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moody, 22, black (African-American), she/her, funny gyal.
the mix:
main: @moodymp4 #đœ for masterlist
#đïž for moodboards
new drop: #soon
- luvmoody
Stranger Things

ellievsbear

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almost home
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Not today Justin

izzy's playlists!

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art blog(derogatory)
Today's Document
RMH

Origami Around
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@luvmoody
Welcome to moodyfm đ»
press play
moody, 22, black (African-American), she/her, funny gyal.
the mix:
main: @moodymp4 #đœ for masterlist
#đïž for moodboards
new drop: #soon
- luvmoody
OOPS - a moodboard
coming soon
taglist?
(professional tennis player!teddy spencer x upcoming tennis player!black female reader)
âËê©ïœĄ authors note: heey yall! i hope yall enjoy this. sorry for being inactive on the writing đ, give me feedback & if yall like it ill drop chapter two when yall want it (itâs already written đ§đżââïž). - k đ
âËê©ïœĄ contains: coach james showing reader around the facility. teddy being a little cocky with his high-yellow self đ. but ofc reader ainât falling for his bs⊠yet đ€
âËê©ïœĄ enemies to lovers trope đ, 90% proof read đ§đżââïž
âËê©ïœĄ word count: 2,650 :)
đŸđŸđŸđŸđŸđŸđŸđŸđŸđŸđŸđŸ
đŸđŸđŸđŸđŸđŸđŸđŸđŸđŸđŸđŸ
ââââ
âđŹââđŠââđČââđȘâ, âđžââđȘââđčâ, âđČââđŠââđčââđšââđâ⊠đŻđœđ đźđ đ¶đžđ đ”đđđđđđ đ°đ
Monday âą 5:32 A.M. Los Angeles Tennis Center Los Angeles, California
The California sun hadnât fully climbed over the hills yet, but the Los Angeles Tennis Center was already awake.
The rhythmic pop of tennis balls echoed across twenty-three immaculate courts, blending with the squeak of sneakers against hard court, the hum of ball machines, and the occasional whistle cutting through the crisp morning air. Coaches barked instructions from behind the baselines while athletic trainers rolled carts stacked with resistance bands, coolers, and foam rollers toward the performance building. Somewhere inside, the scent of fresh coffee drifted through the open lobby as players wandered in with racket bags slung over their shoulders, preparing for another day.
For the athletes who trained here, this wasnât luxury. It was routine. The worldâs best didnât come here to be comfortable. They came here to win.
Coach James Wright stood on the second-floor balcony overlooking the outdoor courts, a clipboard tucked beneath one arm as he scanned the dayâs training schedule. Reading glasses rested low on his nose, though he barely looked through them anymore. After nearly two decades of coaching some of the biggest names in professional tennis, he knew exactly where every player was supposed to be before the ink even dried on the schedule.
A familiar sound cracked through the morning air.
THWACK.
Another serve.
THWACK.
James didnât have to look toward Court One to know who it was.
âYouâre late,â he called, not bothering to raise his voice.
The serving stopped as a tall figure stepped around the baseline, racket spinning lazily in one hand.
âIâve been here since five.â James finally looked up. Theodore Spencer: Twenty-seven years old, World No. 8, and Americaâs golden boy.
At six-foot-five, Teddy carried the kind of presence that made people notice him before he ever opened his mouth. Broad shoulders built from years of Division I football filled out his fitted training shirt, while sandy-brown curls, damp with sweat, escaped beneath a backwards white Nike cap.
A few loose strands rested against his forehead, and the California sun caught the sheen of sweat along his neck and forearmsâevidence of yet another morning that had started long before everyone elseâs.
Coach James knew a good serve when he saw it. âYou call those serves?â James asked. A crooked grin tugged at Teddyâs mouth, âI call them aces.â
James snorted. âYou wouldâve missed three returns against Sinner.â
âI wasnât playing Sinner.â
âNo,â James replied evenly. âYouâre playing yourself. Even worse.â The grin disappeared. Good, James preferred him focused and humbled.
