#fun fact one of these is actually not a wip at all it's just an idea

[tgmsunmontue]

Season to Taste - 16/? WIP

Explicit Hangster - Celebrity Chef Bradley and Naval Aviator Jake Seresin who have a relationship spanning the globe before they realize how tightly bound they are to one another. Heading into this little world.

PROLOGUE/ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE

TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FORTEEN FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

                He walks out the front to find Vi sitting at one of the tables groaning, her head rested on a pile of books and her laptop set to the side.

                “What are you doing?”

                “Studying. Go to University they said. It’ll be fun they said. It was all bullshit and lies.”

                “You could always run away to another country.”

                “Oh, I am not fool enough to think my life is as blessed as yours is. If I ran away to America I’d probably end up dead.”

                “You don’t want to travel?”

                “I didn’t say that.”

                “But…?”

                “Can you imagine my parents agreeing to let me go?”

                “What if I went with you?”

                “Where?”

                “Anywhere…Everywhere.”

                “Are you serious?”

                “You’re like my sister –”

                “Cousin.”

                “I might actually have cousins somewhere. Anyway, we could always go together. If you wanted.”

…            …            …

                Sandy, Olivia, Maria, Nicola and Mandy are all sitting at the large twelve-seater dining table when he finally steps into the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything, silently pours himself coffee from the pot and takes a sip while he just looks at them. They all look back. They’ve clearly been talking about him, or Leo, or more likely his relationship with Leo. Not that he’s told Maria anything, and for her to be the sister that knows the most is unusual. He doesn’t know whether she would have talked or not.

                Sandra is the oldest, nine years Jake’s senior and got to get the whole college experience before their lives came crashing down around their ears. She’d married her boyfriend from college, a man named Daniel who had uprooted his life in Montana to live in Texas. If that didn’t show love and devotion Jake doesn’t know what does. They have three kids, two girls and a boy, ten, eight and six years old. They call him Uncle Jake and think he’s cool. He doesn’t need the ego boost, but he’ll take it regardless.

                Olivia is six years older than Jake, and of all his sisters he’d have to say she’s the one he has the least in common with. He doesn’t know what happened while she was at college, but he just knows she’d come back angry and upset, raging at the world with no time to consider comforting anyone, or being comforted herself. Now though, she seems happy, her own little house built on the farm a ten-minute walk away from Maria in the main house. She cooks and creates things, rescues animals like it’s her job.

                For a reason he’s not one-hundred percent sure of, Maria lives in their family home where they all grew up and where he’s standing right now; looking at the large table where they all congregate around for every special occasion whether he’s there or not. He has always assumed that Sandra didn’t want to live here and raise her own family. Maria is only three-and-a-half years older than Jake, was still in high school and living at home and he’s always considered her the bridge between them all, a middle child acting as glue. Maybe that’s why she stays in the house, reels them all back in every chance she gets.

                Nicola and Amanda are twins, the ones he’s closest to in age, only two years older than him, but he’s definitely closest to Nicola. Nicola came out as a lesbian before Jake even realized that he was maybe not straight and their parents’ easy loving acceptance and support had made it so much easier for him when he figured himself out. The fact that he’s away much of the time means he makes the perfect roommate, only around for a few weeks, always with an end date in sight so she never seems to get sick of him. Amanda, he thinks, is maybe the bravest out of them all, her decision to go after parenthood and take it on single-handed, refusing to wait for some person to come along to make it happen for her. She currently breastfeeding her son and only half of her attention is really on Jake.

                “You going to say anything?” Olivia asks.

                “What’s there to say?” Jake asks, shrugs and takes another sip of coffee. There are collective eye rolls and scoffs around the table and he pulls a face. “What?” he asks again.

                “Maria told us you have a boyfriend.”

                “Did she now…” Jake says dryly, shooting Maria a look and she gives it right back.

                “Did you take the idiot route?” Maris asks, one eyebrow shooting up like she’s daring him to prove her right or wrong either way.

                “No. I didn’t. However if you think me bringing him here for dinner tomorrow isn’t an idiot move on my part then you all need you head’s examined.”

                “If he can’t put up with a little ribbing from us he’s not worth your time,” Nicola states, and she leans back from the table and folds her arms, looks like she’s ready to throw hands.

                “After seven days? You think introducing a guy to all of you, what,” he looks to Maria. “Forty-eight hours after we actually decide to try having a long-distance relationship when he leaves, that meeting my entire family isn’t a complete overkill?”

                “But Maria got to meet him!”

                “That’s because I knew she’d be able to help him better than I could. And I wasn’t… we were just hooking up.”

                The looks his sisters all now exchange have him throwing his hands up in the air in annoyance, no idea what they’re communicating silently. He skulls back the last of the coffee in his mug, regrets it almost instantly given how hot it still is, but it looks like Amanda is finished breastfeeding Lincoln and he grabs the burping cloth and makes grabby hands for his three-month old nephew. While he’s around he gets first dibs on everything and he’s totally going to use Lincoln to hopefully redirect the conversation.

                “You sleep well for your mom last night?” Jake asks, and Amanda snorts.

                “Stop trying to deflect Jake.”

                Damn. He’s out or practice. Not even one question before he’s getting called out; although trying with someone unable to answer back was probably a mistake. Ah well, it was worth a shot.

                “This is the first guy you’ve ever brought home. It’s a big deal.”

                “Okay. First off. There was no conscious decision to bring a guy home. He just… I literally bumped into him at the market on Saturday.  Until yesterday afternoon we were just fucking –”

                “Jake!” “Language!” “Can you not?” Their voices all overlap and he’s reminded that while he spends most of his time with guys who are trying to get their photo in the dictionary beside curse like a sailor, his sisters have never liked curse words, although when he’s with them one on one they usually let it slide.

