#but that plot point is real clear from the start

[fixyourwritinghabits]

So I want to write a novel, and I outline my story and write out everything that happens in the outline and I get to the end and it's... Between 20,000 and 40,000 words, usually. Like I can tell a complete story but I have a hard time getting it to the length of a publishable novel, and it keeps happening with different stories I write. Do you have any advice for making a story longer without making it feel like I'm just adding stuff to make it longer?

While I think you have a workable length for a first draft, I can see where your problems lay. Let's tackle what your intended goal is first.

Industry standard (set by traditional publishing) for novels is the following:

Adult novels - 80,000 to 100,000 word count. Many will fall between that range. Sci-Fi and Fantasy novels tend to run higher, but you'll notice Romance, Mystery, and Crime tend to run tighter, closer to 80k. Literary novels (Contemporary and Historical Fiction) can swing up and down that word length. Door-stopper books of 200k can be found, of course, but that's the opposite of what we're dealing with.

YA Novels - Contemporary tends to stick to a tight 80k, but publishing tends to seek longer fantasy novels, sticking to the adult standard of 10k.

Middle Grade (8-11ish year old readers) - 30,000 to 60,000. Most publishers want something in the middle, as MG readers are constantly stretching their reading capabilities.

These are generalizations that are subject to change, of course, but they're good guides to follow when editing. Let's say you want to aim for an adult novel, which means you want to at least double your 40k length. While looking over your work, consider the following:

Does your main character have enough problems?

If your story can be resolved within the 40k mark, you may need to add more complications to their journey. Does their external problem (the outside issues they're dealing with, like losing a job or battling a sentient typhoon) adequately line up with resolving their internal problem (dealing with unresolved guilt, confronting a fatal flaw about themselves, apologizing to that sentient typhoon for leaving them at the altar, etc).

Save The Cat also talks about the Shard of Glass or Unresolved Wound, a deeply internal problem the protagonist has to confront about themselves in order to solve the main problem of the novel. Deepening your character's issues can buff up the need for more words to resolve them. (Not every story has the character 'fix' this issue - many novels are about characters failing to do just that, that unresolved flaw finally dooming them in the end.)

Subplots, Sidequests, and McGuffins

Subplots are their to enrich your novel with elements that contribute to the overall journey. Besides the main problem your protagonist is facing, what else is going on in their life? Do they need to confess a crush to a friend? Is their struggle to control their magical powers tied to a traumatic childhood? Does learning the truth about their family history force them to reflect on their own behavior? A subplot should weave back into strengthening the main story while adding more elements to make it more interesting. It's not as hard as it sounds - the more you think about your character's internal problem, the more you realize they'll need to confess their feelings, confront their mother, or more to resolve that final issue.

By sidequests, I'm leaning into the fantasy element of storytelling, but you'll find this pops up in a lot of stories. A chance encounter in a mystery can provide an essential clue, or stopping to aid someone could lead to a character-revealing moment. Remember, this isn't filler - you're expanding the overall plot by leaning into your world-building to establish essential knowledge about your world, introducing minor characters that can act as aids or obstacles to a problem, or starting an action scene that changes the trajectory of the novel.

A MacGiffin is an object, device, or event necessary to the plot and the motivation of the characters, but typically unimportant or irrelevant in itself. Usually, the MacGuffin is revealed early on, and becomes less important once the storyline is set in motion. You'll see a lot of despairing comments about them, because they often can be used poorly. But MacGiffins are often essential parts of storytelling, a quest that leads your characters astray from what they should actually be doing (and in turn learning about themselves and the problem they need to face instead).

Your character spends half the novel trying to find the missing crown, only to discover it's been fake the whole time. That whole first half of the novel was a waste of time... or was it? By having your characters fixate on the wrong solution, you're exploring what Save the Cat calls "Doing Things The Wrong Way" where the real answer is in digging deep down, confronting that internal problem, and setting down the right path at last. This is where the mid-novel twist of the king being the villain all along, the dragon they're meant to slay for killing the villagers turns out to be a card-carrying vegan. The easy answer isn't the solution, and it's taking the hard path that gets things done.

For Example...

In Jedediah Berry's genre-bending mystery novel The Manual of Detection, the main character is pulled into finding the missing detective he used to write the case files for. As with any good mystery, there's a lot of good side quests - going to a bar only to run into villains that need confronting later, a one-sided rivalry with another detective ends up solving a problem later, etc. A subplot starting the novel where the protagonist goes out of his way to encounter someone at a coffee shop turns out to be an essential character connection later, and the MacGiffin - the Manual of Detection itself - turns out to be more important because of what it lacks.

In Jeff Smith's graphic novel series Bone, in the beginning, the main characters remain blissfully unaware of the true danger hunting them or the secrets of those around them. But the villains too are unknowingly pursuing a MacGuffin, leading to a series of events that will bring about a massive clash - and a confrontation of truths that will lead to the final solution.

And Finally, Maybe It's Not a Novel

I do want to say this might all not be what you need, because your true calling could be to write novellas - a length that varies between 20k to 40k. A shorter story is just as good as a lengthier one. There's a steady market for novellas of multiple genres, so it could be a good thing to look into if this feels like where your writing should be.

[arolesbianism]

Me sitting and watching any oni discussion waiting for an excuse to bring up a seed is planted all like 🤓👉👈

[pitlanepeach]

Reader is secretly married to Lando, and she starts using his sim, she misses him and she wants to feel closer and also really wants to learn (even if she is not ready to admit that she always had a thing for learning how it would feel to be in an actual f1 car). She creates a profile for herself for fun: Mrs Norris (which of course no one thinks it’s actually her). She becomes so good at it that she ends up beating the whole grid one time, and everyone is just wondering who the hell is this person…

👀👀👀👀

Very unrealistic, but well… 😂😂😂😂

Mrs Norris (Oneshot)

Lando Norris x Verstappen!Reader

Summary — It was only supposed to be a bit of fun, but really, what did she expect? Her surname might be Norris now, but she was born a Verstappen.

Notes — This was so fun!!!!!! Em, I will never not appreciate your cute ideas.

Lando had been gone for exactly twelve hours when she caved.

It wasn’t boredom—the Verstappen family didn’t do boredom. Her schedule was packed with gym sessions, influencer brunches, and brand events she had no real desire to attend.

But the apartment felt off without him. Too quiet. Too tidy.

And the sim rig—God, it just sat there. Smug. Taunting. Like it knew she’d eventually give in to its silent, high-tech seduction.

She told herself it was just curiosity. Racing was in her blood, even if she’d had zero interest as a kid. She used to stage silent protests just to get out of karting, sulking until her dad finally let her quit and focus on gymnastics instead.

Still, one harmless session wouldn’t hurt, right?

Just a few laps around Silverstone. Just something to do before bed.

Two hours later, she was red-faced, sweaty, and yelling at an AI Williams for brake-checking her into Turn 1.

She was terrible. Hilariously, painfully terrible.

But she was hooked.

—

By day three, she was watching tutorials, scribbling notes, and fine-tuning the seat and wheel setup like her life depended on it.

She texted Lando under the guise of checking in.

Hey handsome, you okay? Totally random, but what’s the best braking point for Eau Rouge?

He didn’t even question it—just sent a smug voice note with a full breakdown like she was a rookie on his team.

It made her want to destroy his time.

That night, she created a profile.

She debated using her real name, but that was a quick no. The username had to be anonymous… but also funny.

So she picked the most on-the-nose option possible.

@Mrs.Norris

It was meant to be a joke. A bit of fun. She never expected it to go anywhere.

She definitely didn’t expect to get good.

—

Two weeks in, she was holding her own in online lobbies. Four weeks in, she was winning. All of them.

Six weeks in, she entered a public charity sim race and beat George, Charles, and Alex.

The stream chat lost its collective mind.

Who TF is Mrs. Norris???

Actual alien pace.

Lando alt??

Plot twist: it’s Max Verstappen in disguise.

That last one made her laugh so hard she nearly fell out of the rig. The idea that they thought her brother was racing under her married name? Unhinged enough to make her cry.

Then came the text from Lando.

Lando:

Baby, are you using my sim under the username Mrs. Norris?

You:

Yep. And I beat them all.

Lando:

No. Shut up. You did not.

You:

Duh. I might be a Norris now, but I was born a Verstappen.

—

When he finally got home after the triple-header, he walked in to find her mid-race, cursing like a sailor, laser-focused, fire in her eyes.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking.

She crossed the finish line five seconds clear of second place.

Slowly, she removed the headset. Even slower, she turned to face him, cheeks flushed pink.

“Hi,” she said softly, suddenly shy.

He didn’t say anything.

Then he grinned.

“Mrs. Norris,” he drawled, walking over to kiss her forehead, “we are so screwed if this gets out.”

She smiled. “It won’t. They think I’m Max.”

He leaned in, voice low. “You beat my Silverstone time.”

“Your fault for sounding all smug about Eau Rouge.”

He kissed her properly then, holding her like he hadn’t seen her in months.

And neither of them mentioned the way his hands trembled slightly at the thought of her in a real F1 car.

Because if her dad ever found out?

He’d have her in one tomorrow.

[reverieblondie]

Remember Me?

Pairing: ExNerd!Miguel O’Hara X fem!civillainreader

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Smut with Plot, Praise, Unprotected Penetrative Sex (wrap it before you tap it), , Oral, Cowgirl, Missionary. You and Miguel make a mess...

Summary: Miguel has changed a lot since high school, but one thing remains the same...how he feels about you.

A/N: I have been trying to write about Miguel for weeks now! Every time I get close to finishing something for him I reread it and hate it! So I am posting this before I can change my mind! I hope you all enjoy I tried my best!

Word Count: 6,823

“Pfft…I can't believe this is real; this can’t be real!” Gwen keeps repeating herself, trying to stifle back her laughter. 

“I know! I couldn’t believe my eyes when Peter showed me but here it is!” Miles agrees; Pav quickly joins in by slinging his arm around Miles for a better look.   

“Take a look at the specks on him. Did you know he needed glasses?” 

“Flip to the club photo. Now, that will shock you” 

At Hobies request the teens quickly start flipping through pages. The sound of rustling paper and then the sudden bursting of laughter from the small huddle was something Miguel could no longer ignore.

Miguel wasn’t sure why the teens and Peter were in his office. But since the events with the spot and some well-deserved apologies, Miguel, in the teen's words, “Chilled out,” and now they seem to hang out around him more. Meaning they are often in his office… Miguel, of course, tried to appear as indifferent as possible to this change of pace. He had to admit it was somewhat nice to have the cheerful ambiance that came with them... Hell, sometimes they could make him chuckle; Miles was actually pretty funny. But, of course, he keeps these things to himself. 

Miguel makes his way to the huddle to see what could possibly be so enthralling. When he sees what's causing their uproar, his blood runs cold, freezing him dead in his tracks.

Is….that his….yearbook…

It was turned to a picture and plan as the day under his unrecognizable photo was his name. So there was no getting out of this saying it wasn’t him…

“Miguel, is this really you?” Miles questions pointing to the picture. 

“Must be his name right there,” Pav teases, making Miguel groan. This was an actual nightmare. 

Looking over them, Miguel sees the picture they are all questioning; the difference is pretty night and day. A young 17-year-old Miguel who was way scrawnier compared to his now bulking physique. His dark brown eyes were hidden behind his thick black-rimmed glasses, the only ones his mother could afford at the time. Miguel's thick wavy brown hair looks untamed as it hangs down his forehead, threatening to cover his eyes if not for his glasses, the rest hanging loosely down to the nape of his neck. Poor kid was desperate for a haircut. His cheekbones and jaw were still chiseled however but his face was not yet littered with lines of stress, sleepless nights, and age.  

Hobie quickly grabs the yearbook, vigorously flipping through the pages until he stops on a picture of a young Miguel holding up a mathlete trophy, awkward smile and all. “This is my favorite picture. Do you still smile like that, bruv?” 

“How did you all get this?” Miguel ask his irration clear from how he pinch’s the bridge of his nose as if that will somehow stop his building anger. 

Very aware of the sight of Miguel about to rage out, the young spiders quickly part, pointing the blame to a laughing Peter. Who finally quits his laughing fit as now he is staring into the eyes of a very irritated Miguel, waiting for an explanation. 

Peter nervously clears his throat before speaking, “Wel, uh…do you remember a couple of days ago when you told me to drop off that equipment at your apartment? Well…I happened to see this on your living room bookshelf and thought I would look at it. Then I saw how much you had changed…and I figured the kiddos would get a kick out of it…”

Miguel's eyes narrow, and his talons pop out, ready to bounce, but that is quickly descalated by Gwen taking back the yearbook, prepared to negotiate peace. 

“Okay, okay, no need to rip his head off; we will return your book.” Miguel's body relaxes as he sighs with relief. Holding out his hand for the book, but Gwen smirks, pulling the book back out of his reach, “But, you have to show us your old crush first.” 

Miguel’s eyes nearly pop out of his head at the terms of the agreement, and everyone else, including Layla, starts oohing. Making Miguel pitch the bridge of his nose again, muttering under his breath, “Esto tiene que ser una pesadilla…” (this has to be a nightmare…) 

Then, to make things worse, they start chanting, “Show us….Show us…Show us! Show us!!”

The chatting becomes too much, and he snaps, holding out his hand irritatedly for the book. “Fine! I will show you; just shut up!” 

A yay fills the room as Miguel starts flipping through the book as soon as it’s laid in his hand. Everyone waits in bated breath until finally landing on the correct page. It's the page he spent the summer before college staring at, the picture he had agonized over. Miguel pauses, taking in the picture, and he feels those familiar feelings rushing up and swelling in his chest…Those high school crushes do hit you hard…

Even after all these years, he still remembers you so vividly; seeing the picture always solidifies for himself as confirmation as to why he had liked you so much. Beautiful and popular, everyone would only have positive things to say about you, even if your friend group wasn’t as nice. Miguel remembers that sweetness fondly. Though, behind that sweet smile, there was a mischievous side of you; he recalls hearing it hidden in your cooing voice when you would say that pet name during chemistry class… 

“Miggy~”     

The memory warms Miguel's cheeks, but he quickly dismisses the feeling. “There, that's her.” 

The teens quickly grab the book back, climbing over each other to marvel at the picture of the girl the oh-so-scary Spider-Man 2099 had a crush on when he was their age. 

“Wow, she's stunning!” Gwen complements 

Miguel hums in agreement, “Yeah… the prettiest girl in my grade…prom queen, part of the student council, incredibly sweet…, and we took chemistry together…” 

Pav and Hobie shoot Miguel a smirk, and he quickly huffs, folding his arms over his chest. 

“Ever work up the nerve to confess?” Pav questions, ever the romantic. 

The group watches as Miguel closes his eyes, thinking as the blush from earlier slowly rises to his tan cheeks, making them all gasp in excitement. 

“You did!” They all scream, but Miguel is quick to correct them. 

“Well…technically…I didn’t” 

“What do you mean technically?” Miles prys

Miguel can’t believe he admitted this much, but since he's already down the rabbit hole, he might as well give some more context: “At graduation…I kinda did, then I…ran away…”

A look of shock and confusion fills the teenager's faces, but Peter is all grins as he goes to give Miguel a high five: “Ah, the mysterious type. Nice.” 

Gwen quickly swats the older man on the shoulder, earning a whine from Peter. 

“Not nice! That is so confusing! You just ran? Did you ever talk to her again?” 

Miguel takes a second to avoid eye contact, stoically starting to the side, before letting out a quiet, “No…” 

There is a collective groan, and Miguel rolls his eyes, trying to contain his embarrassment. 

“Can we stop talking about this and return to work now?”

“Have you seen her since?” Miles questions, 

“No,” Miguel answers sharply, irritation coming back up.

“Wha-what! How will you ever win her love if you don’t clear up the misunderstanding and confess your true feelings!” Pav laments, making everyone look at him with a raised brow. 

“Pav, mate…you know how long it's been since he's seen her?” Hobie chides 

Pav shrugs slightly, muttering, “Maybe it could be like a romantic thing…” 

“So wait, You have all the resources and never thought to at least search her out? Aren't you curious?” Gwen questions.

“No, I never thought about stalking my old crush. Now, can we please-” 

“She lives in the city!” Miles' voice calls out, making Miguel whip around.

Miles and Layla stand on Miguel's platform with your picture, info, and social media pulled up on his halo screens. Everyone is quick to web over, including Miguel. Miguel quickly pushes away a beaming Miles as he takes in all your information. He sees where you went to college, where you work, and…

“Ooohhh! She's still single!” Pav beams, looking at Miguel expectancy.

Miguel rolls his eyes as he keeps looking at you, still as perfect as he remembered. Somehow, you seem more confident in yourself, you seem…sexier…

Feelings start rising back to Miguel's chest. He hasn’t seen you in so long, and even your pictures still stir something within him. 

“Wow! This is awesome!” Miles beams, pointing to one of the screens 

Miguel, being too lost in your pictures, hasn’t realized what the teens are yammering about until they all start shaking him back and forth in excitement. Then he finally hears it.

“You can see her at your High School reunion! It's coming up in a couple of weeks!” 

Miguel turns his head to the invitation Layla had pulled up. “You got this a month ago but didn’t think you would be interested…. It looks like you will be attending now though!” 

Before he can protest, she is RSVPing, and all the teens are hollering in laughter and giving high-fives. Everything is happening so fast that all Miguel can do is stand there in something akin to a trance. That's until Pav comes up to him with a giddy smile, 

“It’s like density!” 

Miguel groans…he just wants everyone to get back to work…

They really got him here….How the hell did he let them convince him to come here? They even managed to get him to dress up…

Hair in its usually slick back style, slate gray button down that did little to hide his bulk, and black trousers that he thought appeared too tight but Layla had insisted upon.  

Miguel stands uncomfortably off to the side as people he used to know all gather together, chit-chatting about their lives and reminiscing on the good ol days… All while Miguel stays sulking in the corner…Maybe things from high school haven’t changed that much. Well, despite the whole genetic splicing that made him a superhero… and instead of still being the captain of the Mathletes team, he's now the CEO of Alecamax. However, one thing remains the same: When he is in a room filled with all these people from school, his eyes still roam around, trying to find you…

High school had not been kind to a nerd like him. He was 9 inches shorter, and the most important things to him were keeping all A’s, getting into his dream college, keeping up with his favorite comic series, avoiding bullying, and wanting so badly to kiss his crush. 

Miguel vividly recalls all those times in chemistry when you two worked so closely together. Miguel shyly muttering the mixing process while you lean in with stars in your eyes, taking it all in. Miguel never knew if you were interested in what he was saying or if you were trying to get a good grade, but he didn’t care. You still made his cheeks flush and heart race all the same. 

“Then…Whe-when you add fluid B to A, you will get a fizzing reaction…” 

A shaking Younger Miguel tries to steadily pour in the fluids while you watch, leaning in so close he could smell your sweet perfume and look at your glittery glossed lips. 

“Wow! Miggy, you’re so smart.” Your voice would be like sweet honey praising him, and the mere closeness of you to him would make his body feel like it was going to melt. 

“I keep telling my friends I have the best lab partner…” Miguel feels his throat dry as your hand slowly curls over his forearm. Then the bell rings, and Miguel is flustered, packing his things as you smile sweetly and wave goodbye. 

God, you must have been just messing with him, toying with him, knowing he was like a love-sick puppy for you. The worst part, if this was the case, he would have let you…Miguel would have let you toy and bat away at his heart until you felt content with it fully unraveling to you. Pathetic…is that what you thought? Well, if it wasn’t what you thought of him before, it must be what you thought after his pitiful confession…

Miguel thinks back to that night when he last saw you…that all too familiar warmth threatens to take him over, so as he stares down at his drink, he slips back to that moment…

The ceremony had ended, everyone had exited the stadium, and Miguel was taking a second to calm himself in the dark hallway. High school was over, and his life was beginning. He was thinking back on all his decisions for this new chapter. Miguel fidgets with his graduation cap and thinks about what awaits him. Then he thinks about the things he missed out on…

Then your face comes to mind…he had vowed to confess; even if you laughed and rejected him, he wanted to get his feelings off his chest. But when it came down to it, he let his shyness get the better of him and let you slip through his fingers without telling you. This was high school? He was sure to like other girls…but why was this eating away at him so much? Why did he feel so sick to his stomach for not doing this… 

The sound of clicking heels fills the corridor, and like fate, you are walking through the hallway back toward him. Miguel adjusts his glasses, unsure if this is some kind of halustion brought on by self-pity, but no… it was you…

As soon as your eyes locked to his, your lips curled to that all too familiar smile, the one that was so sweet. Then your voice rang that teasing nickname you graciously bestowed upon him.  

“Miggy, what are you doing, silly? Hanging out in the dark…Don’t you want to go celebrate?” 

“Oh…... I didn’t plan to go to any parties… just going to go home and get started on some summer reading…”

The smile that curled on your lips was additive as you stepped closer to his slouching form, “hm…Miggy…always so prepared… I’m going to miss seeing you around so much. I’m sure you're the only reason I passed chem!”  

“No…I am sure you will have more interesting people to talk to than a nerd like me…” 

“Maybe I like talking to nerds like you.” 

The statement made Miguel look up to see you so close to him mischive filling your eyes. He feels like he can’t breathe when he looks at you…

“You don’t mean that…” he chuckles softly.

Then your index finger lifts his chin, and you look at him with sweet eyes, but your tone is stern, “Don’t tell me what I mean…” 

Miguel feels his heartbeat quicken, and his palms begin to sweat. Before he can return to rational thought, he leans into you. 