Without another word, Teddy returned to the baseline. He bounced the tennis ball three times against the hard court.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
His shoulders relaxed as the routine settled into instinct. He tossed the ball high into the California sky.
THWACK.
The serve kissed the sideline before exploding into the back fence, much better. James scribbled a quick note onto his clipboard before movement near the front entrance caught his attention.
A silver BMW rolled through the security gates and came to a smooth stop outside the main performance building. Right on time. He closed the clipboard with a quiet snap. âFinally.â
You stared through the windshield for a second longer than necessary. The silver lettering stretched across the entrance.
LOS ANGELES TENNIS CENTER
A few months ago, seeing those four words wouldâve made you cry. Now⊠your stomach felt like it was trying to climb into your throat.
Your agent called it the opportunity of a lifetime and ESPN called you the newest American breakout player. Social media had already started throwing around phrases like future Grand Slam champion and the next face of womenâs tennis.
You called it⊠Fucking terrifying. The engine fell silent.
You reached for the rearview mirror out of habit, giving yourself one last once-over. Your knotless bohemian braids had survived the flight from Miami surprisingly well.
A few loose curls framed your face beneath a black Nike visor, your edges still perfectly laid despite traveling across the country. Soft orange blush warmed your cheeks, matching the accents on your training set, while your fresh acrylic nailsâshort enough for competition but still detailed with tiny chrome designsâwrapped comfortably around the handle of your racket bag.
If you were about to embarrass yourself⊠at least youâd look good doing it.
Girl⊠get it together. Youâve played in front of thousands of people. This is just practice. Except⊠It wasnât.
This was where Grand Slam champions trained, Olympic medalists, even World No. 1s.
Players whose posters had once covered your bedroom wall⊠One poster in particular.
You pushed the thought away before climbing out of the BMW, slinging your racket bag over one shoulder.
The California air felt different from Miamiâs humid mornings. It carried the scent of sunscreen, freshly cut grass, and hard-court acrylic already beginning to warm beneath the rising sun. Outdoor courts stretched farther than you could count. Clay courts glowed a rich burnt orange in the distance while a glass-walled gym overlooked nearly every practice court on the property.
Players moved from building to building with the quiet confidence of people whoâd spent years belonging here. Nobody stared. Nobody whispered. Nobody cared who you were. Here⊠everyone was elite. You just werenât sure you belonged yet.
âWelcome to L.A.â
The voice pulled you from your thoughts.
Coach James Wright descended the front steps with an easy smile, extending his hand before you even had the chance to introduce yourself.
âIâve been looking forward to this.â
You returned the handshake with a smile, âThank you for having me.â
âNo,â he corrected with a smile. âThank yourself. You earned it.â Some of the tension in your chest eased. Just enough for you to finally breathe.
âCome on,â James said, effortlessly lifting one of your bags before you could protest. âLetâs get you settled.â
You fell into step beside him, taking in every inch of the facility as you passed through the gates. Courts buzzed with early morning practices while trainers hurried between buildings carrying clipboards and coolers.
Somewhere nearby, another ball machine whirred to life. Across the complex, on Court One, a pair of greenish-blue eyes lifted from the opposite baseline.
Whoâs that?
Teddy caught only a glimpse. A new player must be.
Long bohemian braids swayed against the back of a black training jacket as she walked beside James, her racket bag hanging effortlessly from one shoulder.
Another prospect.
He looked away before you ever turned around. Doesnât matter. Iâve got enough on my plate.
He bounced another tennis ball against the court.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The toss felt perfect. The swing felt clean. Yet somehowâŠ
TWANG.
The serve slammed straight into the net.
Coach James led you through the heart of the Los Angeles Tennis Center at an unhurried pace, offering a nod or greeting every few feet as players and staff passed by.
âMorning, Coach.â
âSee you at twelve.â
âNeed anything from the equipment room?â
He answered everyone by name.