                “Making sweet sweet love,” Jake says, giving them all an annoyed look while jiggling Lincoln and patting his back. “Look, I wouldn’t be bringing any guy home after a couple of dates.”

                “Except it’s not just a couple of dates. This is your guy from Italy…” Nicola states.

                “Nicky…” Jake starts, because only she knows quite the extent of his maybe little thing for Leo which he’d built up in his mind. The fact that he’s pretty much had all of that in more the last few days cementing some of his wildest fantasies isn’t something he wants to examine too closely yet.

                “What guy from Italy?”

                “I thought you said it was Bradley Bradshaw?”

                “Yeah. It is. And apparently they met years ago in Italy and Jake calls him Leo,” Maria provides, like she’s repeating something and Jake frowns.

                “It’s what his Italian family call him…” he says defensively, not adding that it’s also what he’s called him in his head for around eight years.

                “It’s how he introduced himself to you,” Nicola provides and Jake shoots her a glare over the top of Lincoln’s head.

                “Italy… didn’t you stop there as part of your first deployment?”

                “Yeah, it was, he sent us a postcard.”

                “Wait. Was he your first?”

                Jake feels hunted, as he often does when they’re all pursuing the same thing or all trying to get him to do something, or find something out.

                “You’re all a bunch of gossips!”

                “Like this is news…”

                “Also that wasn’t an answer. You know…” Amanda says, turning toward Nicola instead of Jake and he groans. Nicola cannot keep anything from Amanda once she knows there is something to know.

                “He wasn’t my first…” Jake mutters, hoping to maybe head them off, but Amanda is studying Nicola with narrowed eyes, Nicola is looking between her twin and back to Jake helplessly and he shakes his head and Amanda’s eyes go gleeful.

                “Ooohhh… there is definitely something. He was –”

                “He’s the first guy Jake ever kissed.”

                “Maria!”

                “What? You told me when you came home very briefly in between rounds of sweet sweet love. Remember? I didn’t realize it was a state secret. We all know who each other’s first kiss are…”

                “Well, we do now.”

                “My first kiss was actually Suzanne McKenzie,” Jake says smugly.

                “You were four. That doesn’t count.”

                “Oh… he was the first man you kissed. And DADT was still in effect.”

                “Yeah,” Jake says on a sharp exhale, and he swallows, looks down at Lincoln to avoid looking at any of them. It was one thing to have their support when he decided to apply to USNA, but they had each taken him aside and told him that DADT was going to make it difficult. They hadn’t been wrong, but other than Nicola he’d felt at the time it was all I support you but…. Nicola had said, fuck them, you go in there and show them what you’re made of.

                So he had.

SEVENTEEN

[fountainpenguin]

I'm sorry if I'm annoying you. But I can't get over you City Lights AU Dale. The man looks like he has all the issues and is hanging on by the thinnest thread. One more problem and he will just fully collapse.

😂 I'm eating your asks like sandwich.

^ He is overworking himself in a desperate attempt to make peace with the fact that he never got to hear his late father say "You did everything I ever asked without complaint; you are such a good son and you've made me so proud."

Push him near a goalpost and he'll panic and kick it across the room. We don't know how to process feelings of achievement and pride in this family. Those are Bad Emotions that will get the company steamrolled by competitors... You could lose everything... Is that how you want to be remembered?

I've been waffling on whether to share this WIP or withhold it for in-the-moment drama, but just for you... a treat.

His back ached from hunching; his feet stung from dirt. Vicky didn’t leave me down there; she always came back. “Do you know what that means?” Without waiting for an answer, Dale grabbed Timmy’s shoulder with one hand and pumped his fist with the other. “I’m still her bestie! She didn’t replace me!” “She locked you in a cellar for 7 years,” Timmy started, but Dale cut him off by slamming the bathroom door. And he laughed at nothing, clutching fingers in his hair, because… He really had to talk to her. They could clear this whole mess up! Now, let’s get one thing laid out crystal-flat. Dale knew Vicky had locked him up down in Dimmsdale’s tunnels, sure. He wasn’t stupid. But she wouldn’t have done that at all if he hadn’t threatened to tell untrustworthy adults about The Accident that kicked the lemonade business off in the first place, and it wasn’t her fault he’d been a disloyal friend. He really put her in a bad position there- That can’t be denied. Dale dragged his hands down his face (and dragged his butt down the door) until he thumped on freeze-dried tile. His toes gripped the bathmat. He wrapped his arms around his knees. I’m sorry. I’m sorry… I'll be better. I'm ready to listen now.

Prompt #96 - "You Deserve It"

My terrible headcanon is that if it took 7 years for Dale to work up the courage to open a trapdoor and crawl out, and he didn't file charges severe enough to stop Vicky from babysitting Timmy, he is not the kind of person who would stop hanging out with her SDLFKJ.

Also, here's a sketch I made for this post. I opted not to post it there, but I think it captures My Vision really well:

Toxic ex-BFFs with a very weird dynamic post-lemon pit torture, gossip buddies, and a secret 3rd thing... silly little guys.

He hates the fighting, but he craves the structure... Being nice to Vicky is the safe option... It's such big "Get real, Dale- No one will ever want to deal with you and your problems; I'm the only one who can put up with your baggage" vibes...

He can tolerate the bruises; he can make little exceptions; friends forgive each other and not forgiving her would mean throwing away the 3.5 years they had before the Real Trouble Began... Do u understand...

