#and whatever little gremlin in my brain that writes is like :)

[captain-huggy-bear]

Treat You Right

Pairing: Clayton Keller x Fem!Reader

Warnings: unwanted advances, men not taking no for an answer, Clayton's involved in a fight.

Summary: You're not dating Clayton Keller, but there's one thing he can't stand and that's a guy not treating you with respect...turns out he hates it enough to fight a guy in a bar after a game.

Notes: All I have to say is i'm in my Clayton brain rot era.

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

It's a normal night or it starts that way. Being friends with a bunch of pro-athletes means you're often dragged out after home game wins to whatever bar they decide is best that night. Tonight it's Sunny's, a common choice for the Utah Hockey Club because of the pool table, dart board and the fact that most of the people who come in are old middle age men or contractors. Guys, who might ask for an autograph but not the usual screaming crowd that make it impossible for them to have a drink or two.

You never really had being friends with the lot of them on your bucket list, but Michael had met you when he'd taken his cats to the vets and you'd been there with your own, a fat black moggie called Gremlin who'd fallen in love with Ranger. From that point on cat dates had been a thing because in Kess' words 'you can't separate true love', you weren't entirely sure whether Gremlin loved Ranger or just wanted to lick the other cat bald.

Either way the moment you became friends with Kess was the moment you became friends with the entire team, suddenly you were being asked to events, invited to home games and the celebratory drinks after. It was nice, for the most part you felt like you were their sister, someone for them to look after but also mock, just as much as you made fun of them. You had a little community, a gang, a group where you belonged even if you weren't actually on the team.

The exception to that rule being Clayton Keller...you definitely did not want to feel like Clayton Keller's sister.

It was bound to happen, that you'd have a crush on at least one of the team. It wasn't really your fault, and well, Clay had this way of treating you, all soft and sweet and like a girl, that had you flushing under his attention and preening at any compliment he gave you. You were almost certain it was a one-sided crush doomed to go nowhere and leave you pining after the captain until you settled for some mediocre guy in finance. He was just so nice to you, so sweet.

Still, Clay was half the reason you'd agreed to come out to Sunny's that night. Determined to spend some time with or at least around him. You'd even gone home to change after the game into a nice dress before coming back out again because maybe, just maybe, this would be the night that Clayton Keller realised you were the girl he wanted.

You're waiting for your coca cola at the bar, leaning on your forearms and watching the room from over your shoulder. Kess and Dylan were playing a game of pool in the corner, Kess appearing to be losing based on the glare he was sending Dylan's way. The rest of the guys were sat around their usual table, beers in hand laughing and joking. Your eyes find Clayton like he's a magnet, he's smirking at something O'Brian's said, Tuna probably making some stupid dirty joke or telling a story at the expense of Kess.

"Hey, pretty..." You're pulled out of your people watching by a slurred drawl far too close to your ear for comfort. Your eyes shift to the man next to you, who might have been considered handsome if he wasn't staring at your boobs so blatantly that you suddenly understood what a tasty pastry felt like in a patisserie window. It wasn't particularly flattering.

You shift away from him as much as you can without appearing rude because he'd managed to somehow sneak up on you and get within inches of your ear. Something you're sure he thought was seductive but just made your shoulders tighten and your body tense.

"Hi." You try to keep your tone short, not wanting to encourage the man but hating to feel like you're being unnecessarily rude as well.

"Can I buy you a drink, baby?"

"I'm good, thanks." You gesture at the soft drink your bartender just placed in front of you, thankful that this is your cue to leave and return to the safety of a group of hockey players.

Unbeknownst to you in that moment Marino is nudging Kells with his elbow, chin gesturing in your direction. You look uncomfortable, the way you're shifting away from the man leering at you, practically leaning over you, says enough. Every time you shift away from him, he shifts closer and it's clear to Clayton that you'd rather be anywhere else.

He can't help it, the way it makes his hackles rise, the way his fist clenches tight around his beer bottle as he takes another swig, forcing himself to be cool, to just let you handle it for a moment. It's not like you're dating, it's not like he has any right to storm over there and maybe he's wrong...maybe you're interested in the guy leering down at you like you're a piece of meat. Maybe he's more your type than Clay is.

He doesn't really blame the guy for showing interest. You're beautiful, always, but...there's something about the way you look tonight. Maybe it's that your dress accentuates your hips or the fact that the colour makes your skin look like its glowing...or maybe Clayton is just a little weak for you. That's not exactly a new revelation for him. He's been weak for you since day one.

"Seriously, baby, that's not a real drink, let me get you a real drink."

"I'm good." You stress your point this time, snatching your drink back from the man who just tried to take it off you and straightening to walk back to the guys. Any pretence of politeness dropped because you don't have to deal with this and you aren't going to.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" It's a shift in attitude that you should have expected, you've seen it before, but you don't expect the hand that wraps around your wrist to stop you walking away, your drink spilling as you're jerked to a stop. His hand is tight, uncomfortable so and the situation has gone from irritating to frightening, fear running down you're spine because this strange man has his hands on you.

Your eyes find Clay's almost instinctively, wide and scared but he's already out of his seat and shoving people out of the way with short, sharp apologies as he goes. It's not like he's alone either, half the team are now looking your way, waiting to see if their captain needs any help or not. Looking to see if they need to also step in.

"Get the fuck off me." Still, in the time it takes Clay to reach you you try to shake the man off, glaring up at him like it might help. It doesn't, if anything his grip tightens and he pulls you closer, a hand reaching for the skin of your thigh like he has any right to touch you.

It's that that has Clay seeing red. Going from thinking he'd calmly intervene to storming between the two of you like a bull in a china shop. It must be the surprise of someone intervening that does it, but the man let's your wrist go and Clay's pushing you gently back and out of the way before he's letting a fist fly at the guy's face without so much as a word towards the other man.

"Shit, Clay...What the fuck are you doing?!" All you can do is take another step back, hands coming to your mouth because out of all the guys on the team, Clay's the last one you expect to be starting a fight in a bar with a guy at least a head taller than him.

He doesn't answer you because he's too busy fighting, you're so shocked, so focused on what's happening in front of you, that you jump when Kess brushes your shoulder, pool having been deserted in favour of helping O'Brian and Marino pull the two men apart.

Despite the size difference Clay's winning or it looks like he's winning, you're pretty certain he's broken the other guy's nose and even with a bloody busted lip, he doesn't look winded or ready to stop. Part of you hates it. A stupid display of male pride and dominance that you should not condone at all...another part of you feels a thrill at Clayton fighting on your behalf, at the blood speckles across his white dress shirt, at the bruising on his knuckles, at the way he licks the blood from his busted lip and smirks at the guy sarcastically. Like he's completely and utterly in control.

You're not sure he's going to stop, eyes feral, mouth pursed, huffing like an angry bull when Kess finally has him round the shoulders and starts pulling him away. Tuna doing the same to the stranger. But, Clay does stop, just shrugs Kess off with sharp movements, "I'm fine. He won't be if he doesn't fucking leave though."

It's Tuna that escorts the stranger out of the bar and you're certain the only thing stopping the bar owner from kicking Clay out is the fact he's a local celebrity who brings in half the customers.

"What the hell, Clay?" You're still shocked by the brute display of force from him, not scared, just surprised. You can't deny there's a certain appeal to it. To the way he looks at you as he wipes blood from his chin, how his large hands clench and unclench testing his knuckles for a break. They're just bruised. He's hot...hotter than usual and you kind of hate that you feel that way, like you're setting feminism back 100 years. But, God...

“No one gets to treat you like that, you hear me? No one.” He can't stand it. The entitlement to grab you, the belief that anyone has a right to touch you without permission, to talk to you like that. He's half a mind to chase after Tuna and the guy, to keep going, but he knows he shouldn't...he's already done more than he probably should have. Headlines in the morning no doubt already looking like 'Utah Captain beats local man in bar brawl!'.

"That...you can't just fight someone for being a asshole," You can see Kess gesturing for everyone to give the two of you privacy as Clay steps into your personal bubble. He's still amped up, chest heaving like he wants another fight, lips parted to take in more air. You hate that you want to take a bite out of him, you hate that you want him to take that energy out on you in a completely different way than fighting.

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because...because..." all you can come up with is, "I'm not your girlfriend, Clay...you don't have to defend me."

He looks at you like you're an idiot, the only time he's ever looked at you like that. Like you're daft and it makes you flush with warm embarrassment because why couldn't you think of something better to say.

"No one gets to treat you like dirt. Like a piece of meat. Like he owns you, okay? Doesn't matter if you're my girlfriend or not, men better treat you with respect or they're dealing with me."

"Clay...I get it, you're a woman loving, modern man but..." You're convinced this whole display is just part of his gentlemanly stick, his righteous desire for fairness and justice in the world and nothing to do with you. it would be cute how oblivious you are, if he wasn't so fed up with it.

"And before you start that shit, yeah, I'd defend any woman in here, but I sure as fuck wouldn't be throwing punches over anyone else, baby." Clay runs his hands through his hair frenetically, the strands messy and loose, hat non-existent for once.

You feel like your head is spinning, buzzing, confused because surely he's talking about the fact you're kind of friends, that you're not a stranger. He can't possibly mean...he called you baby? When did Clay ever call you baby?

His laugh is sardonic, disbelieving as he watches the way you stare at him, all wide eyed and confused like he hasn't been trying to flirt with you for the past six months that you've known each other. Like he doesn't try to compliment you every time he sees you. Like he didn't give you his number the very first day so you could meet up. Like he's not totally irrevocably in love with you.

"Do I need to spell it out for you, sweetheart?" He's being a bit abrupt, a little bit mean in a way Clay normally isn't with you. Not quite so soft and he'll apologise for that later but he's still angry about the whole thing and you're obliviousness to his feelings feels like a slap in the face, like he's not good enough for you to even comprehend the idea of something more with. You don't owe him anything, but fuck, he's frustrated with the ignorance of it all.

"You're not my girlfriend, but I sure as hell want you to be and I've been flirting with you for six months and if you're just not interested that's fine, I'll still be in your corner, but I need to know if I'm just wasting my time waiting." This time when you're backed against the bar top by a man, it's by Clay, and it's wanted. He's in your space but with enough room that he's giving you an out, you can slip under his arm and leave at any moment. But you don't.

"You like me?" It's every dream you've had about Clay, every want, rolled up into one. The way he barricades you in on the bar top. The smell of his cologne. The warmth of him. The intense stare of baby blue eyes as he tells you he actually likes you, that your stupid, silly little crush isn't actually as one-sided as you thought.

"Only been flirting with you since the moment we met, baby."

"You've been flirting with me?" You lean back to get a better look at his face, your mouth dropped in shock. In turn he leans back to look at you in a similar manner, eyebrows high, blue eyes blinking in confusion.

"Are you serious?"

"Fuck...I thought...I thought you weren't interested...I thought...I thought you didn't like me back..." You're practically having an existential crisis between his arms because he's just admitted he likes you that he's been flirting with you for months, that all your pining and your moping has been for literally nothing.

"Back?" Clay's smile is starting to grow, the one you adore, all teeth and dimples as he picks up on that one seemingly insignificant word and prods at it. As if that word has put all the frustration, all the anger, all the bad feelings of the night instantly to rest.

"I..."

"Do you like me, baby?" He's all teasing smirks and half-lidded eyes now, leaning back into your space so close that you're chest to chest, nose to nose. So close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. So close it makes you stutter and freeze.

"Clay..." Your eyes dart to all your friends, all eyes on the two of you as you flush warm, cheeks growing supremely hot because fuck, Clayton Keller looks like he's about to kiss you in the middle of a bar with the entire team watching like they need popcorn.

You watch Clayton's eyes flicker to catch the audience watching, the way he takes a moment to pause, to think, whatever impulsive decision he had being put to rest for the moment.

"C'mon..." His hand is wrapping around yours in no time, tugging you along and out of the bar, away from prying eyes as if that isn't just as blatant, just as obvious as kissing you in front of all of them or whatever he might have planned to do. There's part of you that wonders if this might be all some big joke he's about to play, the insecure part, the little girl from your childhood part, that feels like he might turn around and laugh with a loud 'as if!'.

You let him lead you outside, the night air cool against your arms, the sort of chill that makes goose bumps raise on your arms. He doesn't even hesitate before shrugging off his jacket and throwing it over your shoulders, his arm coming to rest there, tucking you into his side like you belong, like its natural for him to do.

You don't speak as you walk, scared to break the silence until you come to a stop a few streets down in front of a shop that Clay had parked across from earlier in the night. No one is around but you and that's what gives him the confidence to push you against the brick wall of the shop, to lean back into your space and ask the question that he never got an answer to.

"Do you like me, baby?" It's more intimate this time, but less pressured. There are no eyes on you, there are no bright bar lights or teammates getting an eyeful. Something about the dimness of the night, the cool air, the feel of his jacket over your shoulders and him, oh him, leaning into your space again, has you answering honestly.

"Yeah, yeah I do..."

There's a silent conversation that happens as his hand comes up to rest against your throat, thumb rubbing against the underside of your chin. He watches you carefully and you try to answer him without words, that you want this, that you really do like him.

Whatever Clay sees must be enough because he's leaning in slow, just slow enough for you to dip out if he's misread the situation, hand tightening just slightly around your throat before his lips are slanting over yours.

It's not a frantic kiss, not forceful or aggressive. He kisses you like a slow dance, like your the sweetest thing he's ever tasted and he's trying to savour it, enjoy it for as long as he can. Lips soft and slow against yours, tongue licking into your mouth unhurried and patient. If anyone is impatient it's you, your hands tangling into his hair and tugging until he groans against you, until that patience breaks just enough for him to start devouring your mouth like he's a glutton for you.

When Clayton finally pulls back from you you're both heaving in breaths, chests bumping against each other and lips kiss bitten. The smile he gives you is so soft, so sweet it makes you want to melt into a puddle, his eyes crinkling as just a hint of his teeth comes out to play.

"Can I take you on a date?" His nose bumps against yours, purposeful in the brush against your own like he can't stand to be too far away from you right now.

"Yeah, you can take me on a date, Clayton Keller."

"Good, cause I really need an excuse to punch the next guy that looks at you funny," He jokes causing you to let out a huff of a laugh, hand escaping his hair to whack his shoulder admonishingly.

"Don't you dare!"

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 12

˗ˏˋ vanilla coffee ˎˊ˗

"There's a science to making perfect coffee, he says. But there's no science to explain why watching him make it—shirtless and sleep-rumpled—makes you forget every reason you shouldn't want him."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 7,4k

rating: explicit (sex)

content: jungkook literally has a vanilla kink at this point i'm sorry that wasn't even planned he's just got free will, coffee lessons that are somehow hot, tiny shorts being instigators, verbal sparring as foreplay, protected sex, titty play, titty worship, penetrative vaginal sex, him fingering her

✧ author's note ✧

Listen. LISTEN. I don’t know what kind of demonic possession took over me while writing this chapter, but I had zero control over my own hands. Like, the coffee scene? The mug sharing? The delicious moment??? I AM IN HELL. (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻

I started this chapter with the intention of them being petty little gremlins about vanilla-scented products, and somehow it ended with Jungkook making a whole latte just to flex on Y/N. A LATTE. And don’t even get me started on the mug proximity crimes. The way Y/N is actively short-circuiting over his hands and forearms like a Victorian woman seeing ankle for the first time?? We are ALL in trouble. (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)

And then—oh, god—the sweatpants menace. If you know, you know.

As always, please send thoughts, screams, and existential crises to the comment box. Love you, stay hydrated, and if a man ever offers to elevate your coffee… RUN. (Or sit in his lap. Your call.) (¬‿¬)

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Good tired is still tired.

Your bag hits the dining table with a thud that perfectly matches how your brain feels right now—heavy and slightly bruised. 

7PM. 

You gave him way more than forty minutes. Actually gave him two whole hours, not that you're counting. 

Not that you care. You're just... observant.