You noticed that immediately. There wasnât an ounce of intimidation in the way people approached him. Respect, absolutely. But it was the kind that had been earned over yearsânot demanded.
âI know this place looks overwhelming,â James said, glancing over his shoulder. âGive it two weeks.â
You raised an eyebrow. âTwo weeks?â you said looking around at the atmosphere.
âYouâll know where everything is before I do.â
A laugh slipped out before you could stop it, âI seriously doubt that Iâm terrible with remembering things at times.â
âSo did everyone else.â He pushed open a set of glass doors leading into the main performance building. Cool air rushed over your skin as the sounds of tennis softened behind you.
The lobby was sleek without feeling cold. Framed photographs lined one wallâGrand Slam champions, Olympic medalists, Davis Cup teamsâall frozen in moments of triumph. Beneath each photo sat a small engraved plaque with the playerâs name and the year theyâd trained under Coach James.
Your eyes lingered on a few familiar faces. Some of the greatest players to ever pick up a racket had walked these same halls. Donât think about that. Youâll psych yourself out.
James noticed where you were looking. âTheyâre reminders,â he said. âNot expectations.â
You looked at him. âA lot of people come in here thinking they have to live up to everyone on that wall. Wrong mindset.â
âWhat should it be?â
He smiled, âBe better than you were yesterday.â Simple enough, right?
It sounded exactly like something your dad wouldâve said. You nodded to yourself, quietly committing the words to memory.
They continued down a long hallway, passing an open film room where half a dozen players sat silently watching match footage projected across a massive screen. One coach paused the video, rewound a point, then replayed it from three different angles while players scribbled notes into worn notebooks.
âNo phones in there during review sessions,â James explained. âYouâre here to learn, not scroll on Tiktak.â
You grinned, âNoted.â
The next stop was the recovery wing. Rows of compression boots lined one wall while ice baths sat tucked into tiled alcoves nearby. Athletic trainers moved efficiently between treatment tables, wrapping ankles, stretching hamstrings, checking shoulders, and talking quietly with players about soreness before tomorrowâs sessions.
âYouâll spend almost as much time recovering as you do practicing,â James said. âThe younger players usually hate hearing that.â
âI donât.â You shrugged as you eyed the trainers and equipment.
He glanced at you with his bushy eyebrows raised, âNo?â
âMy dad used to say recovery was part of training.â James chuckled.
âI think your father and I wouldâve gotten along, sounds like a great man.â
The hallway opened into an expansive gym overlooking nearly every outdoor practice court. Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the space with morning sunlight, revealing rows of squat racks, cable machines, assault bikes, sleds, and Olympic lifting platforms.
Several players were already finishing strength sessions. One woman deadlifted what looked like twice your bodyweight while another balanced on a BOSU ball catching medicine balls from her trainer.
Nobody looked around. Nobody cared who had just walked in. Everyone was too busy becoming better than they had been yesterday.
âI like that,â you murmured.
âWhat?â
âNo oneâs trying to impress anybody.â
James folded his arms. âHell theyâre all too busy trying to impress themselves.â The sentence settled somewhere deep in your chest.
Mhm⊠I think iâll like it here. As you exited the gym, the unmistakable scent of fresh fruit drifted down the corridor. The smoothie bar.
It buzzed with quiet conversation. Blenders roared behind the counter while players crowded around high-top tables between sessions, protein shakes and breakfast wraps scattered across tabletops beside notebooks and water bottles. It looked more like a trendy café than part of one of the most elite tennis facilities in the country.
âYouâll probably end up living here,â James said.
You laughed, âI practically survived college on smoothies and ramen noodles honestly.â
âGood. Save the cashier the trouble of learning another complicated order.â
âI donât have a complicated order.â
James gave you a look. âIâve coached long enough to know thatâs never true.â A smile tugged at your lips.
Maybe this place wasnât going to be as intimidating as youâd convinced yourself.
Outside, another sharp crack echoed through the open doors.
THWACK!
Then another.
THWACK!