I've been brainstorming another WIP of Dale fantasizing about terrible things he wants to do to Vicky, but I'm not sure I'll actually write that one because it's pretty dark SLKDFJ

Listen, I just want Dale to slam Vicky against a wall and it turns out Mark was shapeshifted as her handbag and OH, HE PROTEC-

It's extremely important to me that Dale is nice and sympathetic enough that Dev believes if he can just pry his dad away from business, they can play and have fun. Dale being "sweet and engaging and loving" around his wife and during the holidays has done a NUMBER on Dev's psyche.

[sad-leon]

can i put two numbers <3 i'm nosy <3

i wanna know what 13 and 50 are 👀

ehehehehe hell yeah

you go my old drawing set up before i got my new tablet :3

... dont mind the wierd missing like.. square in this one.. csp corrupted and this was one of the layers that got hit apparently lasjdflksjdlj

and eclipse leo without the background :D!!! i darked the file background for this one cuz he does not look very good on the lighter one alkdjflasjdf

[tormentum-ab-intra]

skeledog Leander WIP

the skull here is actually modeled closely after a deer skull, just compressed to fit a dog's overall face shape. also tried to make the eyes a little less wide-set than a deer's without making them completely front-facing like a dog's. here's the rest of the (still un-rendered) body:

i'm testing out the screen recorder i just downloaded so if that ends up working the way i want it to i'll have a timelapse of this piece when it's done :)

[humanmorph]

Lye „Lyke“ Lychen as a sacrifical altar (to Aterika’Kaal) (but he's also kind of the sacrifice)

my @secret-samol gift for @bronanlynch! for the Aterika’Kaal/Lyke prompt of „what if things had gone differently and Aterika'Kaal was still with Lyke“.

notes on this under the readmore!

AU

In this scenario Lyke would succeed in getting the heart of the Motherbeast in Episode 47 and while Alaway would notice & probably still call out to Aterika’Kaal the way he presumably did in canon, Lyke would be there and get to make a compelling case to Aterika’Kaal the likes of „If you stay with me I am going to feed you. I’ve taken care of you until now, I’ll keep doing that“ (argument supported by the fact he’s currently holding the heart of an incredibly powerful dead god). Aterika’kaal agrees and they barely escape through the Sanctum of the Stone Chorus portal. I think it's fun if Lyke then stays there after the hour described in the move is over, maybe knowing he can't convince Pickman & the others that what he's done is actually good, and fine, there's not even anything to worry about he has this totally handled, But yeah he then sets out from whereever in Sangfielle Aterika'Kaals domain is (Austin did say it was an actual place somewhere), and the rest of the Blackwick Group is left to wonder what the hell happened since Lyke just vanished! Alaway has possibly fucked off too after losing the heart. And them getting fired, the Carnival of Moted Light etc. would still happen (and I guess Chine would succeed at what they were doing since Lyke isn’t there?) and who knows if they’d take any action in finding Lyke after that! All that aside though, Lyke basically offers himself to feed on (through blood and/or energy) and to sustain that he keeps consuming(not literally eating) powerful objects/artifacts/resources and possibly eventually living things (I’d imagine he'd still take work as a „please deal with this weird shit for us“ person and when he has to kill a cursed beast or whatnot... might aswell feed Aterika'Kaal?) (What also plays into that decision, and is part of Lyke justifying this to himself, is that without him, Aterika’Kaal would become too powerful. So he aims to function as kind of a conduit & control the power intake so to speak. I think this probably doesn’t work for very long.) I think this eventually goes bad for him because it’s super taxing on his body and the whole deal kind of flips with Aterika’Kaal feeding/keeping HIM alive. He starts finding bodies in the domain again (alternatively, Aterika'Kaal gets better at hiding them because it knows Lyke doesn't particulary like it when it does that). Lyke probably gets stronger due to this power/magic wise, but also way more fragile (he's constantly anemic!). („I love you. I want us both to eat well.“ - Christopher Citro) („When I write of hunger I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and it is all one.“ M.K. Fisher) Notes: I put some resources Lyke’s canonically had in-game + some extra stuff in this picture (the arrow is a reference to Marn’s epilogue, the bugs are bugs (with possibly sinister connotations. If you want them to have those, it’s optional) and the fur is from the Ravening Beast). Another detail I came up with I might aswell tell you because otherwise noone might ever know: the ring with the blue stone is a gift from Es. Sketch Notes: 1. Lyke turning his head to kiss a rose / exposing his neck was one of my very first ideas/sketches I made while working on this, and I liked it too much to not include it. 2. This is supposed to be Aterika'Kaal giving Lyke a blood transfusion but it rather looks like it's feeding on him instead...! I like how the relaxed pose turned out. 3. I wanted to draw something smaller in a simpler style to fill the big canvas I was drawing these on (even though now I put them in separate files anyways...). The day I drew this I saw a tweet about a medieval monks sketchbook, so I was still thinking about that. I didn't even plan to color it originally but I ended up getting invested, haha

Inspired mainly by these 3 quotes: „KEITH: I’m a walking- I am a shrine to Aterika’Kaal.“ (Sangfielle 12: The Secret Ledger of Roseroot Hall Pt. 4) „KEITH: There's a version of dealing with Aterika'Kaal that ends with Lyke being satisfied that he rehabilitated a god or at least it looks […] like what he thinks Aterika'Kaal would have been before the YVEs showed up. That's probably his main retirement path, but it also might kill him instead.” (Sangfielle 47: Wax, Iron, and Ichor Pt. 4) „AUSTIN: As you’re fading, the last thing that you do is make this blood sacrifice to Aterika’Kaal. Your own blood.“ (Sangfielle 52: Six Travelers: Lyke)

[melhekhelmurkun]

What is the point of fanfiction if not to manipulate canon to your will like an evil little guy spinning a web of lies

[crossbackpoke-check]

nosy anon again making a return because i think what my brain did was read that i helped find some kind of writing and then did not fully process what the writing was?? but upon rereading i am very intrigued if you ever get the urge to share i will be all eyes/ears/senses required to enjoy things!!