He so gently cups your cheek with his nervous hands. Brushing his nose against yours, his shaky breath fanning over your glossed lips. Then, your lips finally meet, he isn’t sure who fills the gap but it doesn’t matter.

The kiss was so sweet, and he tried to hold you gently, but he knew you could feel the shaking of his hands and the heat rushing to his face. Everything around you two seemed to fade.

Eyes shut tightly from falling into the depths of the kiss, he finally after a couple minutes pulls away to breathe. Peeking open his eyes, Miguels sees you are breathless, and your face is burning with a deep blush as well. You look so surprised... and he doesn't know what to say or how to explain. 

“I’m sorry…I just had to do that once…” he confessed. Then he ran off… leaving you alone in that dark hallway, scared of what you would say next…

“Miggy!” 

“Miggy!”

“Miguel?” 

Lost in his thoughts, Miguel failed to notice that one of his ex-classmates had been trying to get his attention. Someone must have finally recognized him. Looking up from his cup, Miguel expects to see one of his old mathlete teammates, but as he finally meets their eyes, he feels his heart stop at the sight. 

Looking up at him with that same sweet smile, you look just like he remembers: completely radiant.

“Miguel, that's gotta be you… Do you remember me?” -How could he not remember you?

Miguel feels himself staring as his thoughts run everywhere; what does he say? What does he do? 

“I…I, of course, remember m-my lab partner.” -Okay, a little shaky…But with your face seeming to light up when he says he remembers and your eyes roaming over him, he can’t chastise himself too much for stuttering now. Miguel feels his hands starting to become clammy, and his stomach feels full of butterflies…shit…this feels like high school all over again. 

“I can not believe how different you look!”

“Yeah, late growth spurt and I uh… I started going…to the gym a lot….You though! You still look so beati- uh nice…good you look outstanding…” His mind is running a mile a minute, and he can’t believe how he is acting right now! He's Spider-Man, and he’s acting so nervous?

Smirking, you look as if you could read his mind about how nervous he is, though to anyone with working eyes, it was obvious. 

“You think I look good?” you ask, playful spinning, making Miguel's eyes take in just how tight your dress is. “I was hoping for beautiful…” you smile, giving him a wink. His blood rushes in his veins, and he swallows his suddenly dry throat. 

You could eat him alive…and he would let you…

“Beautiful then, you - uh… you have always looked beautiful…” 

“Thank you, Miguel, you look very handsome.” Miguel feels his heart racing as you step closer. His eyes stay on your confident smile. It teeters on cocky, and Miguel can’t bring himself to hate it…he loves it…

“Though Miguel, I do have to say…I miss the glasses; they were really cute.” 

“I still have some that I wear sometimes,” he says a bit too eagerly. 

Your smirk widens, “Really? Does your girlfriend like them?” 

“Oh, I don’t have a girlfriend.” 

The smirk on your lips borders on sinful “Good…” You purr 

Miguel feels a wave of electricity shake through him. Are you flirting? Miguel can’t help the smile and blush that's now reached to the tips of his ears. Miguel came here thinking that you wouldn’t be here, and if you were, you would be avoiding him, but he didn’t expect this. Do you even remember it? Well, of course, you would! Who forgets getting kissed, and then the person runs? He needs to apologize before he never sees you again. 

“So Umm…I am glad I got to see you, well other than it’s just nice seeing you…but I want to apologize…” 

“You’re talking about graduation.” Your cheerful voice cuts him off and utterly confuses him. Furrowing his brow, he’s lost and hoping you can explain. 

“Miguel, I liked the kiss…I wish you wouldn’t had run away…” 

Miguel is sure he’s died, and there is no possible way you're saying this to him. Sweet, perfect you, liked when he kissed you. Nerdy awkward him? Gently, Miguel feels your hands touching his chest, slowly dancing your fingertips over his muscles. Miguel hopes you can’t feel the way his heartbeat is racing right now. 

“You know, now that I really think about it…you owe me an apology or something. It was very rude of you to kiss me suddenly and then run away like that, teasing me. Then, when I went to reach out to you, you didn't have any socials. That's not very nice to do, you know…”  

Your hand slightly grazes his jaw, and he feels like he could melt. Rising to your tiptoes, you try to whisper in his ear as you lean into his chest, your chest rubbing against him. Miguel can feel himself starting to break in a sweat. 

“I thought you were sweet…” 

Miguel feels you start to pull away, and in a moment of bravery or desperation, he carefully places his hands on your waist. Leaning down, he whispers back to you. 

“Could I make it up to you somehow?” 

“I have an idea…if you're up for it?”

Gathering his confidence, when he sees your smile, he squeezes your sides slightly, “Anything you want.” 

Without any hesitation, you grab his large hand from your waist and pull him along with you to slip out of the reception room into a dark hallway. The irony is not lost on either of you as you grin and pull each other close. Your lips are so close to his as you lean into his chest. 

“You're not going to run away this time. I want you to do this properly…”

Part of Miguel feels like he could be dreaming; your arms are wrapped around his neck, your fingers tangled in his hair, smiling at him so sweetly. Your eyes are one of pure hunger, and your voice is so transparent with your want. It’s perfect. 

Miguel brushes his thumb over your tempting lips, slightly dragging the bottom down while he tries to archer himself back to reality. Moving his hand to your neck as he leans in and kisses you. Your lips are soft and perfectly guiding against his. Miguel's hands fall to your hips; he digs his fingers into the plush of your skin, making you gasp into his mouth with a moan. It’s been a long time since he’s kissed you, and he wants to make sure you know how much he wants you… trying his hardest to impress you. 

The fingers in his hair tighten to a fist as you guide him to part his plush lips, then slip in your tongue to get a taste of him. It’s gentle at first but quickly heats up from your eager influence. Then you start straddling his thick thigh, grinding slightly against him. Both your bodies feel like you’ve been set on fire in a blazing flame of want. 

“Miggy, I always liked you…just-”

Before you can finish your words, Miguel drives his tongue back into your mouth, eager to taste those words he had always wanted to hear. His hands cup your ass as he drives his knee deeper between your legs, letting you use him more. Breaking the kiss, you let out the most perfect moans as your body tingles and shivers. Miguel hasn’t had enough of you yet as he keeps his mouth kissing against your flushed skin. His tongue rolls over your rapid pulse as you keep grinding and mewing for more. 

“Fuck, miggy~”

Miguel licks a long strip up your neck before grunting in your ear, “I… I only came here… to see you…t-talk to you…” 

His rough words make you grind against him more, and right as Miguel starts to feel your slick soaking through his pants, you pull his hair, successfully pulling a whimper from him, which is quickly cut off by your soft lips to his again. Then, as you pull away, you bite his bottom lip, which makes him shiver. 

“Can…can I take you home…” Miguel asks breathlessly, his hands still squeezing your ass. 

A small giggle leaves your kiss-bitten lips as you take a second to fix his now-disheveled hair, thanks to you. 

“Take me to your place, Miggy; you still owe me…” 

Miguel feels a rush of excitement run through him, making his length throb at your words. You really are going to eat him alive…

It's the perfect sight he’s only ever dreamed of seeing, you sitting on his large bed completely naked, a sweet smile on your face, soft legs crossed over each other, waiting patiently for him. Miguel adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose…you had insisted, and he’s finding he can’t deny you…

Miguel slips off his underwear, kicking them away. Your eyes widen as you see his massive length slap against his abdomen, then hanging heavily. Your eyes rake over his immaculate form; the sight of you licking your lips isn’t lost on him. 

“Strip for me, Miggy,” you had taunted as you dropped your dress with little effort, waiting for him to follow. Of course, he did. He would follow anything your sweet voice commands. Just please…let him touch you…

Running his hand through his hair, Miguel approaches you, but your sweet voice tuts to him in disapproval, and he pauses. 

“No walking, I want you to crawl on your hands and knees…please? Miggy~” 

Every time you use that old nickname, he feels his cock twitch. Keeping his now blazing eyes on you as he slowly sinks to his knees and begins to crawl to you obediently. The action is meant to make him look submissive, but you find that even now, he looks like a predator getting ready to devour its prey… The shiver that shoots down your spine goes right to your sex, making you drip down on his sheets. 

As Miguel crawls closer, you unfold your legs, stretching one out slowly toward him. His large hand immediately catches your ankle. Hungry eyes look up at you, blazing with want, as his hand slowly caresses up your leg. Miguel's lips kiss softly against your calf while he whispers faint words under his breath after every kiss. His eyes watch you as he slowly raises your legs, the back of your thighs being pressed against his broad shoulders.  

Miguel's hands grab your hips, making you slip a moan. His eyes turn softer as he hears you keen, his lips coming away from the fresh mark he's left on your inner thigh. Miguel's lips part to apologize, but you're quick to interrupt before he can. 

Leaning forward, you push his glasses back into their proper place and caress his cheek. “You're doing so well for me, Miguel…though…It does feel like you're trying to make me beg… Are you trying to tease me?” 

Miguel's lips curl into a smile as he lowers his face to lick his tongue against your clit. You throw your head back at the hot contact, Miguel groaning at the sweet taste of your cyprine. 

“I wouldn’t dream of teasing you…” Miguel's lips lower down to your clit agin before he gives it a quick lick. 

Unable to help yourself, you grab a fist full of his hair, making him let out a soft groan, “Then devore me, Miggy; you still owe me, remember? And I-Ah!~” 

Before you can finish your taunting, Miguel is driving his face into your wet sex to selfishly devore more of you. Long slow licks of his warm tongue send waves of pleasure to flood your body as your toes curl from every push of his nose to your clit. 

His breaths for air huffing against your quivering sex, the tip of his tongue darting back to lick against your soft folds, making you whine. Looking down at him, his glasses crooked and hazy and his groans continue to vibrate through your pussy. Then the sensation of his tongue probing you open makes you close your thighs against his head and grab this thick hair, pulling hard enough for a grunt to slip through his chest. Getting the message, Miguel moves his tongue to lick your sensitive clit as his finger slips into you. Your grip on his hair gets tighter as you squirm, grinding your hips against his face, mouth hanging open as your chest heaves moan after moan. Your body starts shaking at the addition of another finger, making you feel jolts of pleasure that make you need to roll your hips onto his face more. 

Miguel could carless at the apparent use of his face for your pleasure; it's all he craves right now, your cum to dip all over his eager tongue. For your hips grind onto his face for hours. He would stay on his knees worshiping you like this until you're calling out from too much pleasure, and even then, he doesn’t know how he could pull himself away from your delicious taste. 

You feel him groan into you, the vibrations rushing through you to cause you to gasp and shiver as his tongue keeps sliding in and out of you, desperate for your sweetness. You want more, need more, you crave it with every roll of your hips; you want him in you deeply. Unclenching your thighs from his head, you pull his hair, forcing his face from you with a wet pop. 

Miguel's eyes are blown as he keeps them steady on yours, his full lips parted and panting. The sight of his face glistening with a mix of his saliva and your arousal is sinful and complete perfection. His poor glasses are resting on his face, still lopsided from his ravenous pursuit to taste your cunt. Leaving forward, you keep a smile as you hold his cheek; he immediately melts into it. Grabbing his glasses from his head, you toss them to his nightstand; before he can say anything to you, you're leaning forward to bring him into a kiss. His lips and tongue are laced with you, and you can’t help but want to giggle as he groans and leans his whole body onto you, so needy for more. 

With a gentle push to his massive chest, you can change the positions as you now straddle his hips effortlessly. You are slowly running your hands up and down his chest and abdomen, feeling his hair decorating his skin, making your mouth water. As you shift yourself up, you feel his swollen length hanging heavily as you nudge against it. The tip is hot and already pebbling with glistening pre-cum, straining for you to envelope around him. Reaching down, you flick your eyes from his eyes to his length. 

Miguel sure has changed over the years, but his face is so breathless and furrowing with every strained pleasure as you slide your thumb over his cocks slit. Whining so softly, sounding like the sweet nerd you remember. On the other hand, Miguel is witnessing you in a way only his mind had fantasized about. Your smile is no longer so sweet but devious; He wants to push his cock into you so deeply and have you shudder and scream while you gush all over him, But this teasing and taunting… it's mouth-watering. 

Touching his length, you feel the sheer heat of it as you carefully trace over the soft skin, feeling every vein. Tracing over the red weeping tip, you feel him shudder and mumble something under his breath as you grasp him to hold against you, seeing that he measures to your stomach. You can't help but bite your lip in anticipation of the stretch. 

Your eyes flick back to Miguels, “Think it will fit?” you tease.

“I will make it fit…” his rough voice sends a shiver down your spine. 

Lifting to your knees, you line up his tip to brush on your clit, making you gasp as you slip him through your folds. Then finally, you slip him in slowly, feeling his cock stretch your fluttering hole; the stretch is intense and makes you roll your eyes as your back arches. Miguel grabs your ass tightly, bucking his hips to sink in a bit faster; he pants a sorry as you let out a moan and squeeze your hands on his chest for support. Looking down at his beautifully blushing face, you only smile as you sink deeper. 

“So eager, Miggy~” 

All Miguel can manage is a smile as he works hard to keep himself from bottoming out immediately. He so badly just wants to shove it in deeply and rut into you like a damn animal. A groan builds in his throat as he tries to keep himself from whimpering as you continue to sink so slowly. His cock throbbing and stretching your walls as it heats your insides. Before he can manage a whine, you sink all the way down, taking every inch; before either of you can moan, you lean down to catch his lips in a needy kiss, taking control you guide him, your tongue pushes past his lips to taste his groans. While his tongue eagerly does the same. Pulling away from the kiss, you grind against him, relishing in the feeling of his cock pushing in deeper and his trimmed hairs tickling your sensitive skin; you can’t help but bite his bottom lip to compensate for the mind-numbing feeling. 

Miguel's hands squeeze harder, making you release his lip as your cunt to clenchs on him, the moan of his name dropping from your lips as your hips start to grind on him at a slow pace. Using your hands, you slightly push yourself up and rock your hips back and forth, letting his cock slide to bully your gummy insides, brushing your cervix with every nudge. Miguels is mesmerized as he roams his hands over your body, worshiping every inch of your skin with his careful fingertips brushing and rubbing you so tenderly. His hands come to your breast, where he takes a minute to squeeze and pinch your nipples, your whimper in response, and grind harder against his cock, pushing him to rub harder against your cervix.

“You look s-so fucking beautiful…your body, your…tatse…I’ve never stopped thi-thinking of you…” Miguel mutters through pants of hot breaths. 

The words spur you on, and you start to pick up your pace, making him moan out and guide your hips to rock back and forth faster, “Always so sweet…” you coo to him…the words are less taunting but just true; he has always been sweet to you…

“Only for you…” he muses, and you can’t help but smile, 

“Good…” 

You feel yourself starting to sip from having a clear head that's now blurring in a haze of lust as you continue to pursue your pleasure on his girth. Pushing in and out on him quicker. Your hands grab onto him tighter as you ravish your tight pussy with his throbbing cock. Begging for both his and your release. Fucking so deep in you, now your jaw falls slack as his cock keeps pushing against your velvety sweet spot, making jolts of pleasure pulse through your body with every bounce. 

The sweat that has built on your bodies works hard to try and cool your fevered states, but with every push into your cunt and with every clench around his length rousing him to go deeper makes it all in vain. There is no cooling as you two approach your white hot release, bodies only growing more hot and sensitive with every whine and every mind-numbing push. So close to tipping the other to ecstasy…

With a couple of aided thrust from Miguel fucking up into you, your muscles tenase and your mouth falls open in a pitched scream of his name as your danm burst making you clench and shudder on his cock, coming undone on top of him. You're quivering on his length as he carefully grinds you through your drenching pleasure, the feeling of his cock slipping deeper as you eagerly ride him through your high. 

With the way you clench so tightly and grind faster, Miguel couldn't help but feel himself throb and spurt right into your cervix. The feeling of it spurting so thickly, his cock pulsing inside of you, feeling so heavy in you with each twitch. This cum is hot and fills you so that it's leaking down mixing with your arousal, creating a sticky mess. You can't help yourself when you side on more and more feeling your cunt want to stick to his skin. 

Haze starting to clear you fall forward on him, you try to catch your breath in between placing frantic kisses to Miguel's chest and neck. Your orgasm leaves you utterly satisfied, but Miguels is not done…

With a quick turning over your body, you're lying on your back now as Miguel situates himself between your legs. He takes time to look over your flushed form, his massive hands dragging over your sensitive body, and you shiver and buck your hips up. Miguel takes your legs, pushing them up to your chest, making your mew from his touch, your pussy completely exposed to him. Miguel feels his breath catch as his cum leaks out of your trembling puffy cunt in milky drops. Miguel releases one of your legs to fall to his shoulder so he can plam his cock, still erect and ready for more. His red eyes flick back to your blisted-out face, and though you're at the point of overstimulation, you still ache for more. 

“M-Miggy…” you're the one to tremble shyly for him now, and the switch of the roles makes him fold. He’s helpless for you…

Leaning down carefully, Miguel cages you between his massive arms as he places a gentle, sweet kiss on your begging lips. Breaking the kiss, he whispers in your ear so softly, “More? Can you give me more? Perfect girl…let me feel you again…please…” 

Wrapping your arms around his neck, feeling his damp skin, you buck your hips up in your whine of, “More, Please, Miggy ah—I need more of you, always. You are so good to me.” 

He catches your hips in a quick grip as he lifts them up, smiling; it's everything he has ever wanted to hear from your sweet lips. And he is always eager to satisfy you. 

Miguel slips his cock into you with a groan; you're already so sensitive as he pushes down to the base, filling you so quickly that your body already starts quivering around him. Pressing soft kisses to your sweaty skin, he rolls his hips slow and deep. He is taking his time with you. Every thrust is hot and tingling, and you feel that familiar tense starting to build up again from the consistent pace he's set. Managing to open your eyes through moans and rolls, you see Miguel with beautifully flushed cheeks, eyes filled with want as he softly pants and whimpers with each clench of your wet cunt. 

As his pace quickens, you feel him throb, giving you new resolve to meet your hips with each thrust, and your core starts to burn deliciously. Your nails find their place, digging into his broad back. Every slap of his balls to your overly sensitive skin makes you moan and throw your head back. Miguel takes the opportunity to kiss and lick against your neck, his hot breath rushing over you. With a final clench and strained moan, you feel that white-hot wave of pleasure burn through you; his body shudders at the feeling of your cunt, so desperate to cum against him to milk him dry again. His groan borders on a whine as his hips are still, and you feel that familiar throbbing against your cervix as his thick cum fills you up. Looking up at him, you watch his face contort to be in complete pleasure; the sight of it is completely addicting. 

Staying in you till you are both down from your highs, he slowly pulls out his softening cock. The pooling of both of your cum completely ruins the sheets underneath you, but Miguel doesn’t worry about that. He brushes stray hairs from your face and whispers he will be right back. You're too exhausted to move, and you can only twitch slightly as you feel a cool cloth cleaning you up so gently. 

After cleaning you up, you feel the bed sink beside you and the feeling of an arm around you, bringing you closer to his warm body, his other hand brushing through your hair so carefully. You gather your energy to curl into Miguel with a broad smile. You two lay there, slowly drifting away in each other's comfort. 

Clearing his throat, Miguel tries to be as unawkward as possible, and it only manages to make you smile more; you two just had amazing sex, and he’s still nervous; some things die hard, you guess. Looking up at him, you see he’s trying to gather up the best way to approach his next words; this night has been everything he hoped, and he doesn’t want to blow it now, but he needs to know the answer to his question, 

“Can-can I…take you out on a date?” 

His face is completely sincere and flushed; you have to bite back your giggle before you answer. 

“Miggy, about time you asked…” 

You two set the date up for the next night; Miguel, of course, wore his glasses…

[frailsituation]

Tips for building immersive plots

1. Start with your core idea

• Every plot begins with a spark—a question, a concept, or a character. Build from that seed.

• How? Ask, "What excites me about this story?" and focus your energy there.

• Example: A story about a magical curse could explore themes of redemption or betrayal.

2. Brainstorm freely

• Don’t start by thinking about structure. Instead, write down every idea you have—plot points, character traits, world details—without judgment.

• How? Use mind maps, lists, or “what if” questions to expand your ideas.

• Example: “What if two rival kingdoms were forced to unite to stop a shared enemy?”

3. Map out key events

• Divide your plot into beginning, middle, and end, and identify major turning points. These events should shape the character’s journey.

• How? Use the three-act structure, or simply think in terms of setup, confrontation, and resolution.

• Example:

Beginning: A thief steals a sacred artifact.

Middle: The artifact begins to curse them, forcing them to seek help.

End: They must choose between keeping the artifact’s power or destroying it.

4. Plan with cause and effect

• Immersive plots follow logical progression. Ask yourself: “What happens because of this event?” for every key moment.

• How? Make sure each event impacts the characters or world.

• Example: A hero saves a village → the village leader reveals a secret about the hero’s past → this drives the hero to confront their estranged parent.

5. Flesh out your subplots

• Subplots add depth and make your world feel real. Tie them to the main plot for maximum impact.

• How? Use subplots to explore secondary characters, add emotional stakes, or introduce twists.

• Example: While on a mission to defeat a villain, the hero struggles to repair their broken friendship with their ally.

6. use story beats to stay organized

• Break your story into smaller moments: inciting incident, midpoint twist, climax, resolution.

• How? Write one sentence for each beat to outline the flow of your story.

• Example:

Inciting incident: A cursed item bonds to the protagonist.

Midpoint: They discover the curse is tied to a powerful enemy.

