i don't even know what's this


“Just when I think I could have a decent conversation with you. We’re done here!”

*Chuckles* “I’ll bring Beau around 3PM.”

“You and your stallion dare come this side of the fence.”

“Willow ain’t gonna hold up against Beau’s charms… just as her owner can’t resist mine for too long.”

“If I get my hands on you…”

“I’m counting the moments for just that, baby.”

igot5secsofbts  asked:

Hi😊. I just started making my own content on my blog and was wondering if you could help me out with any tips on how to develop my own style when it comes to my works or where to get some inspiration for my writings. I’m asking you because I really like your works and you seem like you would give some good advice on this subject. Thanks😊

Do people really give advice on how to develop a style or find inspiration?  It seems like those are the two things that are so completely inherent to who you are as a writer and dependent on your individuality that advice would be somewhat pointless. My advice would be to just write whatever comes into your head and see where that takes you. 

Inspiration is different for every person and for every story.  I don’t pretend to be anything more than a smut writer.  Most of my inspiration comes from sexual desire and a sudden need to see some idea manifest itself on my computer screen.  SPOILER ALERTS!!! Some examples from my writing are: Worth the Wait was inspired by a desire to show premature ejaculation in a story.  Nursemaid was inspired by this GIF of Jimin where he looked like he was in a state of ecstasy and I just suddenly thought – “He needs to get a handjob.”  Unexpected was inspired by my perverse interest in sloppy seconds and the lack of stories that explored that particular kink. Conditioned was inspired by the random desire to make Taehyung jerk off in public under orders from a more dominant woman.  None of these are high minded or complicated.  It’s all pretty base.  But then I take that idea and start thinking, “How can I put these into a context that seems feasible and real?”  

Using Conditioned as an example, I had to figure out how to make the fantasy of Tae jerking off in public seem not entirely insane.  So then I toy with different ideas.  Where is he?  Who is he with? How did he get there?  Why is he willing to perform this act?  What is he feeling?  Why is he feeling this way?  So I come up with the idea of Tae meeting up with his teenage crush and he is instantly reminded of the horny teenager with no sexual outlet he used to be and now he wants to fulfill his past desires.  So then I think of how I can get him in a position to meet this former crush – thus the blind date scenario – and I just start writing.  While I’m writing, the story starts to unfold.  I know a lot of people have everything planned out ahead of time. I do not.  I have a rough idea of where I’m starting and where I think I’m headed, but everything in between just unfolds organically.  In this case, the idea of having the OC hooking up with Jimin was a spontaneous decision that I made to force Tae to work harder at gaining her attention and then I used that as a guide for the rest of the chapter.  I was only planning on having a couple paragraphs showing the OC’s and Tae’s backstory as teens, but once I started, I just kept going, so it was much more detailed than I ever intended.  I wasn’t even sure how I was going to get the two of them alone together as I was writing, but I’ve learned to just keep writing and look for the opportunities as they arise – so eventually it made sense that the OC might need to excuse herself to go to the bathroom and that was the opening for Tae to make a move.  

The subsequent chapters have all been an outgrowth from that original chapter.  I start thinking, “What happens next? How does everyone feel about what happened in Chapter 1?”  And then I keep going.  As I write the following chapters, I start to get a sense of where the longer term plot is headed.  I was writing chapter 3 before I had any idea of where I planned on taking the overarching plot.  So, as of right now, I have a rough idea of what the ending should be, but I have no clue how I’m going to get there. I’m more character driven than plot driven, so I just trust that it will all work out in the end if I stay true to my characters and keep writing.

All my stories follow a similar path from inspiration to creation.  I’m not saying that’s the way you should do it because everyone is very different in their approach and what they are comfortable with.  I’ve tried mapping out detailed plot summaries and profiles in advance, but I still end up going off the rails and ending up with a story that I never expected to write.  Maybe you are the more organized type.  Maybe you have well thought out ideas and whole plot lines you want to express.  Do what feels natural to you.  The most important thing is to just get started.  You will refine the rest over time.

me: i’m a good writer. i know my worth and i’m confident in my skill set and i know i can do this. 

me, five minutes later: what if i’m terrible? what if everyone who has ever read my work and thought it was good was lying? too afraid to tell me the truth? blackmailed by aliens? what if everything i write is terrible and too scattered/forced/hollow what if i don’t know how to make a sentence. where do verbs go. how do u emotion


“You grew up.”

He laughs, rough and edging just slightly on bitter.

“Yeah, that happens when you disappear for two years.”