But then you catch it—that familiar scent hanging in the air. Vanilla. Your mind immediately goes to that specific vanilla body wash that costs way too much but is the only thing that doesn't make your skin break out.

Oh, he fucking didn't.

Your fist connects with his door maybe a bit harder than necessary. There's a loud thud from inside, followed by what sounds like someone falling off a bed, then a muffled "shit” before footsteps approach.

The door swings open and—oh.

Oh no.

He's shirtless, because of course he is. Hair a disaster, eyes heavy with sleep, that stupid silver ring catching the light as he runs a hand down his face. There's a pillow crease on his cheek and he looks... soft. Which is absolutely not what you need right now when you're trying to be angry.

"What," he growls, voice rough with sleep, "is your problem?"

Right. Anger. Focus on that.

"My problem?" You gesture vaguely at the air between you. "My problem is you letting random hookups use my shit!"

His brow furrows, like he's trying to process your words through a fog of interrupted sleep. Then his expression does this complicated thing—confusion to understanding to something else you can't quite read.

He presses his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Phoenix, I didn't." When he looks at you again, he seems more awake. "I told her your stuff was off limits."

"Then why does it smell like—"

He brushes past you, heading toward the bathroom, and you absolutely do not notice how warm he is when he passes. Or how he still smells like rain under the vanilla.

"Are you seriously walking away while I'm—"

He stops so suddenly you almost run into him. Turns. Points at the coffee table.

"It's your candle."

You follow his finger and... oh.

There's one of your vanilla candles burning quietly on the table, nearly at its end. Which means it's been lit for...

He groans, running a hand down his face again. "You said to open the windows, and I just..." He waves vaguely at the candle. "Whatever."

"You..." The words aren't quite computing. "You lit my candle?"

"You told me to air out the apartment."

"So you used my candle to get cozy with some random—"

"For fuck's sake, Phoenix." He looks like he's regretting every life choice that led him here. "I lit it because you like these stupid vanilla things, okay? Thought it'd make the place smell nice when you got back."

Oh.

Something warm and uncomfortable squirms in your chest. Because that's... that's actually kind of...

"Well." You cross your arms, refusing to acknowledge the weird feeling. "Maybe ask next time before using my stuff."

"Maybe don't ghost me for two hours when I asked for forty minutes."

"I was studying!"

"With your phone on silent?"

"Some of us have actual academic responsibilities, Rogue."

His mouth twitches. "Some of us have other responsibilities."

"Yeah, bet ‘pussy eating’ looks great on a résumé.”

“Didn’t eat her pussy. Just fucked it.”

You grimace. “TMI.”

He shrugs. “You brought it up.”

“You were the one bragging about responsibilities like it’s a noble calling.”

“Hey, takes dedication. Skill. Stamina.” A smirk. “Not my fault you’re fixated on it.”

Fixated—

“Right. Just like I’m fixated on your four-hour recovery nap.”

“Wasn’t napping the whole time.”

“Gross.”

“You asked.”

“I literally didn’t.”

He's fighting a smile now, you can tell. Which is annoying because you're trying to be mad about your candle. Or your body wash. Or... something.

"Whatever." You turn toward your room, because this conversation needs to end before you do something stupid like thank him for thinking about the smell. "Just ask next time."

"Before lighting your pretentious vanilla candles?"

"They're not pretentious."

"They're thirty dollars each."

"How do you know how much they—" You spin back around. "Have you been looking up my candles?"

"No."

"Oh my god, you totally have."

"I was curious why they cost so much when they all smell the same!"

"They do not all smell the same, you absolute heathen."

He raises an eyebrow. "French Vanilla and Vanilla Bean are literally the same thing."

"I'm not having this conversation with someone who probably thinks Old Spice is a personality trait."

"At least I don't need a PhD to buy soap."

"No, you just need—" You stop, narrowing your eyes. "Wait. How do you know what's in my shower?"

"You know what?" He stretches, and you absolutely do not track the movement with your eyes. "All this talk about vanilla is making me crave coffee. Specifically..." He grins, slow and deliberate. "Those vanilla capsules you hide in the back of the cabinet."

"Don't you dare—"

"The ones behind the protein powder?"

"Those are mine." You follow him as he saunters toward the kitchen, still annoyingly shirtless. "I specifically said they weren't for you."

"Come on, Phoenix." He's already moving toward the kitchen, all loose limbs and bare chest like putting on a shirt is beneath him. "Let me show you how to actually make coffee. Teach you some culture. Some technique."

You swat at him as he passes. "I know how to use a coffee maker."

"Sure you do." His laugh is rough with sleep, and you hate that you notice. "That's why you murdered a perfectly good espresso shot this morning."

"I did not—"

"The beans were crying, Phoenix. I heard them."

But you're already following him to the kitchen because apparently you hate yourself. 

He's wearing those stupid gray sweatpants that hang just low enough to be illegal in at least three states, and his hair is still a disaster from sleep, curling at the nape of his neck.

"First rule," he says, running his hands over the coffee maker like it's something precious, "is respecting the machine."

"It's a coffee maker, not royalty."

"See? No respect." His fingers dance over the settings with practiced ease. "That's why your coffee tastes like sad bean water."

You lean against the counter, watching as he measures grounds with ridiculous precision. 

"My coffee tastes fine."

"Your coffee tastes like betrayal and broken dreams." He adjusts the grind size, movements quick and sure. "You probably think instant coffee is acceptable."

"Only when I'm feeling particularly spiteful."

His horrified gasp is so dramatic it actually makes you laugh. "You're a monster."

"Guilty."

He shakes his head, tamping down the grounds with absolutely unnecessary focus. The muscles in his forearms flex with the movement, and you definitely don't notice. Just like you don't notice how his hands look wrapping around the portafilter, or how his ring catches the kitchen light when he locks it into place.

"Watch," he says, flipping switches with the confidence of someone who definitely spent too much time watching barista tutorials on YouTube. "This is where the magic happens."

"It's coffee, not alchemy."

"Shh. You're ruining the moment."

The machine hums to life, and okay—maybe you can kind of see why he's so precious about it. There's something almost hypnotic about the way the espresso streams out, dark and perfect.

"See how it's not running too fast?" He's fully in teacher mode now, gesturing at the flow. "That's what you want. Nice and steady. Not that waterfall disaster you created this morning."

"Are you done being pretentious yet?"

"Never." He grabs your vanilla capsules—the ones you specifically told him not to touch—and starts steaming milk. "But I'll make it worth your while."

"By stealing my coffee?"

"By elevating your coffee." The milk pitcher moves in his hand like it's an extension of his arm. "You'll never want that chain store stuff again."

"Bold of you to assume I want anything you make."

His smile is all trouble. "Liar."

And okay, maybe he has a point. Because the drink he slides across the counter a few minutes later looks... kind of perfect. The foam is glossy and smooth, and the vanilla smell hits just right.

"Well?" He raises an eyebrow, waiting.

You take a sip and—fuck.

Fuck.

"It's..." 

No. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

But he's already grinning, the bastard. "Say it."

"Absolutely not."

"Come on, Phoenix." He leans forward, elbows on the counter. "Admit it. I made your vanilla whatever-the-fuck better than you ever could."

"I will literally die first."

"That good, huh?"

You flip him off, taking another sip instead of answering. But then he's there, right there, and when did he get so close? His fingers brush yours as he takes the mug, gentle but deliberate, and your throat goes dry.

He holds your gaze, something dark and playful dancing in his eyes. Doesn't ask permission with words—just tilts his head slightly, the question clear in the quirk of his mouth. And you should say something. Should stop him. Should—

The mug touches his lips. Your lips were just there. Three seconds ago, your mouth was exactly where his is now, and that shouldn't make your stomach clench but it does.

His eyes are too much. Too dark, too intense, too fucking knowing as he takes a slow sip. Have they always been this brown? This smoky? Like whiskey in low light, like trouble wrapped in honey. 

The kind of eyes that should come with a warning label: Danger. Side effects may include stupid decisions and ruined underwear.

His tongue darts out, catching a stray drop on his lower lip. Slow. Deliberate. The silver ring on his hand catches the light as he lowers the mug, and his voice drops to something husky.

"Delicious."

Nope. Absolutely not.

You snatch the mug back, ignoring how your fingers tingle where they brush his. "Make your own, you coffee nerd."

Retreat. Strategic retreat to the couch is definitely the smart play here. Because your brain is currently short-circuiting, trying to process how one word—one stupid, fucking word—in that voice can make your thighs press together.

His laugh follows you, low and knowing. The sound wraps around you like smoke, like the way he smelled that thunderstorm night, like—

Griffin chooses that exact moment to slink into the living room, green eyes judging you both as he hops onto the windowsill. He stretches, impossibly long, before curling into a perfect orange circle, pointedly turning his back to you both. 

At least someone in this apartment has standards.

Focus. You're focusing.

But then you hear him moving behind you. The quiet rhythm of his breathing, the soft appreciative hums as he works the coffee maker. The whisper of fabric as his sweatpants shift with his movements. Each sound feels magnified, like your brain has decided to process everything in HD surround sound.

Don't look back. Don't do it. Don't—

Fuck.

You glance over your shoulder and immediately regret every decision that led to this moment. Because his back is a work of art, all broad shoulders and defined muscle, and it's not fair. It's not fucking fair that even from behind he's attractive enough to make your mouth water. The way his shoulder blades move as he works the machine, the dip of his spine disappearing into those low-hanging sweats, the unruly hairs curling at his nape...

Snap your head forward. Drink your coffee. Stop being a horny disaster for five consecutive minutes.

But you can still hear him. Still feel his presence behind you like a looming cloud. Still taste the ghost of his lips where they touched the same spot yours did on the mug.

This is fine. Everything is fine. You're just tired and touch-starved and maybe a little worked up from your stupid assignments—

"Want another taste, Phoenix?"

His voice is closer now, right behind you, and you absolutely do not shiver. "Didn't anyone teach you to drink your own coffee?"

"Didn't anyone teach you that stealing tastes better?"

You refuse to turn around. Refuse to acknowledge how his words squeeze your chest. "You're impossible."

"You like impossible."

And that's... that's not something you're equipped to handle right now. Not with him standing there all sleep-warm and shirtless, voice rough like gravel, smelling like rain and coffee and sin.

"I like peace and quiet," you lie, taking another sip of your rapidly cooling drink.

His laugh is soft, dangerous. "Liar."

The couch dips as he drops down next to you, thigh pressed against yours like he owns the space. Like personal boundaries are just suggestions. He has a mug in hand now, and his coffee smells kind of amazing and you hate him for it.

You shift away, but his hand lands on your thigh—warm, heavy, there. His fingers span the width of it easily, and your brain helpfully supplies memories of those same fingers in other contexts. 

It doesn’t escape your notice, how his eyes linger on where your shorts have ridden up your thighs from your hours in the library. 

"No," you manage, swatting his thigh with yours.

"No what?" His voice is still rough from sleep, and it's doing things to you. Unfair things.

"No manspreading next to me." You try to sound annoyed instead of affected. "Keep your sweaty balls to yourself."

He squeezes your thigh, just once. Just enough to make you want to throw the mug at him. Or yourself. "My balls aren't sweaty."

"Bet they are.”

"Want to check?"

"You're actually the worst." But you don't move his hand. Why aren't you moving his hand?

"That's not what you said last time."

And fuck him for bringing up last time. Fuck him for smelling like rain and coffee and sleep-warm skin. Fuck him for the way his thumb is drawing absent circles on your thigh, like he's not even aware he's doing it.

"Lapse in judgment."

His laugh rumbles through you, too close, too much. "Which time?"

"Pick one."

"I'd rather pick you up."

You turn to tell him exactly where he can shove that line, but it's a mistake. Because he's right there, all heavy-lidded eyes and sleep-soft mouth, and your brain fizzles. His hair is still a mess, curling at his temples, and you want to grab it. Want to find out if it's as soft as it looks. Want to—

"You're staring, Phoenix."

"Untrue."

His fingers flex on your thigh. "Big word for someone who can't stop looking at my mouth."

"I'm not—" But you are. You absolutely are. "Shut up."

"Make me."

Always those two damn words. Always saying ‘make me’, like he knows how it riles you up. Like he likes how it riles you up. His eyes are dark, dangerous, and you can feel his pulse through his fingers on your thigh. Or maybe that's your pulse. Everything feels too hot, too close, too—

"Your coffee's getting cold," you manage, voice embarrassingly breathy.

His smile is slow, knowing. "Yeah?”

His eyes drop to your shorts—the ones you've been wearing all day, the ones that rode up your thighs during your study session. And okay, maybe they're a little too short. Maybe you felt Jimin's concerned glance when you stretched in the library. But it's not your fault the AC in your car is temperamental at best.

"These can't be comfortable after sitting in the library all day," he murmurs, fingers playing with the hem. “Could help you out of them."

"Thought you were tired from your afternoon activities."

"Second wind." His thumb traces the seam where it cuts into your thigh. "Come here."

You raise an eyebrow, ignoring how your body wants to lean into his touch. "I am here."

"No," and his voice drops lower, rougher. "Here." He pats his lap, and the casual confidence of it irritating. Hot. Irritatingly hot. "Unless you're scared."

"Of what? Your ego?"

"Of how bad you want it." His eyes flick to your chest, where your shirt dips just low enough to be interesting. "Been thinking about these shorts all day. Since you drove me to class."

"Didn't realize my driving skills were such a turn on."

"Your driving skills are terrible." His hand slides higher, testing. "But watching you grip the steering wheel..."

You swallow. "That's kind of pathetic."

"Yeah?" His fingers find the spot where your shorts meet skin. "Then why are you breathing so hard?"

"Because you're annoying me."

He laughs, low and dangerous. "Hop on, Phoenix. Let me annoy you properly."

"That's your big move? 'Hop on'?"

“As long as it gets you on top of me...” He smiles now, actually smiles. “I’d say it’s working.”

And fuck him for being right. Fuck him for the way his eyes are all pupil now, for how his skin is still warm, for how he smells like everything you want to taste.

"You're awful," you breathe, but you're already shifting closer.

"Show me how awful."

His fingers hook through your belt loop and suddenly you're being yanked forward with zero warning. The squeak that leaves your mouth is embarrassing.

"Rude," you swat at him, but he catches your wrist easily. His hand is so warm around your cold skin.

"C'mere," he breathes, and before you can process it, you're straddling him. 

His hands slide down to grab your ass, fingers digging into the flesh and pulling you closer until you fall forward, catching yourself with hands on either side of his head.

He hums, the sound vibrating through you where you're pressed against him. And—yeah. Well. That's definitely not his phone in his sweats.

"Ride me?" The way he says it is almost lazy, but his eyes are dark, hungry. That half-lidded look that means tarnation.

"Excuse me?"

"Come on, Phoenix." His fingers flex on your ass, making you rock against him. "Don't be mean."

You raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore how good he feels under you. "Mean?"

"Been hard since I saw you in these fucking shorts this morning." He bites his lip, looking up at you through his lashes. "Just thinking about your thighs spread over my lap like this..."

"That sounds like a you problem."

His laugh is breathless, a little wild. "I’ll make it an us problem."

"Thought you were tired from earlier."

"Different kind of tired." His hands guide you into a slow grind against him. "This is more... inspiration."

"You're actually insane."

"Yeah?" He rocks up, making you gasp. "Feeling pretty sane right now. Feeling like I really want you to—fuck—" 

You'd rolled your hips, just to shut him up. Just to wipe that cocky smirk off his face. But now he's looking at you like you’re his favorite dessert, and his hands are everywhere, and—

"That's it," he breathes, voice gone raspy. "Just like that, come on..."

He guides your hips into another roll, watching you with that hungry, hazy look. His thumbs dig into your hipbones, controlling the pressure, the pace.

"Been thinking about this," he breathes, voice rough. "How you'd look bouncing on my cock. How your tits would—fuck—" You grind down harder, feeling him twitch against you. "Haven't even gotten to see them properly yet."

"Poor you," but your voice shakes when his hands slide up under your shirt, spanning your ribs.