Climax: They must sacrifice their freedom to destroy the curse.

7. Think of immersive twists

• Twists keep readers engaged and make your story unforgettable. They should feel earned, not random.

• How? Ask, "What would surprise the reader but make sense in hindsight?"

• Example: The mentor helping the hero turns out to have caused the conflict in the first place.

8. Build emotional stakes

• Plot isn’t just about events—it’s about how those events affect your characters. The stakes should feel deeply personal.

• How? Tie the plot to your protagonist’s fears, desires, and growth.

• Example: A hero who’s afraid of failure is forced to lead a mission where the cost of failure is catastrophic.

9. Create a planning routine

• Writing immersive plots takes time and refinement. Set aside regular sessions to brainstorm, refine, and test your ideas.

• How? Use tools like storyboarding, sticky notes, or apps like Scrivener to organize your ideas.

• Example: Start each session by reviewing your previous notes, then tackle one section of your plot.

10. Test your plot

• Once you’ve mapped out your story, summarize it to see if it holds together. Does each event flow logically? Are the stakes clear?

• How? Share your outline with a friend or writer’s group for feedback.

• Example: “A reluctant hero must destroy a magical artifact to save their world, but doing so will cost them their memories.”

Follow for more!

[sunderwight]

SV fic where Luo Bingge discovers that Shen Jiu had a long-lost half-brother or something, and subsequently decides that he's going to infiltrate the minor sect which this "Shen Yuan" belongs to in order to get close to him and then indulge in revenge fantasy 2.0 when it inevitably turns out that Shen Yuan is like Shen Jiu (i.e. a horrible abusive scum teacher).

So Bingge uses some magical object or technique or other, makes himself look like a scrawny 12-14 year old, then puts himself in Shen Yuan's path in hopes of convincing the man to take him on as a disciple. The idea being that after Shen Yuan abuses him, Bingge will be justified in reenacting his Shen Qingqiu Revenge Arc again and maybe finally feeling some closure about the whole thing.

Yes, this is a very deranged plan. No, no one is going to tell the emperor of the three realms that. Bingge also wants it to be clear that this has nothing whatsoever to do with his recent escapade in an alternate universe, except that he was inspired to find Shen Jiu's relative as a consequence of that. But he's absolutely sure that this guy is going to turn out just as rotten as his brother, given the opportunity. That is definitely the only reason he is doing this!

Flash forward about four years. Bingge's retainers are begging on their knees for him to actually come back and do some administrative work. The harem is running itself at this point and they're all very terrified of the situation with Liu Mingyan and Sha Hualing (i.e. ruling with lesbian iron fists) and whatever the heck Ning Yingying is up to (no one is certain but it's something). The outer provinces are rebelling. Mobei Jun's somehow found another weird human surnamed Shang to cavort with, except this one is basically running admin for the entire northern kingdom now and no one's even sure if they're fucking or if it's some kind of mind control situation or what.

Bingge is annoyed. He doesn't have a good explanation for why a bunch of demon lords would be showing up on the doorstep of Tiny Cultivation Sect to beg him for anything. They're going to spoil his cover! And they're interrupting his schedule! It's already four o'clock and he hasn't started on Shizun's dinner yet! Shoo! Get lost!

Anyway, eventually some of his demon followers get desperate and dramatically kidnap him. Shen Yuan is horrified and grieved when it seems that his precious disciple, so like white lotus Luo Binghe from the novel, has been captured by demons. He tries to track the assailants down, but they've covered their tracks too well. In the end, there's only one path left to him to pursue: taking this matter to the protagonist!

Yes, the protagonist! Because the thing is, Shen Yuan noticed the similarities between his disciple and the book character he so admired. Not only that, but he did manage to glimpse Bingge one time from afar. It wasn't anywhere near to a real interaction, but it was enough for him to notice the strong resemblance between the protagonist and the mistreated little lamb who showed up at his doorstep. A resemblance for which there can only be one explanation:

Shen Yuan's disciple is one of Binghe's kids!

Yes, he had it figured out since fairly early on. Not only was there a resemblance, and not only were their dispositions quite similar, but also the boy showed a lot of signs of some demonic heritage. Shen Yuan was just working up to broaching the subject, partly because he had been trying to avoid any direct or even indirect interactions with the emperor, and partly because he... became somewhat reluctant to part ways with his student. Sue him! He got attached! And anyway, he knew how missing child plots usually went. There was probably someone in the harem who was out for his disciple's blood, and it wouldn't be safe to send him back into that mess until he was strong enough to look after himself.

But as is inevitable, the plot seems to have reclaimed Shen Yuan's student all on its own.

He just... needs to make sure that it isn't a tragic outcome. It seems it falls on him to make the emperor aware of his son's survival, and subsequent peril, and help launch a rescue!

Which also means approaching Luo Binghe in person, which he knows is very risky indeed, due to his connection to the infamous Shen Qingqiu! He'd been avoiding the protagonist at all costs for that exact reason.

But if it's his only hope of rescuing his disciple, he will simply have to take the risk, and hope that enough time has passed that Luo Binghe doesn't read too much into a shared surname and a passing resemblance. Or that restoring the emperor's long-lost son to him will be worth seem lenience for the crime of being connected to Shen Qingqiu. Maybe if he's lucky, he will even be allowed to continue visiting his disciple! (Ha, yeah right! More likely, Luo Binghe's going to take his head for hiding his own kid from him for so long!)

Anyway, cue Luo Bingge running around swapping between his Emperor and Disciple forms, dramatically trying to orchestrate a situation where he can fake the emperor's death and go back to the sect with Shizun as his disciple, or something, only for it all to blow up in his face because Shen Yuan keeps flinging himself between Bingge and potentially fatal threats that could plausibly kill him???

[psformybss]

i have a request for actress!reader and drew doing hot ones versus for maybe, a promotion of their movie/show

i think the banter between them would be hilarious and just making fun of each other for not being able to handle spicy wings, etc. 😭😭😭

thank you so much 🫶🏻

Burning Questions

drew starkey x actress!reader

a/n: i feel like i could have made this more chaotic, i lowkey struggled coming up with banter for this and idk why like it’s usually so easy for me to come up with it.

You’re already side-eyeing the tray of wings like they owed you money. The sauce is an aggressive shade of red—borderline criminal, honestly—and you swear it’s steaming.

“I just want to state for the record,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the tray like it’s cursed, “that I was bribed into doing this.”

Drew, far too smug for someone minutes away from culinary agony, just shrugs. “You love me.”

You scowl. “You said we were going to a cute little interview. You didn’t mention death by Buffalo.”

He grins. “What’s a little mutual suffering? Builds character.”

“Character? I have enough trauma, thanks. I don’t need hot sauce-induced hallucinations on camera.”

Drew stretches his arms out like he’s prepping for a boxing match. “C’mon. You’ve survived worse.”

“I survived you forgetting my birthday last year. That doesn’t mean I want to relive the trauma with capsaicin.”

He places his hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “I didn’t forget. I was just… building suspense.”

You deadpan. “You sent me Venmoed me hundred dollars with a chili pepper emoji and said, ‘Get yourself something spicy.’”

“Which is… weirdly relevant now, huh?”

You glance at the wings, then back at him. “If I throw up, I’m aiming for your shoes.”

“Fair.”

A production assistant claps the slate and nods. “Rolling.”

Drew sits up straighter, suddenly chipper. “Hi, I’m Drew Starkey.”

You wave lazily. “And I’m a hostage.”

Laughter erupts behind the camera. Drew smirks.

“She’s just mad because I’m gonna outlast her.”

“You’re going to cry on wing two and start calling your mom.”

He points at you. “You say that now.”

You arch a brow. “I say that with confidence.”

You both have five wings. He’s already eyeing his like he’s trying to calculate the scoville units with his brain.

He reaches for the first card and offers it to you like a gentleman.

You snatch it. “Oh, how kind. Chivalry isn’t dead—just bleeding out.”

You clear your throat, affecting a game show host tone. “First question: What was your real first impression of me?”

Drew doesn’t even hesitate. “Dangerous. Unreasonably attractive. Looked like you’d break my heart and then frame me for it.”

You blink. “That’s… shockingly accurate.”

“You gave me the dirtiest look at the Season 1 table read.”

“I had a migraine and you were ten minutes late.”

“I was getting a coffee!”

“And I was plotting your demise.”

He shrugs. “It was love at first threat.”

You sigh dramatically. “God, we’re insufferable.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m delightful.”

You roll your eyes. “Next.”

He picks a card. “What’s something I do that drives you absolutely insane?”

“Oh, do we have time for this?”

He winces. “Oh no.”

You lean in. “You hum when you brush your teeth. Aggressively. Like, there’s toothpaste foam flying everywhere and you’re just vibing to Coldplay like we’re not living in a horror movie.”

He clutches his chest. “That’s a sacred routine.”

“It’s a nightmare. One time you hit a high note and scared the neighbor’s dog.”

He’s laughing too hard to argue.

You pick the next card, eyes gleaming. “Ooh, game time. Rock-paper-scissors. Loser eats a wing.”

Drew rolls his neck. “I was born for this.”

“You were born to suffer.”

You raise your fists.

“Rock, paper, scissors—shoot!”

You throw paper. He throws rock. You smirk. “Ah. The taste of victory.”

Second round: draw.

Final round: you throw scissors, he throws paper.

You clap. “Welp. Bon appétit, babe.”

He stares at the wing like it insulted his mother.

“Is it too late to renegotiate the rules?”

“Eat the wing, lover boy.”

He sighs, lifts it with ceremony, and takes a bite.

Immediately, he blinks. “Nope. Nooope. That’s not food. That’s violence.”

You burst out laughing.

“My tongue is fighting for its life,” he wheezes.

“You’re doing great, sweetie,” you say through a grin.

He swigs milk like it’s holy water.

Next card. “What’s my go-to hangover food?”

You don’t hesitate. “McGriddle. Two hashbrowns. Black coffee. Judgment.”

He nods, impressed. “Wow.”

“I have to watch you eat it like a raccoon every time you go too hard on karaoke night.”

You grab the next card. “Impersonation challenge. Whoever laughs eats a wing.”

Drew immediately pretends to toss his hair and raises his pitch. “‘I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed… and also mad.’”

You press your lips together.

“‘Let’s get a matcha and talk about our feelings until I convince myself I don’t have any.’”

You glare.

Then drop your voice. “‘Hey, I’m Drew. I pretend I’m emotionally stable, but I cried watching a CeraVe commercial.’”

He loses it.

“It was wholesome!” he chokes, already reaching for another wing.

You smirk as he takes a bite—and immediately chugs milk again.

“Oh my God,” he groans. “Why does it linger?”

You read the next card. “What’s something you’ve never admitted about us publicly?”

He leans back, still wiping his face. “That I knew I liked you before we even finished filming Season 1.”

You pause.

He shrugs. “You called me a ‘bland Hemsworth’ in front of the entire cast and I was like, ‘Yep. That’s her.’”

You shake your head. “You’re so emotionally weird.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He fans his mouth. “Okay, next. Favorite moment on the Outer Banks set?”

You light up. “The boat day. When JD pushed Rudy in and everyone panicked.”

“Oh my god—yes. I forgot about that. You slipped and screamed like you got shot.”

“You’d scream too if you fell flat on your ass in front of thirty crew members.”

He nods. “Fair enough.”

He pulls another card. “Favorite line your character’s ever said?”

You grin. “‘You touch my brother again and I’ll bury you with your boat keys.’”

“Iconic.”

“Yours?”

He grins. “I like the unhinged ones. ‘You’re not built for this.’ So dramatic.”

You snort. “It’s the delivery. You always sound like Rafe just got rejected from a school play.”

He shrugs. “Maybe he did.”

Next question. “What’s my comfort movie?”

“Kill Bill. Volume 1.”

“I’m honestly worried about how well you know me.”

“You shouldn’t be. I have a whole list.”

He pulls out a card. “Trivia round. Miss one, eat a wing.”

You crack your knuckles. “Bring it.”

“What was my first job?”

“Movie theater.”

“Okay… what actor made me want to pursue film?”

“Jake Gyllenhaal. You say it constantly.”

“Alright. What’s my mom’s favorite cake?”

You tilt your head. “Carrot. From that one bakery in Asheville. You forgot her birthday and made me call in the order.”

He stares. “That’s unsettling.”

You grin. “You’re predictable.”

He sighs, reaches for another wing. “I’m sweating. Is this what marriage feels like?”

You shrug. “Wouldn’t know.”

He takes the bite. Freezes. “I can taste colors. I’m in another dimension.”

You just pop a marshmallow from the plate into your mouth, unbothered.

Next card. “When did we actually start dating?”

You both answer at the same time. “Middle of Season 2.”

You add, “And we gaslit everyone into thinking we were just really close friends.”

“Mad respect to Rudy for calling it out and then letting it go like a true king.”

“He literally said, ‘I don’t care, just stop making eye contact like that during lunch.’”

You glance at his tray. Four wings down. One left.

Your tray? Untouched.

He stares at you. “How?”

You sip water slowly. “It’s called strategy, baby.”

He groans. “You’re the devil.”

You smile sweetly. “And you love me.”

He looks at the camera. “Pray for me.”

You pick the final card. “Double or nothing?”

He eyes the wing. Then you.

“Absolutely not.”

You laugh, reach for the marshmallows again, and toss one at him.

He catches it in his mouth. “Still hot.”

“From the wing or from me?”

He gives you a look. “Don’t make me regret this relationship.”

You both dissolve into laughter as he wipes his face again, flushed, wrecked, but grinning.

“I’m never trusting you again,” he mumbles.

You pat his hand. “That’s fair. But like… you kinda crushed it.”

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: as requested, part two :) this isn’t exactly what you asked for, but i did keep the ideas in mind and tried to make it as similar as i could

summary: moving in w nat, renovating…no real plot, just vibes hehe

warnings: smut (oral, r receiving; penetration; fingering),

word count: 9.2k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

There's no clear way to tell what this will end up being. It started with yellow paint — a creamy, muted shade, not unlike the petals of a buttercup. A deep red shade followed, rich and deep, but resembling blood a little too much. Then, you cracked open a paint bucket that looks like you poured its contents straight from the night sky.

A night sky is basically what you've turned one of the walls in your living room into. You're standing in front of it with a brush, using your fingers on its bristles to create tiny little stars. Natasha's on the floor, covered in paint and slowly dozing off.

"Do you think I should add the actual constellations? Like Aquarius, Cassiopeia..."

She hums, eyes closed. "I'm a Sagittarius."

"That's not what I meant", you say, turning around. But she looks like she's asleep already, and you scoff. "Hey! That's rude."

"Huh?" She blinks, then groans and sits up. "Y/N, it's the middle of the night."

You glance at your watch. She's right — it's past 4am, and you haven't slept yet. You shrug and step over a paint puddle to grab a different shade of blue.

"Aren't you used to it?"

Natasha rolls her eyes and puts her arms behind her head. She scoots lower until she's almost lying down. This doesn't even faze her anymore. Your sleep schedule is pretty much nonexistent at this point. You sleep when you can and want to, not when you should.

She doesn't mind it, either. Usually, you let her sleep. But now that you’ve started renovating, you insist she stays up so she can have a say in what everything will look like, too.

She hasn't had a full night's sleep in over a week now. She's used to taking naps in the afternoon sometimes, but now, those are mandatory. Otherwise, she'd topple over.

"Oh, great. Just when I thought the torture was over", she mutters. She sighs and forces herself to get up. "What's that?"

You're bent over the table, hands braced on the surface and loose strands of hair framing your face. You're staring at a map of the stars like it's the most interesting thing you've seen all day. Apparently, artists really do see art in everything.

Natasha nudges you when you don't reply. You blindly reach for her and grasp her wrist.

"From that night", is all you mumble. She raises her eyebrows, and you look up. There are blue paint freckles all over your face. "The night you kissed me."

Her cheeks go warm. She clears her throat and glances at the map again. "You mean the night you kissed me."

"You kissed me back, though."

"Yes, but you kissed me first."

You dismiss it with a wave of your hand. Straightening up, you walk back to the wall and start placing more defined dots. Natasha stands behind you and watches, arms crossed and eyes heavy.

She knows what you're like. If the circumstances are right and the networks in your brain are cooperating, you could go for another ten hours. It's happened before. She remembers you sleeping for an entire day afterwards.

Natasha nods at the hallway, already walking backwards. "I'll, uh, get some rest."

"Stupid brush", you mutter, frowning at a dot that ended up too big. You finally register her words and turn around. She's already walking up the stairs. "Like a grandma, I swear."

"I'm tired", she calls. Her voice turns muffled as she reaches the second floor. "You could join me, you know."

Too focused on painting the wall, you don't respond. All Natasha hears is the quiet creaking of the stairs and the wind howling outside. There's no traffic out here. You live in a remote area, so your only neighbors are forest animals and the moon.

Your words, not Natasha's. Obviously.

She enters the bedroom and takes off her stained hoodie. With you always working on something, she also looks like she spends her days sitting in an atelier. Even her bra is covered in purple chalk and inky fingerprints.

Magazines and paper scraps cover the bed. She sweeps everything to the floor, then she crawls in between the sheets. They smell like tea and honey, and she closes her eyes.

Not too long later, you pad into the room. Natasha's out cold, but she's curled up around your side of the bed to leave space for you. You lie down and scoot closer. Paint-stained fingertips brush against her cheek, and you doze off next to her.

Four hours. That's how long you last before a dream shoos you out of bed and back to one of your paintings. Natasha, ripped from her peaceful sleep, begrudgingly accepts that sleeping in isn't an option anymore.

. . .

Cross-legged, barefoot and sleepy, you sit on the porch. It's a warm morning, and everything is perfect for once. The sun is providing just the right lighting, the pencil is at that one point where it's neither too sharp nor blunt, and the sketch in front of you isn't looking like a mess anymore.

'Trust the process', Natasha said when handing you a cup of tea. You'd huffed, but she was right.

You're slouching, so much so that your face is mere inches away from the paper. You smudge some spots with your thumb, add highlights, come up with some details to round everything off.

When you're done, you sit up. You stare at the drawing and do exactly what you shouldn't — overanalyze it. As usual, only the flaws stand out, and you grab the paper and crumple it into a ball.

Behind you, the door opens. Natasha pokes her head out and frowns at the sight of a dozen paper balls on the porch. Pencils in different grades, an eraser, a cup full of cold tea. You turn around and give her a challenging look.

"I don't want to hear it", you say promptly.

"I liked that one", she says, stepping out and crouching next to you. She quickly presses a kiss to your temple before picking up the crumpled drawing. "It was pretty."

"Ah, yes. 'Pretty' is what I was striving for."

She rolls her eyes and gently unfolds the paper ball. She puts it on the floor and smooths it out as much as she can without smudging everything.

"It is pretty", she says. "Actually, the crumpled look gives it character."

You glance at it, but don't say anything. In a way, she's right. The creases and lines add something to it that wasn't there before. You've never done this with any other drawing so far, but you're definitely taking a mental note for future reference.

Natasha gets up, still holding the drawing. You watch her turn around and walk back inside with it.

"Wait, where are you-"

"You'll see", she calls. You scramble up from the ground and follow her into the kitchen. Inside, it smells like warm bread and the flowers you picked last night. But that's not what you're focusing on.

Right as you step in, she's reaching for a magnet and sticking the crumpled sketch to the fridge. Now it's hanging there between old grocery lists and polaroids, looking both out of place and like it was never supposed to go anywhere else.

You give her a deadpan look. She smirks.

"Character", she repeats.

"Uh-huh", you mumble, crossing your arms. You're staring at it like you're trying to figure something out. Natasha isn't sure what exactly that'd be, though. "Poor thing. The odd one out."

"I think it looks good there", she says. She takes a sip of coffee and leans against the counter. "Hey, quick question. Could you go back to my apartment later and pick some stuff up? I think there are two more boxes left."

For a few seconds, you don't say anything. Then, you shrug and shift on your feet. "Oh, I don't know. Why?"

She frowns. "Why? 'Cause I got work. I'm leaving in ten."

"Sure", you drawl, fiddling with one of the rings on your fingers. "Or we go together."

"Oh, come on. I pick up stuff for you all the time. I mean, all the deliveries..."

"That was part of your job. You got paid for it." After a beat, you add: "I tipped well, too."

"Why are you arguing about this?", she asks, immediately shutting you up. She tilts her head. "Y/N?"

No reply. Because how are you supposed to explain the reason why you won't go and pick her stuff up? There's a perfectly functional car in the shed outside, sure. One she repaired a couple months ago. Your beloved DaVinci, the red Fiat you bought a couple years ago.

It's a good car. It'd get you just about anywhere you need. If only you knew how to drive it.

Natasha doesn't know you have no clue. She thinks you're just not in the mood to drive, that you'd rather make her do everything for you. That's only partially the case.

You know how to start a car, how to stop it, how to use the steering wheel. Your cousin showed you when you were 17. But you never got your driver's license, and honestly, DaVinci is more of a friend you once intended to paint than it is a means of transportation.

"I got to paint", you blurt. "We'll pick them up together."

She sighs, but doesn't argue. As far as she knows, you're set on doing art for the next few hours — something she shouldn't interfere with. She drinks the rest of her coffee and puts the chipped mug into the sink.

"Alright", she mumbles. Relieved, you wrap your arms around her from behind and kiss her ear. "I want a reward, though. A tip."

"I tip well", you hum. Your lips meet her shoulder.

Natasha washes the mug and puts it aside. You slip your hands under her shirt and wipe the graphite smudges on her lower stomach. Your fingers are warm against her skin, inviting, and she has to move away from your embrace in order to be on time.