You looked toward the outdoor courts almost instinctively. âWhoâs still practicing?â
James didnât even have to check. âOh thatâs probably Teddy.â
The name landed with surprising familiarity. Of course it did.
Youâd heard commentators say it for years. Youâd watched highlight reels after your own matches in college. Youâd watched him win ATP titles from your dorm room at the University of Miami.
Your dad had even paused one of Teddyâs matches once just to point at the television.
âWatch how patient he is before he attacks the point.â You remembered rolling your eyes.
âDad⊠I know.â
Now⊠He was somewhere beyond those doors. Close enough that you could hear every serve.
James noticed your expression âYou know who he is?â You scoffed softly as your eyes briefly rolled âI think everybody knows who Teddy Spencer is.â
âProbably. Thatâs why his head sâbig now.â You both chuckled.
Another serve cracked through the air.
CRACK!
Then another.
THWACK!
Then silence.
James glanced at the watch around his wrist. âLooks like heâs finally finished.â
Almost on cue, the locker room door at the opposite end of the hallway swung open.
The deep rumble of laughter carried through the corridor before a few members of the menâs training group filtered inside, talking over one another as they grabbed water bottles from a nearby cooler.
âYou hear James brought somebody new in?â
âYeah.â
âWomenâs side.â
âSupposedly she legit.â
âWeâll see.â
Behind them, Teddy Spencer emerged with a towel draped around his shoulders, absently rubbing it across the back of his neck as damp curls escaped beneath his backwards cap. His fitted white training shirt clung to his broad frame after nearly three hours on court, veins still visible along his forearms as he tucked his racket beneath one arm.
He barely looked up. âSâcoach around?â
James sighed dramatically as he rubbed over his salt and pepper colored beard. âUnfortunately, iâm still here.â
Teddyâs voice carried just enough for James to hear, âGuess practice ainât over then.â
James smirked, âNot even close.â Your brown eyes flickered in his direction, but couldnât see him yet.
A concrete support column stood between you and the hallway where the menâs group had gathered.
But you recognized the voice immediately, Lower than youâd expectedâ calm and confident.
James motioned for you to follow, âCome on.â He started to walk as his shoes lightly squeaked. You adjusted the strap of your racket bag before stepping after him.
And in just a few more seconds⊠You were finally going to meet Theodore Spencer.
You adjusted the strap of your racket bag as you followed Coach James farther down the hallway. The chatter from the smoothie bar gradually faded behind you, replaced by the familiar squeak of sneakers against polished concrete, the distant whir of a racket-stringing machine, and the low murmur of conversations spilling out of nearby locker rooms. Every few steps another player passed, offering James an easy nod or greeting before disappearing toward recovery or the weight room.
âYouâll get to know everybody eventually,â James said. âSome faster than others.â
âIâll take your word for it.â You replied.
âYou should.â He replied.
The hallway widened into a corridor lined with framed tournament posters, each commemorating a Grand Slam champion who had trained under James at one point in their career. Your eyes drifted over the names instinctively, but your attention was stolen almost immediately by voices carrying from somewhere around the corner.
ââŠIâm just saying, if weâre doing sprints again tomorrow, Iâm calling OSHA.â A chorus of laughter bounced off the walls.
âYouâre soft.â
âSays the one who almost threw up after ladders.â
âChill I had food poisoning that day.â
âYou had two protein shakes.â
Another round of laughter echoed through the corridor. As you rounded the corner behind him, the source of the commotion finally came into view.
Four men stood clustered outside the locker room, each dressed in some variation of Nike training gear with towels slung around their necks and rackets balanced casually against their shoulders. They looked like theyâd stepped straight out of an ATP campaignâtall, athletic, exhausted from practice, yet somehow polished enough to end up on magazine covers before lunchtime.
One of them spotted James first, âThere he is.â
Another groaned dramatically. âCoach, tell Teddy weâre done for the day.â
James folded his arms. âTeddy⊠are you done for the day?â A dry voice answered without hesitation, âMan hell no.â
âThen thereâs your answer.â James shrugged.