"Poor me," he agrees, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "All I got was that quick fuck against the window. Then you cumming on my tongue." His eyes are dark, pupils blown. "But this? Getting to watch you ride me? See these bounce while you—"

"You talk too much." You're trying for annoyed but it comes out breathy.

"Make me shut up then." His hips snap up. "Come on, Phoenix. Show me how well you can take it, yeah?"

"That's your big plan? Get me all worked up in the living room?"

“Getting worked up anywhere you’ll let me.” His fingers find your nipples through your bra, rolling them until you arch. “Been waiting to get you like this. Spread out on top of me, swallowing me deep in this greedy pussy…”

You let out a breathy laugh, grinding down just to spite him. “Yeah?” Your voice is pure teasing, but the heat is real. “She didn’t wring you out completely?”

His grip tightens on your waist, nails pressing in just enough to make you feel it. “Seems like she didn’t.”

You hum, dragging your hips forward again, slow and deliberate. “Mm. That’s a shame.”

“Yeah?” His voice dips, rough and taunting, but his hands—his fucking hands—are already shoving your shirt up, fingers tracing up your spine before yanking your bra down just enough to expose you. His thumb drags over one nipple, his breath warm against your throat. “You wanna fix that?”

You pretend to consider, rolling your hips again, dragging your pussy right over the thick ridge of him. Fuck. He’s not even inside you, and it’s already so good.

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “Wouldn’t want to overwork you.”

His laugh is sharp, incredulous. “Nix.” His voice is wrecked—the kind of hoarse, hungry sound that goes straight to your cunt. “You feel what you’re doing to me?” He thrusts up, slow but deep, and you suck in a breath. “Think I’m fucking tired?”

And yeah, okay. He’s still hard as fucking steel beneath you. Still needy. Still looking at you like he’s seconds from losing what little patience he has left.

“It’s these fucking shorts,” he mutters, grabbing a handful of your ass like he wants to leave bruises. “Oh my god, this fucking ass.”

You hold back a laugh, rolling your hips again, enjoying the way his breath stutters. “That easy, huh?”

His hands tighten on you. “You know what you do to me.” His mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping just enough to make you quiver. “S’why you wore these, right?”

You don’t answer, just reach between you to shove down his sweatpants, dragging them low enough to free his cock. And—fuck. He’s so hard it’s almost obscene, thick and flushed and already leaking. 

“Jesus,” you mutter, running a teasing finger up his shaft, watching his stomach tense. “Didn’t even get a full reset, did you?”

His jaw flexes. “No.” A muscle in his cheek jumps as he watches you wrap your hand around him. “The fuck do you expect when you walk around in these little fucking—” His breath hitches when you thumb over the head, smearing the wetness there. “Shit—shorts. The second I saw you, I knew—”

“You knew what?” You press the question into his skin, lips just beneath his jaw, hand still working him slow.

His grip on your ass tightens, grounding, punishing. “Knew I was gonna end up inside you tonight.”

And fuck. That sends a fresh wave of heat through you, has your thighs squeezing around him. Because yeah, okay, maybe you had the same thought the second you walked in and saw him standing there in nothing but those damn sweatpants.

But there’s still one thing gnawing at you. One thing that makes your brain fight for a fraction of control through the heat.

“Did you use condoms?”

His head snaps up, brow furrowing like you just asked if water is wet. “Of course I did. Who the fuck do you think I am?”

You exhale, relief flooding through you faster than the heat pooling low in your stomach. 

“Okay, fuck. Okay.” You swallow. “Where are they?”

And Jungkook—fucking Jungkook—instead of answering, he grabs your tits. Both hands, rough and impatient, unclasping you bra like it personally offended him.

“Jesus—wait—” You barely manage to lift your arms before he’s yanking it over your head, flinging it somewhere behind him.

“You on the pill?” he murmurs, barely pausing his focus on your tits.

“No.” You don’t even hesitate.

And to his credit, he doesn’t either. “Okay. Condoms it is.”

Respectful. A menace, but respectful.

You barely have time to process that before his fingers are pressing into the small of your back, guiding you forward, making you press flush against him as he leans toward the coffee table.

And you—because apparently you’re both equally insane—just let him.

His other hand reaches forward, jerking open the small drawer in the coffee table, fishing out a foil packet with practiced ease.

“You keep condoms in the living room?”

Jungkook doesn’t even blink. “Yeah. Just in case.”

“In case?” Your eyebrows shoot up. “Don’t you fuck in your room like normal people?”

“Yeah?” He grabs the foil packet, tossing it onto the couch beside him before his hands are right back on your waist, thumbs sliding under the waistband of your shorts. “But, y’know… just in case you wanted it.”

Your brain short-circuits for a second. “Me?”

“You, Phoenix.” He squeezes your hips like he’s grounding himself, like he has to touch you while he says it. “I usually fuck in my room. But you and me—we already did it against the window, so I figured…” He shrugs, casual as ever. “Might as well be prepared.”

“I—” You blink, processing, trying to form actual thoughts. “That’s crazy.”

He shrugs, so fucking nonchalant it’s unfair. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Think about it.” His mouth curls, eyes flicking from your mouth to your bare chest and back again. “Imagine I had to stop and go all the way to my room right now.” He pauses, letting the implication settle. “Wouldn’t that just kill the mood?”

And okay. You do snort at that.

Because this is ridiculous.

Because this is actually thoughtful.

Because he’s still hard as a rock under you, talking about condom logistics while casually groping your ass, like he’s planning for a fire drill and not fucking you senseless on the couch.

“No, like. You’re a complete nut case,” you murmur, shaking your head.

“Quick access,” he corrects, and then—fuck.

His mouth is on your tits again.

No hesitation, no teasing buildup, just his tongue dragging over one nipple, warm and slick before closing his lips around it.

Your breath catches, fingers twitching where they brace on his shoulders. “Jesus—”

He hums against your skin, like this is just an extension of the conversation. Like he can talk about fucking you and have his tongue on your tits in the same breath.

And then, because he’s Jungkook and apparently completely fucking obsessed with your chest, he moves to the other one, sucking deep and slow, like he’s savoring it.

“Can’t help it,” he mutters against you, voice rough. “Tits too fucking perfect.”

Which—okay. You shouldn’t preen at that, but his mouth is so fucking warm, and his hands are so fucking big—

Your nails dig into his shoulders, and his breath stutters.

And then he’s leaning back just enough to look up at you, lips slick, pupils blown. “You gonna let me fuck you cowgirl now, or you wanna keep pretending we’re still talking?”

You poke at his dick playfully, watching with satisfaction as it twitches immediately.

His breath stutters, eyes flicking up to yours, but he doesn’t say a word. Just watches—completely absorbed—as you pluck the condom from the side and roll it down over him, slow and deliberate.

His jaw flexes, lips parting slightly, and when you glance up, you catch it—his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, hard enough to leave a mark.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice all low and wrecked.

You smirk, dragging your fingers back up his shaft just because you can, because you like making him twitch, like how he watches you like he’s seconds from losing his mind.

His hands are already on your thighs when you lift up, finally removing those tiny ass shorts—but when your fingers hook into your panties, he stops you.

“Keep them.”

You blink, brows furrowing. “What?”

“Fuck, I don’t know.” His hands skim up, palms rough against your bare skin. “They’re red and lacy and fucking beautiful—” His voice breaks off into a sharp exhale as he shifts under you, cock nudging against the damp lace between your legs. “Just shove them to the side and let me fuck you like this.”

Heat licks down your spine, and fuck, maybe it is kind of hot—his voice raw, gaze locked where you’re already so wet for him.

“Yeah?” You drag the fabric aside, slow and teasing, letting him see what he’s about to have. “You want me to ride you like this?”

“Nix.” His voice is all smoke and gravel. “Fucking sit on it.”

Your fingers tighten on his shoulders.

And then, in one swift motion, you sink down onto him.

“Fuck—”

Jungkook shudders, breath breaking apart as he bottoms out inside you, hands clamping down on your hips so hard it’s murderous. His fingers dig deep into your skin, like he’s fighting the urge to slam you down harder, deeper, but he doesn’t—he just grips, holds, feels.

And fucking watches.

Because this—this—is his favorite.

The way you stretch around him, the way he can see it, can watch himself disappear inside you from this angle. The lace of your panties bunched to the side, the way your slick coats his cock, the slow, obscene drag as he throbs inside you.

His jaw clenches, his head falling back, but his eyes stay locked on where your bodies meet. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You suck in a breath, thighs trembling slightly, trying to adjust to the stretch, the pressure, the way he fills you completely. You brace your hands on his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle shift beneath your palms as he groans deep in his throat.

“You feel that, Nix?” His voice is rough, wrecked. “Feel how deep you’re taking me?”

You bite your lip, trying not to squirm at the way that sounds coming from him, the way his cock pulses inside you like he can feel every little squeeze.

His grip on your hips flexes. “Come on, let me hear you.”

You swallow hard, already feeling too fucking warm. “I—”

“I what?” His hands slide down, palms rough and greedy as they find your ass, grabbing handfuls, spreading you just to push inside you deeper. “Fuck, Phoenix, you feel so fucking good.”

Your thighs twitch, heat licking up your spine, and okay—okay, maybe that makes something inside you tighten. The way he wants you to feel it. The way he sounds like he’s barely holding on.

“Look at you. Sitting so fucking pretty on my cock like this.”

Your breath stutters.

“Fuck—” His fingers flex again, grip punishing, possessive. “Knew you’d look good like this. In this position. Been dreaming ‘bout it.”

You exhale shakily, pressing your palms harder against his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath your hands.

“Yeah?” The word slips out before you can stop it, quiet, breathless, barely more than an exhale. 

And then, even as much as you convince yourself you hate dirty talk—his dirty talk—how you tell yourself it’s cringe… You find yourself engaging. You find yourself slipping. 

“You wanted me in this position, Ro? Riding you?”

And Jungkook? He fucking relishes on it.

“Yeah,” he rasps, dark eyes flicking up to yours, mouth curling slow, dirty. “Getting bold on me, Phee?”

Heat rushes up your throat, your pulse pounding, but you don’t look away. You can’t—not with the way he’s looking at you, not with how deep he is inside you.

“God,” he groans, hands gripping your ass again, spreading you wider just to watch himself sink into you even more. “You should see how you look right now.”

His voice is wrecked—half-growl, half-moan—and you have to fight the way your thighs want to squeeze around him, hold him there.

But he notices.

And grins.

“Fucking knew it,” he mutters, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “You like hearing it, don’t you?”

You suck in a sharp breath, fingers twitching on his chest. “Shut up.”

“Nah.” He tilts his head, thumbs digging into your skin, grounding, teasing. “Think I finally got you to like it.”

And fuck—fuck—you can’t even argue, because his cock twitches inside you and your whole body reacts, a shiver running up your spine.

His smirk widens. “See?”

You exhale sharply. “Rogue.”

“Phoenix.” His hands tighten again, his voice a slow, taunting drawl. “C’mon, yeah? Ride me.”

Your thighs flex as you lift yourself up, the slow drag of him leaving you just enough to make you whimper, then you sink back down, faster this time, harder.

Jungkook’s jaw goes slack, hands gripping your ass like he’s barely holding himself together. “Christ—”

But you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

You move again, rising and dropping, setting a pace that has his breath coming out in ragged exhales, his nails biting into your skin. Every inch of him stretches you open, fills you up, makes your stomach coil tighter and tighter.

And then—

His right hand moves.

Fingers slipping lower, rough against your skin, then lower, lower—

Until he’s spreading you.

His fingers part your folds, stretching you open wider just so he can watch himself disappear inside you.

“For fuck’s sake Ro—”

“Shit,” he exhales, low and wrecked, eyes locked on where his cock is sliding in and out of you, the obscene wetness coating both of you. “Look at that. Fucking dripping for me, Phoenix. Can’t help it.”

Your thighs shake, breath shuddering, and you want to tell him to shut the fuck up—but you can’t, because you may not see it, but you feel it. The way your body takes him, how slick and messy it is, how deep he’s buried every time you drop back down.

It’s filthy. He’s filthy.

“You’re so nasty,” you gasp, nails digging into his chest for balance.

He laughs, dark and smug. “And you fucking love it.”

Before you can snap back, he finally—finally—looks up at you.

And his breath stutters.

Because, of course, in this position, your tits are bouncing.

His pupils blow wide, throat working through a hard swallow, and then—his hands fly up immediately.

Grabbing. Palming. Squeezing.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice breaking apart, gaze flicking between your tits and your face like he doesn’t know where to look first. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

His grip on your waist tightens, nails digging in, and then—his head falls back. His chest rises and falls beneath your hands, breath coming in sharp, desperate pants.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he gasps, voice wrecked, low and so needy you almost mewl, because you’ve never heard him like that. “Gonna cum so fucking bad—”

Your rhythm stutters. “Don’t you dare finish before me.”

“Fucking—” He grunts, muscles tensing beneath you as his hands clamp down harder, like he’s fighting it, trying to hold on, but— “Oh my fucking god, Phoenix—”

You can feel him struggling—his thighs trembling beneath you, abs flexing tight, his cock twitching inside you, buried so deep.

“How the fffffuck—” his breath shudders, “do you expect me—Jesus Christ—to hold b-back when your tits—god—”

His hands are everywhere—palming, grabbing, fucking worshiping your chest like he’s possessed—and then his mouth is there again, latching onto your right tit, tongue flicking over your nipple, sucking deep and wet.

“Shit,” you whimper, back arching.

“Fuck—fuck—” 

He suddenly leans back, dragging you down hard onto his cock as he thrusts up to meet you, hips snapping with short, frantic rolls.

Your breath shatters, thighs burning, your whole body jolting with every desperate slam of his hips. 

And his eyes.

Jesus.

His eyes are locked on you, wide and hungry, flicking between your parted lips and your chest.

And then—

“Grab ‘em,” he pants, voice rough, ruined. “Fuck—grab those titties for me, Phee.”

Your stomach flips.

“Grab’em while you ride me—” His breath catches, his abs flexing. “Fucking—God, I need to see it—”

Heat floods your spine, your pulse pounding as you do what he says—palms sliding up, gripping the soft weight of your tits, squeezing just enough to lift, to move, to give him exactly what he wants.

And his reaction—

“Jesus fucking—” His head falls back hard against the couch before snapping back up, completely fucking wrecked. “Oh my god—look at them—look at you—fuck, fuck—”

His fingers dig into your hips, forcing you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you as he thrusts up, trying to get deeper, trying to burn this into his brain.

“Oh god, oh god, Phoenix— I swear to fucking God—” His hands slide down, gripping your ass. “Fucking dripping— so messy for me—”

His voice breaks on a groan, hips slamming up, chasing it, his body seizing up as he loses it.

“Shit—shit—I’m—oh my god—fuck—I’m cumming—”

And then—he snaps.

His grip on your waist locks, his whole body tensing beneath you, and his head tips back, mouth falling open as he moans—a deep, raw sound from the bottom of his fucking chest.

He creams inside the condom, hips jerking up in short, shallow thrusts, pulsing thick and hot as he spills into it.

His hands shake as they guide your hips down, grinding you onto him, milking every last drop, needing to feel every second of it.

And you—

You’re about to sigh, about to roll your eyes, because seriously? He just came? You haven’t even—

But before the frustration can even fully settle, he moves.

One second, he’s slumped against the couch, breathless, spent. 

The next—he’s flipping you onto your back.

Your gasp barely leaves your lips before his hands are on your thighs, gripping, spreading you open like it’s his fucking right, pushing your knees toward your chest.

And then—no hesitation.

No questions asked, no smug teasing, no half-assed effort—just his fingers shoving your panties back to the side, replacing his cock with two thick fingers, burying them inside you like he already fucking knows you can taste it.

Your breath shatters. “Jesus—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, focused, dark eyes locked on your pussy as his fingers curl, stretching you open, pressing deep. “Not leaving you hanging.”

And fuck—fuck—his thumb.

Right there, dragging over your clit, pressing just right with slow, deliberate circles.