. . .

When Natasha comes home from work, she has to search the entire house and backyard before finally finding you in the shed.

The shed basically belongs to DaVinci, with her sad little glossy hood and the dust on her roof, abandoned and useless. Surrounded by shelves and spiderwebs, the setting sun casting a light on her. Even in here, paint buckets and blank canvases fill empty corners.

And then, there's you. Inside the car, feet propped up on the dashboard, the manual in your hands. You're frowning as you're flipping through the pages. Your nails are chipped, your hair open and freshly washed. You're in your own world, completely oblivious to what's happening around you.

She stares. You flip another page, still not having noticed her, so she lifts her hand and knocks against the wall of the shed. Finally, you look up and your eyes meet.

Usually, you're happy to see her after work. Excited. Even if you're in the middle of some project, you'll abandon it just to give her a kiss (and stain her face with charcoal). This time, however, it sends a jolt of panic through you. Hurrying to get out of the car, your heel hits the horn. It blares offensively.

"Shit", you curse, getting out of the car. You wipe strands of your hair away from your face. "Hey, babe."

"What's with the manual?", she asks, walking up to you. She reaches into the car and picks the manual up. "Don't know how to drive?"

It's supposed to be a joke. But the way your eyes widen tells her otherwise. She frowns and opens the manual to take a look inside of it.

"Why's this in Italian?"

"Well, I got it like that."

"Yeah, no", she says, glancing at you, "I get that. But you don't speak Italian."

You shrug, arms crossed. "As far as you know."

Natasha rolls her eyes and shuts the manual again. She taps it, looking at you. "Everything okay with the car? Why do you need the manual?"

You give her a blank stare. For a few seconds, she stares back, then she sighs and pops open the hood of the Fiat. As a car mechanic, her first instinct is to check on it.

You don't know much about cars. You don't know how to drive them or how to inspect them. Truthfully, you're not even fully sure how you change the fuel filter. She made you promise you'd do it every 30 thousand miles — but you don't drive the car, so there's no use for it.

Natasha leans over the engine bay, her hands supporting her upper body.

"Looks fine to me", she says, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She glances at you. "You wanted to go pick up the boxes?"

"Uh", you say dumbly. She raises her eyebrows. "Yeah, uhm, sure."

"And what went wrong?" She straightens up and wipes her hands, now stained with grease and fuel. Your eyes trail up her arms. After work, they tend to look especially enticing, even more than they usually do.

You shrug absently, still staring. "Nothing. I guess."

"Then why do you need the manual?" She watches you zone out, then lets out a frustrated noise and steps closer. She waves her hand in front of your face. "Are you done?"

"Huh?" You look at her face — finally — and blink. "Oh, yeah. Look, there's this thing I haven't told you about. Nothing bad, I swear, just a little issue."

Natasha frowns. She crosses her arms and studies you, like she's trying to figure out what you did without you having to tell her. You didn't cheat, she knows that. Maybe you wanted to get into car tuning and screwed up somewhere else. It'd explain the manual.

Her eyes zero in on your hands again. This time, she doesn't notice the chipped nails. She notices your clean hands, your paint-free fingers. She grabs your wrist and flips your hand over.

You let out a noise. "Hey, what are you-"

"You didn't paint", she says, tapping your palm. She looks you in the eyes again. "What's with the car, Y/N?"

You pout at the fact that she managed to see right through you. She's observant, almost as much as you are. When you show her your drawings, she notices even the smallest details, the ones you thought no one but you would ever see.

But she does. She sees the tiny things, the things others don't deem important. You usually love it, but right now, it's a little annoying.

"Alright", you mutter, pulling free from her grasp. "You want me to say it, huh? Well, I can't drive. Like, at all."

Natasha opens her mouth, then closes it again. She frowns and gestures at the Fiat. "And DaVinci?"

"Oh, yes." You nod and turn around, grabbing a paint bucket. You hold it up into the air, looking proud for some reason. "Car paint! I wanted to personalize her for someone and then maybe sell it. But then I felt bad. I mean, imagine someone buying you only to change your appearance and resell you. That'd hurt your feelings, no?"

Natasha stares at you for a long moment. She clears her throat, trying to bite back a grin, then nods at the (apparently sentient) car.

"You can't drive. How old are you again?"

"Okay", you mutter. "This is why I didn't tell you."

"No, no", she says. She puts her hand on your lower back and leads you toward the car. "Come on, sit down. I want to check something."

Huffing quietly, you sit down and buckle up. You stare at her, still standing too close to comfort to the car, and gesture with your hand.

"Are you trying to get run over? Move."

Natasha raises her eyebrows and steps aside. You put the key in the ignition — at least you know how to do that — and turn it. The car comes to life, still as smoothly as it did when Natasha repaired it.

For a moment, you hesitate. Both hands on the wheel, left foot on the left pedal, hand on the gear stick. You glance at Natasha, who just gives you a nod. Exhaling, you move the stick into first gear and step down on the accelerator. The car suddenly thrashes forward and you almost crash into the wall.

You let out a panicked squeal, but somehow, you manage to hit the brakes. Natasha clears her throat.

"You weren't lying" she states, voice dry. "That was the saddest thing I've seen in a while."

You scowl and try to put the car into reverse. Natasha gestures for you to get out, then she sits in the driver's seat and puts the car into its previous position again. Fingers drumming against the steering wheel, she pokes her out the window.

"See? Not that hard."

You roll your eyes and brace your hands on the frame of the window. She tilts her head up and you steal a quick kiss from her.

"You're a jerk."

"I'm being honest", she retorts. "Driving a car is easy. All you need is a little practice. I mean, you know the basics. I saw you change gears."

"I was this close to tearing the shed down."

"It's an ugly shed, anyway", she says. She nods at you. "Come on, sit down. We still need to pick up the boxes."

You let out a long-suffering sigh. "Only if we're renovating later."

Natasha contemplates for a short moment. All she sees in her head are paint buckets, thrifted furniture, stained hands and lips and kisses that taste sharp and bitter. Sleepless nights, staying up until the sun comes up.

There are worse ways to pass time, she decides.

. . .

"Did you get the goods?"

Natasha puts the takeout bag aside and shrugs off her jacket. Her eyes stay glued to you the entire time — you're standing on a vintage sideboard from the 60s, one you found at a thrift store. You thought about painting it first, but then decided the original color deserves to stay.

Instead, you're repainting the wall. You liked the night sky, but it made the room look dark and sad, so now you're replacing it with a lighter shade of green. You're green, too. There are specks of color all over you, from head to toe.

"I did", she says, kicking off her boots. "You need to learn how to drive. Seriously."

You get on your tiptoes to reach the top of the wall. "Why? I got you."

Natasha may not be working as a delivery driver anymore — not regularly, that is —, but you still have your way of ordering stuff. Food, crayons, glitter, stencils. A milkshake here and there.

And you? You're still refusing to drive. Natasha's insistent on teaching you, but you keep finding excuses.

"You know, I used to get paid for this", she says, moving behind you. Her lips press against the back of your thigh. "I used to get tips."

You turn around, and she puts her hands on your hips. You step closer and put your hands on her shoulders. Natasha's still holding onto you, so you step off the sideboard and end up in her arms. Legs around her waist, you give her a quick kiss. Your hands on her face stain her cheeks with paint.

"I'd argue that this is better than getting paid", you say. She rolls her eyes. "I mean it! Now let me down, we need to put up the shelves."

"The ones meant to go above the sideboard?" She frowns. "The wall's wet. You just painted it."

"Right", you mumble. Smiling, you brush your thumb over her lips. "It's not just the wall that's wet, you know."

She raises her eyebrows at you. Her fingers curl into your thighs — a silent behave — but the smirk, currently trying to fight its way onto her face, betrays her. She's tired from work, but you're warm against her, and you're flirty, and there's no reason to say no to you.

The velvet cushions of the couch are soft beneath you. It creaks when Natasha joins you, and she leans in to kiss you. One braced next to your head, her other hand slips beneath your shirt and kneads your hip.

You taste like tea and lemon tart. You're covered in an array of scents, all of them familiar. The paint, the soap, the body butter you use. Her lips press against your pulse point, and her hand snakes around your back. Practiced fingers find the clasp of your bra and undo it.

Ever since you started the process of moving Natasha into your house, there's been a lack of this. One of you is always working, always busy — she's still working as a car mechanic, and you've got your art to focus on. When she comes home, you're usually holed up in your little art corner.

She looks at you, out of breath and flushed. You stare down at her, and she reaches up to wipe away a smudge of charcoal.

"I missed this, you know."

"I missed you", you reply. Natasha smiles faintly.

"You see me every day", she retorts, tugging up your shirt and pulling it over your head. It lands in a paint bucket. "Shit."

You glance to your side. The shirt is white, but apparently, it'll be partially green now as well. You huff and wrap your arms around her neck.

"I thrifted that one."

"I know", she mumbles, kissing your jaw apologetically. "I'll get you a new one."

"Don't know how thrift stores work?" A breathy moan slips past your lips. She smiles, glancing at the paint bucket, and reaches over to dip her fingers into the cool liquid. "Hey, what are you-"

Cold fingers brush over your collarbone, making your words die in your throat. Natasha smiles, lips against your neck and fingers spreading paint on your chest. Goosebumps form all over your body.

You swallow and watch her fingertips trail over the curves of your breasts, then dip into the valley between them. She's watched you do similar things before. For some reason, you like finger painting. The feeling of skin against canvas, leaving behind streaks of color. Dipping your fingers into paint and watching the liquid drip from them. Run them over someone else's skin.

Usually, Natasha's the one who turns into a canvas for you. You straddle her waist or back, nudge her hair aside, then run your hands all over her. But not this time.

"You're always painting", she mumbles. Her lips find yours again, and you moan against them. "My turn."

She smears more paint between her hands, then cups your breasts. Green handprints are left behind, a visible proof of her touching you. She smiles against your mouth and smoothes her hands down your sides.

You can't speak anymore. For once, you're out of words. All you can feel and think about is her hands between your thighs, rubbing paint on you and marking you. Her breath is hot against your neck, a stark contrast to the cold substance on her hands.

It's messy, it's slow, and it's way more arousing than it should be. Your back arches into her when her hand travels higher, closer to your shorts.

"You're good at this", you mumble, voice a low breath. Wetness is pooling between your thighs, hot and damp, and Natasha tugs off your shorts. She's hard already, but she's ignoring the throbbing feeling in her sweatpants to keep smearing paint all over you.

She kisses her way down your stomach. Her face is full of paint as well, but she doesn't even notice. All she can focus on is pressing kisses to the inside of your thighs.

The cushions underneath you are stained, too. Green fingerprints and splatters, some smudged, others intact. Natasha lifts your hips a little and hooks her thumbs into the waistband of your underwear.

"You're so pretty", she mumbles, face pressed against your thigh. She slips the delicate piece of fabric off you. "Makes sense why you like to paint now."

"Mhm?" Your head lolls to the side. Your fingers blindly search the air until they find their way into her hair. You grip it lightly, for support.

Natasha hums against you. Her face is buried between your thighs, tongue teasing you. She's eating you out, slowly, and her hand lets go of your hip to dip into the paint bucket again. When she grips your thigh, her fingers are dripping wet and cold. Paint runs down her wrist.

In the middle of it all, you change positions. She's on her back now, with her hands on your waist and you riding her. She's breathless, flushed, her hips lazily thrusting up into yours.

The paint bucket is still right next to the couch. You lean over and run your fingers through the green liquid, then smear the paint across her abs. You're painting her, decorating her, all while being filled to the brim.

Mid-whine, her hips jerk off the couch again. You tighten around her and she pulses. Without warning, she unloads herself in you. A soft moan escapes you, eyes falling shut, and your fingers curl into her abs.

The couch creaks under your movements, the air smells like paint and sweat. You lean in and kiss her, smudged fingers cupping her face.

. . .

Renovating a house is stressful enough as it is, especially when someone's moving in.

You're an overachiever, though. You don't do things the normal way, and Natasha's aware of that. She knows that you want to do everything yourself. When you told her about your idea to renovate, she dismissed it at first. She didn't see the necessity (and truthfully, still doesn't) because she liked your house the way it was.

You insisted, though, and started the process. At first, it was fine. You painted the dining table and replaced the lampshade above it. You bought new scented candles and ordered vases.

Small things, at least in the beginning. Natasha sometimes helped, whenever she wasn't too tired from work. But then, you started doing more and more.

Painting walls, assembling furniture, picking out things like rugs and lamps. Visiting thrift stores and flea markets. One morning, she woke up to you tearing down the railing of the back porch. It's been a month, and you only just replaced it.

Your current project and hyperfixation are the new shelves you found on Facebook marketplace. Pink, with little hooks to hang cups on.

Of course, you're not the one putting it up. You're standing behind her, a bowl of cereal in your hands, and watch her try to find the right spot on the wall.

"Higher", you say, stirring your cereal. It smells milky and sugary. "Higher...higher...wait, that's too high. Maybe a bit more to the left, too."

"Sure", she mutters, adjusting it again. You hum and shovel cereal into your mouth. "Better?"

"Eh", you say. "Higher again."

Natasha sighs, but does as told. She's balancing on a small stool. "You're not being helpful, you know."

You pad to her side and scoop up some cereal. You hold the spoon to her mouth, milk dripping from it and landing on the hardwood floor.

"Here", you say, gently nudging her lips with it. She lets out a grunt. "Come on, you need energy. Fuel."

She shakes her head. She's barely surviving your HGTV reenactment, whereas you're here trying to spoon-feed her like a toddler.

"I don't want cereal", she says, frowning at the shelf. No matter what she does, it refuses to end up perfectly vertical. "Dammit. Where's the spirit level?"

You shrug and look at the mess on the floor. The old rug, now rolled up. A new paint bucket. A cereal box and an empty bottle of milk. Scattered in between it all, a bunch of tools like hammers and screwdrivers and a cordless drill.

"Beats me. But the shelf looks fine."

"It has to be vertical", she insists. You smile and put the bowl aside, then start searching through the mess. You bend over to look under the couch, and Natasha stupidly glances at you.

Your ass, on full display in her boxer shorts. Your shirt, slowly riding up and exposing your smooth back and the specks of paint there. She nearly falls off the stool.

You straighten back up, this time with the spirit level in your hand. Upon seeing her flushed cheeks, you tilt your head.

"You good?", you ask, walking back to her side. You hand her the tool and pick up your cereal again. "Need some cereal? Maybe your blood sugar dropped."

"You get pale when that happens", she mumbles. You're holding the spoon to her mouth again, and she begrudgingly takes a bite. "God. Way too sweet. No wonder you're always zippy."

You tilt your head and lick the spoon clean, then put it back in the bowl. A couple of soggy Froot Loops swim at the surface of the discolored milk. She's right, it is sweet — even the bit of milk she left in the spoon was.

"It tastes good", you say, putting the bowl against your lips and tilting it to sip the milk. Natasha sighs, and you smile at her. "You're done soon? I wanted to paint the railing."

She hums and glances at the clock. Close to midnight, which isn't too bad — but definitely too late to get started on the railing. The porch light is weak and flickers, though, and if you open the paint bucket now, you're not closing it for hours.

Natasha needs some sleep. Desperately. And she hasn't gotten the image of you, bent over in her boxers, out of her head yet. She'd love to do something about that. No way she's letting a railing take that from her.

She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand and shrugs. "We can do that tomorrow."

"You're taking me driving tomorrow."

"We can do both", she argues. She uses the spirit level to check the marks she mad are level, then she nods at the cordless drill. "Baby?"

You hum and hand it to her. She drills into the wall, biceps flexing slightly and sweat dripping down her arms. Between all the renovations, she can't believe you haven't had the idea to install A/C yet.

You lean against the wall and watch her. Natasha, distracted, almost drops the shelf.

"Need a hand?", you ask, tilting your head and crossing your arms. She shakes her head and screws the brackets into place. She wishes she could screw something else, though.

"I'm good", she mutters through gritted teeth. "Screws, please?"

In the end, Natasha focuses on the shelves a little too much. You excuse yourself, saying you're going to the kitchen — which isn't a lie. Empty bowl in hand, you pad to the sink and quickly do the dishes. You can hear her curse quietly in the living room.

On your way out, you glance at the stack of paint buckets you keep in the hallway. Your eyes look directly at the color you picked for the railing. A pastel yellow, subtle enough to not make the exterior look tacky but not quite as boring as simple white paint.

She said you'd paint the railing tomorrow, but nobody has the patience to wait that long. You grab the bucket and one of the brushes, then make a beeline for the back porch.

Somehow, Natasha doesn't even notice. She's still on the stool, but now she's putting up the cups you painted together. They don't match at all, unfortunately. Yours look like you bought them from some whimsy vintage store, whereas hers resemble a teen's idea of art. But you painted them, together, and they give the room a nice touch.

You've managed to get outside and close the door by now, so you're crouched in front of the brand new railing and popping open the lid of the bucket. You dip the brush into it, then slowly drag the bristles over the twisted balusters. Trees rustle, the porch feels cold beneath you, but the moon is full and a cat runs across your lawn.

You'd stay like this forever. All that's missing are your headphones and your favorite playlist. But you didn't anticipate a pair of arms winding around you and scooping you up.

"Hey!", you say, dropping the brush. "Oh, great."

"We agreed on tomorrow", Natasha says, already turning around and stubbornly carrying you inside. "We're not doing this. Not tonight."

You give the railing a look so wistful it even makes your girlfriend jealous, so she rolls her eyes and shuts the door with her elbow. Even though you're back inside the house, she doesn't let go of you.

"I wasn't going to paint the whole thing", you say.

"Oh please, you would've slept out there." She adjusts her hold on you, then huffs. "You've done it before."

"That was different!"

Natasha shakes her head and walks into your bedroom. Again, she utilizes her elbow to turn on the lights, then she walks to the huge bed in the middle of the room and puts you down. You pat the quilt and scoff.

"Sleep", she says, turning around and pulling off her shirt. "Long day tomorrow. Can't have you falling asleep behind DaVinci's wheel."

"I really don't want to learn", you mutter. You get up and shimmy out of your paint-stained shorts.

"You don't have a choice", she replies. "It's final. You're getting that driver's license."

Natasha's right. You don't have a choice, and you're getting that license — eventually.

. . .

To make practicing driving easier, Natasha found an abandoned road nearby your house. Surrounded by trees and nature, she was sure you wouldn't be able to hit anything. There's nothing there to hit, anyway — no houses, no sheds. Just some trees and a fence.

She was wrong. It hasn't even been five minutes when you freak out over a butterfly sitting on the windshield. You accidentally put the car into reverse, spin the steering wheel in panic, and crash poor DaVinci into the fence behind you. Birds lift into the air, wings flapping and clearly as panicked as you are.

"Oh my god", she says, grabbing the steering wheel. "Not like that, babe."

"I told you I can't drive!"

"I don't even know how you did that", she says, glancing at the rearview mirror. Sure enough, you've managed to tear down the fence. "That'll leave scratches."

"What?" You turn, your hand slips from the steering wheel, and you hit the horn. It blares, and more frightened animals jump up and zoom away. Natasha rubs her temple.

"Like a reverse Snow White", she mutters.

She's a car mechanic, so she's not qualified to be teaching you how to drive. She thought it couldn't be that hard, anyway; she's been driving for over a decade, after all. Apparently, she underestimated your ability to prove her wrong.

"I don't like this", you complain, tugging at the neckline of your top. "It's hot, I'm sweating, and I'll crash us into a tree."

"It's not that hard. Maybe start by not putting it into reverse."

You slump into your seat, head lolling to the side and eyes pleading. Natasha isn't impressed by your dramatic little display, though, so she raises one eyebrow and doesn't say anything. You stick out your bottom lip and she pinches it.

"Come on", she says, gesturing at the steering wheel. "Try it."

"I don't know how." You throw your hands up and shake your head. "That's it. Seriously. Even DaVinci is scared at this point. It's Uber and you forever."

Natasha loves you. She really does. She loves the way your face is freckled with paint in the evening, and she loves how you put sketches of her into her wallet. She loves how the setting sun is casting a light on your face, and she loves the dozens of mugs you've collected. She loves how passionate you are, and how you're able to drive her up the wall in just the right way.

She's renovating your house with you. She picks up food at 2am when you're starving because you haven't eaten all day. She'd kill for you and she'd die for you.

There's one thing she isn't going to do, though, and that is keep driving you around like some sort of sweet aloof passenger princess.

"Scoot over", she says. You tilt your head at her. "You heard me."

"We're going home?", you ask, unbuckling and getting out of the car. Natasha slides into the driver's seat with ease. You're about to turn around and go to the passenger side, but she quickly reaches for your wrist. "Oh, come on."

You give her a glare, and she almost starts stuttering. There's no reason to be scared of you, but sometimes, she is. She doesn't know why, either. You're sweet, usually, but also vaguely threatening. Unreadable, too.

"You're going to murder me out here, aren't you?"

"Not if you behave", you shoot back. "What do you want?"

A quick glance at your legs makes her hesitate — you're wearing shorts, just like she is, and she'll feel you against her like some sinful driving risk. She pats her lap, anyway, and you wiggle your eyebrows. You've forgotten about your disgruntlement.

"Got it", you grin.

"Just so I can show you how", she says impatiently. "Sit down."

You do as told, and she immediately regrets her decision. You, in her lap. Wearing shorts. On a summer day. This can't end well.