The group laughed while one player shook his head. âMan, you make the rest of us look bad.â
âThatâs because yâall are bad, sorry asses.â the same deep voice teased before laughing.
Your eyes followed it before your brain had the chance to stop them. Teddy Spencer in the flesh. Boy was he a sight to seeâŠ
怩ç©șăźăç„ă ăă â á©áźŹ â â Śâ â ă đđđ đđđđđđ. â© đđđđđđđ intertwined with. â· đœđđźđź-đ°đđđ¶đČ creed sister!blackfemreader . . . itâs complicated guys. so very complicated. but cameron hopes that after tonight, after youâve seen the somewhat great effort shown, youâll fallllllllll back into his lap and youâll let him hold you as you were meant to be held. because yes! now he really wants to hold you. the cold that once froze over his heart is no more. you could thank your pussy for that. # in my shonda rhimes bag too cause she raised me. here, cameron tries a little tenderness . . . but many a tear has to fall. cause itâs all in the game. all in the wonderful game . . . as we know as love. -tommy edwards.
kittiâs gotta warn ya đŸđŸêŒá©đČđŸ đșđźđđđČđżđčđ¶đđ. // âê«áȘĘ you canât run. not from cammie cam ÂĄ âàŒàŒàŒàŒ pretty-strong-Û«language â^. .^â .. itâs been a harsh four nights, but camâs determined & àŒâ youâre . . . on edge ! camâs still a cheater ! à§»êȘ readerâs realised she might actually be just a little trinket! awwwwwh babes )-: youâre so scared!! unequal emotions. three lives are being affected. à Ë. á”á” cameron Ëá”Ë may want a family. đ a little munchkin! ËËË with you! & h.eâs not even dedicated to his future wife. men! am i rite, l.adies?Âż .! â. first rough patch )-: itâs super early, so you know itâs real â he genuinely thinks heâs saying the right thing.
Birthday sex (18+ MDNI)
A/N- iâm 3 days late but thatâs okay. Happy belated to my baby and enjoy!
cw- oral (f receiving), face sitting (f receiving), praise kink, unprotected piv (donât do this!) riding, spanking(slight), tyriq is a loverboy.
How it feels turning the scenarios I imagine as I'm falling asleep into fanfics:
summary: A sizzling summer of sexy singles and the search for love awaits you in Fiji! Youâre nervous, excited, andâ confused? Why is your ex-boyfriendâs best friend, Jaehyun, here? And why are you starting to second guess your rekindled friendship?
word count: 3.2k
a/n: this is just the beginning of this little storylne! In case you wonder what villa layout I'm using, I'm going based on the USA villa (#brinity4ever) Enjoy and if you want to get a read on the rest of 127's time in the villa, check it out here!
dividers from diviniyae and robinavitchslut
"Hello, Islanders! I heard there was a party going on!" You shout, lifting a bottle of champagne with a loud whoop.
This is it, the moment you never thought would come. Countless months of interviewing and emails with producers, weeks of being locked up in a hotel room, and a history of bad boyfriends have led you to this moment. An opportunity that not many can say they've had, but now you can.
The table surrounded by your now fellow islanders goes from frozen looks of shock to loud cheers, making you smile as you begin your stride toward the table. The nerves you felt just a few minutes ago have thankfully turned into excitement and confidence. And why not? You feel more beautiful than you ever have before, dressed to the nines and done up like a model as you strut toward the approaching group.
There's too many people that greet you in quick succession for you to get a good look at everyone's faces or to fully catch any names. Somewhere in the hurried introduction, a name and a flash of a familiar face catches a memory in the back of your mind. You don't get a chance to focus on it as the next person approaches you with a hug and a smile. Luckily, you're soon sitting around the fire pit with a cold flute of champagne in your hand and a clear view of everyone's face from your seat on the far edge of the sofa.
You're mindful of your body language, exuding confidence with perfect posture, a bright smile, and casual tosses of your hair over your shoulder while everyone goes down the line to introduce themselves.