Your thighs twitch, your hands clenching in the couch cushions as your body jolts from the sudden shock of pleasure. “Oh—fuck—”

“That’s it,” he groans, gaze flicking up to watch your face, your wrecked fucking expression as he fingers you open. “Gimme that pretty little shake—know you’re close.”

You barely process your own whimper before he’s pressing in harder, thrusting his fingers faster, his thumb working you like he owns your orgasm.

“You think I’d leave you like that?” His voice is low, hushed, wrecked, pressing filthy into the space between you. “Think I’d fucking cum and not make you lose your mind, too?”

“Ro—”

“Nah, Phoenix.” His fingers drive into you, slick and obscene, thumb relentless. “You’re gonna cum all over my hand—” he leans in, breath warm against your throat, “and I’m gonna watch every fucking second of it.”

His fingers pump into you, wet and filthy, every slick thrust echoing between you. And god, the sounds are just so fucking obscene it makes you want to die a little.

“Come on, give it to me, Phee,” Jungkook rasps.

You can barely breathe. His thumb keeps dragging over your clit in these slow, devastating circles, the pressure just right, and your whole body is trembling, your thighs twitching where he holds them open.

“Listen to that,” he groans, gaze flicking down, mesmerized. “So fucking wet for me. Making a mess all over my hand.”

And then his mouth is on you again.

He latches onto your tit, sucking deep, tongue flicking over your nipple before pulling off just to groan against your skin. 

“God, your vanilla shit Phoenix. Makes you taste so good. Could suck on these all fucking day—”

“Jungkook—”

“Yeah? You gonna cum?” 

Your back arches, hands flying to grip his arms because—fuck—fuck. The pressure is too much, his fingers so deep, his mouth so hot, and you’re right there—right fucking there—

“That’s it,” he groans, hand drenched, your walls pulsing around his fingers. “Come on, give it to me.”

And then—

It hits.

Pleasure rips through you, fast and all-consuming.

And Jungkook—fucking Jungkook—just groans, watching you fall apart.

“Mm, yeah that’s it,” he mutters, fixated on the way you shake, the way your pussy flutters around his fingers, soaking his palm. “So fucking good, huh?”

His name slips out in a wrecked, shattered moan, and he loves it, enjoying every sound, drinking in every twitch and tremble.

He finally slows his movements as you shudder through the aftershocks, his fingers still deep, thumb pressing lazy circles to wring out every last second of it.

“Shit,” he murmurs, voice a little breathless, and when you manage to blink down at him, he’s staring at his own hand—glistening, messy, coated in you.

His throat works.

And then—his eyes flick back to yours.

And he fucking grins.

Jungkook collapses on top of you.

Full weight. No warning. Just dead fucking weight pressing you into the couch, knocking the air from your lungs.

“Oh my—get off!” You yelp, struggling beneath him, but he doesn’t budge.

“Nnngghh,” he groans into your neck, voice muffled, completely ignoring you. “Shut the fuck up and let me rest for five minutes.”

You blink up at the ceiling, absolutely fucking done. “Weren’t you sleeping, like, thirty minutes ago?”

“Your point?” His breath is warm against your skin, his body solid and heavy, still way too fucking hot from everything that just happened.

“My point,” you grumble, wiggling under him, “is that you’ve done literally nothing today except nut and nap, so why are you tired?”

“Because,” he mutters, arms tightening around your waist, “I’m a growing boy.”

You snort, smacking his bare back. “You’re a menace.”

He just hums, pressing his face into your neck like he’s about to fall asleep right there, and for a second, you let it happen—just breathing, the two of you still wrecked, bodies cooling down, silence stretching.

But then—

“Oh, shit—”

Jungkook jumps, suddenly wide awake, jolting upright so fast he nearly knocks you off the couch.

You blink up at him, still catching your breath. “What the fuck is wrong with you—”

“Wait—” He leans over you, hands on either side of your head, eyes huge and excited. “Do you have any toys?”

You stare at him. “What?”

“Toys,” he repeats, fully invested now. “Sex toys, Nix. I didn’t even think about it, but—fuck—I could’ve made you finish with one.”

You blink again, brain scrambling to catch up. “No?”

His brows furrow. “Why not?”

“Why would I—” You sit up slightly, pushing at his chest. “Do I look like I came here with a full-ass sex kit?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, genuinely baffled, “don’t you girls have dildos and shit?”

“Oh my fucking—” You shove his shoulder. “Do you really think when I was packing my shit to move in, I was like, ‘mmm, yeah, definitely need to bring my dildo’?”

His eyes narrow. “So you had one?”

“No—”

“So you’ve never had one?”

“No, Ro, my parents would’ve killed me.”

He pauses, frowning like he’s actually considering that for a second. Then, with absolutely zero hesitation—

“Okay, then we’re going toy shopping.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, no, fuck that.” He waves a hand, like this is a done deal, like you don’t even get a say. “You’re getting something. I refuse to believe you’ve gone your whole life without at least a vibrator. That’s a crime.”

“A crime?”

“Yes.” His face is serious, like this is a personal offense to him. “You deserve to cum even when I’m not here.”

“I don’t need you to cum.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

“Oh my fucking—” You drop your head back against the couch, groaning. “You’re so stupid.”

“I’m being a good friend.” He grins, smug as hell. “And an amazing fuck buddy.”

“We are not friends.”

He blinks. “What?”

“We’re not friends.” You cross your arms, looking him dead in the eye. “Fuck buddies. No friends.”

Jungkook gasps, pressing a hand to his chest like you just deeply wounded him. “That hurts.”

“You’ll live.”

“Aren’t we, like, friends with benefits or something?”

“No.” You shake your head. “Fuck buddies. No friends. Just the benefits.”

“That’s the stupidest logic I’ve ever heard.”

“Coming from Mr. Stupid himself? Woah.”

“Pft. Right.” He stretches, cracking his neck, still grinning like an idiot. “Then we’re going this weekend.”

“To what?”

“Buy you a vibrator.”

“Fuck you.”

“Bet.”

You swat at him, grin still on his face and all. 

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[chillian-murphy]

Cherry Print

SUMMARY: After you move in, Neil starts noticing that everything you do is kind of sexy. He's tortured by it.

WORD COUNT: 1.3k

WARNINGS/ADDITIONAL INFO: 🔞 not quite smut but still a lot of sex talk, more humorous than sexy, Neil tries so hard to respect women but is still a horny little gremlin, Neil getting platonically bullied by his coworkers, jerking off, Neil is a perv but never crosses any real lines, he's just tortured by his own libido

Anyway, this fic is sort and maybe a little weird, it's based on a conversation @toobusyshrimping and I had a few weeks ago, my life has been really stressful lately and idk why this was the fic my brain let me write.

You were a girl. Of course, Neil knew you were a girl, but you weren’t, like, a girl. You were a girl the same way his mom was a girl or the way his friends’ wives were girls or any other sexless, non-romantically viable woman was technically a girl but somehow another species from the ones he met in bars or saw on tv. At least, that’s how he thought of you before you moved in.

You were both small business owners struggling to make ends meet after more chain businesses moved into your city’s downtown district, and you moving into Neil’s spare room seemed like a logical enough way for both of you to lower your living expenses. Living together worked really well, actually. Household chores were way easier to stay on top of when you had someone to split them with, and having another person around gave Neil some much-needed motivation to ditch some of his grosser living habits. Everything was smooth sailing, up until the day Neil noticed something in your shared laundry hamper in the bathroom.

It was a pair of your panties, in plain view. Girl panties. That touched your vagina. White boyshorts with little cherries printed on them that were in no way overtly sexual, except they flipped the switch in Neil’s mind that made him realize that you weren’t just his platonic female roommate who ate all the peanut butter without buying more, you were a girl.

Since then, it was all Neil could think about, and it was driving him insane. Everything you did was sexy and he couldn’t un-notice it. The way you never wore a bra when you were lounging around the house, even when your shirts were thin enough for him to see a hint of nipple peeking through. The way your ass stuck out whenever you bent down. The way your electric toothbrush sounded just like a vibrator. 

Most of what you did was totally innocent, like the time he walked in on you napping in a tank top and underwear, face down, sprawled out like a starfish under the bedroom ceiling fan. Sure, it was a billion degrees and that was why he went looking for you, to ask what you wanted from the teriyaki place since it was too hot to cook, but seeing you wearing so little with your legs spread… it short circuited his brain. Forget the chicken and rice combo #3, now all he wanted was to grind against the clothed cleft of your ass and shoot his load on the small of your back.

*****************************************************************

The guys at work were no help, either. All they did was turn everything he said into a way to bully him.

“So, you know the chick from the t-shirt printing place, right? We're living together, just as like, friends, but everything she does is weirdly sexy and I can't get my dick to stop noticing.” Neil lamented as he collapsed onto the shop’s couch.

"And? Go jerk off about it. No big deal." Jon shot back, not looking up from whatever 80s horror schlockfest was currently playing. 

“Jerk off about it? Oh, no shit, I'm jerking off about it. Whenever I can, which is hard to do, seeing as I have a roommate now." he gave Jon his most menacing look as he replied.

“I like her. I mean, I haven't met her, but she got you to start brushing your teeth or flossing or whatever, so whatever she's doing, I approve of it.” Lucien added, unhelpfully. "Hey, remember when we tried that street taco place and Neil had the same piece of cilantro stuck in his teeth for like 3 days? So gross.”

"My teeth aren't the issue here!" Neil crossed his arms and pouted.

“Yeah, but they should be." Jon snickered as Lucien gave him a high five.

"She walks around with no bra and wears these tight yoga pants and one time she got high and petted me like a dog for an hour.” He pouted even harder now. “I don't know why that last one turned me on, but it did." 

“Oh no, I have a hot roommate and a full head of hair, what am I gonna do??" Lucien mocked. "That's what you sound like right now. Get a grip.”

"Just not on your dick because it sounds like you're about to rip it off!” Jon just couldn't resist getting in one last jab.

“You guys are assholes." Neil was now folded in on himself as much as he could be, in a bubble of his own misery.

“What are friends, if not people you're allowed to be a dick to?" Neil couldn't tell if that last one was Jon or Lucien, but he did know that he was never, ever, talking to either of them about any of his problems ever again.

*****************************************************************

When Neil got home, he realized he was faced with his ultimate nemesis: the yoga pants. Cheap, stretchy, and at least one size too small, they showed off everything. Everything. Part of him wanted to ask you to change, but had no idea how to ask: “hey, I can see the folds of your pussy lips through those black stretchy pants you like to wear, would you mind putting something on that didn't make me think about shoving my face between your legs and motorboating you?" 

“Are you okay? You look a little red." Neil was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't realize you were talking to him until you had a hand pressed against his forehead.

"What? Yeah. I'm fine. Weird day at work is all.” He simultaneously wished that you would stop touching him and that you would touch him all over.

"Are you sure? You feel warm. Maybe you should lie down.” Yes. Lying down. With the door closed and the fan on to mask any weird noises. There it was, the perfect out. 

"Lying down sounds good, actually,” he spurted out, trying and failing not to sound too squirrelly." Maybe you could run to the store? I need soup. And tissues. And whatever else sick people need.”

“Okay, yeah, I can do that." He could tell you were getting a little suspicious, but nonetheless, you began searching for your keys. “You sure you're okay? I don't wanna leave you alone if you’re really sick." 

“Yeah, no, I think I just need some quiet time. Don't worry." Neil was rushing off to his room with zero regard for how he appeared. Hopefully you would think he just had the shits or something.

Once he was sure you were out of the house, he yanked his pants down with an eagerness that he hadn't known since high school. Now was not the time for decorum nor for digging around his nightstand for lotion, so he spat in his hand and started pumping at an unforgiving pace.

Cherry print panties. How your boobs must look when they're all wet in the shower. Tiny see-through tank tops. That time you made him cuddle you when you were having that dream about high school. Anything about you that fell short of being straight-up violating as he pounded out the guiltiest jerk session of his life.

He came in hard, short spurts, all over his hand and clothing. He was so caught up in his own pleasure and relief, he didn't hear your keys rattling around as the door unlocked.

“I'm back. I tried getting medicine but you never actually told me how you were feeling so I didn't know whether to get cold stuff or allergy stuff or stomach stuff. I have the soup and the tissues, though.”

Shit.

Good news: the deed was done. Bad news: you were back and he was covered in his own cum and had no idea how he was gonna play this one off.

"Just uhhh… leave the tissues by my door, I’ll be out in a second, thanks." 

Those tissues are gonna get a lot of use in the foreseeable future.

[lilygoofywritingcave]

Happy Valentine's Day !!!!

Oh, it seems a certain member in Slaughterhouse has sent you a letter, are you brave enough to open it?

Spoilers warning for character names

Misaki, the ever silly contract killer

"To Y/N, the chaos to my mayhem (or Whatever Romantic Crap I’m Supposed to Say),

Alright, so listen, uhh I was just planning on sending you a pic of a raccoon holding a heart and call it a day, BUT APPARENTLY that’s not “romantic” enough. Smh. So now I’m here, struggling to put actual words together instead of just sending you a keyboard smash and hoping you get the vibe.

So. Uh. Lily. You menace. Do you have ANY idea what you've done to me?? I’ll see something stupid n immediately think, “Oh, Y/N would laugh at this.” Like. That’s so weird. That’s EMBARRASSING. I save memes just to send you at 3AM, YOU are why Im having sleep deprivation (the good kind ofc). I would smile at my phone like an absolute idiot whenever your name pops up. It’s sick. You did this to me.

Also. Explain why you write me like I’m some cool badass when I’m just some gremlin with a knife and a rifle. Like. Hello??? Ma’am???? I do crimes, that's no news, but then you come along with your little fics n suddenly I feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m not just the sum of all the bad things I’ve done. I don’t know how to process that. Or you. You make my brain short-circuit without needing to doomscroll Tiktok.

ANYWAY. Point is, you’re mine now. No take-backs. Stuck with me forever, I will continue to be the most annoying gremlin in your life, sending you unhinged voice notes, and remind you every day that you matter. Because you do. A lot. (EW I HATE HOW SAPPY THAT SOUNDED MOVE ON PLS...)

...Okay, I think I’ve reached my emotional limit. I need to go set something on fire to balance this out. Or at least, like, flip a table.

Happy Valentine’s, silly.

Misaki Katsuo"

V, cold outside but cares more than you know

"To dear Y/N, Valentine’s Day seems to demand people to express affection for each other, something flowery and poetic. Although I consider traditions like that often exaggerated, but it felt unfair for you. So, I’ll keep this simple, for your sake.

You... matter to me, more than I would want to admit. You’ve become a part of my life in a way I didn’t expect, it is frankly troublesome how often my thoughts wander to you. And despite my usual preference for order, I don’t mind the chaos you bring. In fact… I think I’d miss it if it were gone.

I could compose some poetical metaphor, comparing you to the moon, the stars, or whatever romantic nonsense one is expected to write in a letter such as this, but I won’t waste your time.

Just know that if you ever need me, whether for something important or as simple as spending time together, you have only to say the word and I'll always be there.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Y/N.

"Valentin Viljoen"

Angel, sweet and dangerous like a rose

To My Love, Happy Valentine’s Day.

I know, I know, cheesy, cliché, overhyped day… but I don’t care. Today is just another excuse for me to remind you how much you mean to me, and I’ll take it.

You, you are the one thing in my life that feels real, no cameras, no flashing lights, no expectations to be perfect. Just us, and I need that more than I ever realized.

I’m not easy to love, am I? Always getting caught up in my work, in my image, in making sure everything and everyone is okay… but you? You remind me that I’m more than what people see. That I’m allowed to breathe, to be a little selfish, to take up space in someone's life without feeling guilty.

You make me feel like I’m enough. And I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that before.

So, for today, no, for always, I want you to know that I love you. In the quiet moments, in the chaos, in every way I know how. I love you when I get overwhelmed and you remind me to rest. I love you when you make me laugh so hard I forget whatever stress was eating at me. I love you when you’re just, you.