Natasha exhales softly and nods, closing the car door again. Your back is pressed against her front, skin warm and smelling like vanilla. You shift in her lap and she almost curses.

"That's good", she mumbles, lightly grabbing your hands and putting them on the steering wheel. "Like this, remember? Now show me how you should do it."

You nod, start the car and reach for the gear stick. Natasha watches as you shift into first gear, but you wiggle in her lap and her focus wavers. It's hot enough already, 90°F/32°C — but when you put two bodies together like this, squished behind the steering wheel, you get friction and sweat and heat. The back of her neck is damp already, baby hairs sticking to her skin.

She holds her breath when your thumb brushes against her thigh. Truthfully, you're not thinking about driving either. How could you? You're in her lap, feeling her body tense with every movement of yours. You notice how restless she's getting, how the soft bulge in her pants slowly hardens.

The car starts driving. Natasha puts her chin on your shoulder, her hands on your waist, and tries to keep her eyes on the road.

"Now ease of the clutch", she mumbles into your ear.

"Okay." You turn in her lap and quickly press a kiss to her jaw. Her face heats up even more. "Which one's the brake again?"

There's no question easier to answer than that one, but she's currently a little distracted. You're squirming again, trying to both get comfortable and make the situation in her boxers worse. She exhales and grips your waist, trying not to toss you into the backseat.

"It's —" She lets out a grunt, "— that one."

You smile to yourself. She's fully hard now, pressing against you like a threat and a promise all at once. You adjust the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of her face, and it doesn't disappoint.

"Wait", you say, barely suppressing a giggle. "Are you turned on right now?"

"What? No! Just...keep driving."

"You're so turned on. God, you're ruining DaVinci's innocence."

"That was ruined a while ago", she mutters, recalling the time you had sex on the hood. The car had creaked and complained, dust was everywhere, but the sight of your ass print on the hood afterwards made it all worth it. "Careful."

You look at the road again and hum, keeping control over the steering wheel. "We haven't tried the backseat yet, you know."

Natasha has to physically restrain herself from tossing you into the backseat and doing exactly what you suggested. She stares out the window again, eyes fixed on the road stubbornly, and pats your side.

"I said ease off the clutch", she says. You hum and grind into her, and her eyes roll into the back of her head. She's leaking precum already, and you can feel it against your thigh.

"I thought you meant you."

There's only so much Natasha can take. The second you turn your head, she pulls you in to kiss you. It's a messy, impatient kiss, and it makes you sigh and let go of the steering wheel. You shift in her lap so you're facing her more, indents from the steering wheel on your thighs and your face flushed.

She keeps one hand on your waist and puts the other on the steering wheel, but honestly, she has no idea where the car is going. All she can focus on is your tongue in her mouth and your fingers tracing her face. You wiggle against her and she moans into the kiss.

The car slowly drifts into some bushes. Natasha still doesn't stop. She squeezes and palms your waist, her eyes closed and her body buzzing with the summery heat that's gathered in the small space. You reach between you to cup her through her shorts, and she nearly cums on the spot.

"We're going to die like this", she mumbles into your mouth, breathless and not thinking straight. You smile and trail kisses from her mouth to her jaw.

She only manages to hit the brakes when something — a bigger rock, probably — bumps against one of the wheels. You laugh against her mouth and quickly start unbuckling her seatbelt.

"Backseat", you whisper, pressing a kiss to her mouth. She hums and you pull away, but instead of letting you get out of the car, she shifts you in her lap and tugs off your shorts. "Patience, baby."

"I'll cum either way", she grits, helping you take off your clothes. She pushes her own shorts down to her knees and nudges your panties aside. "You choose whether it happens in my boxers or in you."

"Only one right answer", you pant. You sink down on her and she moans in heat-drunk relief. You move your hips and she nearly snaps. "Not yet."

"You're learning to drive after this", she says, out of breath, and ruts her hips up into you. You're bouncing in her lap, clutching her shoulders and trying not to crash out.

Beneath you, the car creaks. The sun is setting. It's a good thing you chose an abandoned road to practice driving on, otherwise you'd be in trouble.

. . .

It takes you a total of five more months to finish renovating. At this point, you've learned enough about driving to get an appointment for both the tests required to earn your driver's license.

The bedroom was the room you finished first. Billowing white curtains, a quilt in the shades of a sunset, the walls a soft orange and paintings everywhere. A sketch of Natasha on your nightstand, and a turtle you crocheted on hers.

You're sprawled out on the bed. You're on your back, holding your notes above your head and studying. To be fair, it looks like you're studying — but you're also trying everything in order not to.

Thankfully, Natasha comes to the rescue. She walks into the room, the last unpacked box in hand, and sets it down on the nightstand. You turn your head to give it a secretive glance. She opens it and starts rummaging, not saying anything.

You're patient for exactly twenty seconds. Then, you get too antsy to play pretend.

"What's that?", you ask, putting down your notes. Natasha fishes out an old Polaroid camera.

"Found this in the attic", she says. She points the lens at you and tests the camera, and to her surprise, it works. She looks at the picture, at you in one of her shirts. Top button undone, hair messy, lips slightly parted. Staring at the picture, she swallows. "Looks good."

"Yeah?" You smile and shift a little. "Want another one? For your collection."

She doesn't even hesitate. She just stares at the picture for another moment, then looks at you through the viewfinder. Soft thighs on full display, and the light of the setting sun cozying up to your face just right.

"Shirt", she mumbles softly. "Undo another button."

You tilt your head, but your fingers find the buttons of your shirt immediately. You push the button through the hole, undoing it, and the shutter goes off again. More fabric slips right off your body, revealing skin and the necklace you're wearing. Natasha exhales quietly.

Her fingers fumble with the camera. She steps closer and points the lens at your upper body.

"Another button", she says, then adds: "Take it off. The shirt, I mean."

You've taken nudes before. Not in a sexual manner, per se — you were testing your new camera and wanted to see what it'd look like. It'd been golden hour, just like right now, and the kitchen seemed like the perfect backdrop.

You haven't shown the pictures to her. They're somewhere in one of your scrapbooks, tucked into the bookshelf in the hallway. You weren't planning on showing them to her either, which is a good thing. You'd rather she takes her own.

The thin piece of fabric falls to the floor. Natasha bites back a sound of desperation. You're not wearing a bra.

"This good?", you ask, leaning back into the pillows. The shutter goes off once more, and she nods. Her mouth has dried up.

She looks at the new pictures, her stomach twisting and flipping. The pictures are all a little off-center, a little hazy from the heat. They're intimate, private, meant just for her.

She points the lens at your thighs and captures them as well. There's a faint hickey on your upper thigh, a little memento of last night. They've always been one of her favorite things about you. She's spent nights burying her face between them, or simply resting her head on them.

In this relationship, you're the one who makes art. You paint and draw and mold clay, you embroider her clothes with little shapes. Now, she's the one holding the camera. She's the one sitting down next to you, leaning over you, kissing you and going down on you while still holding the camera with one hand.

Her hand is dipped between your legs, her mouth presses against yours. The shutter goes off every few minutes, whenever Natasha remembers she's still holding it in her hand.

She captures everything like it's her last time seeing it. They're not just nudes. They're not just something she's going to use to get off whenever she's bored at work. They're sacred, in a way, and even you know it.

You're breathless and flushed. The camera presses against yours thigh as you come around her hand. Neither of you are sure how much time has passed, but the sun has gone down. It's dark in your bedroom, and Natasha takes one last picture of you, naked and covered in a thin layer of sweat.

Most of the pictures end up in her toolbox, but she puts her favorite one into the drawer of her nightstand.

. . .

Natasha puts her chin on your shoulder to peek into your sketchbook. She's got her own resting in her lap, a pencil lying between the pages, and you've been suspecting she's trying to copy you. It's become obvious this very moment.

You turn the sketchbook away and frown at her. She raises her eyebrows and quickly shuts her sketchbook.

"No copying", you say, still frowning. "Ever heard of intellectually property?"

"I wasn't copying you!", she retorts. She leans back on her hands, the grass soft and cool between her fingers and the sun hitting her face. "Just looking for inspiration."

"That's basically what copying is."

Natasha rolls her eyes and slumps into the grass, fully lying down now. She's staring at the branches and leaves of the tree you're sitting under, lipstick marks on her jaw and graphite on her cheek. Her fingertips are stained with it as well, and when she touched her face, she smudged her skin with it.

"This was your idea", she says. You lay on your side, propping yourself up with one arm. "You could at least help me. Or be a bit more grateful."

"I am grateful."

It's not a lie. You are grateful she agreed on this date. She's not someone who's interested in art — or making it — so you're usually on your own when it comes to sketching. It doesn't bother you, but having her join in on the fun is definitely the preferred option.

Natasha, on the other hand, only said yes to make you happy. A cute picnic and some doodling, maybe a make out session in the grass here and there. A drawing on the back of her hand, too. Not the worst way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

You reach out and wipe at the graphite on her cheek. She turns her head and you lean in, leaving a second lipstick mark on the corner of her mouth. She shifts a little and you put your hand on her shoulder, stilling her.

"Careful, the plants."

She looks to her side and spots the flowers she almost squished. Wildflowers — dandelions, buttercups, speedwells. Some moss, too. She glances at you, eyebrows furrowed. "You're serious?"

"I don't joke about moss", you say, reaching out to brush your fingers over it. "It's soft because it wants to be touched. Isn't that nice? So don't squish it."

"I've seen you pick daisies."

You tilt your head. Strands of hair fall in front of your eyes, and she lifts her hand to brush them aside. You grab her wrist, gently, and place her hand in your lap.

"That was for a project", you retort. "Remember? A gift. For you."

Natasha immediately shuts up. Of course she remembers it. The picture frame, filled with dried flowers and sketches of her. It's on her nightstand, next to the crocheted turtle. She sighs and adjusts her position enough to make sure the moss stays safe.

"You happy?"

"Almost." You tilt your head, eyes squinted. "If only you didn't put your arm on a snail."

Her eyes widen and she immediately sits up. Sure enough, a trail of slime stains the sleeve of her hoodie. Even between watercolor and charcoal stains, it stands out. She quickly tugs her hoodie off and tosses it aside.

"That's it", she complains. "We're going inside."

You give the snail an empathetic look. It doesn't look hurt, the shell is still intact, but you brush your finger over it anyway.

"Poor baby", you coo. Natasha shoots you a glare. "No respect for other creatures. I know."

"We're going inside", she says, grabbing her things. You're still stroking the snail, head planted in the grass next to it. She sighs and stares at you for a moment, then caves and drops everything again.

If it were anyone else, she’d just get up and leave. But it’s you, and she’s the one who’s been delivering food for you even long after you started dating. She’s the one waking up at the crack of dawn just to remind you to eat. Not ending this date prematurely is one of the easiest things she’s done so far.

You pick up the snail with a kind of carefulness that makes every teasing remark vanish right from her tongue. She sighs, then reaches out to touch the shell. You raise your eyebrows at her, silently declaring victory.

“Don’t”, she just says.

“It loves you!” You smile at the snail, then pause. Natasha tilts her head, one eyebrow raised, and waits for you to explain. She knows the look in your eyes. Some idea hit you, and you’re about to make it everyone’s problem. There have been glitter fiascos and sleepless nights, glue in hair and a room covered in paper shreds. A tiny snail is the least of her worries.

She’s right. Of course she is; she knows you, after all. You jump up, the snail cradled in your palm, and hurry back toward the house. Natasha’s stunned for a good moment, then she grabs your stuff and follows after you. But you’re not slowing down — you hurry up the stairs instead, then turn around mid-staircase and run back down. She curses and jumps aside to let you through.

She walks in on you in the art corner of the living room, digging through your supplies with one hand. The poor snail, ripped from its natural habitat, is trying to slither over your wrist. You straighten up again and walk back to the stairs. This time, you’re holding a bunch of pencils in different grades.

Natasha doesn’t question your intentions. She walks after you, silently, and leans against the doorway when you reach your destination.

There's one room you didn't finish renovating. Your initial plan was to eventually turn it into an atelier for you, complete with everything you could possibly need. Shelves filled with labeled boxes, containing pencils and paper and watercolors. An easel, a potter’s wheel, some space for your unfinished paintings so they don’t occupy the rest of the house.

You didn’t paint the walls, or put up wallpaper. Instead, you’re now starting to sketch snails onto one of the walls.

“You want an atelier full of snails?”, she finally asks. You hum and nod at the pencils, telling her to join in. She hesitates, then picks one up and stands next to you.

She’s still not good at this, but she’s improved — a lot. Even if the shell ends up too big and the face a little too cartoonish, it’s passable. And the smile that lights up your face upon seeing it certainly tells her she did well.

“I don’t want it to be an atelier”, you say ten minutes later. You’ve put the snail into a potted plant by now, where it’s munching on a leaf. Another snail has joined the sketched one on the wall.

Natasha glances at you. To her own surprise, she’s completely invested in this little project. “No?”

“No.” You carefully add the lower tentacles to the snail’s face. “It’s a nursery.”

The pencil in her hand almost drops. She blinks a few times, but you seem undeterred. You’re still sketching, still adding to the design that will soon cover the entire wall. She’s not sure if you’re aware of the weight your words have, but then you look at her.

You know what you said. You haven’t discussed it before, not in depth, but it’s been brought up. Apparently, you’re set on it now.

Natasha hesitates. But then she leans in again, the graphite tip of the pencil pressing against the smooth wall again. More snails appear, one by one, until the wall is covered in them.

[leclsrc]

wanna be nearer ✴︎ mv1

genre: 18+, fuck buddies ahhhaha, smut, porn w/o plot basically...

word count: 3.6k  

It seems every time you tell yourself to stop, Max comes back into your life and all sense of resolve crumbles. title from this

auds here… hiii :) req'd by SO MANY PEOPLE i can't even start compiling all the asks hahah but if u asked for this here it is! writing's been tuff for me lately but this was the one thing i could continue daily (weird) also there is a case to be made re: max's hottest pictures being like 1 pixel in resolution... hope u all like it!!!

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... sexual tension, penetrative sex, some vague sexting/a sex tape being watched, praise/dirty talk central, size kink, unprotected sex, handjob (f receiving), max being a meanie

It’s busy today. You haven’t seen him all day. 

To be fair, you weren’t necessarily looking—not at first, anyways. How many days had it been since the last time, now? The one in your hotel room? Almost two weeks, you think. The real answer’s blurry in your head, especially when you count the close calls, but this should be a record for you two at this point. Neither of you acknowledge that the only reason you’ve been so good at staying away from each other is because when you’re not roped into the same media junket, you avoid each other at all costs.

The media pen is full; everybody’s shoulder-to-shoulder because a few other networks bought their way into the space for the Singapore race. Right when your mind settles back into the focus of work, though—

“Here,” he says, his voice rough and tickling your ear. You nearly stumble forward, shocked at how his voice almost vibrates through you, a low trill that ripples top to bottom.

His hand settles at the small of your back, like his verbal confirmation wasn’t enough on its own; it’s big and his thumb rubs softly at the smooth strip of skin in-between your low skirt and your top. “Passing through.”

“Sure,” you say, dry. “Sorry.” You clear your throat and cant backwards into his touch—briefly, before you step forward and allow him to pass fully. Across you, Lissie looks up from her phone and you sense her trying to gauge why you’re so close to Max.

You blink and wait for him to disappear, wondering what you’ll tell her—how, more like. How the conversation even opens. How you’d phrase the truth, which in itself is a horribly grey area. Well, Lis, if you must know, Max and I have casual sex. A lot. It’s actually not very casual. We stopped now, but—yes, Max. That Max, yes. 

“What about Max?”

Your eyes snap upward and then to your left, where you can see Max’s figure disappearing into a crowd of engineers. They return to Lissie and you feign confusion to mask panic. “What?”

“You were spacing out and then suddenly said his name.” She presses the tip of her pen onto her chin, humming. She doesn’t look at you and you thank God for it—eye contact would’ve rattled the truth out of you in seconds.

“I…” You shake your head. “I was irritated with—I’ve been irritated with him all morning. It’s. Yeah.”

“Oh,” she says, nodding, looking away for a second but not pausing. “Oh, okay. D’you wanna go over this edit again?”

—

The stale air of his hotel room, alleviated only by the vaguely fragrant linen spray they use when he’s out, is what greets Max when he arrives in the afternoon.The first thing he does—the only task he’d even thought of en route here—after the door clicks shut is pull up his Messages app and type.

Just got to hotel. He tosses his phone onto the bed while he waits, tugs his cap off and rakes reckless fingers through his hair. His new stylist’s got him onto jeans that don’t “look painted on” (you once said, verbatim), but he’d rather die than lounge in denim, so he swaps them out for just his Calvins.

His mind’s lethargic, but even his version of lethargic is high-drive for others—his brain has the silly tendency to work in absolute overdrive. He itches for a drink and orders a Scotch on the telephone. He checks his phone, which is lying facedown still, and as soon as he picks it up it chimes with your reply.

OK, nice. Did u need something?

No, just wanted to let you know. He hits send, then adds another. You’re off @ 8?

Ended early, I’m in the car. He’s in the middle of drafting a response when you send a follow-up.

I thought we agreed no contact unless business

He scoffs out a dry laugh. Despite himself, he reads the text in your voice, his brain completing the image of the bossy tone with crossed arms and a wickedly arched brow. In response he types: Can’t even update a friend nowadays? I am very tired you know.

Rules are rules, he reads. Then, Get some rest.

Yeah. Got a drink.

I said rest, not drink. Even then he can hear the exasperation in your voice.

How was work? I hurt a muscle doing training. That’s why I’m at the hotel early.

Feel better soon, you send. Had some press stuff today. Boring shit

Yeah? I missed you today.

Really?

A lot. He hums and leans backward, lets his head settle into the pillow, the smell of the linen spray consuming his nostrils. He waits for his phone to buzz, vibrate softly on the hard surface of his chest. It does, after a few minutes, after he’s let his eyes shut and let himself rest them for a bit, after the room service comes knocking and gives him the Scotch he’d requested while ago.

He’s back sitting on his bed when it vibrates. He picks it up and reads: How much?

You’re awfully easy to rile up. He smiles around the rim of his glass—he knows exactly where this is heading. 

So much I think I’ll watch some videos of us.

The only caveat of casual sex as two people who essentially dislike each other is the fact that it’s all under wraps—which means if you two try to sneak off together, or are even caught in the same vicinity, people raise suspicions. And that means there are weeks where you barely get to fuck.

And that means you both grow antsy for it. He makes fun of you for being needy, when you’re tipsy and palming at the denim of his jeans or when you bend over when you know he’s looking. But the truth is he grows needy for it, too, craves you like you’re all that matters—he gets extra handsy, drops another innuendo when he knows you’re listening. There is a case to be made that he’s worse, in fact, because fans sometimes skirt around his words and wonder why he sounds so flirty when you’re the reporter in the room.

It was difficult but eventually he found a minor workaround: sometimes he films the two of you. There’s none of those propping his phone up kind of stuff, he just fishes for it in the middle of fucking you so he can store it for himself. It’s locked on his phone and he only has a few (the few has grown in number lately), but God it gives him release when he needs it and you’re not there.

I’ll call you when I’m at the lobby, comes the response. It’s always futile, the attempts to stay away from each other.

He pulls up the folder and lets his eyes skate over the thumbnails, squeezes himself through his boxers. Fuck. He can’t seem to decide what he wants to watch—the ones of you sucking him off, the ones of his fingers stretching you out. He recalls the whine in your voice in each of them, the pleads that escaped you for him to fuck you harder.

So Max, for the life of him, can’t even count how many times these videos have made him cum. But there’s one he hasn’t seen yet—the one he took the night before you two parted. You’d become extra needy on this night, preceding the season, he supposes, the separation. You already were anticipating the deprivation, starved for him more than usual. He’d have kissed you pretty, given you one orgasm after another and still you’d want more. And on this night it was you who asked him to film, you who wanted all of them on tape, so you’d both have something to tide you over until he got to fuck you again.

He pulls his cock out and strokes over it. And with his other hand, he presses his thumb on that video.

In it he’s fucking you in the dark, keeping the phone’s flashlight on your pussy as he sinks his cock into you. When he pulls back out the light reflects on the slick coating his dick, makes it glisten. It looks so wet, sounds so wet, with each thrust into you. He remembers just how it feels; he imagines that he’s back in your bed, fucking you again; that his fist is your pussy, and the spit lubricating it is the wetness that’s drooling out of you on camera.

He can see how tight you are—the way your pussy grips the shaft each time he pulls his cock out, greedy for him. Just like you.

The two of you were supposed to be quiet, too. You were at a hotel, your room beside another driver’s; you were supposed to be careful not to stir anyone. But your moans are louder than he remembers; so is the way you say, breathily, between gasps, Right there, Maxie, m’so close. Max inhales through his teeth, his cock throbbing at that—that Maxie, the cute little whimper out your mouth.

He strokes himself faster, watches the way your fingers slip into frame to rub at your clit, his thrusts getting sloppier and sloppier. He can see, hear—feel how wet you are, the sound of your cunt growing wetter with every thrust. He hears his own voice again, mutter out So good for me, yeah? And your babbled affirmation in response.

You cum hard, your slick getting everything wet and shiny and Max watches himself cum next. His dick’s already spurting when he pulls out and lets himself release on your lower stomach, some of it shooting onto your tits. He blinks, anchors himself back, quickens his wrist and digs his heels into the bed to keep himself from coming. Just a second longer. He knows what comes next and he needs to see it.