I GET TO DO WIP WEDNESDAYYYYYY!!! the writing exists mostly in the form of a tag (fantastic! 'verse) and also a thirty-two page doc of snippets and planning, so the sense you will be using most is imagination:

don't think i have ever actually formally written out anything about fantastic! 'verse but! the tl;dr of it is that it's a semi-college au: joel is still a hockey player for the lv phantoms, but morgan is a college student-athlete. it's incredibly relevant to the plot that joel falls in love with morgan in the check-out line of a wegman's, lies a little bit, and ends up going back to get his degree.

most of it is just good fun about college kids growing up, but i think there's a lot of parallels between making your way through a development system where traditional "success" isn't always guaranteed (ahl -> nhl, completion of higher education -> pursuit of a career) because that development system isn't always designed for you to "succeed" or have opportunities. heavy quotation marks around success because part of that struggle is learning what you want in life and how you define success. are your dreams achievable? are they still the same dreams you always used to have? it's infinite branching universes of would you still love me if i was a worm (ahl player forever) (a college dropout) (a college graduate) (older) (realizing the fallibility of your body) (uncertain of the future) (human).

silly little snippet:

[deltalunaris]

Another (more recent) WIP, because I’m feeling excitable & generous tonight.

This time of Delta the Voidhearted, one of many protagonists throughout ASITV. They carry a great, cosmic responsibility, despite their reluctance to fulfill it.

[ID: A dusky purple pseudo-feline with ear tufts, spidery whiskers, fluffy cheek and mane fur, lanky legs, and a bright white, star-like marking in the middle of their chest. They gaze upon the viewer with perked eyebrows, and an attentive stare.]

[brutal-nemesis]

get ready for my shitty wips

i uh. i've never had. a lot of wips. so this feels a bit silly but whatever it's for fun ig ✨ ty @toyybox

Rules: Pick a bunch of your WIPs and summarize them as badly as possible, then ask your followers to vote on which one they'd be most likely to read. Multiple/all/none options are completely optional.

Open tag because I'm eepy （；´д｀）ゞ

[crazynerdandproud]

I’m trying to write around 300 words every day and I couldn’t go to bed unless I at least tried to sit down and write. I’m happy to say that I slaved away and at the end wrote over a thousand words. Yay!

[sanshinexx]

a little wip for whoever might stumble upon this because i felt like posting one

[daydadahlias]

Omg I only said this because you said that you loved anon hate but now I genuinely feel so bad, I actually love the way you describe Ashton in every fic, sorry if i ruined it ::sob::

1) this is adorable and I love you

2) please enjoy a small collage of me being excited about getting fake anon hate

[bakingmoomins]

sometimes i open my wip folder and start trembling after seeing a very good concept i came up with and I need to scream for a second because i want to read it but that means I have to write

[bookishdiplodocus]

The Neurodivergent Writer’s Guide to Fun and Productivity

(Even when life beats you down)

Look, I’m a mom, I have ADHD, I’m a spoonie. To say that I don’t have heaps of energy to spare and I struggle with consistency is an understatement. For years, I tried to write consistently, but I couldn’t manage to keep up with habits I built and deadlines I set.

So fuck neurodivergent guides on building habits, fuck “eat the frog first”, fuck “it’s all in the grind”, and fuck “you just need time management”—here is how I manage to write often and a lot.

Focus on having fun, not on the outcome

This was the groundwork I had to lay before I could even start my streak. At an online writing conference, someone said: “If you push yourself and meet your goals, and you publish your book, but you haven’t enjoyed the process… What’s the point?” and hoo boy, that question hit me like a truck.

I was so caught up in the narrative of “You’ve got to show up for what’s important” and “Push through if you really want to get it done”. For a few years, I used to read all these productivity books about grinding your way to success, and along the way I started using the same language as they did. And I notice a lot of you do so, too.

But your brain doesn’t like to grind. No-one’s brain does, and especially no neurodivergent brain. If having to write gives you stress or if you put pressure on yourself for not writing (enough), your brain’s going to say: “Huh. Writing gives us stress, we’re going to try to avoid it in the future.”

So before I could even try to write regularly, I needed to teach my brain once again that writing is fun. I switched from countable goals like words or time to non-countable goals like “fun” and “flow”.

Rewire my brain: writing is fun and I’m good at it

I used everything I knew about neuroscience, psychology, and social sciences. These are some of the things I did before and during a writing session. Usually not all at once, and after a while I didn’t need these strategies anymore, although I sometimes go back to them when necessary.

I journalled all the negative thoughts I had around writing and try to reason them away, using arguments I knew in my heart were true. (The last part is the crux.) Imagine being supportive to a writer friend with crippling insecurities, only the friend is you.

Not setting any goals didn’t work for me—I still nurtured unwanted expectations. So I did set goals, but made them non-countable, like “have fun”, “get in the flow”, or “write”. Did I write? Yes. Success! Your brain doesn’t actually care about how high the goal is, it cares about meeting whatever goal you set.

I didn’t even track how many words I wrote. Not relevant.

I set an alarm for a short time (like 10 minutes) and forbade myself to exceed that time. The idea was that if I write until I run out of mojo, my brain learns that writing drains the mojo. If I write for 10 minutes and have fun, my brain learns that writing is fun and wants to do it again.