I don’t say it enough, but thank you, for seeing me, for staying, for being the best thing to ever happen to me.

Now, let’s turn off our phones, ignore the world for a while, and just be together. That’s all I really want.

Your Angel,

Maria de la Rosa

And lastly, the devil himself, Ronin

to my dearest darlin’ Y/N,

there’s always a certain rhythm to a heartbeat. steady, but unique for everyone. funny little thing, really. you press your fingers just right, and there it is: life, thumpin’ away under the fragile skin. but oh, how delicate it is. how easy it Is to destroy

. tell me darlin', have you ever wonder, what it takes to keep that aorta singin’? how much someone’s got Left in ‘em before rotting away? or how love can sink its teeth in deep, turning even the purest souls dark, twisting the light ‘til it don’t shine the same no more?

ironic, ain't it? how even the worst of ‘em, either gutted or broken, still has a heart. just like yours, still beating, lively as ever, a reminder that you’re here and you’re real. that you’re eVerythin’, my everything.

and isn't that a beautiful thing? to havE you readin’ this, seeing the devil puttin' his feelings into words. there ain't no poetrY sweet enough, no god powerful enough to take it away.

Over and over, i think about you, about the way you laugh, the way you exist. about how this world feels a little less, rotten with you in it. Understand this, darlin', you got me by your side. for as long as that pretty little heart of yours beats, you and i will face whatever this shitty world throws at us, together.

Don't ever forget that. And don’t think for a second i’d ever let you go. Remember this and Listen close. It's always been you and you only. Nothing will ever change that.

happy valentine’s, darlin’.

—r. beaufort

(P/S: you know how i play, let's get that pretty brain to work)

[cupcakeshakesnake]

HELLO UM-

Your little Harbour PotC AU gives me absolute life, just for the record. Even tho i am very very late, thank you for making it :D

There is a headcanon I got that wouldn't leave my brain after looking at your art, originating from that one conversation between Beckett and Jack where there were some implications about canon being everyone’s previous lives. Whether this is actually a part of your au or not, it got me thinking eheheh

Theoretically, (perhaps in an au of an au, if this headcanon contradicts your lore,) what if your au and canon were the same 'verse, just several hundred years later? And what if not everybody were on their second life?

We obviously have a sprinkling of supernatural stuff, so what if the secretly-a-goddess Calypso and immortally-cursed Davy Jones were the OGs that they were in the films? Like, Davy Jones maybe came back somehow (as per movie 5's end-credit scene lol) and took back the role of the Dutchman's Captian after Will went back to Shipwreck Cove. All is good.

He learned his lesson now and actually does his job of ferrying souls. As times changed, so did his ship, in some magical way. She's no longer a sailing ship, and he'll always miss that, but he doesn't mind all that much. His crew usually only stay for that 100 yr contract, so he's seen plenty of sailors come and go. Eventually, he even hires living mortals. Less people die at sea, so by the 20th century, Jones takes a mortal job as a fisherman (or whatever his job is in your au) as well.

Whether or not he knows about the whole reincarnation thing doesn't really matter; the day he employs a familiar man by the name of Bill Turner, he chalks it up to coincidence. Even if Bill has a son named William, well- it's been 200 years, perhaps it's just a really really big coincidence. Either way, it doesn't matter to him.

It's not until he's docked in a small, out-of-the-way harbour, and three troublemaking kids sneak onto the Dutchman that he finally realises. Bill's boy, on his own, is just a matter of coincidence. Those three, together? It's unmistakable. And as bothersome those three pirates were, so long ago, I'd like to think that he looks back on that age, on those people, with some kind of fondness.

(Until he discovers they can be the most INFURIATING little gremlins he's ever met in all his centuries. But he'll find that out later.)

Anyway I drew it :D Have my humble, scribbly offerings.

(I feel bad about running away with this, even as just a headcanon-of-an-au, please don't take this as a 'you should do this' lmao, it's just me adoring all of your content it makes my brain go brrr you are amazing thankyou!!!)

This is so lovely 😭😭😭

The idea of Calypso and Jones being the same ones from canon but just... having had a lot of time to chill down and have a second chance is so??? Imagine what Jones must be thinking looking at those kids... this is so bittersweet (but mostly sweet)

I'm sorry it took so long to respond, I wanted to write a proper reply expressing just how much I love this but couldn't get around to it. Hope you don't mind me posting this publicly; I need everyone else to see this as well.

[salternateunreality2]

Was writing something when another thought entirely entered the brain gremlin space. Decided to share and see your take~

Whether it's AGSZC or Strifesodos or some other pairing, Genesis with a Cloud that, for all his immense competency, still has a terrible sense of self worth and is quite shy and soft spoken. His hidden sassy side is very much still hidden. Whether he got into Soldier first try and he didn't meet Zack yet or Nibelheim was worse than canon, whatever reason... Cloud, shy af, not understanding or accepting his potential and amazingness, shocked Genesis could be into him, probably wonders if it's a prank at first... etc.

❤︎

(@violetinkclouds)

Thanks for the ask! ❤️

I'm gonna go with crisis core era, aged up Cloud trying out for SOLDIER.

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

Genesis sees him first on the battlefield, the only cadet in the entire company who kept up with him magically in defeating the behemoth. He intends to go over and speak with him, but gets called away and misses the other cadets shoving Cloud around and calling him a show-off.

Genesis keeps an eye out for the small cadet, always hoping to be assigned on a mission together or catch a glimpse in the hallways. He doesn't know his name (it was a large-scale mission, so he can't look him up) or what he looks like beyond "small", because of the helmets.

He sees him next in a training exercise he is overseeing, and knows him immediately by his magic proficiency. This time he is not called away and sees the jabs, shoves, and jeering. He calls it out immediately as "rowdiness" so as not to draw too much attention to the little bird, and moves the class along.

Later, he asks the head of the unit about the short blond with magic skills and hears "Strife? Tch, troublemaker. Thinks he's too good for everyone else, always getting into fights." Genesis reads between the lines: socially distant, picked on. Neanderthals.

The next time he sees Strife, he's lying on the ground at what should be a guard post. Genesis is about to tear the cadet a new one when he realizes the young man is (a) Strife, (b) unconscious, and (c) beat up. He calls it in immediately as a security issue, but takes charge of Strife himself, propping him up and healing him personally after cataloging his injuries on his phone. Genesis notices he is hurt all over, and though his knuckles are bruised (brave boy), he seems to have lost harshly. Against several opponents. And most of the wounds are fresher than the head wound.

Genesis does not take this lightly. He immediately calls the Turks to pull the footage before it can be wiped and plans to rain hell on whoever did this. Strife is healed enough to be moved, and he hears a pair of troopers close by coming to relieve the post, so he picks Strife up and carries him to the SOLDIER clinic inside.

Strife is heavier than he expected, and lighter than he should be. The young man is packed with muscle, but all lean and hungry looking (he finds out later that Cloud's food is often stolen or tampered with).

----------

Cloud wakes up to find Commander Rhapsodos arguing with someone on the phone by his bedside. His bedside? Oh, he's in the clinic. Wait, this isn't the normal clinic, this is SOLDIER... Cloud knows he's in the wrong place, and hastens to get up and leave, before a warm hand is laid on his shoulder.

"Do not attempt to rise, Strife," Rhapsodos says and Cloud shrinks back immediately. "No, Reynolds, that was not for you. What is for you is my boot if you do not get me those records immediately."

Cloud cowers, ashamed and guilty for bothering him, and looks around the room to distract himself as the angry call continues. Everything is bigger here, and there is a window. He's hooked up to an IV, and his cracked helmet is sitting on a counter close by. Oh, right. He'll have to pay for that, dammit.

"Strife."

Oh shit, the Commander is talking.

"Sir?" Cloud asks.

"You are safe here," says Rhapsodos, and Cloud believes him. "Are you well enough to give an account of what happened? I have the video tape, so I only need your testimony as a bonus, but I would like both the honest truth about tonight and your ongoing issues at the company. The sources I gathered present a fairly suspect story."

"I'm sorry sir, it's my fault. I didn't mean to-"

"Strife, I believe you misunderstand. I want the truth. You are safe. I do not believe the exaggerated reports; they are inconsistent and absurd in their contents, and completely inaccurate according to my own observations. Be honest. You may speak."

Shocked, Cloud obeys. He repeats every injustice he remembers, up to and including the attack by his own fellows this evening. Rhapsodos takes him seriously, only pausing to ask clarifying questions or encourage him to continue.

By the end, tears are escaping and Cloud is pink from embarrassment and shame. He is so weak. So stupid. He can't run as fast as the others, they all hate him and he can't figure out how to fit in, he's crying in front of a First Class SOLDIER, he'll be kicked out and never reach his dream, he's too short, he has to pay for that stupid helmet and can't send money to Ma for the next three months to make up for it.

"Shh, friend, hush," says Genesis, clasping his hand warmly. "You will not pay for the helmet, you will not be returning to that unit either. When you are well, you will try out for SOLDIER and succeed. I will see to it. Hush now, you have been wounded and persecuted, tears are nothing to be ashamed of, especially not here, in safety."

--------

Genesis is right. Cloud tries and succeeds. The only reasons he had not already passed the trials were due to mako sensitivity and height and weight requirements. Genesis scoffs and asks Science if they really could not adjust a treatment schedule. They grumble, but get to work.

Genesis takes Cloud under his wing. He is demanding in training, but gentle with his student and attentive to his limits.

One day, Genesis makes an announcement.

"Cloud Strife," he says. "I wish to transfer your mentorship."

"Oh," says Cloud. "Sorry sir, thanks for your help."

"What? Cloud, I wish to transfer you to Angeal or Sephiroth. This is not a demotion, rather, I wish for you to round out your skills."

"Oh..."

"I confess I also have an ulterior motive, but first, are you comfortable with the change? I do not want to push you into something you do not want. And before you say you are not good enough, reflect on whose teaching you would be insulting." Genesis raises an eyebrow and Cloud gulps.

"I do, it would be really cool, it's just...I like your training," says Cloud.

"Then we may continue alongside your new mentorship. But I would like to ask you another question, and make a confession: one of the reasons I suggested a transfer is because I would like to ask you on a date. You may of course reject the offer; I have already put in the transfer paperwork and Angeal and Sephiroth are actively fighting over you, and you have no obligation to say yes. It will not affect our professional relationship whatsoever."

"Wh-what?"

"I want to date you, Cloud. I think you are amazing."

"Are you sure? I'm just...me, just a country boy, you could have anyone, I-"

"I want you, Cloud Strife," says Genesis, placing a finger under Cloud's chin to raise it from where he had been looking at the floor. He looks into Cloud's eyes. "You. Brave, strong, unstoppable, kind, glorious you."

Cloud turns red. Completely red.

"Am I dreaming?"

"No."

"Y-yes?" says Cloud. "I mean, I want- I like- you're so hot- I like you too!"

Genesis smiles broadly.

"Then it is settled. Shall we go now?"

"I think I'm gonna pass ouuu-"

Cloud passes out and Genesis' suave demeanor disappears as he hastens to catch him and check his pulse. Whew, safe. Oh, little bird.

---------

This one got away from me lol. Thanks for reading all that! ❤️

[shiftylinguini]

Fuck I Can't Write Crisis Pack:

@phoebe-delia asked in response to this fun lil ask game:

Do you have any advice for getting out of a slump/getting writing confidence back? . (for the ask anything) Do you have any advice for getting out of a slump/getting writing confidence back?

Now THIS. This is a good question, and something that is very much on my mind and has been for a while, as I am currently absolutely in the midst of this and trying to army crawl my way out. I don't have any magic bullets (is that the saying? idk) but I have been here before and i do have a small arsenal of tips or methods that I find can help me. 

Here is my Fuck I Can't Write Crisis Pack (In no particular order):

Write anything 

This is hardly groundbreaking advice, and it's also the hardest thing to actually do (imo) so do not beat yourself up if it takes a while to get to this. Basically, write ANYTHING―it can be aimless, it can be pointless, it can be crap (crap is subjective!! don't let the brain gremlins win!!). 

Don't think about posting it, don't worry about anyone else ever reading it, just fling a few words onto a page and feel the rusty faucet turn on, proving to yourself that it still works. 

Try and sus out what it is that's blocking you 

Again this one is hard and annoying but functional. Once you can put your finger on the particular reason you're staring at a flashing black line on a blank page it can help you kick that reason off your lawn and into the bin. 

And then, take it out of the bin and be kind to yourself about whatever that reason is. Maybe you feel shit because you're comparing yourself to others, your last fic felt like a lead balloon, you can't muster enthusiasm for what you once loved doing and fear that it's gone forever, you're projecting in a Tumblr post―whatever it is, it's something all the writers you admire and aspire to be like have felt, and been annoyed with themselves for, and so you can wrap it up in a blanket and put it on a shelf and be kind to it so it, (respectfully) shuts the fuck up. 

(and remember, everyone feels insecure about their stuff. Like literally everyone, at some stage, feels like their stuff is rubbish)

Cheat on your OTP 

Okay this one might not work for everyone, but it really does for me lol. Ruts (not the sexy kind) can often come with not wanting to engage in my usual ships, being annoyed by my lack of ability to fucking write them/anything/all my ideas taste like cardboard/bleh, and stepping out on them and reading something new can snap me out of it. Just, an injection of new ideas or scenarios or words or even just a little reprieve from being fed up with myself, which ideally, is why we're all here anyway. 

(And then I come crawling back, and am welcomed with open arms haha)

In a similar vein:

Engage in media 

This subtitle is genuinely terrible, i am sorry, LMAO, but essentially: find a piece of media that makes you go "oh, helLO sailor", unhinge your jaw like a snake, and consume it whole. 

Let it nourish you, inspire you, excite you, making you feel SOMETHING, and then take that and think "fuck, what if i wrote bleepbloopblarp" and even if you write nary a single word, you've thought about it and that fucking counts. 

It might be an album, a book, a song, a show, gifs of a hot person, the wikipedia summary of a movie, literally anything counts here if it makes you feel a twinge of creativity. 

Ask yourself, what would Astolat do? 

No for real. @candybarrnerd and I genuinely use this haha.  

Worried your idea is stupid? Astolat would say write it. 

Worried it's too weird? Nah, just write it. 

It's dumb and no one will read it? Just write it for you *waggles eyebrows* (and then find out that yeah, nah, someone else will absolutely read this and be real fucking happy about it haha.)

Worried you're a one trick pony and have already written this fic before, like, and not even once before, and also you're projecting again in Tumblr post? WRITE IT AGAIN! As Astolat once said, "it's a fic so nice, I wrote it thrice". 

It's good advice. 

Make a friend or lean hard on the ones you have here

Misery loves company because it knows they'll come out of this together :). I know, I know, that's fucking NAFF, but fandom is all about finding like-minded freaks and blowing up their DMs because you saw a gif and now feel a kind of ways about it. 

And lastly: 

FUCK STATS! 

I mean I love stats (yay validation!), but god can they make you feel like a worthless shit (hey where did my validation go :((( ). It can be really insidious, so piss that right off when it starts to fuck with your confidence or outlook on your own writing.

Hopefully there is something useful here, even if it's just looking at this advice and thinking "no that's shit, it's writing POISON" cos then you can maybe do the version you think is NOT shit, and that might work. 

Good luck, fellow travelers!!

[stuffnthangsss]

I wonder why there’s not many deaged aus in the GF fandom? Especially, baby! dipper & mabel. I feel like that was a big part of fandom back when GF was airing lol. Maybe it was just the marvel fandom?

This made me start to write a Drabble about the mystery twins one day randomly turning into ~toddlers for some supernatural reason or another. And Stan and Ford have to deal with their niece and nephew being way younger than they’re used to lol while trying to find a solution to get them back to being 13. Maybe I’ll do some art of this too 👐.

Stan’s reaction when heading into the mystery shack and seeing two babies who look way too much like the kids…: “Oh no”

I have a headcanon that dipper was a particularly clingy baby. And that Mabel was a bundle of never ending energy hahah.