You lift you glass to your lips just as the last guy sits forward and immediately you choke, curling forward as you croak out, "Jaehyun?!"
One day, Iâll make a google doc for people to add themselves to the tag list. But until then, INTRACT TYRIQ GIRLIES.
sneak peek for my people đđŸ. Iâm almost finished, but iâm editing it like crazy đ. Def been over thinking it. Once I finish everything! I will be posting almost immediately after!
Thank yall for your patience!
Iâm thinkin Onyankopon a real person⊠this nigga a anime character from Aot moe đ
nah fr moe im weakkkkk as hell đ. hollon i know term from anywhere you from the dmv??
hey favs! i hope yall are doing good!
how are we feeling about this tyriq withers news! I was happy to finally see what he shared a sneak peak of back in april/may during met gala đ.
I was a lil disheartened seeing yet again him being opposite a whygurr as his love interest, my mutuals on twt can attest to this (if yall see this, hey yall đ). The only time we got him with a black woman was in HIM and they did my sister heather dirty đââïž.
I donât want yall to lose hope tho! I am being optimistic that hes taking these sort of roles to diversify his acting portfolio and hopefully get better jobs in the future bc i dont want him stuck in these types of movies (no shade).
All that to say though, it would be naive of me to not say that him and his team do need to be more thorough in understanding his audience and what they want to see from him! He has not just majority women/fem presenting fan base, but a Black women/ fem presenting fan base. He needs to make sure that his work reflects that and not just his interviews or wtv. Especially in 2026!
And as a recent public relations/ advertising graduate, he just needs to hire me bc some of these moves just not making sense and i already got a strategy for him. CAA, CALL ME.
EYES WITHOUT A FACE, LW â EIGHT
DARK! LEDGER WARD x BLACK/FEM! OC! CHIARA BATISTE
đâđź đ”đ©đȘđŻđŹđȘđŻ đ°đ§ đșđ°đ¶ đąđŻđ„ đșđ°đ¶âđłđŠ đ°đ¶đ” đ”đ©đŠđłđŠ đŽđ°âŠ đŽđąđș đșđ°đ¶đł đ±đłđąđșđŠđłđŽ / đđŠ đ±đŠđŻđŽđŠ đą đ”đ°đȘ đŠđ” đ”đ¶ đŠđŽ đđąđŁđąđŽ đąđđ°đłđŽ đ§đąđȘđŽ đ”đŠđŽ đ±đłđȘđŠđłđŠđŽ
ă»â„ă» ch. synopsis: in which Chiara and Ledger are forced to come to a resolution.
warnings: 18+ content, (MNI or be blocked indefinitely) cussing/swearing, obsession, âkidnappingâ, use of handcuffs/keeping someone hostage, mentions of vomit/throwing up, attempted m⊠smutttâ love making, missionary, kissing, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), creampie. A special reveal within the storyâŠ
a.n: I have a q for yâall at the end of the story so.. pls help a sister out đ© anyway, itâs been 84 years, hi guys!!! surprise, Iâm still alive! This one took me way⊠too long but here we are! Love yâall â€ïž
on the jukebox: âEyes Without a Faceâ by Billy Idol đ
Despite the hectic past few days, Ledger Ward wasnât sure how he slept as soundly as he did.
The guest bed didnât feel like his own back in Wyoming and the mattress gave it away. The guest bedroom that was surprisingly decorated with a bed, dresser chest, and a TV. The sunrays spilled past the curtains, alerting Ledger to start waking.
He didnât mind not sleeping with you, he couldnât. He didnât want to.
His body carefully rose and sat up, a few aches and sense of soreness all over. Feet bare on the carpeted floor to eventually the hardwood of the hallway, Ledger crept around the first level.
Three rooms including his, he could assume one was the master bedroom that you wanted him to sleep in with you. The other being his room. An extra?
Ledger approached the closed wooden door, hand on the door knob and ready to twist it open. The sudden sound of a door closing downstairs was enough to take his attention.
