus smirked. "You’ve no idea."

Day One: Chaos

"Concentrate," Remus said, for the third time.

"I am concentrating!" Sirius shouted, wand aimed at a feather on the desk.

It did not levitate.

Instead, it caught fire.

Remus barely had time to cast a quick Aguamenti before the feather turned to ash and Sirius leaned back in his chair, arms folded.

"See? This is hopeless."

Remus, ever the picture of calm patience, pinched the bridge of his nose. "You’re using too much energy. Your magic’s surging—because you're frustrated. Again."

"I’m always frustrated!"

Remus arched a brow. "Yes, I’m aware."

Sirius blinked at him, then flushed a little, gaze dropping to the desk. "That was suggestive."

Remus didn’t reply, but his lips twitched slightly.

Sirius narrowed his eyes. "You did that on purpose."

"Focus, Black."

"Trying."

"No, you're flirting."

"Can’t I do both?"

Remus gave him the look. The one that meant he was thirty seconds from losing all pretense of civility and locking Sirius in a room with nothing but a stack of textbooks and an anti-charming hex.

Sirius swallowed. "Right. Studying."

Day Three: Distraction

Remus regretted everything.

Sirius sat on the floor, legs stretched out, wand resting in his lap. He was supposed to be reading through the chapter on mid-air magical manipulation. Instead, he was absently transfiguring his ink pot into progressively more ridiculous animals: a pink elephant, a fire-breathing duck, and—currently—a miniature Hippogriff with a taste for socks.

"Do you have any idea what you’re doing to my sanity?"

"Teaching you patience?" Sirius grinned.

Remus stared at him. "You need to pass this class."

"You need to loosen up."

"Sirius."

Sirius leaned back on his hands, face tilted toward the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. "I know. I’m sorry. I really am trying. I just… I can’t focus when you’re looking at me like that."

Remus blinked. "Like what?"

"Like you want to hex me and kiss me at the same time."

Remus turned away, ears burning.

"Am I wrong?" Sirius asked, softer now.

Remus took a breath, measured and slow. "You’re not wrong."

Silence. Then, a quiet, almost shy, "Good."

Remus glanced back.

Sirius was still grinning, but it wasn’t smug this time. It was something gentler, quieter. The kind of smile that didn’t ask for attention—it just was.

"Alright," Remus said. "Let’s try this. You sit. You focus. You get it right. Then… I’ll kiss you."

Sirius blinked. "Wait, what?"

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Reward system. You perform, you get paid."

"Paid in snogs? That’s wildly effective motivation, Moony. You might be a genius."

"Prove it."

Day Six: Progress

The feather floated.

It bobbed gently, hovering midair like a smug little ghost.

Sirius let out a laugh so loud it startled the nearby third-years in the library.

"I DID IT! Moony, did you see that?"

Remus was already smiling. "Yes. I saw."

Sirius beamed. "Well?"

"A deal’s a deal."

Remus leaned in slowly, warm hands curling into the collar of Sirius' robes. The kiss was quick, but real. Familiar. Like coming home. When they pulled back, Sirius looked breathless.

"I want to pass all my classes now."

Remus laughed. "Don’t push it."

Exam Day: Victory

Sirius paced.

Remus waited outside the classroom, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, heart thumping in his chest for reasons that had nothing to do with academic concern.

Sirius burst through the door, hair wild, robes slightly crooked, eyes glowing.

"I GOT AN A!" he shouted. "An A, Remus!"

Remus grinned. "Brilliant, Pads."

Sirius grabbed him by the collar, spun him, and kissed him in front of everyone.

Gasps. Cheers. A giggle from Lily.

Remus kissed back anyway.

Later: The Couch

Sirius lay across Remus’ lap, their books forgotten, the fire crackling beside them.

"Thanks for tutoring me."

Remus ran a hand through his hair. "Thanks for eventually focusing."

"You’re really good at motivating me," Sirius murmured.

Remus smiled. "You're not too bad yourself."

Sirius looked up at him, grey eyes soft and sleepy. "You know, I might purposely fail Transfiguration next week."

Remus chuckled. "Don’t even think about it."

[alltimecharlo]

oh maybe Mack isn't a hockey player but a basketball player with Warriors and Smitty is still with San Jose and they keep getting put together to promote the Bay area

this is so fun!! i'm a sucker for an au <3 fic below the cut :)

Mack has lost track of how many times they've been paired up for these stupid "Bay Area Brotherhood" promotions.

He's not complaining, not really. Any excuse to spend more time around Will is fine by him. It's just—

"Another shoot?" Mack says, shouldering open the door to the studio, basketball duffel slung over one arm. The room smells like fresh coffee and hairspray, bright lights rigged up over a big backdrop that says Bay Area United. "Didn't we just do one of these?"

"We did," Will says, looking up from where he's perched on a stool, hands wrapped around a paper coffee cup. He grins, all bright teeth and crinkled blue eyes, and Mack's heart does something stupid in his chest. "Guess they can't get enough of us."

Mack huffs a laugh and tosses his bag onto a nearby chair. Will's already in his teal Sharks jersey, sleeves pushed up over strong forearms, jeans ripped artfully at the knees. Mack's pretty sure the stylists did it on purpose, made Will look as casually hot as possible.

It’s working. Way too well.

"Alright, fellas," one of the production assistants calls. "We’re just doing some quick promo shots today. Jerseys on, casual vibe, you know the drill."

Mack tugs on his Warriors jersey, smoothing it down over his chest. He doesn't miss the way Will's eyes flick over him, fast and greedy before he schools his expression into something more neutral.

Yeah, Mack thinks, caught you.

They start with some posed shots — arms crossed, back to back, tough guy expressions — but it’s hard to keep a straight face when Will keeps elbowing him, whispering dumb jokes under his breath.

"You look like you're about to beat me up," Will says, barely moving his lips, like he thinks the camera won't catch it.

"Maybe I am," Mack mutters back, smiling despite himself.

Will grins, dazzling and easy, and Mack has to look away before he does something embarrassing like sigh out loud.

The photographer barks out a laugh. "Loosen up, boys!"

Eventually they get told to "act natural," which mostly means leaning on each other and looking like they're best friends instead of— whatever tangled mess they've actually got going on.

"You coming to the Sharks game tomorrow?" Will asks casually between shots, tilting his head toward Mack, their shoulders brushing.

"If you'll leave me tickets," Mack says.

Will's smile softens. "Always."

Mack clears his throat, fiddling with the hem of his jersey. He feels too big and awkward next to Will sometimes, like he’s just this huge lump of a guy, no finesse. Basketball players aren’t exactly built for subtlety. Hockey players are all sleek and fast and sharp-edged, like Will. Like someone you’d chase across a frozen lake.

He’s still thinking about it hours later, after the shoot wraps and they're walking out into the parking lot together, the sun low and warm in the sky.

Will shoves his hands in his pockets, kicking a pebble across the pavement. "You wanna grab food?"

Mack looks over at him, heart squeezing. Will looks so casual about it, like it’s not the best offer Mack's had all week.

"Yeah," Mack says, voice a little rough. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Will beams at him and Mack thinks—

Maybe all these stupid promos are worth it after all.

♡