This also leads to dipper being wary of ford (bc he knew stan for longer and he’s thinking like a much smaller child now) at first unlike Mabel who’s one of those babies who’s ok w everybody. This hurts ford’s feelings :( at first!! But then it gets better

Stan is very confused why his twin bro’s mini nerd isn’t immediately attached to him and Ford rationalizes this and comes to the conclusion that the twins’ brains must be operating at the level of 3-4 yrs olds so all their memory is not there which then leads ford to be like “oh..”

But sadness aside!!:

“FORD, this one’s attached himself to me like those dang ginormous barnacles we found in the Red Sea”

“It was the Arctic Sea, Stanley.”

“STANFORD PINES I SWEAR TO MOSES.”

“Holy moly how did their parents manage to keep Mabel from killing herself, why this kid wants to eat plastic is lost on me.”

“Dip, buddy I gotta put ya down, my old man back is not liking this standing business”

*baby dipper pouting and suddenly having watery eyes*

“Oh Jesus.”

“Seriously, Ford are we sure the pines aren’t descended from a line of strong beasts or sum. These gremlins have crazy grip”

The twins trying to talk:

M: “Gwunka!!”

S: “What’s that, pumpkin?”

D: “‘Tan, ‘tan!!”

S: “Dipper, kid it’s Stan, stuh-an”

“‘Tan!” He replied with a self satisfied expression

“Jesus kid you were always stubborn huh” Stan raised his eyebrow slightly and let out a huff, smiling as he said so

“Gwunka ‘Tan!” Mabel followed her brother

Some random dialogue:

“Jeez, Sixer looks like we’re down 2 people to do our bidding.”

“Stanley.”

“sTanLeY. Seriously do you hear yourself?”

Ford huffed and shook his head explaining how to reverse the spell or whatever

Soos upon seeing the situation:

“Uh dudes, do Mabel and Dipper look a little different to you guys?”

Cue to stan and ford looking at soos with twin “srsly?” faces

Some fluff with Stan seeing the twins struggling in their sleep from nightmares:

“Are there brains even developed enough to have bad dreams??”

“Well I’ve read that-“

“Rhetorical question, Sixer”

[1oddboi1]

I made a character :D

It's a sona for the Divine Mortals AU. I'm not a bishop or anything, I'm just here. I'm a funky little duder ·:3

This was one of my first ventures into the realm of character design, I'm pretty happy with it

I'll just explain it under a cut, Imma yap for a bit

The animal I picked was the blue RED sea dragon, or glaucus atlanticus as I first heard of it

Cool guy ^

These puppies are pretty cool if I do say so myself. They're a type of sea slug (already a good start) and can EAT the nematocysts (stinging cells) from stuff like jellyfish and use it as their own through their cool little finger things... I can eat poisonous and/or venomous stuff to GROW STRONGER!!

The eyes were the one thing I knew I wanted from the get go. If you couldn't tell from my pfp, I like biblically accurate angels, they're cool. Also I made a joke that I had a bunch of eyes and decided it was canon lmao. I tried not to go overboard with it, there's only the eight you can see here, and decided not to put eyes all over the body. There's only eyes in places that would benefit an animal, front, back, and the tail to make up for the blind spots

The spiky things on the head are cerata! The little wiggly finger things in the pic. I can use them to show emotions, up for happy, down for unhappy, wiggly for various things

Oh! And the red mask shape is a reference to my discord pfp AND my old "brand". I mean, I still use it so maybe it's not old but whatever

I'll just list off some other stuff: Young adult, quite tall despite little guy energy (6'5). ABSOLUTELY a little gremlin, I'm in chaos cult after all. Scatter brained af, can't keep a train of thought. Basically, he is me, I am him, we are one

Uuuuh... Lore wise I don't have much. Only concrete thing is that one day I just said "forget this" and clawed my way out of the ocean evolution style. Maybe I'll draw that

Anyway, that's it. Idk how often I'll post him or how long it'll be before then. I still got a bunch of Brear stuff to draw... And write... I'm gonna finish that story if it's the last thing I do!!

[whispersleo]

🍓for the writes asks!

thanks for asking! <333 (..◜ᴗ◝..)

🍓⇢ how did you get into writing fanfiction? 

OH BOY, BUCKLE UP FOR THIS TRAINWRECK OF A BACKSTORY

So yeah, this is peak embarrassing cringe material, but whatever—I’ve been a book gremlin since day one. Never had friends (shocking, I know), so instead of, like, socializing like a normal kid, I was that weirdo buried in library shelves like some feral little goblin. Thanks, Mom, for teaching me to read at age negative three—really set me up for a normal childhood.

Then, at the ripe old age of nine, my autistic little brain went: "WRITE." And ohhh boy, did I write. Superheroes? Hyperfixation engaged. My "magnum opuses" (read: absolute garbage) were handwritten like some 19th-century Dickens wannabe until I got my first goddamn phone and discovered WATTPAD. LMAO. THE GATES OF HELL OPENED.

Cue age 11: Percy Jackson entered my life and BAM—MEGA HYPERFIXATION ACTIVATED. Started devouring fanfics like my life depended on it, then went "fuck it, I can do this too" and dove headfirst into writing Percico (Percy/Nico, because obviously). Somehow, people liked it?? So I rolled with it, infiltrating writer groups full of adults while my prepubescent ass stayed stealth mode. No, I wasn’t good, but I could fake being a functional human well enough to not get yeeted out.

BEST TIME OF MY LIFE—except for the casual horror of "why the FUCK was I, a 12-year-old, trauma-bonding with suicidal 20-somethings in DMs???" 💀💀💀 ANYWAY, I churned out over 200 PJ/HOO fics like a deranged fanfic factory before I finally nuked my Wattpad account in a fit of "I must erase my sins."

[vandme12]

Oh My Dear Vandme, I'm so sorry that you're getting mean/Rude comments recently, Minor can totally write for WHATEVER and HOWEVER they want! Gatekeeping isn't allowed in any spaces of fandoms especially the creative side of it- and nobody gets to dictate what you do with YOUR own account and what you reblog. If it wasn't for Minors writing for fandom spaces, fanfics nor fandoms would never exist- as some of the most popular fanfics of all time that I know of, were written by minors at the time.

In regards for request times, Take however long you need! you are putting your time and effort into a creative process, and as with anything, things take time- especially when it's a craft such as writing. Whoever has issues with that can Back right up out of your inbox. If they're so impatient to harass you about taking to long via asks, They can make their own writing for it then.

And for NSFW Asks, I'm so, so so sorry that you keep getting them. To the People Asking these prompts, The person running this blog have stated time and time again- that they DO NOT DO NSFW REQUESTS PLEASE, DO NOT ASK THEM FOR THIS. If ya'll could, Go ask another blog that actually covers nsfw subject matters if you are that thirsty for content- Such as Spiderlilywritings or Puzzledprose for example.

Your writing is absolutely out of this world for Killer Chat, you are legit one of my favorite writers out in the fandom- and I only just recently got hooked onto the fandom as a whole because of how great your writing is. I wish that I could put into words how much I adore your every last bit of your works- You understand Ronin's character so well, it's phenomenal to see when nailed right- and you hit the mark time and time again. Always- your fics really brighten up my day whenever I see them. Thank you for doing your absolute best when writing.

I Hope this Brightens you up at least a little bit, and if doesn't then I hope your week gets better.

With all my love, 🔍-Anon

OMG STOPPPP 😭😭 You’re actually gonna make me CRY—like, ugly sobbing, full-on breakdown, the whole thing. I don’t even know where to START because this?? This is the nicest thing EVER and I’m literally gonna frame it and hang it on my wall, I swear.

First of all, THANK YOU for understanding and sticking up for me—fr, people can be so weird about what others write like?? It’s not that deep, it’s just fanfic, and if they don’t like it, they can scroll and mind their business 💅. You’re so real for pointing out that minors built fandom culture, because like… where would ANY of this even be without us?? No one’s gonna stop me from writing what I want, when I want—best believe I’m here to stay 😌. And you’re SO right about the requests—like, do people think words magically appear or something?? This brain needs time to marinate, babes 💭✨. If they’re that impatient, they can write their own and see how easy it is (spoiler: it’s NOT 💀).

AND OMG, THE NSFW ASKS?? PLEASEEE, it’s like people lose basic reading comprehension when it comes to that 😭😭. I’ve said it a million times—I don’t do that—and yet, here we are. I’m just tryna write my murder boy shenanigans in peace, why is that so hard for people to get?? Like you said, there are PLENTY of other blogs that do that stuff.

Also, CAN WE TALK ABOUT HOW SWEET YOU ARE?? You saying my writing is what got you into the fandom?? HELLO?? I’m gonna be thinking about that forever, no joke. The fact that you love how I write Ronin makes me so happy bc he’s my feral little murder gremlin and I put SO much effort into making him unhinged but still human and complicated—so hearing that means EVERYTHING to me 💖. Like, I cannot explain how much your words mean—you’ve officially locked in a forever spot in my heart, congrats 😭💞.

For real, thank you SO MUCH for taking the time to send this—it made my entire week, no question. I promise I’ll keep writing and being my chaotic little self no matter what people say. You’re a literal angel, and I’m sending you all the love and virtual hugs in the world. Hope your week is absolutely AMAZING because you deserve it and more!! 💫🖤

With all my love (and maybe some happy tears), Me 😌💖

[agirlandherquill]

through the puddles of ink

since it's a new academic year, a new chapter of my life and i thought, since i've been on tumblr for around eight months now that it's about time i properly introduced myself - this would shock the person i was when i first started this blog, but as it's grown so have i, and i think university has indefinitely helped my confidence - so, without further ado, here goes i'll start this properly by explaining the title of this post - through the puddle of ink

ink is important because obviously it is the basis of literature, the foundation of stories and fitting to my blog name, you dip the quill in the ink to write, to forge an adventure that tests the imagination and takes a reader to wonderful places and puddles because let's face it, ink is messy, ink is chaotic, just like me, my characters, and my writing and because through the looking glass is a very iconic title i also watched that movie in the cinema years ago, i took inspiration, and here we are now - this post is a reflection of me, the beautiful nightmares and writing gremlins that co-exist within my brain and a way for me to get to better know my mutuals, anyone and everybody on writeblr!

here comes the scary part - only for me, and my semi-awkward self - introducing myself, i've never been very good at this stuff so bear with me - and have mercy on my nervous soul,

for the longest time i've loved the sort of self-imposed anonymity of this blog, and don't get me wrong i still do adore my blog name but I thought it was about time I properly introduced myself, so, let me just shuffle some papers in the library of my mind, find the right phrasing for this and... (cue angry hitting of the keyboard) hello! my name is Erin and i'm a writer, a lover of chaos, and a semi-functioning tempest somehow existing within society - i love and ramble about lots of different things - books, shows, songs, you name it, i can waffle and sometimes i can waffle well (that is how i am now going to describe my writing, because it feels like it fits so well)

phew, i got that out, that tiny paragraph was a lot of effort (and i've beaten writers block more often than i can count)

this little post might not seem like much, but to me it's a lot, and i'm happy to have made it this far, and i'm so looking forward to continuing to grow alongside this blog and writeblr (i love you all, no seriously)

and now onto some very much needed rambling about my works, because there's a lot the lovely folk of writeblr are yet to know (and it will come, in time, but here's what i can say for now)

Ruin's Reprisal - we all know the tale of this, my oldest, most functioning (cough, using that term loosely) work - well, where to start? well, i'm on the final stage of proofreading, and once that's all done i'm hoping (let's be honest, dreaming,) to have the final draft complete and out in the great wide world come christmas/new year (that is a courageous goal, even for me, but who knows, maybe i can pull it off, just maybe)

A Deal Of Daggers - it's almost time for nanowrimo, which marks two years since the idea for this first came to me, and i cannot wait to spend autumn working on it (not that i am participating in nano properly this year, what with student-life obligations, but i'm going to write what i can) and i've been steadily chipping away with a few chapters already

those are my two main works, and probably the only works i've been focusing on over the last couple of months - and i've fallen completely and wholeheartedly in love with them all over again, as i do, every single time i open the files on scrivener

as far as my tired but over-eager to write brain can think this should be it for everything i wanted to include in this post until the next post (which won't be long, i can guarantee it),

~ Erin, A Girl and Her Quill, or whatever this hellscape would like to call me :)

~ ~ ~

now for the tag list! (i forgot to add it when i posted, oops!)

(p.s if you'd like to be included/notified too, interact with this post :))

@humbly-a-doppelganger @imawholeassmood @frostedlemonwriter @yrndrgn @abditorywriting

@riveriafalll @lead-to-code @casualsuitturtle @floweryprosegarden @joeys-piano

@catwingsathena @godsmostfuckedupgoblin @nothoughtsjustmhaandotherthings @anaisbebe

@drchenquill @leahnardo-da-veggie @tiredpapergirl @pastelpinkhobbies

[chickenkupo]

Just My Luck

Just My Luck

Summary: The lands are ruled by ruthless gods of various levels of power. Humanity is only a means to an end for their endless desires, if they happen to gain their attention. Many lay low, do what they can to appease the gods and try to live their lives out, as best they can, given the circumstances. Wriothesley is one such mortal. Having committed a great crime as a young boy, he’s constantly fleeing from his past. Little did he know; however, his constant misfortunes lead to his destiny, and it is most certainly not what he was expecting.

Recommendations: None, this is a purely AU work, so you’re good to go, reader.

Warnings: 18+ content, ya’ll. We’re going to get a little spicy here. Not my usual sort of Wriolette content. Neuv is going to be a little dark and demanding in this one, so if that sort of content (I’d guess you’d say it’s very close to yandere), then this isn’t for you. Religious hints/themes are also present in this. Consent really doesn’t exist here. I have been thinking of this sort of god x human trope for a while now, and I just needed to get it out of my brain. So, I guess this is a little self-indulgent work that I hope others out there will appreciate as well? Also, it’s putting me in a mental headspace to make a little follow-up chapter to Coming Home, since it’s looking like ya’ll are wanting that, hehe.

Also, one more warning. This is me trying to write a SHORT story and not have this as a full-blown novel. However, if this does receive a lot of love, I will 100% rewrite this to be a multi-chaptered work. This is me practicing self-restraint and tldr make a short story, you freaking gremlin sorta thing. OH, also, this isn’t beta-read, but will 100% be if this makes it to being AO3-post worthy.

AN: I AM TOO LAZY TO UPDATE MY WARNINGS BUT I MESSED UP AND THIS IS SO LONG BUT ENJOY IT AND IF YOU WANT AN EVEN LONGER VERSION WITH MORE LORE AND ACTION LET ME KNOW IN THE COMMENTS PLZ AND I WILL POST ON AO3 I FAILED KEEPING THIS SHORT, I AM SOOOORRRY

Wriothesley grunted as he was pushed forward, his hands bound behind his back by a golden metallic rope that refused to give way, even in the slightest. The guards that stood beside him ensured that he continued walking down the extravagantly decorated hallway, figures lining each side wearing various elegant dresses and suits, some even in intricately designed armor that mortals were rarely blessed to see. They all watched as the bound man was ushered onward to a large set of doors, decorated with a carved design of a long, serpent-like dragon encompassing the entire outer border of both doors, as if it were protecting what was beyond them. Wriothesley tried to slow his pace, flexing his well-defined muscles, doing whatever he could to try to break the bonds that held him in place, but nothing worked. The guards beside him only stared at his pathetic attempts at breaking free, a few patrons from the sidelines murmuring to themselves, commenting on how he should give up and how silly mortals were, thinking that they could defy even the smallest demands of the gods.

He always found himself in the most unfortunate circumstances, but this was the worst fate that could have befallen a human. Most of his kind kept their heads bowed, living silent lives and avoiding the powerful gazes of the deities that ruled their lands. For mere mortals, the prime level of life that they could wish to live was providing high level sacrifices to appease their rulers, hoping that they would be blessed in return or even ignored, in hopes of being allowed to live their lives to the best of their abilities. If they failed to uphold to this standard and a god felt slighted, even in the smallest of ways, then they were bound to become cursed, and experience the worst luck imaginable, having them wishing for a swift death. No, the gods loved toying with their victims, extending their punishment for as long as possible, feeding upon their misfortune, until their victims took their very last breaths. It was a miserable existence, but as long as you dedicated yourself to providing sacrifices that satisfied their desires and obeying whatever they commanded, then you could potentially avoid their gazes and wraths.