Lovesick
Ledger Ward x F!reader (established relationship)
Synopsis: On an annual cabin trip with friends, you're caught off guard, left with no choice but to fix things with Ledger thanks to a scheme set up by Roman
Warnings/tags *MDNI*: service dom!Ledger, forced proximity/exes trope, light emotional angst, piv, fluff, smut, fingering (f!reader), dirty talk, scent kink, missionary, creampie, maxxed out on the intimacy, want live in each others skin badddd dynamic, Roman mentioned, grief mentioned, only proofread once !
WC: 5.1k
A/N: yâall im sorry, ik itâs been a minute but i hope you enjoy this one! parent trap slipped into my mind at some point throughout this LOL but the songs on loop for this one were I Miss You by BeyoncĂ© and Sunshine by Steve Lacy (yes this is set in winter, I canât help itđ©!)
Writing Tips (for x Black!reader writers)
Iâve been seeing more Black readers wanting to write x reader stories that actually center poc readersâand thatâs such a good way to create representation and explore dynamics that usually get ignored. While this post can apply to everyone, I wrote it with Black women in mind. Theyâre constantly targeted with hate on this app, left without real representation, and often made to feel too afraid to share their work. And just to be clearâbefore the ignorant ones show upâyes, x reader fics are meant to avoid assuming identity and stay âinclusive.â But if that were really happening, people wouldnât have to dig through endless stories full of stuff like "you blushed bright red," "...pale skin," "he ran his fingers through your straight, silky hair," or "he was mesmerized by your blue eyes." Thatâs not inclusivity. This post is here to encourage and uplift writers who deserve to see themselves in the stories they love.
So here are some tips to help you get started:
âč Starting Out
1. Pick your character/fandom first.
Who do you want the reader to interact with? Who is driving your motivation? Choosing a specific character gives you immediate direction.
2. Decide on the vibe.
Fluff, angst, romance, horror, or erotica? Knowing the tone makes it easier to start writing scenes.
3. Start small.
Instead of planning a giant fic, write a short drabble (like 300â700 words). You can always expand later!
âïžđœ Writing POC Reader
Normalize the readerâs identity. Donât overexplainâjust weave details naturally, like references to skin tones, hair textures, cultural foods, or experiences. Avoid stereotypes. Instead of making the story about being a Black, let it be about the relationship/plot while still honoring identity (unless that's what the story is about).
Use inclusivity in description. Instead of âher cheeks flushed red,â you might say âtheir cheeks warmedâ or describe a glow/undertone. If you do reference appearance, tie it to beauty and pride.
Tag your work properly!! If you do reference specific hair textures (like coils) or distinct skin tones, just make sure to tag it or mention it in the header so people looking for something else can scroll past.
âExamples for Inspiration:
"At times like this, you envied bald people. Your coils were trapping the humid air against your scalp, the thick heat thriving enough to drive you crazy."
"You smoothed oil down your thighs, watching the dim bedroom light catch the way your brown skin gleamed against the sheets."
"You didn't turn around, but you could feel his gaze tracing the curve of your lips, completely mesmerized by the texure of your hair, your [blank] figure, and the deep, warm glow of your skin in the sunlight."
đ Writing Techniques
Use second person pov (âyouâ). Thatâs the core of x reader writing.
Think like a scene director. Imagine what âyouâ are doing, how the character reacts, and the emotions.
âTo really make your scenes pop, you have to play with the actual rhythm of your sentences. The way a sentence is structured dictates the reader's mental and physical state.
Experiment with narration styles!
Play with sentence length. Use long, drawn-out sentences with sensory details when you want a scene to feel heavy, suffocating, or deeply sensual. Then, smash the reader with short, blunt sentences when the tension breaks or something terrifying happens.
Dialogue is gold. It brings out chemistry quickly, but you donât need a constant back-and-forth to make a story good. Sometimes, the quiet standoff, the heavy silence, or a single, lingering look says more than a whole page of talking.