Reinforce the fact that writing makes you happy by rewarding your brain immediately afterwards. You know what works best for you: a walk, a golden sticker, chocolate, cuddle your dog, whatever makes you happy.

I conditioned myself to associate writing with specific stimuli: that album, that smell, that tea, that place. Any stimulus can work, so pick one you like. I consciously chose several stimuli so I could switch them up, and the conditioning stays active as long as I don’t muddle it with other associations.

Use a ritual to signal to your brain that Writing Time is about to begin to get into the zone easier and faster. I guess this is a kind of conditioning as well? Meditation, music, lighting a candle… Pick your stimulus and stick with it.

Specifically for rewiring my brain, I started a new WIP that had no emotional connotations attached to it, nor any pressure to get finished or, heaven forbid, meet quality norms. I don’t think these techniques above would have worked as well if I had applied them on writing my novel.

It wasn’t until I could confidently say I enjoyed writing again, that I could start building up a consistent habit. No more pushing myself.

I lowered my definition for success

When I say that nowadays I write every day, that’s literally it. I don’t set out to write 1,000 or 500 or 10 words every day (tried it, failed to keep up with it every time)—the only marker for success when it comes to my streak is to write at least one word, even on the days when my brain goes “naaahhh”. On those days, it suffices to send myself a text with a few keywords or a snippet. It’s not “success on a technicality (derogatory)”, because most of those snippets and ideas get used in actual stories later. And if they don’t, they don’t. It’s still writing. No writing is ever wasted.

A side note on high expectations, imposter syndrome, and perfectionism

Obviously, “Setting a ridiculously low goal” isn’t something I invented. I actually got it from those productivity books, only I never got it to work. I used to tell myself: “It’s okay if I don’t write for an hour, because my goal is to write for 20 minutes and if I happen to keep going for, say, an hour, that’s a bonus.” Right? So I set the goal for 20 minutes, wrote for 35 minutes, and instead of feeling like I exceeded my goal, I felt disappointed because apparently I was still hoping for the bonus scenario to happen. I didn’t know how to set a goal so low and believe it.

I think the trick to making it work this time lies more in the groundwork of training my brain to enjoy writing again than in the fact that my daily goal is ridiculously low. I believe I’m a writer, because I prove it to myself every day. Every success I hit reinforces the idea that I’m a writer. It’s an extra ward against imposter syndrome.

Knowing that I can still come up with a few lines of dialogue on the Really Bad Days—days when I struggle to brush my teeth, the day when I had a panic attack in the supermarket, or the day my kid got hit by a car—teaches me that I can write on the mere Bad-ish Days.

The more I do it, the more I do it

The irony is that setting a ridiculously low goal almost immediately led to writing more and more often. The most difficult step is to start a new habit. After just a few weeks, I noticed that I needed less time and energy to get into the zone. I no longer needed all the strategies I listed above.

Another perk I noticed, was an increased writing speed. After just a few months of writing every day, my average speed went from 600 words per hour to 1,500 wph, regularly exceeding 2,000 wph without any loss of quality.

Talking about quality: I could see myself becoming a better writer with every passing month. Writing better dialogue, interiority, chemistry, humour, descriptions, whatever: they all improved noticeably, and I wasn’t a bad writer to begin with.

The increased speed means I get more done with the same amount of energy spent. I used to write around 2,000-5,000 words per month, some months none at all. Nowadays I effortlessly write 30,000 words per month. I didn’t set out to write more, it’s just a nice perk.

Look, I’m not saying you should write every day if it doesn’t work for you. My point is: the more often you write, the easier it will be.

No pressure

Yes, I’m still working on my novel, but I’m not racing through it. I produce two or three chapters per month, and the rest of my time goes to short stories my brain keeps projecting on the inside of my eyelids when I’m trying to sleep. I might as well write them down, right?

These short stories started out as self-indulgence, and even now that I take them more seriously, they are still just for me. I don’t intend to ever publish them, no-one will ever read them, they can suck if they suck. The unintended consequence was that my short stories are some of my best writing, because there’s no pressure, it’s pure fun.

Does it make sense to spend, say, 90% of my output on stories no-one else will ever read? Wouldn’t it be better to spend all that creative energy and time on my novel? Well, yes. If you find the magic trick, let me know, because I haven’t found it yet. The short stories don’t cannibalize on the novel, because they require different mindsets. If I stopped writing the short stories, I wouldn’t produce more chapters. (I tried. Maybe in the future? Fingers crossed.)

Don’t wait for inspiration to hit

There’s a quote by Picasso: “Inspiration hits, but it has to find you working.” I strongly agree. Writing is not some mystical, muse-y gift, it’s a skill and inspiration does exist, but usually it’s brought on by doing the work. So just get started and inspiration will come to you.

Accountability and community

Having social factors in your toolbox is invaluable. I have an offline writing friend I take long walks with, I host a monthly writing club on Discord, and I have another group on Discord that holds me accountable every day. They all motivate me in different ways and it’s such a nice thing to share my successes with people who truly understand how hard it can be.

The productivity books taught me that if you want to make a big change in your life or attitude, surrounding yourself with people who already embody your ideal or your goal huuuugely helps. The fact that I have these productive people around me who also prioritize writing, makes it easier for me to stick to my own priorities.

Your toolbox

The idea is to have several techniques at your disposal to help you stay consistent. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket by focussing on just one technique. Keep all of them close, and if one stops working or doesn’t inspire you today, pivot and pick another one.