Like clockwork, he watches two of your fingers swipe through his cum, bringing them up to your lips. You blink up at the camera and smile. Quit it, your lips mouth, pink and cum-slick. Put it down, Maxie… fill me up again. He releases in weak spurts over his fist, a damp, flushed grunt escaping him as he does. He feels like the air’s been knocked out of him.

His phone rings and he presses it to his ear. “Hey, angel. Come on up.”

One week later

“Vodka,” you say to the bellboy when you get to the elevator. “To my hotel room. Very cold. Please. And thank you.”

The guy scurries off to fetch it for you, and five minutes and one elevator ride later, you're wrestling himself into your room, flexing your sore foot. Japan does hotel rooms well. The leather of your Manolo digs into your foot the way it does after you’ve walked the entire day and you can feel a blister forming on the back of your right heel but it doesn’t really matter, you guess, if you’re already home. Hotel-home, anyway.

You expect to find solace lounging on your bed, waiting out the hours to your morning briefing for the race and throw back a glass or two of vodka. 

Instead, you find Max on your couch. He’s sipping ice-cold vodka—your ice-cold vodka.

“Hey, pretty,” he says. “Good vodka. I got staff to wire my FIFA on the TV.”

You just stare. “My TV. What,” you say, your eyes spotting the bottle of frosty vodka by his glass, “are you doing here?”

“I hadn’t seen you all day and I wanted to,” he explains simply. “Do you want food or something?”

“Food? I—nevermind,” you shrug. You’re frozen by the door, only just warmed now from the cold air that bit at your bare legs. “Max, how long have you been here?”

“Since Will Buxton started the post-FP debrief,” he huffs. He fiddles with the remote in his grip and extends it to the TV, where FIFA comes to life. “Aw, come on, angel. I know, I know. No sex and all that. I just like your company, you know?”

“Please. Go fuck yourself,” you scoff, toeing off your shoes and wiping your hands on the fabric of your skirt. He says one thing but you expect another—it’s only natural, given all the other times one of you had failed to keep a similar promise. But still you walk yourself beside him, fix the strap of your short dress, and allow him to pour you a drink.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?” He asks absently. “About how you’re always having these talks with me about… about not having sex anymore, but you never even last two days.” He raises you the glass. “What is it, relapsing?”

“Fuck you,” you mutter. “It’s only because you keep trying to get me all hot and bothered.” You recall each time: in Monaco, in Madrid, in France. “Maybe if you got off my back once in a while, we’d be back to normal.”

He shrugs. “You just don’t have strong resolve.”

“Excuse me?” You scoff, irritation scratching at your throat.

“Wanna test that out? Come play.”

Your eyes flit over to the bright screen, all exhaustion cleared from your system. An animated Kylian Mbappe kicks a football in a loop. “Fine. One round and you’re out of my room.” He throws his hands up in surrender and you make a move to sit next to him. Max puts his hands out towards you then, nodding. You mistake it for some handshake, accept them, and then he’s wrangle you onto his lap facing outward. You feel your pulse at your throat as he pulls you tight against him.

“This is cheating,” you say, your voice dry.

“You got it wrong. Teaching.”

He moves his fingers atop yours, explaining what to press, what goes where, what to do for this or that. He can smell your perfume, hear your stilted breaths, and when he peeks over your shoulder he can see where your dress falls loose, showing the lace of your bra and your tits underneath them.

If he had it his way, he’d hike your dress up and have you ride him. But he’s given you a challenge.

You play a practice round and end up scoring a few goals, fingers making quick work of the buttons. Behind you, Max watches, content, answering your questions when you ask them hurriedly—how do I do this? That? Did I just score?

You score once, then twice, then three times, and before you know it you’re scoring in quick succession. The game is fun—it’s easy. If Max was trying to give you a hard time, he failed. You grow determined, competitive within seconds (something he really should’ve anticipated), and you’re scoring goals with skill that you’d confidently say rivals Max’s.

Max. You almost—almost forget he’s there, and then you sit up straighter and you’re hit with the sensation of his dick pressing into your ass. You inhale sharply and the controller clatters to the floor.

“You okay, pretty?” His hand comes up to rest on your knee, inching closer and closer with every hitch of your breath. Your hand, now free of the controller, seizes his, stopping it right at the middle of your thigh. 

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah? You look stressed.” He doesn’t move. “You were so close, too, weren’t you?” The score stares you right in the face: 4-5. “Maybe you just need to get your mind off it.” It’s so bullshit, so extremely obvious, but he’s right in your ear and his hand is so near where you’ve missed its presence.

You’re usually competitive. You can usually hold your ground. But with this and him—

“Maybe,” you breathe, loosening your grip. He spreads his legs, spreading yours in the process, and brings his hand closer, running slender fingers over the lace material of your underwear until you’re squirming. It grows damper the more he touches, your mouth hanging open with stunted whimpers.

“You always come back to me, schatz, don’t you,” he says, whispers against your ear. You wrench a moan out. “Remember the first time? You interviewed me in Abu Dhabi… you teased me the whole day and begged to come thrice in my room. The time in Monaco you touched yourself to me when I was in the next room. The time we almost hooked up in Miami…” He groans, to himself more than you. “You’re a dirty girl.” He’s curling two fingers inside of you now, grazing against the sweet spot pulls the most delicious moans out of your innocent mouth.

“Every time… you go, that was the last time.” While your mind recaps the memories he’s busy spelling into your ear, Max’s fingers are curling inside of you against that sweet spot just right, and your moans are getting louder and louder.

“Fuck,” he huffs, watching your flushed face get more and more euphoric.

“Aw, pretty, look at that,” Max laughs. He’s looking at your thighs, watching the way they tense and shake as his fingers stroke your g spot. Each pump and curl into your twitching pussy feels better and better, and your dripping walls are starting to clench around his fingers.

“Wait, I—I can’t,” you pant, lolling your head onto his shoulder and involuntarily bucking your hips upward. 

“Yeah you can,” he orders. “It’s so easy to get you to cum, isn’t it? Or is that just for me? The driver you hate the most?” He laughs. “Get all wet for the guy you couldn’t care less about. Say you hate me and get my dick nice and wet the next day.” You’re grinding onto his three fingers now, shameless with it.

“Are you gonna cum?” He asks.

“Oh,” you whine. “Yeah, fuck—yes.”

“Tell me what you’re gonna do,” he says wickedly. You can hear him smile.

“I’m gonna—please—I’m gonna cum,” you pant, tension coming to a halt and then bursting all at once out of you. His other arm holds your hips down against him, and you spend a minute and another twitching, your skin sticky with sweat and slick.

It’s not long before you’re whirled back to face him, your hands making quick work of his jeans. It’s a skill you’ve both mastered, the art of the quickie—in closets, hotel rooms, with sweaty, open-mouthed kisses pressed along the column of your throat, moans swallowed. 

He hikes your dress up and your panties to the side, immediately bullies his cock into you—the glide is slow, but easy. You’re so fucking wet.

“Fucking big,” you gasp out. “Jesus, Jesus—fuck.” Your head drops and presses against his; he uses the opportunity to kiss you. You moan into it, feeling the stretch, your slick wetness dragging down the length of him as he thrusts up, up, further. “Been a while.”

“Feel good, though, yeah?” Your toes curl and you nod; you’re flushed all over and you need him to hurry up. You grind downward, onto him. He does, then, fucks you hard and fast, like he’s thirsted for this for way longer than he did. You’re squirming, all wet, and it tempts him to go harder. Your face is shiny with sweat, lips drawn in between your teeth.

“Slo—slow down,” you manage, babbling; he doesn’t, speeding up his thrusts until you’re moaning his name. “Max—wait—fuck, you’re so mean,” you whine, wrapping your arms around him and letting him take control. 

“You’re fine,” he grunts, pulling out almost all the way. “You take my dick so well, schatz, every fucking time. Don’t you?”

“I do,” you gasp out, and he’s slamming into you gain. You cry out loudly, sniffling from the overstimulation—you’d barely recovered from your initial orgasm and already you’re hurtling into what feels like three at the same time. 

“For someone who doesn’t like me,” he sneers, “you sure do moan like a slut, huh?”

His words get you more turned on than you’re willing to admit, but you shake your head.

“No?” He laughs, breathy from the effort. “Maybe I should film you now. Send it to your boss, let him see his stellar reporter’s getting Verstappen’s dick wet.” 

Finally, the tension building inside of you reaches a head, and your pussy starts to twitch around his dick. He notices, grunts sharply and leans forward, shuddering as he releases into you. Your moans are choked and tapering into whimpers as you release slick all over him, and you attempt to catch your breath, collapsing onto his still-clothed, now-sticky chest. You scratch at the dri-fit material and inhale him, the smell of his cologne, his sweat. You bite at his earlobe, laugh when he flinches.

“That,” you say into his skin, “was the last time.” It’s both seriously and as a joke, playing off of what he’d remarked earlier.

“Jesus, princess. I’m still inside you.” 

You giggle and drum lightly along the plane of his chest. In a few minutes he’ll pick you up to shower, but now you’re content to inhale him in. Quietly you wonder why you just can’t get enough of him—if you were in better senses, you’d have realized he was thinking the same thing about you.

[narcjsistx]

𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐋𝐓, 𝐈 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄! ❞ isagi yoichi x fem reader

plot: what happens when you and isagi are keeping such a big secret from each other?

The calm of the situation is such a welcome thing after so many days of pure stress. With Isagi not knowing if he would be able to come home from Germany for his birthday and you accidentally thinking a model had slept with him, the past few days have been a real rollercoaster. When he came back two days ago and you asked him about the model, you finally cleared up all your doubts, realizing that it was just a misunderstanding that Bachira had told you over the phone. You can't deny that you suffered for many hours because of this thing, but on the other hand, you and Isagi had been together for so many years that it seemed a bit ridiculous to you to think that he would throw away a ten year relationship just for a woman he met during his two weeks of training in Germany. You had been together since your first year of middle school, and now that he had finally won the World Cup, everything was much calmer. Having dinner at his family house had been a great choice, especially considering what you were going to say tonight in front of him and his parents

"Yocchan, can you pass me the salt?" his mother asks, and you turn to him, seeing him deep in thought. You and his mother look at each other for a few seconds, before you both giggle. "Yoichi!" you say stroking his face, and he seems to come to his senses "Huh?" he says confused, and you grab the salt, giving it to his mother "Your mother asked you a favor, but you were too busy thinking about who knows what. Can you at least keep soccer out of your head during this dinner?" you say teasing him gently, and he nods, going back to eating his plate still full "Oh, yeah. Sorry" he says, but seems to be back in his own world again, probably made up of kicking balls and the occasional you. You sigh, eating and hearing his parents talking about something related to the fact that they should buy a new sofa. You don't know what's wrong with him, whether he's lost in thought because he just got back from a two week absence or because something serious happened that bothers him. How can you tell your secret if he's like that?

You clear your throat, putting a hand on his arm, and he comes to life again "Everything okay?" he asks, and you nod "I am, but what about you? Why are you like this?" you whisper, not wanting to worry his parents, but he looks away hearing the words, concentrating on the plate of rice. You glare at him, tugging on his arm "Yoichi?" you say, and he huffs "Nothing much… just… anxiety. Stupid anxiety" he whispers, and you raise an eyebrow, genuinely curious "Anxiety? About what?"

Isagi looks you in the eyes for a few seconds, before getting up from the table. The attention focuses on him, and you look at him a little perplexed as he has the same face he had when as a kid he didn't know whether to run in the mud to get the ball "I have something important to tell you all. That's why I asked to have dinner together" he says, and his mother looks at him curiously "Did something happen, Yocchan?" she asks, and his father puts his fork down on his plate "Some promotion we don't know about?" he asks, and you chuckle at his comment. Isagi shakes his head, visibly flustered "No… not that. Kinda. It depends on your point of view… but it’s something I need to say that I’ve been holding back for a few weeks" he says, pursing his lips, and from his expression, you worry a little. You wipe your mouth with your handkerchief, standing up next to him "I also have something to say to everyone" you say, and Isagi turns a little annoyed, not at you but at the situation "Did something happen?" he asks, and you shake your head, smiling slightly at him "Kinda. But don’t worry, Yoichi" you say, seeing him still a bit perplexed

"Our darlings have something important to tell us! But who starts?" Isagi's mother asks, and you turn to him. You look at each other for a few seconds, before shrugging your shoulders "Shall we count to three?" he suggests, and you nod. "Good. One, two..." says the mother, the father looking at you curiously "I hope that's a good thing, since you're delaying dessert-" he says, but is interrupted by his wife "Three!"

"Do you want to marry me?" "I'm pregnant"

Yoichi looks at you with shining eyes, his hand with a velvet box that stops in mid air. His parents remain with their hands clasped almost in applause, changing their gaze between you.

You gasp when you realize what he just asked you, and your eyes water with emotion "Are you seriously asking me that?" you ask, almost sobbing, but he drops the little box on the table to hug you "Are you seriously pregnant, like with a baby?"

You both look at each other trembling, a bit like two teenagers who have just shared their first kiss again. Iyo looks at you excitedly, starting to sob as you automatically start too, and consequently also Isagi as he kisses your face, as his hands rest on your stomach as if he wanted to check on the presence of his son or daughter, you don't know it yet

"This stuff is definitely a good reason to delay the dessert"

✶ 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Master Dialogue Writing Techniques for Engaging Fiction (For Writers)

(Beware, long post!)

As fiction writers, we all know that effective dialogue is essential for bringing our stories and characters to life. After all, the way our protagonists, antagonists, and supporting players speak to one another is one of the primary ways readers get to know them on a deep, intimate level. Dialogue reveals personality, uncovers motivation, and propels the narrative forward in a way that felt narration simply can't match.

But nailing natural, compelling dialogue is easier said than done. It's a craft that takes serious skill to master, requiring writers to have a keen ear for authentic speech patterns, a nimble handle on subtext and implication, and the ability to strike that delicate balance between being true to real-world conversation while also keeping things snappy, dynamic, and laser-focused on the story at hand.

If you're someone who struggles with crafting dialogue that truly sings, never fear. In this in-depth guide, I'm going to dive deep into the techniques and best practices that will help you elevate your dialogue writing to new heights. By the end, you'll have a toolbox full of strategies to ensure that every exchange between your characters is as gripping, revealing, and unforgettable as possible.

The Fundamentals of Effective Dialogue

Before we get into the more advanced nuances of dialogue writing, let's start by covering some of the foundational principles that all great fictional conversations are built upon:

Reveal Character One of the primary functions of dialogue is to give readers a window into who your characters are as people. The way they speak — their word choices, their tone, their body language, their turns of phrase — should provide vivid insight into their personalities, backgrounds, values, quirks, and emotional states.

Think about how much you can glean about someone just from how they communicate in real life. Do they use a lot of slang and shorthand? Are they verbose and flowery with their language? Do they struggle to make eye contact or fail to respond directly to questions? All of these subtle linguistic cues are powerful tools for crafting multi-dimensional characters.

Drive the Plot Forward While revelations about character are crucial, you also want to ensure that your dialogue is constantly pushing the story itself forward. Each exchange should feel purposeful, moving the narrative along by introducing new information, triggering plot points, creating conflict, or prompting characters to make pivotal decisions.

Dialogue that feels aimless or extraneous will ultimately bore readers and detract from the forward momentum of your story. Every line should have a clear intent or function, whether it's uncovering a hidden truth, setting up a future complication, or escalating the tension in a high-stakes moment.

Establish Distinct Voices In a story featuring multiple characters, it's crucial that each person has a clearly defined and differentiated way of speaking. Readers should be able to tell who's talking just from the rhythm, diction, and personality of the dialogue, without any additional context clues.

This doesn't mean every character has to have an over-the-top, hyper-stylized way of communicating. In fact, the most effective character voices often feel grounded and natural. But there should still be distinct markers — whether it's word choice, sentence structure, tone, or speech patterns — that make each person's voice instantly recognizable.

Convey Subtext While the literal words being spoken are important, great dialogue also traffics heavily in subtext — the unspoken emotional undercurrents, power dynamics, and hidden agendas that simmer beneath the surface of a conversation.

The most compelling exchanges happen when characters are communicating on multiple levels simultaneously. Perhaps they're saying one thing out loud while their body language and tone convey a completely different sentiment. Or maybe they're engaged in a subtle war of wits, trading verbal jabs that reveal deeper wells of resentment, attraction, or vulnerability.

Mastering the art of subtext is key to creating dialogue that feels layered, lifelike, and imbued with dramatic tension.

Strategies for Writing Snappy, Realistic Dialogue

Now that we've covered the foundational principles, let's dive into some specific techniques and best practices that will take your dialogue writing to the next level:

Omit Unnecessary Details One of the biggest mistakes many writers make with dialogue is bogging it down with too much extraneous information. In real life, people rarely speak in perfectly composed, grammatically correct full sentences. We stumble over our words, interrupt each other, trail off mid-thought, and pack our speech with filler words like "um," "uh," and "you know."

While you don't want to go overboard with mimicking that messiness, you should aim to strip your dialogue of any overly formal or expository language. Stick to the essentials — the core thoughts, feelings, and information being exchanged — and let the subtext and character voices do the heavy lifting. Your readers will fill in the gaps and appreciate the authenticity.

Master the Art of Subtext As mentioned earlier, crafting dialogue that's rich in subtext is one of the keys to making it feel gripping and lifelike. Think about how much is often left unsaid in real-world conversations, with people dancing around sensitive topics, conveying hidden agendas, or engaging in subtle power struggles.

To layer that sense of unspoken tension into your own dialogue, consider techniques like:

• Having characters contradict themselves or say one thing while their body language says another

• Utilizing loaded pauses, interruptions, and moments of uncomfortable silence

• Injecting subtle sarcasm, skepticism, or implication into a character's word choices

• Allowing characters to talk past each other, missing the unspoken point of what the other person is really saying

The more you can imbue your dialogue with that layered, emotionally-charged subtext, the more it will resonate with readers on a deeper level.

Establish Distinct Voices As mentioned earlier, ensuring that each of your characters has a clearly defined and differentiated speaking voice is crucial for great dialogue. But how exactly do you go about accomplishing that?

One effective strategy is to give each person a unique set of verbal tics, idioms, or speech patterns. Maybe one character is prone to long-winded, flowery metaphors, while another speaks in clipped, efficiency-minded sentences. Perhaps your protagonist has a habit of ending statements with questioning upticks, while the sarcastic best friend always punctuates their barbs with an eye roll.

You can also play with differences in diction, syntax, and even accent/dialect to further distinguish how your characters communicate. The key is to really get to know the unique personality, background, and psychology of each person — then let those elements shine through in how they express themselves.

Lean Into Conflict and Confrontation When it comes to crafting gripping dialogue, conflict is your friend. The most compelling exchanges often arise from characters butting heads, engaging in verbal sparring matches, or working through deep-seated tensions and disagreements.

Conflict allows you to showcase the high stakes, unresolved needs, and deeper emotional currents that are driving your characters. It forces them to make bold choices, reveals aspects of their personalities that might not otherwise surface, and generates the kind of dramatic tension that will really hook your readers.

Of course, you'll want to avoid making every single dialogue scene a full-blown argument. But learning to sprinkle in well-placed moments of friction, confrontation, and clashing agendas is a surefire way to elevate the energy and impact of your character interactions.

Read Your Dialogue Out Loud One of the most valuable tricks for ensuring your dialogue sounds natural and lifelike is to read it aloud as you're writing. Hearing the words out loud will quickly expose any clunky phrasing, overly formal grammar, or inauthentic rhythms that would otherwise go unnoticed on the page.

Pay close attention to how the dialogue rolls off your tongue. Does it have a smooth, conversational flow? Or does it feel stilted and unnatural? Are your characters' unique voices shining through clearly? Are there any spots where the back-and-forth starts to drag or feel repetitive?

Actively listening to your dialogue — and making adjustments based on how it sounds in the real world — is an essential part of the writing process. It's one of the best ways to refine and polish those character interactions until they feel truly alive.

Hopefully, this can help you all!

The key is to always keep your focus on authenticity. Ask yourself: how would real people actually speak?

Hey fellow writers! I'm super excited to share that I've just launched a Tumblr community. I'm inviting all of you to join my community. All you have to do is fill out this Google form, and I'll personally send you an invitation to join the Write Right Society on Tumblr! Can't wait to see your posts!

[antimony-medusa]

gosh i am so so sorry to come into your askbox with this but you seem a knower of things and as an extreme latecomer to this fandom, i have been. a little bit genuinely mystified by the ""dadza"" phenomenon in general? like i've seen figures or characters Assigned Dad At Fanbase before but it's usually because of like. dad hobbies or jokes or fashion sense or an actual child they talk about often or a tendency to actually make "ah yes, i'm your dad" comments/jokes, none of which the real streamer seems to have or do, or a some manner of "gruff character is soft and caring under the surface and looks out for children" archetype, which his RP character doesn't seem to be (outside of MAYBE qsmp, the story that literally became about parenting through peril, but i know this goes back further than that). Is it just because he's older by internet standards and people can't imagine people with more than a 3-year age difference interacting in a way that isn't """parental""? was it a one-off joke that got taken too far? is this all a symptom from the dsmp plot point that snowballed to the extreme? i need to ask because it is just SO far-reaching and i see no clear origin and as you can imagine that is confusing.

Okay so. This is a fascinating question because as I throw my mind back I am a little fuzzy on the actual order of events. I think it was a bunch of things happening that kind of compounded, but to the best of my knowledge what happened was:

Through SMPEarth and MCC, the original sleepy bois becomes popular. Technoblade, Philza, and Wilbur Soot. Shipping is frowned on, so people start getting invested in a family dynamic (often with all three of them as siblings). Through a MCC win, Tommyinnit (also exploding in popularity) gets added to the "official sleepy boys" dynamic, and now we have 4/4— still often interpreted as siblings, if you ever read Snapshots in Lavender, which is drawing from this time period.