However, Wriothesley didn’t feel as though that was an existence worth living. He was a man that was shaped by misfortune, and rarely feared it. Having been orphaned at a young age and shoved from one foster family to another, he knew exactly what misfortune was, without the direct punishment of the gods. Each family he was tossed to was worst than the last. From having one family relying on him to provide them with everything and having worked to the point of exhaustion to keep food on the table, only to endure harsh beatings regardless of the outcome every night, to being sent off to fighting rings to win boxing matches against young men his age and older, he had seen it all. He eventually had enough and turned on his last foster family, killing his adoptive parents in the middle of the night, fleeing the area and taking the other children that happened to have the same misfortune as him to wherever he was going to go. They did find refuge in small, abandoned buildings, and for once his luck did strike true as he was able to find families that would take his adoptive brothers and sisters in, and not expose them to the same fates that they had before. No, these people took true pity on them, bringing them in and giving them a proper home and a good foundation for raising them. The same families always offered Wriothesley the same conditions, but he would always deny them, saying that he was far too damaged and messed up to be worth anything, too far gone for any sort of redemption or happy ending. Before they could even try to convince him otherwise, he had already taken his leave and was moving onto his next venture.

The young boy grew into a young man, roaming from city and city, finding places to work manual labor that would provide him with just enough funds to survive off of. Whenever a place offered him a permanent position or abode, he would thank them, and then immediately leave, onto the next city, town or village. He didn’t know why, but there was a part of his soul that felt like he was always in constant danger, and needed to run from prying eyes, even if he had no enemies. Though he had murdered his foster parents in cold blood as a boy, there were no further investigations into this, almost as if the crime had never happened. He wished so desperately that this was the truth of the matter, but his suspicions never seemed to completely wane. Someone had to have known, whether it be a mortal or a god. He knew that he was going to have to face the consequences of his actions, however justified that they were. So, he vowed that he would continue moving onward, never stopping, always running.

So, that’s exactly what he did. He never stayed long enough for any human or deity to know him well, and he wanted to keep it that way. Discretion was key, and to be honest with himself, this type of living excited him and kept him feeling alive. For once, he thought that he had finally hit it lucky, this was the lifestyle meant for him and he was going to live it to the fullest. Though his suspicions and underlying fear ruled him deep down, there was an odd sense of freedom that he felt being out on his own like this, and he never wanted to lose this. For once in his life, he felt lucky to be in the position that he was in. He was afraid to feel happy, but he couldn’t help himself. His adoptive brothers and sisters were on their way to a better future, and maybe one day, so would he.

Well, as quick as luck had visited him, it was just as fast to leave. The young man was continuing his work assisting a local general store with helping them bring in heavy goods, a horribly weighted sack placed on his shoulder as he was able to transport it inside of the store before multiple guards, lesser deities by the look of them, all approached him at once. Wriothesley immediately dropped the sack and tried to take off, not even taking the time to question their motives, but he was easily detained. One deity grabbed him by the shoulder and twisting it, pushing him against the wall as another guard brought out a metallic, golden rope, that automatically tied his wrists together behind him. Wriothesley growled as he tried to resist, now finding the time to begin spouting questions as he realized the situation that he was currently in.

“The hell did I even do?! I just got here and haven’t broken any laws, let me go!”

“That’s not up for discussion. You’re to come with us, no questions asked. Any hesitation, and we’ll hunt down your adoptive family and have them suffer for the rest of their days.” one of the growls out, tightening the rope around his wrists ever so slightly, for emphasis. Immediately, Wriothesley shut his mouth and said no word and offered no resistance. So, his suspicions were correct, someone had been keeping tabs on his whereabouts and knew about his past, but what god or mortal alike would hold any sort of interest in him? Sure, he was handsome and had both women and men swooning for him, but that never held any sort of value to him. He also didn’t have any sort of money in savings to his name, using whatever little he earned from odd jobs to be able to afford housing and small, pitiful meals and other necessities.

His heart felt like it skipped a beat, as he immediately reminded himself about his biggest fear. Was this finally the retribution that he would be facing for his previous sins? Did the families of his abusive foster parents that he murdered finally send out their agents to find him, and a god had felt it was their time to shine to torture a mortal? There was no escaping it, even if it was the case. Wriothesley then opted to keep his mouth shut, hoping he was overthinking the situation. But, what else could this possibly be over, then? He needed answers, but he wasn’t about to try to fight against them for it.

Reluctantly, Wriothesley complied with their demands, and was ushered into a rather delicately designed carriage, one that clearly belonged to a higher-powered god, but which, he had no idea. The guards also remained silent on the manner, merely ushering him in and taking an odd interest in keeping him safe and comfortable, but still under their ever-watchful gazes. They continued onward with their journey, and eventually reached to where they were now, standing in front of those formidable doors, gods of various levels of power and renown surrounding them all, but their focus all centered on him and him alone. Wriothesley’s heart was racing in anticipation, knowing that he had no choice but to face whatever was beyond those doors, even if it ended up killing him, or worse.

A low, guttural growl was heard, seemingly originating from past the closed entryway in front of them, which had Wriothesley’s eyes widening in shock. Never in his life had he heard such a noise, no other god he had known or met personally held the sort of power that was radiating from such a sound. The others that were previously surrounding him were now shuffling away in fear, some were even shaking, staring straight ahead. A thought suddenly ran through Wriothesley’s head, he noticed that all of the deities were distracted, and he could easily flee from the scene. He tried to will his body to run, but instead it only stayed firmly planted in place, his body no longer under his control. His heart began to race in a sudden panic, and it wasn’t eased as the closed doors in front of him began to part, opening up to reveal a continuation of the current hallway that he was in, but a darkness was at the very end, hiding whatever it was that was awaiting him.

What happened next horrified the young man beyond measure, and by then he knew that he was doomed.

“Wriothesley, step forward, come to me, come to your destiny.” a regal voice called out, though the growl from before was also heard in the same voice, as if they were perfectly mixed together. Whoever was calling to him, this had to be one of the ancient gods of lore, mighty beasts that garnered so much power from its followers and victories of war, that it gained godhood. But, what would such a highly positioned god want with someone low and poor, as himself? Wriothesley wasn’t about to argue, however. Wriothesley tested his muscles, now being able to freely move them. He had regained control of his body, and along with that realization, the golden metallic rope that was previously wrapped around his wrists shattered, releasing their hold on him. Whoever this was wanted him to come willingly and freely, but also prevented him from having any other option. After taking a moment to mentally accept the situation for what it was and what it could possibly be, the man slowly but surely took step after step, inching his way forward, obeying the command that had been called out to him.

Once he was past the dual doors, they both slammed shut behind him, as if signaling there was no way to truly turn back now, the only way was forward. The young man jumped in response to the loud noise behind him, but didn’t bother looking back. Instead, the man glared as he looked forward, a figure now clearly standing where darkness once was, the hallway now oddly illuminated, as if showcasing the person directly in his path.

The god before him stood mighty and tall, long white hair with just as long blue streaks, decorated with golden ornaments, robes that matched the varying colors of the ocean’s brightest waters, swirling around his slim body in an ancient style of robes. His eyes were a sharp lilac color, and gave an odd feeling of being so similar to the eyes of a feline, slit pupils that were slightly dilated as his gaze was transfixed to Wriothesley.

“I see that time has done you well, Wriothesley. You certainly grew into a rather handsome man. I will forever consider myself fortunate to lay claim on you so many years ago, before the others could.” At this, Wriothesley gasped, anxiety beginning to rise within his chest. A god laying claim on him? Ages ago? He would have remembered such a thing, seeing as though the deities usually made a huge spectacle when they took a human as theirs. It wasn’t an uncommon act, but according to what Wriothesley remembered hearing, a god had to be completely enamored with a mortal to do such an act. A claim meant ownership of the mortal by the god, sure, but it also bound them together in a deep, intimate way. The god would always know the whereabouts of the mortal, their control over them being absolute. For the mortal, it meant having a power being provide and protect them, but gods tended to be jealous beings, and this often resulted in a rather lonely existence for the mortal. There were humans that found this to be an absolute obsession for themselves, dolling up their looks and doing what they believed would get the attention of some sort of god that would claim them, but many found that staying away from this sort of deep-rooted obsession was better for them.

“I’m sorry, but I think you’ve got the wrong guy. No one’s laid claim on me and- “

“Then how would you explain your horrible luck then, Wriothesley?”

The young man shuddered, every time the god in front of him said his name, an odd wave of feelings started to phase through him that he couldn’t quite explain. It was like it felt right, and a small part of him wanted to hear the figure continue to say his name, until he couldn’t handle it anymore. The hell was wrong with him? He has never had such thoughts about others like this, why now?

“I-I’m not following…”

“I saw you kill your foster parents. I knew what you did was justified, my dear. They were horrible and their sins innumerable. You did what you needed to do to protect yourself and the little ones. It’s not often that I find myself observing humans as closely as you, and I knew from that moment forward, you were someone I wanted. Someone with such a profound sense of justice, and the spirit to carry out punishment. So, I cursed you.” The man continued to explain, as if it were common knowledge.

“Why the fuck would you curse someone that you’re interested in? Are you fucking insane?!” Wriothesley shouted out, stomping forward to stand right in front of the mighty being. The ancient one’s brows furrowed, glaring at the young man in front of him.

“Wriothesley…” the god said, his tone demanding respect and issuing a single and final warning.

Wriothesley bared his teeth at the ancient one, issuing his own, small, pathetic growl, in comparison. However, he understood and heeded the silent warning, not taking any further action, allowing the omnipotent being before him to continue on with his explanation.

“Of course. I didn’t want to take you away, especially with you being so young. However, I wanted no other god to look upon you in favor and want you for themselves. So, I placed a curse on you, and took care of anyone being aware of you committing murder. You would always feel as though someone or something was chasing you. A home would never be one for long, your soul aching to keep searching for something. If a suitor tried to approach you, you would take no notice or interest. They, also, would disappear from your life. Luck would abandon you, forcing you to follow your true destiny with hardships that would test you, mold you for your potential to come alive. You were to keep living your life, until I was prepared to receive you, and you were of a proper age. Now, is the time, Wriothesley…”

The powerful being before him then snapped his fingers, the area around them turning pitch black for just a moment, before the it was illuminated once more, showing a marble decorated room with various different nautical decorations adorning every aspect of it. Blues, golds and silvers lined and adorned every aspect of it, treasures beyond measure lay everywhere, as if the room itself were a museum of the heavenly bodies. In the middle of the room, and directly behind the god, was a giant, circular bed with blankets of the finest silk with the same level of intricate designs on them as well. Wriothesley’s breath stuttered, as he took a small step back, his head tilting to the side in confusion.

“Now is the time to consummate our binding, wouldn’t you agree? It’s been many years, and my hunger for you is insufferable…” the being in front of him stared intensely into his own eyes, unable to avoid him. A million thoughts were running through Wriothesley’s mind, but only one question was able to come out.

“W-w-who are you…?”

“Ah, yes. Sincerest apologies, my love. You may know me by many names, and by many forms, though this is my true self, that I will never hesitate to show and share with you. The title you humans appear to have given me in my temples is Neuvillette, god of all that is hydro, the waters of all are mine, of the lakes, the sea…” Neuvillette purred as he began to approach Wriothesley.

“Of every human body, but especially yours…”

The young man hastily started taking steps backwards, never keeping his eyes off of the powerful being before him, but it was to no avail for his situation. Suddenly, behind him, he felt a sort of cushion that he was then pushed down onto, sheets wrapping up around him as he became entangled in them. It took a moment for him to realize that the god before him must have teleported the both of them straight to the circular bed he had observed before, and now both of them completely nude and exposed to each other. Wriothesley shrieked as realized the position that the two were in now, him being laid out on the bed like a meal on a decorated platter, while the god above was draped over him in pure possession and domination, but that wasn’t the only reason why he screamed out. The young man also observed the full body of the god in front of him, perfectly chiseled muscles but with a slim, elegant figure. White, creamy skin that was free from any blemish or imperfection, and perfectly smooth with little to no body hair, except for his lower body, where white pubic hair trailed from below his navel down towards his lower pelvic region, where instead of one perfectly thick and long member, he seemed to have…two…

Oh, fuck, he was truly not going to make it out of this alive, whether Neuvillette realized it or not.

“G-Get the fuck off of me, just kill me!” Wriothesley screamed out, trying his best to push the god off of him, but once more, to no avail. Though his muscles were much larger than the deity that was draped above him, it mattered little. Whatever claim the god had on him seemed to hold true, he could never overpower him.

“Never, Wriothesley, never, you’re staying with me for the rest of eternity. I will show you how a god truly appreciates his claimed…” Neuvillette growled out, as he lowered his head and nuzzled Wriothesley’s neck, licking it repeatedly in a sensual manner, as if he were handling an absolute treasure. Wriothesley shut his eyes as he moaned in pleasure, not able to prevent himself from doing so, as his hips started rutting upwards, his member starting to harden from just the simplest of touches from this being. He blushed in embarrassment, but no one had ever touched him in this way before, no one had ever said such words to him. Everything he ever wanted to hear and feel from someone, Neuvillette was serving it on a silver platter for him, and he was a starved mortal, ready to accept it all.

“Ah, ah, what are you doing to me, Neuvillette…” Wriothesley breathed out, in a husky voice, fully immersed in all of the emotions and sensations he was feeling. Neuvillette only smiled against the skin of his neck, as his hands began to roam the young man’s body. Soft, but powerful hands continued to caress him, touching Wriothesley in places he never dared imagine anyone else doing so. From his muscled pectorals, down the sides of his stone hard abdomen, and then finally down to his rear as Neuvillette grabbed his cheeks, giving them a nice, firm squeeze, sharp nails digging into the meat of them, but never breaking the skin.

“I’m showing you how much you mean to me, you’re my desire, my passion, my reason to hold firm to my rule, so that no other may touch you like this. Only me, only ever me…” Neuvillette mumbled, burying his head back into the crook of Wriothesley’s neck as he continued.

Wriothesley let out a dirty moan as Neuvillette’s fangs elongated, rooting themselves deep into his neck, and tasting of his blood. The god made sure that when he released and his fangs retracted, that the wound would heal, but leave behind a deep scar that none other would question. He made sure in the back of his mind, to order one of his underlings to immediately begin commissioning a necklace for Wriothesley, that would accentuate his looks but also have the marks forever on full display for the world to see.

At this point, Wriothesley was hard as a rock, his member leaking precum as it begged for attention, for a release, for pleasure, and Neuvillette was more than happy to oblige. Removing himself from the young man’s neck, Neuvillette moved over to Wriothesley’s lips, licking them lightly, biting at him just a smidge, before he invaded them completely, inserting his long tongue and exploring the depths within. Wriothesley greedily allowed him to do so, wrapping his arms around the neck of the god, pressing him further down so that the kiss could be deepened even further, if that was possible. Neuvillette could only smile as he continued his assault, a hand now trailing down Wriothesley’s body, feeling the differences between the two. Where Neuvillette’s body was smooth and perfect, Wriothesley’s had dark hair that covered his arms, some of his chest, and definitely trailed down to his lower regions, oozing manly features. His body, though littered with scars from the trials and tribulations of his life, only seemed to further decorate how in his own way, he was powerful and worthy to be the claimed of Neuvillette.

As the hand of the god reached Wriothesley’s member, the man groaned, still stuck in the deep and passionate kiss, continued to raise his hips up, a while leaving his lips as his member demanded any sort of friction against it. Neuvillette grabbed him, stroking up and down, thumb teasing the leaking head. The kiss finally broke as Neuvillette desired to see Wriothesley’s pleasure, as he continued to pump the member of his claimed, doing every action so perfectly and true to the wants and needs of the young man. It wasn’t long before Wriothesley was breathing hard, his body shaking as he released all over the god, thick ropes of cum shooting out and even coating Neuvillette’s chest, as if adding to the creamy skin of his claimer.