After a while, most “tools” run in the background once they are established. Things like surrounding myself with my writing friends, keeping up with my daily streak, and listening to the album I conditioned myself with don’t require any energy, and they still remain hugely beneficial.

Do you have any other techniques? I’d love to hear about them!

I hope this was useful. Happy writing!

[langernameohnebedeutung]

Something I really love about tumblr is that when I say in real life that "yeah I'm writing" or "actually, I wanted to write tonight" or "- in the thing I'm writing, I---", this is somehow a wild piece of information about me as a human being. Which, not to diss on people for showing genuine human interest but I keep forgetting that not everyone has a project. People irl will be like "Oh you are writing? Wow what are you writing about! What are you planning to do with it! Can I read it?"

Now, here on tumblr, it feels like everyone has a "writing" or at least it is normalised enough not to warrant a question. Yes, your writing, I get it. The "wip". The elusive "project" you are working on. Of course you're writing. That's just behaviour. We all do our daily little writing if we are not procrastinating our daily little writing and complain about our procrastinating, Doesn't require elaboration. You can easily never bring up your writing again after first mentioning that you are "writing" because no one is dumb-founded by learning this fact about you - or you can skip the basic "yes, I'm writing, no it's for fun, yes it is a story, yes fiction, yes I enjoy writing' - and delve head-first into the entire psychological depth and tell me all about your symbolism etc.

[bettyfrommars]

Whole Lotta Love

Eddie x fem!Reader

18+MDNI, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, pet names like baby and sweetheart, both Eddie and reader are over 20.

I received a request for a fic where, no matter how hard he tries, Eddie can't make you cum, and I was happy to do it because it's a much more common situation than how it's represented in most media. I'm not sure this is exactly what they were looking for, but it was a very fun thing to write. This Eddie had me giggling.

a/n: I wasn't sure I would finish this wip after I wrote the first two lines, but then I was in the mood yesterday and smashed it out. It was a very quick write, definitely not my opus, but a true joy, all the same. I hope you like.

wc: 3.1k

Eddie flopped onto his back, huffing out a satisfied breath. “That was so good,” he hummed. 

The fingers of one hand drew a lazy circle on his bare chest as it rose and fell, while his other hand scrambled over to capture yours.  

Shifting his gaze, he caught you staring at the ceiling, unblinking.  “Was that…did you…?”

“Um,” you paused.  It wasn’t that you were afraid to be truthful with him, but the fact that orgasms weren’t flying out of you at the same rate made you feel inadequate, like maybe you were the problem. 

He propped up on his forearm, searching your face, brow creased with concern.  “Did I hurt you or…?”

“No, no,” you rolled over, pulling the sheet up over your hips.  “It felt great.”

At that, he gave an actual sigh of relief.

“But, I didn’t cum.  Or at least, I don’t think I did.”

“You’re not sure?” 

You chewed at your top lip.  “No, I am sure.  I didn’t.”

He traced a few hearts on your shoulder with the tip of his calloused finger.  “Have you ever? With me?”

Your silence spoke volumes, and Eddie’s mind raced to all of the times you’d been intimate in the past few weeks since you’d been together.  He blamed himself for being too eager and sloppy, and shit—he was so crazy about you, it made him dizzy.  He couldn’t believe you let him touch you, let alone cum inside.  

His head snapped up.  “But what about that time I went down on you in the closet at Robin’s party? I swear I felt you—”

“I was close that time,” you admitted, remembering how your legs shook and that heat began to build, in the same way it did when you pleasured yourself.  “But then Gareth was shouting, looking for you and it went away.”

“Fucking Gareth,” he mumbled. “You were close then, okay.  Can I try that again? Now?”

He was already moving down the bed, palming the crook of your knee to slide your leg open.

You put your hand on his head, glancing over at the digital alarm clock.  “Not now, silly, I have to get ready for work.”

You wrapped the sheet around you and got to your feet, leaving Eddie to stare into space, alone with his tortured thoughts.  “Come over tonight?” He yelled while you were in the bathroom. “Wayne leaves for work at 6, we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

“I’ll come over,” you said with your mouth around a toothbrush.  You spat into the sink and then, “But I might be too tired for…other stuff,” your words were met with nothing but silence from the next room.  “We can watch a movie or something?”

Eddie appeared sullen in the doorway next to you in his checkered blue and white boxers. “Do you not want to have sex with me anymore?”

“No, baby I do!” You assured him, eyebrows high on your forehead.  You cupped some water into your mouth and spat it out while he ran his knuckle down your arm. “I really really want to, I just don’t want us to force this.  It’s okay if I don’t have an orgasm every single time.”

“Yeah but it’s not okay with me,” he muttered. 

You turned and planted kisses down his throat, dotting smooches along his collarbone, and then the final peck was on his pouty mouth. You rubbed the tip of your nose against his, “I’ll see you tonight.  I love you.”

—------

You parked on the other side of Eddie's van at the trailer that night and assessed the windows curiously.  At a glance, it looked like the living room had caught fire from the amount of candles that were lit. The song Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin poured out into the soft yellow light of the porch, and you knocked.  

A few raps of your knuckles were met with a loud curse and something like a metal pot crashed to the floor in the kitchen.  No one came to the door, so you entered with caution, and your senses were greeted with the smell of something burning in the oven.

Eddie was by the sink and he spun around with a startled look, wiping his hands down his jeans. He wore a Slayer shirt with the sleeves ripped off, and his feet were bare, letting you see the black toe nail polish you’d delicately painted on a few days earlier.  

“What’s with all this?” You blinked a few times, marveling at how tidy it was.  But also, there were at least 15 mismatched candles ablaze on the side table, the top of the tv, and the counter. 