Show, donât tell. Instead of writing "you were embarrassed or scared," break down the physical reaction. Write about the sharp catch of breath in your throat, the small, crooked smile you try to hide, or the way your nails dig into your palm to keep from trembling. "You dropped your gaze, but couldnât hide the small, crooked smile that threatened to break through." Don't take this too literallyâsometimes it's best to just name the feeling instead of going on and on.
â Tips for Staying Motivated
Write for yourself first, audience second! If you don't love the story, nobody else can do it justice.
Donât compare your progress. Everyone starts somewhere, and your style will find its own natural rhythm over time.
Test the waters. Post short drabbles on Tumblr, AO3, or Wattpad. Seeing how people respond to small snippets can help you grow without the pressure of a massive project.
Save your inspiration. Keep screenshots, build specific music playlists to anchor the mood of a scene, or save aesthetic boards. It all helps spark ideas when you hit a wall.
Write for dead or tiny fandoms!! If the inspiration is there, DO IT! You'll usually find a small, incredibly dedicated group of readers who are starving for what you're creating.
Basic decency!
Always give people credit where it's due. Writers love knowing their work inspired someone elseâit's the highest compliment you can pay. If a specific scene or dynamic sparked an idea for your own fic, drop a note to say that! And if you use someoneâs artwork, graphics, or custom dividers to style your post, GIVE THEM CREDIT! Keep the community supportive and respectful.
Beautiful Dividers by @uzmacchiato
Repost from my other account. All works ©. Do not modify, plagiarize, or repost my work.
just caught up with the digital blackface situation. As someone who wouldnât say I am in the MJ/ Jackson family fandom officially, (but if you grew up black in the U.S., you were lowkey automatically an MJ fan) i want to say something as someone whose had experiences with mutuals getting exposed for this exact same thing.
First of all, be. your. self. If you have to come online to be someone you arenât in the name of clout and followers, you got to go to talk to the lady. Itâs sad that you feel the need imitating Black people esp. black women to gain popularity.
Also, I donât know how many times we have to say this but if you are not Black, stop using AAVE. Itâs not something adds a lil âspiceâ to your writings or to your funny posts, itâs something we still get made fun of or often persecuted for just communicating in our communities. We can tell youâre using it inauthentically bc a Black person from cali isnât always gonna use the same aave phrases that a person in the dmv will.
The use of Black people as memes and other forms of entertainment has always been a main issue for me and made non-black people TOO comfortable laughing at or using us a punchlines and jokes.
I do not want to ruffle any feathers. However, i noticed something in Jackson family fandoms especially, is the disregard for Black fansâ feelings around certain topics pertaining to the family.
I saw on TikTok, where a younger black fan said she was disheartened by the noticeable pattern of the men in the family dating non black women. Instead giving space, non-black fans took upon themselves to downplay the girls feelings and use MJs songs to invalidate her. That shit is CORNY.
Sorry that was long but donât let their rebrand fool you and SUPPORT ACTUAL BLACK FIC WRITERS!
changed my fav song of the moment on my intro post as iâve been obsessed with emmavie for a lil bit. idk what they put in the water in the UK but their rnb has been hitting extra hard. USA get up! jk jk đ
song: OOPS - emmavie ft. Arran Kent
trying to be consistent with these! đđŸ
pssst! using this song as inspo for my upcoming fic btw đ it should be out by the end of this week (hoping and praying)
WHY TRY ?
â ex!jaafar jacksonăđ„ăđ» black woc!reader â    â±Â   đ¶.list đ college au . crackish . smau . past relationship . alpha phi alpha!jaafar . both reader and jaafar are juniors in college . mention of underage ? drinking . angst . bantering . j wants you back . you're just a little mean .
mari speaks. pls pls pls give me feedback. this is my first time posting a smau/texting au on here so please be kind to me. this also may or may not be a teaser for a new series i'm planning out rn (˶ËáșË˶)
đ»đđđ„đšđ đŹâ â đđ«đâ â đđ©đ©đ«đđđąđđđđâ !
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