Neuvillette could only continue to smile as Wriothesley repeatedly began to apologize, ashamed of what he had done but enjoying feeling every effect his god was bestowing upon him.

“Shhh, my soul, hush now with that. I do not want your apologies for indulging in what I give freely to you. Now, roll over…” Neuvillette growled out, the animalistic side of him starting to show. Wriothesley trembled beneath Neuvillette for a moment, but the god only offered him an odd sense of assurance as he gently led Wriothesley to roll over onto his stomach, directing him to keep his chest lowered onto the bedsheets but his rear raised high, on full display to his god. The young man, still embarrassed, tried his best to hide his face within the lavish sheets of the bed, but didn’t fight back. A part of him wanted this, needed this, wanting this session they were sharing to never end.

Wriothesley felt a warmness spread throughout his core, as he assumed Neuvillette had summoned some sort of water to assist with what was about to happen. The liquid was spread along the crease of his bottom and hole, delicate and soft fingers of the god above him caressing him, touching every inch of him, as if he were savoring his very existence. It wasn’t much longer after this that he could feel an odd flesh shape being pressed against his hole, one of his dicks, Wriothesley surmised. His heart started to pick up it’s pace once more, worried that such a formidable size wouldn’t be able to fit and he would feel nothing but pain as he was tortured into the act. However, that was far from the truth.

The water continued to warm and relax the skin that it touched, his muscles feeling lose and somewhat stretched even before he knew he was being entered. Neuvillette lowered himself once more, kissing Wriothesley’s back and nibbling here and there with his fangs, building up Wriothesley’s desire for him, which he did. Once he heard the young boy beginning to pant, spreading his legs even further and raising his rear even higher, he knew he was ready. Slowly, the god started pressing the head of one of his cocks into the greedy hole of his claimed, and it accepted him with ease. Wriothesley continued to plant his head directly into the sheets of the bed, moaning so loudly and continued to pant like a dog, but he desperately wanted this, needed this. It was only a matter of time before the god was deeply planted inside of him, taking a moment to relish the feel of the warmth that his length was now experiencing. The god then started to pump into his claimed, clawed hands holding onto his waist for support.

The thrusts started out small, and careful, but the pace was quick to change. The more that Neuvillette was planted in Wriothesley, the more that he desired, so his thrusts began to continue with their assault, becoming deeper and rougher.

“Yes, yes! More, more-gah, FUCK!” Wriothesley yelled out as his thoughts started to lose all sense but being completely consumed by pleasure. Within seconds he lost the ability to form any coherent words, only feeling and appreciating the ecstasy that his god was providing for him. Time seemed to go on forever as the thrusts continued, and Wriothesley had begun grabbing onto the nearby sheets, twisting them until they were a complete mess from the perfect state that they were in before.

Another deep, animalistic growl was heard above him, which made him moan even harder, as he felt Neuvillette’s balls slap against his ass from how deep he was thrusting in, the second cock now also fully erect was also slapping against his ass, warm and thick. It seemed that the god did have some form of pity for him, as he had only inserted one of his members this time. But that didn’t stop the conquering of his mortal body. A few more grunts were heard as Wriothesley felt something spill inside of him, so very warm and copious amounts kept flooding in. The young man sighed in absolute bliss, eyes fluttering shut as his body fell down back to the bed, Neuvillette easing him back down, but keeping his member deeply planted as more cum continued to be released inside of his claimed one.

Little did Wriothesley know this was the final act to solidify their bond. The god of hydro had marked him with his essence, and it will never fade. Every god and mortal will instantly know who he belonged to, and Neuvillette will always know what he was feeling, where he was, his thoughts and feelings now completely forfeit to him.

Oh, how lucky this god truly was.

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

Hey all!!

I've been trying to write this post for forever but uhhh yes I suppose it's a lot easier to do a quick primer first but uhh

I'm so so sorry I don't answer asks! And I want to change that soon.

[a LONG post about autism, blog updates, and PDA]

TL;DR: I have Pathological Demand Avoidance, but I'm growing from it and hope to become more social on here in the near future!

If you've seen me asks or messages, I promise I don't hate you!! I love you!! I'm so serious

Soon I plan on making a longer post explaining what I've been preoccupied with, and also changes I want to make to this blog in the near future (all small and good!)

But to put it shortly -

I've been suffering from Pathological Demand Avoidance SO HARD and it's been something I've struggled with for some time.

If you don't know Pathological Demand Avoidance - or more accurately named Pervasive Drive for Autonomy - is a profile of autism:

In short though - because asked to do something, ANYTHING, even indirectly makes my brain stall. I know it sounds ridiculous.

It's not even in a cute anarchist 'I don't have to listen to you!!' type of way. Fam it's. EVERYTHING.

It's not so much the activity that's triggering it. I LOVE talking to people so much, but... like, speaking in conversation is like a demand. Someone calling my name is a demand, doing homework, showing up to places on time, brushing my teeth everyday etc.

It's often why young children with autism may not respond to you talking to them, say 'I can't do x, my legs don't work!!', hide when expected to do things, literally REFUSE to go to school (big me thing), etc.

It's linked to the diagnosis (and misdiagnosis) of 'Oppositional Defiance Disorder'.

That's why I may seem very extroverted (which I am!! ILY!!!) but I don't ever appear to talk to anybody or react to them.

For example - It's more likely for me to add to a tag game if I'm not tagged because when I am, I feel really happy to be thought of but then 'Oh God I have to do a thing. Not right now but soon. The thing I have to do. That eventually must be done. I have committed and I must Do Something. Me doing the thing is approaching. The inevitable thing. That must be done. The inescapable thing'.

ON & ON regardless of what it is. I'm not opposed to doing whatever it is, the demand could be completely self-imposed. I'm just opposed to doing something.

Anything preplanned, asked, or expected of me.

That's why I often abandon fics, or say I'll write an essay and then don't do it. I still remember, but finishing the essay becomes a self imposed demand and then.. I can't do it lol

All in all - this can kinda make notifications really hard for me.

@spidey-bie can tell you, even in discord I'm a little lurking gremlin who is only summoned at inopportune moments and when someone has pissed me off

Usually, my response is ALWAYS flight. I may like an ask or message and enjoy it, even have a response in mind - but instead of answer my immediate reaction to is abort mission and FULLY close the app and find the nearest corner, or try my best to appear offline.

IT'S WEIRD.

I have no idea if others will understand what I'm trying to convey because I know the concept may sound bizarre, and I get that. It really was a concept I only really learned about recently.

But that's why I mean seem very talkative and hyperverbal and bubbly but also like never appear to be social with anyone ever.

PDA is like -

Me: oh wow this person is so sweet. I consider them a friend, I should message them back.

My brain: Yeah.

Me:... message them back.

My brain: fuck you. anyway write an essay literally no one demanded

Me: Why? Can I at least write that fic that I left hanging for eight months

My brain: No someone complimented you on that once and now there's Demand. Write something 100% unrelated.

Me: *starts writing an essay no one asked for and doesn't even finish it because finishing it has become a demand even though I'm the only one who even knows the essay exists in the first place*

Like girl be so fr. Even saying this I feel like it sounds like a lie 😭 I got Hobie brain. Some old 'I'll do it but not because you told me to' headass.

I'm Miguel and my brain wanna 'Nah imma do my own thing' on some Miles shit.

Guess how many drafts I have. Guess. WRONG. TWO HUNDRED.

Nah be forreal is that normal? Y'all got that or nah? Is that common I'm being deadass 😭😭

And girl I'm not even gonna show the number in my inbox cause I'd rather be tarred and feathered than indure that humiliation imma be honest 😐 rather be burned at the stake

But I know that me being so active and like... Not Responding can be very hurtful and I'm so sorry!!

Though I know that didn't make up for it. I know it can make me come off as fake or mean but that's not my intention at all, I promise.

Honestly I just have a brain where everyday feels like opposite day.

But I'm a grown ass person and uh!! I want to change that response.

So please don't stop replying or tagging me in things! I genuinely do love it 💖

This blog is really one of my favorite places in planet Earth and I love this community SO SO MUCH.

Going forward I want to invest more time here and just meta writing in specific.

I'm thinking (girl I'm phrasing this SO CAREFULLY so my brain doesn't think it's a demand like shh I hope the autism doesn't hear me) -

I'd like to maybe designate a day for asks to be answered/queued (as many as I can pump out) because I really love talking with y'all and y'all have SUCH good ideas

I'm hoping to do more Spidersona stuff but I'MA HAVE TO PACE MYSELF OKAY that's not a Demand autism we're just having nice hopeful thoughts NOT A DEMAND

So uhh I don't know how I'll encorporate more Spidersona stuff but yeah... It'll happen.

Other stuff too. Other stuff.

[Notice how I have to be like 'I'm hoping, I'm thinking, I might, I'd like to,'. I'm ALLERGIC to 'I will' 🤢🤢🤢]

I plan on making another life update post just to clear up some things maybe talk more specifics. I'm thinking Tuesdays or Thursdays -

I'll most likely close my ask just to pump out the asks that are still relevant time wise.

I'd also like to take more about PDA in short posts of if anyone is interested. Honestly, I think there are some advantages to PDA.

YES I HEADCANON HOBIE AS HAVING IT.

I DON'T FOLLOW ORDERS NEITHER DOES HE.

Save me Hobie.. Hobie save me (I be using him to internally justify my PDA.. 'like Hobie wouldn't want me to answer this linkdin email' 😭😭)

BUT UHHHH If you read this far and you're still here I LOVE YOU YOU MEAN SO MUCH TO ME HOBIE BE UPON YE

I truly appreciate you, thank you for hearing me out!

Hobie says remember to be a public nuisance and never cooperate with anything and leave the function early and steal

I'm gonna go do something that doesn't matter and that no one asked for that I probably won't finish for no reason :) (/pos)

Bye.

[maliyagi]

i have this big mha fanfic ongoing right now, codenamed "DCPLC" for short. At first, it was just a way for me to write romance, bc romance is kinda my personnal writing hell, so i was like "lets go, deku x oc, it will be fun, cute, wholesome, little experiment with my favorite cinnammon roll, longfic, but simple, just to train".

plot twist : the plot has taken huge proportions. the romance is now very secondary. the canon too. worldbuilding got involved. OCs popped at every corner. Help.

And DCPLC fits also very well in the canon universe, i just delayed some events in the canon (delaying Jaku hospital arc and + for the 3rd year and using the 2nd year for my fanfic, in summary. just to have Class A not so beaten up and traumatized and just yknow, having fought A FULL WAR before attending 2 other years of highschool)

(i love fanfics with a taste of "could be a canon spin-off")

But THIS. THIS THING OF "fitting so well with the canon"...

... ITS A TRAP.

I am now watching Vigilante. Vigilante takes place around 5-6 years prior to the events of MHA. Around 6-7 years prior to DCPLC

a convenient date which aligns pretty well with its plot too

i dont have a story to tell yet, themes or whatever. i just have this vibe. this anticipation feeling. the brain is waiting for the first idea to throw a whole prequel plot at me.

"oh but just a prequel its not so bad"

its not only a prequel

it's the dcplc-verse at this point

i have a mirio x oc on planning for a sequel 2-3 years later

and a little gremlin on my shoulder is yapping about what could be added to the War by involving the fanfic cast in there because why not-

all of these ideas have one thing in common

and this thing is called Manterouge, one of the main Villain!OC

...

i started this hell of a fanfic to write a deku x oc and i am now obsessed with a Villain MHA OC and ready to write him over and over again until i die i guess

write your own food, as they said

it will be fun they said

[happysaddca]

Okay @wyervan @lets-zofifi-stuff @spaceboisstuff

I'm @'ng you three in specific because you either implicitly or explicitly expressed interest in learning how I can write so much so quickly. This is my specific method and I can't promise it'll work for everyone, but here we go.

First, the don't do it like I used to method: hyperfixation and manic bipolar episodes. I wrote two-point-five novels in a month that way and they're still largely readable actually! But leaning into your mental illness only does you poorly because when you get burnt out or you slide into a depressive episode where you can barely function you're just going to have more fuel for the self-hating fire.

So what do we do instead? And mind you, I'm still working my way up. My goal is to eventually write for two hours a day (every day), and write about 3k words. For me, 3k words is about the length of the short stories I published online. I want to get back into that for passive income and creative outlet reasons. But for you, maybe it's enough to know that you sat and wrote a page, or a couple sentences. Whatever. Customize your goal to your current skillset and desires.

Get your to do list done. This sounds weird but if you got a bunch of stuff you gotta do you're not gonna be able to get in the zone for writing.

Don't be hungry or dehydrated. Don't sit like a gremlin either. Have I written 10k words in a day hunched over like a troll at my laptop? Yes. Do I regret now that I'm 31 years old and work with preschoolers? Yes. And the rest is basic self care. You're not going to be at your best if you're distracted or hurting in some way.

Have a dedicated zone to write. I literally bought a desktop computer so I could do this. You can make a corner of a bedroom or the kitchen table after dinner your spot. It tricks your brain into knowing it's time to write.

Typing lessons. Typing lessons? you might be asking yourself. Why on earth would I do typing lessons to write more? One word: speed. I can write up to 80 WPM with about 90% accuracy, even though my normal speed is about 60 WPM. If you're curious about yours, you can check here for free. But having the ability to use both hands on a keyboard, typing with minimal to no peeking is crucial if you want to write a lot, fast.

Word goals, sprints, etc. Setting yourself up with a friend to see who can write more faster in 15 minutes is a good start, as is setting a timer and seeing how quickly you can rip through a scene or three. You're focusing on words on the page here, not perfection. Perfection comes with

Reading and dissecting what you like about a story. This isn't limited to literary fiction either. You can do it to a movie, fanfiction, poetry. Whatever it is, find it and tear into it. Look at a book line by line to see how they convey a mood. Practice that with shorter form stories that you don't have to complete or perfect. The more you put into your brain, the more you'll be able to put out onto the paper (and quicker too).

Write through the sludge. You're in the middle of an amazing dialogue exchange and poof! the words are suddenly gone. Do you sit and agonize over each and every little word? No! You write FUCK THIS SHIT IT'S STUPID HERE'S THE GIST and keep going! If you're smart you'll use a special character like * to find it later, but if you're like me, just yelling at yourself a little before continuing to where you can write again is more than fine. We don't talk about how much human au does this.

DO write the gist though. Don't trust your brain to remember what you wanted to say. It won't remember. So if you're in a fight scene, write "Sun kicks Moon in the shin and Moon yells and throws him in the ballpit. It's very dramatic" and then continue to the aftermath.

Editing! This is where your writing will slow down. Unless you're like me, throwing out barely reread bits of dredge out for the world to consume because I like to torture myself, you're gonna want to sit back from a piece of work for a good 18-36 hours before going back to it (I've got books that've sat for TWO YEARS it's like I've given myself a present cause I remember nothing). This is when you go fix those murky spots and you destroy your crutch words and split those page long sentences into more manageable chunks. The more that you've read and dissected and put into your brain, the more some of this will already be done. But don't worry if it feels like you're rewriting hot garbage. Cause literally every writer feels that way. Meanwhile everyone else is so excited to try your cake.

Seriously, typing etiquette will help you a shit ton. Sometimes when I struggle with my writing I'll turn on Game of Thrones or Bob's Burgers and watch the show while writing out whatever it was I was struggling with. I'll do the same while talking to people irl. It's actually funny cause I can hold a conversation and write while looking at them and 7/10 times it freaks them out.

But most importantly, don't like. Expect to get prolific super fast. I burnt myself out before and during my MFA program and I am teetering on burning out if I am not careful now. Don't judge yourself but how much you haven't written. Just try to get the words out that you have in you now, and know they're good ones.