He wiped his mouth and went over to greet you.   “I just wanted to set the mood,” he grinned, grabbing onto your hips to pull you close. “I read somewhere that the atmosphere can help with, you know.”

“You read somewhere?”

“Just one of those magazines at the grocery checkout.”

“I missed you,” he smiled against your mouth as you said it.  His warm skin smelled spicy and sweet, like he’d recently showered and put on cologne. The yearning you felt for him was all-consuming.  A few hours apart weighed on you like an eternity.  You tilted your head to deepen the kiss, and already your loins were giving you the nod like, “yep, we need to have him inside of us.”  You absolutely craved him on a sexual level, so why was it so hard to find your climax?  It seemed to come easy for everyone else in the world: everybody at the party was cumming but you.  

Eddie was nervous.  He hadn’t felt that out of his mind since the day he confessed he had feelings for you, but if you didn’t feel the same that would be cool, because he didn’t want to fuck up the friendship: you were too precious to him.  Your presence in his life made him feel sane and loved and seen in a way he’d rarely experienced in his life, if ever.  A miracle happened that day, and you’d flown into his arms, asking him what took him so long.

But what kind of boyfriend would he be if he couldn’t please you? In every way?

You watched a sitcom while you ate dinner on TV trays, and when you came back from using the restroom, he had everything put away, dishes thrown in the sink, and he was sitting very propper at the end of the couch, watching you expectantly.  

“Are you, um,” he cleared his throat.  “How are you feeling?”

This was weird, he thought. He was making it weird.  He needed to loosen up and not be so hyper focused on his mission.  Maybe you were tired, maybe you needed to let your spaghetti and burnt french bread settle.  

You straddled his lap, brushing hair away so that you could kiss his forehead. 

“I think I’m ready to try again,” you whispered, and then you ducked down to nibble his earlobe.  “Unless you’d rather stay here and—”

Before you could finish the thought, he was up and the two of you were moving out of the room and down the hall, kissing and fumbling with clothes as you went.  

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he nipped your jaw and side of your neck, banging the bedroom door open with the side of his fist. “I hate being away from you.”

There were a few candles around the bed too; on his nightstand, and a red one dripped wax from the window sill down the wall.  

You stopped abruptly, staring at the bed.  “Are those…rose petals?” 

“Tulips, actually,” he rushed to the scene and swiped the soft pink curls away with his arm. “That was stupid, I just thought it would be—”

You caught his mouth with yours, tongues lashing at each other in such an erotic way that a small moan escaped him. 

He wondered if that night would be the night he came in his jeans.

He wasn’t going to let himself cum before you, that was the plan.  He’d jerked off shortly before you’d arrived, but that didn’t mean shit because he was absolutely ready again.  

Suck it up, Munson.

All was off but for your underwear and while Eddie licked greedily at one of your nipples, you reached down to undo his button fly.  “Release the beast,” you cooed.  

He caught your wrist.  “Not just yet, I can’t, I mean, I want this to be about you.”

“I need an even playing field if I’m going to be relaxed enough to…you know.”

He couldn’t get his pants off fast enough at the urging of your hand that was quick to breach the waistband of his boxers to stroke him. He was rock hard and the tip was already weeping, needy for you.  

“Is this all for me?” You ran your thumb in circles over the tip.

Eddie tensed and huffed out a breath that fanned the hair away from his face.  “Fuck, baby, every inch.”

If he wasn’t sharp, he’d cum right there on the spot.

You bounced when your body hit the bed, and Eddie dropped to his knees between your legs.  The visible wetness on your panties were taking a toll on his already fragile state.  He wasn’t patient enough to take them off of you, he just put his mouth right on the material, nuzzling at your pussy through the fabric in a way that pulled a few sharp gasps out of you.  

“I missed her so much,” he pulled back the final barrier with one finger, licking a few times on your swollen lips, and then cursed.  “You’re so wet already.”

“Well, that’s what you do to me,” you propped up on your elbows to look down at him, sucking in your bottom lip at the sensation of his breath on you.

He slid your underwear off the rest of the way, trying to recall what he’d read in that Playboy article he read a while back? Something about writing out the alphabet, and the woman you are with won’t make it to “x” without cumming.

“How does this feel?” His tongue rolled along your folds in a way that made you wonder what he was doing.  He lost track of the letters at around “M”, hips bucking into the side of the bed, cock pulsing so hard, he had to reach down and take some of the pressure off.  

“G-good,” you gasped.  “Just like that but then, up a bit higher.”

You weren’t exactly an expert when it came to your own pleasure, either, you only knew what felt good when you touched yourself.  If Eddie made you cum, it would be the first time you ever experienced that with another person.  You wondered if you should tell him that.  

He followed your instructions, swallowing while he consumed you, until he found the tiny pearl treasure at the top and your grip tightened on him.

“Hmm I think I found it. Hey there pretty baby,” he murmured into your cunt rolling his tongue around the spot. 

“Yesyesyes, right thereeeee Eddieeee.”

The pressure and the speed was perfect and your hand went to his head for encouragement, but then he slowed down and moved locations, licking up the arousal that dripped down  your slit.

“Baby? Could you go back to that thing you were doing a second ago?”

He compiled without a word, trying to find the same pacing again, but the moment was gone. 

“Eddie—” you spread your legs wider as an invitation. “I really need you inside of me now.”

Well, he wanted that more than anything.  But one pump and it would be all over for his dignity.  His eyes were rolling back, seeing cartoon stars just thinking about it.  

Truth? He wasn’t going to make it.  

You noticed his hesitation.  “We can keep trying…after.  But I need to feel you.  It’s lonely up here.”