Derek’s eyes flit downward, and Stiles waits for him to comment on the FBI vest strapped to his chest but he doesn’t. His eyes only go so far as Stiles’ mouth, flicking back to his eyes and then down again, lingering, before sliding away. A warmth blooms out from Stiles’ chest, crawling up his neck and coiling downward, and this definitely isn’t the time for this but they haven’t seen each other in a year and a half, not even pictures because why the hell would Stiles have a picture of Derek (and he’s spent too long cursing not having pictures of Derek) and he finds his own eyes lingering.

“…You look exactly the same.” And that’s not true because Derek actually looks better, but there’s no real way to explain that Stiles hadn’t been able to hold all of the goddamn perfection of Derek’s face in his memory. He’d thought he had, but his eyes keep flitting around now and holding, catching on little details, little rushes of rediscovery in those eyes, that jaw, his teeth, his mouth, his…

Stiles wets his lips, and Derek’s looking again.

“We should––”

“I should have called,” Derek says at the same time, and Stiles blinks, breaking off, confusion pinching his brows because Derek hadn’t known Stiles was coming. He’d had no reason to call. Except… “After… Peter told me what happened, and I…”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t, but it wasn’t any less fine than anything else from that shit show. It wasn’t any worse than Derek leaving town and getting rid of his phone to begin with.

“I felt sick the whole time you were gone,” Derek presses on, quick and urgent, like the words had been fighting for months to bubble loose and are finally breaking free. “I felt… Cora said it seemed like I’d just… emptied out. On the full moon, I could barely––”

Stop it.” It stung, because he’d thought Derek would care. For the longest time he’d felt like Derek should care, and deciding he didn’t was the first stepping stone to pulling himself together after… after the Benefactor.

Or… fuck, maybe Derek had cared, but he hadn’t cared enough to stay, to keep in contact, to check in when Stiles had needed… needed someone.

No, fuck. Needed him.

“This isn’t the time,” he says, firmly, because a fucking FBI SWAT team is nearby somewhere and there’s still a target painted on Derek’s back, and the fact that Stiles wants to crawl onto his lap and beat the crap out of him at the same time doesn’t matter, because Stiles is here to save his life. Again.

Derek parts his lips, looks like he wants to argue… and ends up just nodding, looking away up the street.

Stiles makes it a whole three steps toward the next corner before swinging back on him, balled fist smacking his bicep.

“Why didn’t you call?”

Derek doesn’t flinch at the blow. Sighs softly. When he meets Stiles’ eyes, the look in them’s enough to send months of coiled anger scattering.

“I would have gone back.”

“…What?” Stiles feels breathless on the word. Derek looks away, hands lost in the depths of his pockets and stance set in the defeated posture of a man with no way to win.

“If I’d heard your voice. If you’d asked. If you’d even sounded anything less than happy––” He grits his teeth, sharp and sudden, head ducking against some ugly thought. “…And I didn’t want to hear you happy, either.” That falls out lower, tight and rough like a secret shame.

“You didn’t want to hear me happy,” Stiles echoes, numb, and then slowly: “Without you.”

And he only understands Derek’s meaning because it’s been echoing in his own chest for over a year–– that stupid, selfish war of wanting to know he’s happy, and not wanting to know he’s happy, not wanting to hear him making a life and finding bliss in a way Stiles couldn’t give him. He’d always wanted to know Derek was doing well, so much that he’d lain up at night sometimes picturing new, bright, sometimes ridiculously corny futures for him… but the thought had always been as agonizing as it was hopeful and Stiles had never slept well afterward. And then he’d spent other nights up hating himself for being selfish enough to half-hope Derek might not be happy.

Might fail out there in the world, and come home.

Derek’s eyes are on his again, wide and shock-soft in a way Stiles had only glimpsed on him once before: the rush of thinking you’re alone in the world and realizing for one beautiful instant that you’re understood

He can feel a matching expression lighting up his own eyes.

“We’re idiots,” he breathes, and Derek shakes his head, barely seeming to feel the movement.

“I couldn’t go back there.”

“But you could have known I fucking missed you as much as––” He breaks off, despite everything suddenly unsure. “…you missed me?”

“I missed you.” Derek promises, not missing a beat.

“You missed me,” Stiles echoes, and it’s everything he never knew he needed to hear. They watch each other for too long, stunned, awed stillness.

And then the slam of a car door in the distance pulls them back; reminds them where they are and what’s happening. Derek blinks away, looking out and alert toward the street, but Stiles can see a faint flush around his ears, a happy pull that won’t quite die on his lips.

“This isn’t the time,” Derek says, and Stiles nods. There are villains to stop. People to save.

“This isn’t the time,” he echoes, but he’s smiling as he turns to head up the street. “Later.”

It sounds like a promise worth keeping.