Wilbur particularly is huge into the family dynamic, often talking about being twins with techno, brothers with tommy, and referring to Phil as dad and Dadza (cause he was ten years older and that means of course he's OLD and DAD, and Wilbur had a daddy kink). When SBI joins DSMP, wilbur takes the opportunity to canonize Phil as his dad in lore at the same time as he makes Phil kill his character, and tries repeatedly to make Techno his twin, and refers to tommy and him as "like brothers" a lot. Tommy plays into the dadza stuff (he is like a decade and a half younger than Phil so at least it makes more sense) and also is clearly relying on Phil for things like tech support and moral support as the fandom is exploding. Phil is dependable and safe, therefore dad. Fandom takes this and RUNS with it. Passerine happens, and Phil gets written as the dad of wilbur and tommy, Techno as an ambiguously sworn brother to phil, and brother/father/mentor to wilbur and tommy.

Pandemic is happening. 30k people are showing up to Phil streams. TTS off kids basically in distress are latching onto Phil as a supportive and dependable figure who they are seeing as dad in fanfic and on Wilbur streams as Wilbur is playing up the dad thing whenever he interacts with Phil. Phil is like (to the fandom) sure if you haven't got a dad or a good dad you can call me dad I guess and just sort of laughs at his friends calling him dad.

Techno puts his foot down in canon that Wilbur is not his twin, though that doesn't stop either Wilbur or the fandom, and Phil clarifies that Tommy isn't his kid, and Techno isn't his kid, just Wilbur, and this does not stop fandom at all. Tommyinnit's Unbeatable Method and Clinic for Supervillains are written in this period, and Phil dad and techno+wilbur+tommy trio of kids are locked in. Other huge fanfics use this lens— importance of being kind, ars poetica, his curse of binding— a few people such as silverwing are doing techno and phil platonic marriage with wilbur and tommy adopted kids, but the phil=dad lens is inescapable. Even bones in the ocean, which I think might be the biggest phil-centric fic, has a subplot about him being wilbur's dad and how that went.

We start getting into fandom schisms about if Phil is a good dad or a bad dad in canon, with his treatment of Wilbur/Ghostbur/Tommy being variously argued. A common refrain is that cc phil is a great dad, c phil is a terrible dad, so this fic is writing phil as a good dad cause that's what's real. Phil in real life continues to have no actual children, but the fandom refers to Phil as techno+tommy+wilbur's dad so often that he puts "father of three" as his end screen. [EDIT: i have been informed that Tommy made that and send it to Phil and told him to put it as his end screen, so that was still Phil just playing along.] It becomes a common interpretation that okay in LORE phil is only wilbur's dad, but in like pure SBI phil is everybody's dad, and people are writing just the pure character dynamic, not LORE. This is still tagged as not RPF. Dark SBI starts to happen.

The DSMP kind of stutters to a halt, with various endings good bad or contentious. Technoblade passes. The fandom declines, but the fan fiction is kind of self sustaining at this point and has firmly established character interpretations. People are regularly showing up to Phil streams to call him dad. He keeps saying that he's just a guy playing block game, but it's fine if people call him dad if that helps them.

QSMP happens. Wilbur immediately assigns Phil as his dad again, though Phil manages to wiggle out of it enough to say that it's not a bio relationship, they just met on the train. Phil becomes a father of an egg child, and the Phil good/bad dad wars start up again. People start interpreting DSMP canon through the lens of Phil's QSMP actions and explaining how that makes him a good or bad dad. However, shipping is kinda legalized due to Phil having a (platonic) husband, so the lens of viewing Phil as a character in a relationship starts up, but the phil-dad people also continue, notably interpreting team bolas as a family with phil as the dad, and starting wars on the wiki about who gets listed as Phil's family and how/why.

Wilbur is revealed as a domestic abuser, the QSMP ends, and both arms of the fandom decline again. Phil's stream numbers are declining to a more manageable level where he can actually read chat and respond to donos, and he starts responding more firmly to people saying that they love him, dadza, saying that that's parasocial and they don't know him. He is notably no longer laughing at it, and he re-emphasizes that he's just a guy playing block game on the internet. We still get like one dono a stream fully latched onto him as their dad.

A year later, Phil blocks dadza in his chat.

Which is to say to my knowledge it mostly came from fanfiction/other people, and Phil went along with it, and now he is no longer going along with it. He has never seemed particularly dad-y to me, but people viewing him through a wilbur-centric or tommy-centric lens had that wiring laid down for them, and then the fandom fucking Took Off With It with how popular those characters/character focuses were. That's my understanding of what happened, if anyone else wants to chime in go for it.

[theredcuyo]

The confessions in danmei i've read are actually pretty funny once you look past them for a bit

Svsss? Bingqiu never actually confesses, or more exactly, it's harder to pin point than you'd expect. No, i'm being for real. Binghe kisses Sqq and then Sqq realizes "Oh fuck he's in love with me" and continues on for the rest of the novel without addresing it but acting positively about couple shit with him, until it blows up in his face, then proceeds to tell Binghe he doesn't regret meeting him (Trhu telling him that if he was his mom he wouldn't have aborted him) but that's not enough because Lbh still doesn't think they're a thing until Sqq goes to meet him and tells him he'll follow him wherever THIS IS THE END OF THE NOVEL MIND YOU. Then they get married and Binghe admits to still be insecure about their relationship by then. The closest thing there is, is Sqq telling Binghe that he likes him on one of the extras. Bingqiu never publicly addreseses their relationship, at least not directly or in words but everyone seems to know anyway.

Wangxian has the most clear and direct confession in two parts. First, under a hostage situation Wwx yells at the top of his lungs, and infront of family of BOTH of them that he really wanted to sleep with Lwj because they did just sleep together like a few hours ago. Second, when everyone is too shocked still by that and the plot, he proceeds to sit on Lwj's lap and continue to explain that he loves him very, very much, to which Lwj repeats his words. Then not five minutes after they're disguting everyone with over the top pda, WHILE STILL ON A HOSTAGE SITUATION AND BEING UNDER TREATS. When the plot let's them go, they hug their adopted son, and then proceed to elope.

Hualian is funny because it happens in the worst situation one of them could imagine and they still come out on top. Hua Cheng was an anxious mess about the whole cave of statues because surely Dianxia would get disguisted by him, then they get under attack by the big bad and traumatic prescense of an asshole, and while they scape Xie Lian tells him they should talk about the statues, then despite of saying that there are things to be said outloud, Xie Lian proceeds to not say shit and silently hug Hua Cheng. Hua Cheng hugs him back, then the plot stoles Xie Lian away for a bit and when he comes back they proceed to gross out everyone with over the top pda for the rest of the novel, on account of Hua Cheng not restraining himself anymore. At some point after the ending they get married and this is common knowledge, said common knowledge includes very accurate descriptions of what happened in their weeding night.

Ranwan? Mo Ran has been mentally torturing himself since he realized he was in love with Chu Wanning and kicking himself mentally for even thinking about it to the point that he doesn't realize the feelings are mutual until they help people escape from attempted genocide. Then he proceeds to be as gentle about it as possible but still being bold in his declaration. Chu Wanning gay panics and runs away but he gets that they do share feelings, he also kicks himself and angsts about it. They then start a relationship without more discussion about it. Ranwan's confession is funny because it's the most normal, planned and gentle thing there is, which is the complete fucking opposite of literally everything else they ever go trhu. How come Mo Ran the moron who can't go two chapters for most of the volumes without being horny about Chu Wanning gets the normal confession? Lfmao. Also, the novel spents a good chunk of time anguishing over the view people will have on their relationship just for everyone not to give a fuck after the ending.

Pd: Special mention to Moshang with one of them not knowing they apparently were a thing, scaping from what seemed like an abusive situation and going back after the other promised to be better. Only his best friend seems aware of all of this.

[requiemdesreves]

Do you need me to, love?

Part 1 word count: 1.5k a/n: tbh this is just me being horny, not really about the plot 😞 I’m a woman with needs ok?? I swear I’ll be normal again once I stop ovulating

“Turn them over,” Caitlyn says in a pleading tone that makes you laugh. “It’s not funny, my love, I’m serious.”

My love. You don’t remember when she started calling you that, but it melts you every time she does. Those two words are all Caitlyn needs to break you down because they’re real. You are her love, the owner of her kisses and caresses, the one she looks for when she feels like she can’t go on.

“Caitlyn Kiramman, I’m not going to turn over every single one of my stuffed animals so they don’t catch us kissing,” you reply with a laugh, not seeing the point in her request.

You’re both in your room; Caitlyn came to visit you secretly-or not so secretly. A few days earlier, she had written to your parents, formally inviting them to tea with her family, using the excuse that both families should join forces in these uncertain times for the city’s progress, making it clear she’d be spending time with you while they were away. That’s one of the things you love most about her: even though your love is a secret, she never fails to do things the right way, insisting you deserve to be courted, even if no one else sees it that way.

“Well, then I won’t kiss you,” she says, crossing her arms, her stubborn streak showing.

“Then don’t kiss me,” you mimic her, crossing your arms and turning your back to her. Caitlyn can be stubborn, but you’re a brat, and you’re not going to let her win.

You hold your head high and, for a moment, you hesitate. You wonder if she’ll play along, if she’ll get tired and leave you alone, but before you give up and turn around to look at her, you feel her hands on your waist, her chest pressed against your back, and her lips on your shoulders.

“Are we really going to argue over this, my love?” she whispers as she kisses you, one hand sliding up your top, kneading and squeezing one of your tits over your bra. You didn’t know she was coming to see you-not until just minutes before your parents left. She didn’t give you time to get ready, knocking on your door right after seeing your mom and dad leave. So you’re wearing a comfortable pajama set: a thin-strapped tank top with a heart print and matching shorts. Caitlyn bites you gently, then soothes the spot with her tongue. You can feel her smile on your skin, and the sensation sends a shiver down your spine.

“You’re asking me for something that makes no sense,” you try to keep up the fight, but the way her fingers slip under your bra and tease your nipple won’t let you. You feel yourself swell immediately and sigh. “They’re stuffed animals, they can’t see us.”

“Of course they can,” she insists, now kissing your neck. Her lips stop at your ear, and she whispers in a way that makes your panties damp. “But let’s drop that, okay? I haven’t seen you in weeks, and I don’t want to spend the few hours we have left arguing with you.”

You don’t respond, letting her touch you, kiss you, do whatever she wants with you. Without breaking contact, she leads you to your vanity. Her reflection appears in the mirror, a large one, decorated with golden edges and a small lipstick stain you left while putting on makeup a few days ago.

“Look at you. You’re so beautiful.” Her words weaken you, but what really does it is when she slips her hands under your shorts and straight into your underwear. She’s not joking, not teasing. Not today. Her middle finger slowly strokes your clit, and you roll your eyes, grabbing her arm and digging your nails in hard. You catch a glimpse of a small wince in her reflection, but she doesn’t complain.

“Caitlyn,” you whisper, trying to find the strength to speak as you feel her finger moving faster. “We’re literally two steps from the bed, why here?”

Caitlyn laughs softly, looking at you, not through the mirror, but at you. At the sweat starting to form on your forehead, at the way your face tightens as you try not to make too much noise. “I want you to see yourself, princess. You look so good like this, it’d be a shame not to share the view. Even if it’s just with you.” As she speaks, she pushes two fingers deep inside you.

Saying you moan is an understatement. You tremble, writhe, and become nothing under her touch. You can’t help but grind against her fingers, craving more of that pleasure only she can give.

“Baby… please,” you beg without even knowing why. You don’t know what you want, but you don’t want her to stop.

She soothes you mockingly, the hand that was on your breasts now moving to your back, gently pushing you until the upper part of your body rests on the vanity. You’re face down, ass up. Just the way she likes it. Her fingers pause, pulling away from you to clean them with her mouth without breaking eye contact. The heat in your abdomen intensifies. You need her in a raw, carnal way. You try to say something, move, or complain, but she won’t let you, speaking before you can:

“You don’t know how hard it is to be away from you, my princess.” Her voice is hoarse, needy. You can see she’s trying to keep it together, but it’s tough. “It hurts how much I need you. Do you need me too, love?”

You nod, unable to form coherent words, much less a sentence. Humiliating. Truly humiliating. From the position she’s got you in, to the effect it has on your mind, on your whole being.

“How about we go to the bed where we’re both comfortable?” Her hands caress your ass gently, speaking to you and looking at you as if you were the most fragile, delicate thing in the world. “I know you’ll turn the stuffed animals around like I asked.”

You laugh at her words, really laugh, in a teasing way that annoys her. You might be a horny little thing who wets her panties at the slightest touch, who squeezes her thighs just from the scent of her perfume, but you never lose your arguments. Never.

“I already told you I’m not going to do it.”

And you didn’t.

Caitlyn scolds you for it while her lips wrap around your clit, sucking in a way that makes your eyes roll back. You don’t know if it’s because she’s irritated or because she hasn’t seen you in a while, but the way she eats you out makes you feel so good. She licks your pussy with such passion that you wonder if she’s doing it for you or for herself. Her words get lost in your folds. A perfect mix of praise and reproach. And her fingers, oh her fingers. They pump in and out of you, making you lift your hips, craving more.

Your hands grip her hair, pushing it away from her face and guiding her where you need her. You pull her away when you feel your orgasm coming, not wanting to come on her face, but she growls and dives back between your legs, licking you like she’s starving, desperate.

“Don’t hold back, love, come for me. Don’t worry about me.” Caitlyn coos you, her free hand intertwined with yours. You squeeze it tight as the orgasm washes over your body, your thighs clamping down on her, but Caitlyn doesn’t mind and keeps licking. You hear her moan between your legs and notice how she grinds against the mattress, trying to calm her own arousal.

“Come here,” you call softly, barely audible, but she hears and obeys.

Without hesitation, Caitlyn spreads your legs wider, throwing one over you. She stays like that for a few seconds before letting her weight fall on you, and when she does, you feel like you could die right then and there, and if you did, you’d die happy.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” Her movements are slow, deliberate. You just had an orgasm, and no matter how desperate she is, Caitlyn doesn’t want to hurt you or make you uncomfortable. She picks up the pace when she hears the moans escaping your mouth, mixed with sweet words and her name over and over.

You were a mess. Both of you were. The room is filled with obscene sounds, the scent of sex, and the proof of a passion that feels eternal. It didn’t take long for Caitlyn to come, and for you to reach a second orgasm.

She collapses beside you, her breathing ragged, just like yours. Without saying a word, she curls up against your chest, running a hand along your waist and pulling you close. You’re both sweaty, sticky, and you hate sweat. Yours, anyone’s, but not hers. Not when it’s proof of the love you share.

“I missed you,” she whispers, and your hand travels to her neck. “I mean it. I’m not happy when you’re away.”

You smile, snuggling closer, seeking the warmth of her body. “I missed you too. A lot.”

Neither of you says anything else. You just stay wrapped up in the comfort the other provides. You’re sticky, sweaty, and exhausted. So exhausted that neither of you hears your mother’s shrill voice announcing she’s home.

Uh-oh...

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

[ineffectualdemon]

I've been thinking about it

And I don't think what's needed to actually fix Shen Jiu and Yue Qingyuan's relationship is Yue Qingyuan confessing why he didn't make it in time unless it was immediately when they met at the conference

Because that's not what sets Shen Jiu on his path.

What set Shen Jiu down the road he traveled and ruined all his interpersonal relationships was that he briefly wished Yue Qingyuan had died rather then forgot him

And he was so horrified by having that thought that he decided he was born rotten and was a monster from birth. Because only a monster would think like that.

Some people were rotten from birth. Shen Jiu thought of himself in exactly this way - someone vile and poisonous from the start. Because, at that instant, he came to a crystal -clear realization:

That he's rather have met a Yue Qi who'd died in some unknown corner, his remains unsightly and forgotten, then a Yue Qingyuan who was elegant and powerful, his prospects and future boundless."

SVSSS English translation Vol 4 Pg 95

Later when Yue Qingyuan talks to Shen Jiu in the water prison they have this moment:

"Has Shidi ever considered that, if you hadn't treated Luo Binghe like that in the beginning, everything that unfolded today would never have happened?"

Shen Qingqiu burst into laughter. "Why does Zhangmen-shixiong say such ludicrous things? What's happened has happened! I've already 'considered' it hundreds and thousands of times! There is no 'if', no 'in the beginning' —there was never any chance of redemption!"

SVSSS English translation Vol 4 Pg 111

He doesn't see this going in any other way because how could it if he was "rotten from birth" he was always a monster in his mind so to him suggesting there were other options is silly.

When he sees how this breaks Yue Qingyuan's heart he accepts that Yue Qingyuan had done all he could and any debt had long been repaid. But it's what he says next that really says a lot about himself

"You should go," said Shen Qingqiu. "I'll tell you this: Even if all of this could be redone from the beginning, in the end, the conclusion would remain the same. My heart is full of malice, my insides hatred and resentment. Today Luo Binghe wishes for me to die horribly, and I have only myself to blame."

SVSSS English translation Vol 4 Pg 112

He's saying it this way to push Yue Qingyuan to give up on him. Shen Jiu knows he's been cruel and abusive and feels he earned his fate. Which of course he would. He killed his own abusers with his own two hands. He understands Luo Binghe's motivations and reasons and doesn't see how it could have gone any different.

Because he sees himself as an inherent monster from birth and he was projecting that same monstrosity onto Luo Binghe from the beginning.

Yue Qingyuan confessing wouldn't have fixed their relationship unless it had been in the first instant when they met again. If he had said "I was too late" instead of "Qi-ge let you down" that might have changed things. But once Shen Jiu thinks he would have preferred Yue Qi to have died then become Yue Qingyuan and soar above him Shen Jiu was doomed.

The only way to fix their relationship from that point is for Shen Jiu to confess and confront the fact that the person he is angry with and hates is himself and that he's trying to push Yue Qingyuan away for that reason.

Unfortunately in PIDW canon he was only able to do this in the water prison and he still tried to push away Yue Qingyuan (who offered to let Shen Jiu kill him??? I had forgotten that bit) to save him from Luo Binghe.

I was thinking about this because I remembered a post that someone wrote about Shen Qingqiu getting truth serumed but it exposing his real feelings not like hidden identities. Like he insults Airplane and then says "I actually enjoy your company and your writing when you focus on your world building and plot but I had how you squander your potential."

And that was obviously talking about Shen Yuan

But I think that sort of thing would actually fix a lot of Shen Jiu's interpersonal relationships but he'd be mad as hell about it. Again it would have to happen before Luo Binghe hit the sect but if he could voice and confront those self beliefs then there is the slightest chance he could be persuaded that he's wrong by the right person

But yes. The thing about Shen Jiu is by the time Luo Binghe meets him he is well and truly a monster. But he's a monster because he decided he was one inherently and that he was incapable of changing that fact about himself.

Shen Jiu was right. Going back wouldn't have changed anything because Shen Jiu doesn't believe himself capable of change.

Something would have to break through that self hatred and make him believe he can be better. That he doesn't have to live like that.

And Yue Qingyuan confessing wouldn't do that. It would just make the self hatred worse.

[fordiaz]

I Love You, I’m Sorry (Eddie Diaz) 𓍯 ִ⋆.˚ 💋ྀིྀི ⋆

“Eddie, loving someone doesn’t mean they’re going to leave you. You’ve lived like the next loss is always around the corner, but she wasn’t trying to go anywhere. You pushed her out.” . ݁₊ 🩸⊹ . ݁💉˖ . ݁

Synopsis: You and Eddie have always shared something deeper than friendship — an unspoken connection that lingers in every glance, every laugh, every brush of a hand. But when Eddie realizes just how much power you hold over his heart, fear sets in. He pulls away, leaving you confused and heartbroken. When you confront him, he denies everything, leaving you shattered. As time passes, it becomes clear to everyone around you that you’re both falling apart without each other. Eventually, it takes a push — maybe from Buck — for Eddie to finally confront the truth he’s been running from: he’s always loved you, and he may have already lost his chance.

Genre: Romance, Angst, Slowburn, Mutual Pining, Fluff

AU: None

Pairing: Eddie Diaz x Afab!Reader

Warnings: Eddie’s an asshole but he didn’t mean to bc he runs away from his problems (😭)

Note: This was a request from my inbox (in my ask box tag) and I thought the plot was super interesting since it falls right into the genre of fics that I produce. Thank you to the anon who gave me a whole run down on the story! Happy reading and as always, every like + reblog and comment is highly appreciated.

There’s always been something quietly comfortable about being around Eddie.

You’re not sure when it started — the ease, the intimacy, the way your lives naturally bled into each other — but at some point, it became second nature.

His house was your second home. Christopher knew your coffee order and your favorite snacks. You knew which cabinet Eddie kept his aspirin in and which way the bathroom door creaked if you didn’t close it properly.

He never had to ask you to stay longer when you were over; your presence was a given.

You brought takeout on your nights off and folded his laundry when he forgot it in the dryer. He poured you a glass of wine after long shifts and let you steal his hoodie when it was late and you didn’t feel like going home.

There were no declarations. No spoken rules. Just the quiet way he always looked for you in a room, how he made sure to pour your coffee just the way you liked it — two sugars, no cream — or how his shoulder would graze yours when you walked side by side, like it couldn’t help but lean in your direction.