“You’re so beautiful it hurts,” he crawled up onto the bed, kissing along your stomach, up between your breasts as he went, and then nuzzled at your neck.  “My dick can wait until—”

But he choked on his last words when you took hold of him and rubbed the tip of his length along your wetness.

“Sssshittt,” his whole body trembled. 

Sliding himself in, becoming one with you, made him emotional in a way he’d be embarrassed to share with anyone else. 

“I love you so much,” your voice came out as a cry when he sank halfway in, locking eyes with you.  The stretch made you squeeze around him, eliciting a whimper from so far back in his throat that he wondered if it came from somewhere else, some far off place. 

Once he started to move, he thought about that sweet little pearl and lifted up enough to put his thumb there and move it around.  Your head went back and  you exposed your throat to him.

Eddie grimaced at how close he was, fuck that—he had to slow down.  The way he was touching you, it was making you stiffen like you had when he was on his knees, and he was taking note of everything.

But then you started telling him how bad you needed him to cum, to fill you up, to make you his.  He tried to hold out but then his eyes locked onto yours when you told him you loved him again and he couldn’t stop the wave once it started, no matter how hard he clenched his jaw and his buttcheeks.

One long babble came out of him as his thrusts got sloppy.  “Oh fuck I love you so much I’m cumming so hard, I’m…I’m…holy shit I love you.”

He didn’t ask if you had come that time, because he knew better.

After he caught his breath, he pulled you with him, twisting onto his side, slipping two fingers where his cock had been.  “What if I push all of this cum back inside so it will stay there? Hmm?”

You moaned against his mouth, grabbing a fistful of his hair.  “That feels good, keep doing that.”

“You like that?” He asked, just to be certain.

You nodded, and then, your hand slotted down between your bodies and his arousal spiked when he realized you were touching yourself.  

He curled his fingers to feel that soft, spongy spot, asking how fast you wanted it.

You couldn’t speak, your concentration was intense, eyes screwed shut. 

Oh sure, he was getting hard again.  The feel of his warm spend in your tight hole was doing nothing for his resolve.  

You clenched around him, and then he was whispering, “let me try again,” as he kept his digits buried and made his way down between your thighs.

His mouth had no trouble finding the treasure that time; it practically peeked up at him, begging for a resolution.  He relaxed his shoulders, breathed in the musk of your arousal, and took you into his mouth with a vibrating groan.

“Right there!” You hadn’t meant to scream it, but it was an actual eureka moment.  “Oh fuck Eddie, don’t stop…keep doing…keep doing that.”

He hadn’t moved his fingers in a while, but when he tried to incorporate that into the mix, you stopped him.  “Keep them still,” you held his head, locking him in place—not that there was anywhere else he wanted to be.  “Don’t move your hand just…Ahh yes yes…”

Your jaw went slack in a silent scream, but then his pace quickened, and before you knew what was happening, the blinding white wave crashed through you, rolling through your limbs like satin electricity, making you whine an extended, “cummingcummingcumming,” while you clung to his hair so you wouldn’t fall off the earth. 

Eddie was astonished to learn that could feel it happening.  The juicy walls around his fingers spasmed, fluttering like tight ripples, and he drove his tongue in eager circles, wondering if he could make you cum twice in one go.  Was that even possible? His heart all but flew out of his chest, it was beating so fast, and he moaned long and hard.

But after a bit, you were trying to push his mouth away.  “Wait wait, now it’s sensitive,” but he was so determined, he didn’t pull off until you physically lifted his head.  

He stared up at you, licking his wet, swollen lips.  

You were breathless, letting the final bits of glitter swim through your veins.  “That was—”

He kissed your cunt one two three times.  “That was what?”

He was grinning now, feeling like he’d just won the lottery, or at least a new car. The sense of satisfaction was officially unmatched.

He made his way up the bed to hold you, but you surprised him by taking his fingers into your mouth to suck them clean, dragging teeth along his flesh.  

“I’ve never cum that way with anyone else before,” you said in a whisper, but when he finally registered the weight of the words, his eyes widened.

“My sweetheart,” he pulled you flush against him, giddy, holding your face to brush his lips over yours. “I’m really your first?”

You gave his shoulder a teasing love bite. “And my last.”

“Oh nowww you’re in trouble,” he rolled on top of you, interlacing his fingers with yours to brace your hands above your head, and then he went to work munching at the side of your throat, growling as he did so.  

You screamed and giggled, realizing he was hard again as it nudged at your hip. “I see you’re ready for battle again.”

“I was born ready, baby,” he straightened to see your face. “You want to try a new position? I was reading this—”

The front door to the trailer burst open.

“What the hell? Edward? You tryin’ to burn the place down?”

It was Wayne.

Shit shit shit shit it was Wayne!

Home hours early from work, for whatever reason.

The door to the bedroom was wide open and his heavy footfalls were rapidly approaching from the hall.

Eddie threw the sheet up over you, and a few tulip petals fluttered to your face.  “I’ll be right there!” He shouted, trying to jump into his jeans. He missed a leg hole and stumbled back onto the mattress, making you snort out a laugh. 

He got to the door just in time to greet his Uncle, blocking any view of the room, buttoning his pants as he stood there.  

You could hear Wayne’s voice change. “Is, ah, is your girlfriend here? Sorry, I didn’t see her car.”

“No that’s cool, we were just—” and then he maneuvered him out into the hall, shutting the door behind him.

You lifted up to listen to their murmuring voices, and then Wayne asked, “why is there wax all over the carpet? Blow these fuckers out before the curtains catch fire.”

You had to bury your face in the pillow to muffle your laughter.