It wasn’t romantic. Not officially.

But God, if it didn’t feel like the most real thing in your life.

Sometimes he’d sit beside you on the couch, a little too close, and your thighs would touch for minutes on end. Neither of you moved.

You’d both pretend not to notice, but the air between you shifted. Grew warm. Familiar. Intimate. He’d chuckle at something on TV, and you’d smile because his laughter was your favorite kind of peace.

And the glances… those glances stayed too long to be casual. Like when you’d say something in passing and he’d stare at you as if he was memorizing your words — as if they mattered more than you knew.

His gaze would dip to your lips sometimes when you weren’t speaking, and you tried to tell yourself you imagined it, but deep down, you knew better.

Everyone else saw it too.

“Okay, seriously,” Buck said one night after a shift, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “Are you two ever going to admit you’re in love or are we all just going to die waiting?”

You rolled your eyes and laughed it off. So did Eddie.

“We’re just friends,” you both said in near-perfect unison, which only made Hen groan.

“Uh-huh. Friends,” Chimney muttered, sipping his coffee like he was watching a slow-burn rom-com unfold in real time.

“Friends who look at each other like they’re planning to die in each other’s arms.”

It was embarrassing — the way the team teased — but it was also validating in a weird, terrifying kind of way. Because you’d started to feel it too.

The shift.

The tiny changes.

It happened quietly. The way he started opening up more. How his voice softened when he talked to you, how his eyes searched yours when he wasn’t sure of himself.

The way you reached for him automatically during calls, always scanning the wreckage for each other before anything else. And maybe the moment that hit you hardest: when you caught yourself thinking about him as home. Not just his house or his presence, but Eddie.

He was home.

And that terrified you.

Because if it was real — if this thing between you was more than friendship — it meant you had everything to lose.

Still, the idea nestled in your chest and refused to leave. You thought about what it would feel like to kiss him. To wake up in his arms. To be loved by him fully and openly.

You thought about Christopher, about Sunday mornings and slow coffee and a life that maybe, just maybe, could be yours too.

But nothing was ever said.

Not out loud.

Because maybe he didn’t feel the same. Or maybe he did, and was just too afraid to say it. Either way, you weren’t sure who’d be brave enough to say it first.

But something was building between you.

You could feel it every time he looked at you like you were the center of his universe. Like he was one breath away from telling you everything.

And honestly? You were starting to wish he would.

It starts small.

A missed call here. A shorter reply there.

You don’t think anything of it at first. People get busy. Shifts get hectic. Life happens. You give him grace — because that’s what you do for people you love.

But then it starts to happen more.

He stops texting back as quickly. Your usual post-shift dinners turn into silence. The calls you used to get at 11PM — just to hear your voice before bed — go unanswered. He still smiles when he sees you at the station, still asks if you’re okay after a tough call, but it’s like he’s flicking a switch now.

Friendly. Polite. Detached.

And it hurts. It hurts like hell.

You try not to show it. You tell yourself maybe he’s going through something, that he’ll talk to you when he’s ready. Because this is Eddie — he doesn’t always know how to open the door when he’s hurting.

You’ve seen him do this before with others. But never with you.

Not like this.

One night, you knock on his door with your usual coffee order, the kind gesture that used to earn you a soft smile and a “You didn’t have to, but I’m glad you did.”

This time, when he opens the door, he looks surprised. Like he wasn’t expecting you. Like he doesn’t know how to be around you anymore.

“Oh,” he says, eyes darting behind him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you reply, holding out the drink like some kind of peace offering. “Thought you could use this.”

He hesitates, then takes it from you. “Thanks.”

You stand there for a moment. Waiting. Hoping he’ll invite you in like always. But he doesn’t move.

“Is everything okay?” you ask softly. “You’ve been… different.”

“I’ve just been tired,” he says quickly. Too quickly.

“A lot on my mind.”

You nod slowly, trying not to let the sting show. “Okay. Well… I’m here if you want to talk.”

He nods once, almost absently. “I know.”

But he doesn’t invite you in.

And that night, for the first time in months, you don’t fall asleep knowing how his day went. You don’t feel like his person anymore.

At the station, it becomes harder to ignore.

He avoids lingering too long. Doesn’t sit beside you at the kitchen table anymore. Talks to Buck and Chimney and Hen like nothing’s wrong — and maybe to them, there isn’t — but you feel the distance like a cold draft under the door.

It becomes unbearable.

And one day, when you catch him alone in the locker room, you finally say what’s been aching in your chest.

“Why are you pushing me away?”

Eddie freezes, halfway into zipping up his jacket. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Your voice cracks. “You don’t answer my calls, you barely look at me when I talk to you, and I feel like I lost my best friend without even knowing what I did wrong.”

He swallows hard. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then what is it?” you demand. “Did I cross a line? Did I make you uncomfortable? Because I swear, if it’s something I said or did, I’ll—”

“It’s not you,” he interrupts, voice low, eyes finally meeting yours. “It’s me.”

You let out a shaky breath, because how cliché. “That’s not an answer, Eddie.”

He hesitates. Looks down at the floor like it might help him find the words.

“I care about you too much,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart stutters. “And that’s… a bad thing?”

“It is when I don’t know what to do with it.” His eyes flash with something unspoken — pain, maybe, or guilt.

“You don’t understand what it’s like. To have someone mean so much, to love someone so much, that you start to lose your grip on everything else. That terrifies me.”

Your breath catches.

“Eddie…”

“I’ve already lost too much,” he says. “Shannon. The idea of loving someone again—loving you—and losing it? I don’t know if I could survive that.”

You step closer, heart hammering in your chest.

“You don’t have to be afraid of your feelings. I feel it too. We’re not just friends and you know it.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s all in your head.”

The words hit like a slap. You actually flinch.

“No,” you whisper, eyes burning. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend it wasn’t real.”

“I’m not pretending. I’m telling you the truth.”

You stare at him for a long moment, waiting for him to break. To take it back. To tell you he’s lying.

But he doesn’t.

So you nod, jaw trembling, and back away.

“Okay,” you say softly. “If that’s how you really feel.”

And you walk out of the room, out of the station, out of whatever almost was between you — your heart shattering silently inside your chest.

He doesn’t follow you.

Yet, a part of him wants to.

You don’t slam the door. You don’t raise your voice. You just leave.

Quietly. With the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t need sound to be loud.

And Eddie stands there in the locker room, frozen in the hollow silence you leave behind.

Fuck, he wants to go after you. Every part of him screams to. His legs twitch like they might move on their own. His chest is tight with everything he didn’t say.

But he doesn’t.

Because if he does, he won’t be able to lie anymore.

And the truth?

The truth is you mean too much.

You got under his skin in ways no one else ever has. Not Shannon. Not Ana. Not Marisol. Not anyone.

You’re woven into the little things:

How his day feels lighter when you smile at him across the firehouse kitchen. How he sleeps better after hearing your voice. How he’s memorized the way you take your coffee, and how his hands gravitate toward you even when he’s not thinking.

How you looked at him like he was safe.

And now? Now it’s too much.

Because the last time he let someone that far in, he lost her. And the fallout nearly destroyed him — nearly destroyed Christopher.

He can’t afford that again. Not for himself. Not for his son.

Not even for you.

But God, he wants to.

He wants to tell you that he lied. That it’s not all in your head. That every night he spent distancing himself from you, he stared at his ceiling wishing he had the courage to love you out loud. That he hears your laugh when you’re not even in the room. That it’s you. It’s always been you.

But the fear is louder.

The fear says: What if it all falls apart?

What if you get tired of him? What if he’s not enough?

What if Christopher gets attached and you walk away too?

Eddie Diaz has survived fire, gunfire, and grief.

But loving you — losing you — that’s a battle he doesn’t think he’d survive.

So he lets you go.

At least for now.

At least until the ache of not having you outweighs the terror of loving you.

And as he finally slumps down on the bench, head in his hands, Eddie whispers to himself the truth he couldn’t say to your face:

“I love you.”

You’re still there.

You show up to shifts. You answer your calls. You laugh at Chim’s dumb jokes, take your turn cooking in the firehouse kitchen, and go on like nothing’s shattered.

But it has shattered.

And everyone can feel it.

Especially him.

Eddie doesn’t sit next to you anymore. Not unless the lineup forces it. And when he does, he doesn’t speak much — like your presence stings, like proximity might burn him alive.

Which is ironic, because you’re the one feeling scorched.

There’s a hole in your chest where he used to be. The silence between you is louder than the sirens that wail from the truck. It fills the kitchen, the locker room, the back of the rig, the pause before you slide into your bunk at the end of the night.

He tore the thread between you with trembling hands and didn’t have the courage to stitch it back.

And you’re left holding it, frayed and useless, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to stop loving someone who never really gave you a chance to.

Buck is the first one who notices the real damage.

He knocks on your door a week after the blowout. Shows up with Chinese takeout and a bottle of wine that he absolutely wasn’t supposed to expense, but “Chim won’t know if we drink it fast.”

He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to.

“You can talk,” he says softly, passing you a spring roll. “Or you can just sit here and hate-watch rom-coms with me.”

You try. You really do. You sit beside him with your knees tucked to your chest, and you try to laugh at whatever stupid movie’s playing — but it cracks something open instead.

“I don’t get it,” you say, eyes fixed on the flickering TV screen. “He was right there, Buck. We were right there.”

Buck doesn’t tell you it’s okay. He doesn’t say Eddie didn’t mean it. He just nods and says, “Yeah. I know.”

Because he does know. He’s been in that liminal space between almost and never. He’s lived with a heart that wanted too much.

So he lets you cry. He sits there while your voice breaks and your mascara runs, and you tell him how much it hurts to love someone who’s too afraid to love you back.

At the station, things feel colder.

Hen pulls you into more calls than usual, always with a hand on your shoulder or a glance like, I’m here.

Chim tries to make you laugh too hard, and you let him — for their sake. Not yours. Even Bobby gives you a longer look during lineups, like he’s making sure you’re still steady on your feet.

But Eddie? Eddie’s unraveling.

He’s sharper with his words. Slower to smile. Quicker to volunteer for high-risk entries — the kind that make Buck flinch.

And Buck’s watching him, arms crossed, jaw tight, because he’s done waiting for Eddie to fix this.

“You’re miserable,” Buck snaps one night in the locker room, voice low and cutting. Eddie looks up from where he’s lacing his boots, surprised.

“What?”

“She’s miserable. You’re miserable. And for what? Because you’re scared? Because it’s easier to push her away than admit you love her?”

Eddie says nothing. Just clenches his jaw, like the truth might slip out if he lets his lips part for too long.

“You’re not protecting her,” Buck says. “You’re punishing her for making you feel something real. And you’re punishing yourself too.”

Eddie stands, tense. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple,” Buck says, stepping closer.

“You’re not a scared kid anymore. You’re a man. You’re a father. You know what love looks like. You had it in front of you and you shoved it away.”

Eddie looks away. His shoulders sag. His voice is quieter now.

“I didn’t want to break her heart.”

Buck scoffs. “Well, too late. But you can still fix it. Unless you wait too long and someone else does.”

The words land like a gut punch. Someone else.

That thought had been haunting Eddie for weeks — the way Buck looked at you now with that softness, that fierce protectiveness.

He sees how you smile at Buck even through your heartbreak. And he knows — he knows — that if he doesn’t move soon, he’ll lose you for good.

Eddie doesn’t know when the house stopped feeling like home.

Maybe it was the way the sunlight pours in on Saturday mornings and doesn’t land where you used to sit on his couch, coffee in hand, laughter soft as wind.

Maybe it’s the quiet—too quiet—like something’s been vacuum-sealed from his life, and no matter how loud the world gets around him, he can’t unhear the absence of you.

Chris asked about you the other night.

“Why doesn’t she come around anymore?”

And Eddie, sitting on the edge of his son’s bed, couldn’t find a real answer. He lied, gently, the way people do when they’re trying not to bleed on the people they love.

“She’s been busy, bud. Just life stuff.”

But Chris is too smart for that. He didn’t press—he just nodded and turned to face the wall.

That silence haunted Eddie more than anything.

He finds himself at Hen and Karen’s, one of the few people who’s always seen through his best performances. He tells them he needed someone to talk to. Karen hands him tea before he even asks.

“So.” Karen folds her arms. “How long are you going to pretend you didn’t break your own heart?”

Eddie lets out a humorless laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“To everyone but you, apparently.”

He sinks into the couch. “I just… I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“But you did,” Hen says. “And you’re hurting, too. It’s written all over you.”

“I thought if I kept some distance, it’d make it easier. Like… if I never said anything, she could walk away if she wanted. And I wouldn’t have to fall apart when she did.”

Karen’s expression softens.

“Eddie, loving someone doesn’t mean they’re going to leave you. You’ve lived like the next loss is always around the corner, but she wasn’t trying to go anywhere. You pushed her out.”

“I know,” he admits, voice raw.

“I was terrified. Of how much I loved her. Of how easy it was. And how… permanent it felt. Like once I let it in, I’d never come back from it.”

“And now?” Hen asks.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just stares at the tea cup in his hands like it holds all the answers he’s too afraid to say aloud. But eventually, the truth peels itself out of him.

“I love her,” he breathes. “God, I’m in love with her.”

Later, he’s on a late shift with Bobby, just the two of them by the rig. Bobby doesn’t pry—not at first—but he looks up after a long stretch of silence and simply says:

“You ready to stop punishing yourself?”

Eddie laughs, low and tired. “I don’t know how.”

“Yes, you do,” Bobby replies. “You just have to stop running. You’ve been in survival mode for so long, you forgot what it’s like to choose joy.”

Eddie leans against the counter, voice barely audible.

“I think she was my joy.”

Bobby nods. “Then go get her back. You still have time.”

That night, Eddie lies in bed staring at the ceiling, and for once, he doesn’t picture all the ways he could lose you. He pictures what it would feel like to hold your hand again. To tell you the truth.

To stop being afraid of a heart that beats a little louder when you’re near.

And he decides—finally—that it’s time.

He’s done running.

It’s raining when he knocks.

Not the kind of gentle drizzle that clings to windows like a whisper, but a downpour—relentless, cold, unforgiving.

It’s been weeks since you last saw Eddie in anything more than passing glances at the firehouse, and longer still since you heard his voice say your name without flinching.

You almost don’t open the door.

But when you check the peephole, and you see him standing there—soaked to the bone, eyes like bruises, shoulders sagging—you can’t bring yourself to walk away.

You crack the door open just enough to lean against it. You don’t invite him in.

“Really?” you say quietly. “Now you show up?”

Eddie’s lips part, but he doesn’t speak right away. You almost think he won’t.

“I know I have no right to be here,” he finally says, voice gravel-thick and wet with regret. “But I couldn’t— I couldn’t keep doing this. Not after everything.”

You cross your arms, biting back the ache in your throat.

“Everything like what, Eddie? Like telling me it was all in my head? Like pretending none of it meant anything?”

He flinches.

“I was trying to protect something,” he says. “I just didn’t realize I was destroying it at the same time.”

You open the door a little wider, just enough for him to see the anger that still flickers in your chest—anger born from heartbreak, not hate.

“Protect what exactly? Yourself? Because I sure as hell wasn’t protected when you said all those things. You made me feel insane for loving you.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he says instantly, stepping forward but stopping himself short.

“I thought if I kept you at arm’s length, maybe I wouldn’t lose you completely. I’ve lost people before—people I loved. And you—”

He swallows thickly, shaking his head.

“You scared me more than anyone ever has.”

That stings.

You let it.

“That’s not an excuse,” you say, voice firm even as your hands start to tremble.

“You don’t get to burn down what we had just because it scared you. You don’t get to come back when I’ve barely figured out how to function without you.”

“I know,” he says, and he means it. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his shoulders curl inward like he’s folding under the weight of it all.

“I lied,” he says softly. “That night. When I said I didn’t love you.”

You glance away, jaw clenched.

“I was scared. I still am. But the truth is… I’m more scared of never getting to tell you how much I do love you.”

The silence that follows is thick and heavy, and for a moment, all you can hear is the rain pounding against the pavement and the thunder rolling overhead.

“Eddie,” you say quietly. “You broke my heart.”

“I know,” he breathes, voice wrecked.

“And I’ll spend as long as it takes trying to make up for that. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect you to trust me. But I needed you to know that I see it now. I see you. I love you. And I never stopped.”

You stare at him for a long time, and he doesn’t fill the silence with more words. He just stands there, letting it rain, letting it hurt.

Eventually, you step aside.

“Come inside before you catch a cold.”

He does. Carefully. As though you might change your mind at any second.

He peels off his soaked jacket and stands awkwardly in your living room, dripping water onto the rug he once helped you pick out on a lazy Sunday afternoon—back when things were still unspoken but full of promise.

“You still love me?” he asks, quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you walk toward him, stopping close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his chest.

Your fingers brush over his shirt, soaked and clinging, and you look up at him through lashes heavy with everything you’ve carried.

“Of course I do,” you whisper. “That’s why it hurt so much.”

He exhales shakily, and for the first time in weeks, you see the man you knew—the one who carried your heart like something fragile and precious, even when he didn’t have the words for it.

“I’m still angry,” you warn.

“You have every right to be.”

“I’m not just going to forget it all overnight.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

You stare at each other, storm still howling outside, hearts both threadbare and somehow still beating in tandem.

And when you kiss—finally—it isn’t perfect.

It’s desperate. It’s trembling. It’s soaked in tears and rain and months of unspoken longing.

But it’s real.

And when he presses his forehead to yours, holding you like the world might split open, you realize that maybe love was never supposed to be fearless.

It was just supposed to be brave.

Falling asleep next to Eddie Diaz becomes a ritual you never thought you’d have the right to experience.

Not after the heartbreak, the months of silence, the tear-stained pillowcases, and the long nights spent wondering if you’d imagined it all.

Not after the ache of watching him walk away from something he felt as deeply as you did. But now, with his arm looped around your waist and his breath slow and even against the back of your neck, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Like it was always supposed to be this way.

Your mornings are slow now ever since you started sleeping at the Diaz household.

The world still spins fast around you—calls come in, emergencies rise like tides, and grief still knocks on your door sometimes. But in the stillness of sunrise, before the rest of the world wakes up, you and Eddie find time to just be.

You’ve gotten into the habit of making coffee while still wearing his hoodie, sleeves falling past your fingertips, the scent of him wrapped around you like armor.

He pretends not to notice, but there’s always a soft little smile tugging at his mouth when he sees you in it.

“You know, you do own clothes your size,” he says one morning, voice still rough from sleep.

You shrug. “But yours are warmer.”

He pulls you into his chest with a soft grunt and presses a kiss to your temple. “Can’t argue with that.”

After rough shifts, you hold his hand on the ride back to the firehouse.

Sometimes, you don’t even realize you’ve reached for it until you feel his thumb rub slow circles into your knuckles.

It’s never for show. It’s never performative. It’s just… comfort. Constant. Quiet. Sure.

You don’t need words to know what he’s thinking when he squeezes your hand just a little tighter after a difficult call. You just lean your head onto his shoulder and let him breathe.

On another note, Christopher loves having you around again.

Not in the polite, oh-she’s-nice way—but in the real, deep-bonded way that tells you you’ve become something sacred in his world.

After school pickups are his favorite, and even when it’s supposed to be Eddie’s turn, he asks if you can come too.

“Dad says you’re better at choosing snacks,” he tells you with a grin, swinging his backpack onto your back like it’s already your job.

You catch Eddie giving you a soft look through the window of the car. One that says, This. This is it. This is everything I almost threw away.

Sometimes, Chris falls asleep on your shoulder on the ride home when you’re sitting at the back. And sometimes, Eddie takes a picture of it on his phone, storing it somewhere private. Safe.

The teasing from the team is merciless—but warm.

Hen grins at you during lunch and nudges your foot under the table.

“You know, we had a pool going on. I won thirty bucks.”

Chimney raises a brow. “You all owe me. I called it two years ago.”

You shoot Eddie a look, but he’s barely pretending to be bashful.

“It wasn’t exactly subtle,” Buck adds, leaning back in his chair. “The way you two looked at each other? Come on.”

“I don’t remember you saying anything that night I told her I didn’t love her,” Eddie says dryly, smirking.

Buck raises his hands. “I was giving you time to figure out you’re a dumbass. Took longer than expected.”

There’s laughter. Real, full-bellied laughter. The kind that makes your ribs hurt in the best way.

But what gets you most is this: Eddie laughs too.

Like a man no longer holding his breath.

At night, you lie curled up in bed with him, the lamp casting soft light across his face. He’s reading something quietly, one hand draped over your hip, thumb tracing idle patterns into your skin like a habit he doesn’t want to break.

You study him sometimes. The way he softens now. How his smiles last longer. How his laughter comes easier. How he kisses you with both urgency and reverence, like he’s still making up for lost time.

“I think I stopped breathing for a while,” he murmurs one night. “When we weren’t… us.”

You look up at him. “Me too.”

He touches your cheek. “You bring me back to myself. Every time.”

You lean into him, heart swelling.

“That’s all I ever wanted to do.”

He presses his lips to your forehead, and you breathe together in the dark, the quiet warmth of the home you’ve built finally wrapping around you both.

Eddie Diaz once believed love was something you had to guard yourself against. That loving too much meant losing too hard. But now, with your head on his chest and your voice whispering sleepy dreams against his skin, he knows better.

Loving you didn’t ruin him.

It saved him.

And this—this gentle, messy, beautiful life—is everything he almost gave up.

But not anymore.

Now, he holds it all in his arms and doesn’t let go. Not ever again.

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