being delulu is the solulu

please stop using ai and not tagging it as ai

please stop using ai and not tagging it as ai

It does so much harm to actual human writers.

It does harm to the fandom & community because viewers trust they’re being fed authentic, human-made content.

Be honest. Your fandom, community, and human writers deserve transparency.

Girl i need to fantasies with a hot man that i don't have a chance on, not with a baby,please kill that thing

The Great Needle Heist (of JJ’s Sanity):

JJ is less then thrilled (to say the least) about getting his flu shot.

The drive to the clinic was the quietest JJ had ever been in his entire life. Usually, the truck was a symphony of his drumming fingers on the steering wheel, his off-key singing to the radio, and his constant stream-of-consciousness commentary on the quality of the surf.

Today, he was gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles were the color of bleached bone.

"JJ," you said softly, reaching over to put a hand on his arm. "You’re vibrating. Like, literally shaking the upholstery."

"I’m not vibrating, YN. I’m oscillating," JJ corrected, his voice an octave higher than usual. "It’s a natural physical response to being led to my own execution. It’s a survival instinct. My ancestors are screaming at me to turn the truck around and head for the marsh."

"It’s a flu shot, JJ. It takes three seconds. It’s for your own good. Remember when you got the flu last year? You thought you were seeing the ghost of Blackbeard in the living room."

"Blackbeard was a very polite guest, for the record," JJ muttered, pulling into the clinic parking lot with the reluctance of a man approaching the gallows. "And at least he didn't try to puncture my skin with a silver harpoon. This is a violation of my Pogue rights. My skin is a temple, sweetheart. A slightly scarred, sun-damaged temple, but a temple nonetheless."

You managed to get him out of the truck, but it took ten minutes of coaxing and a promise of pizza afterward. As you walked through the sliding glass doors of the clinic, JJ flinched at the smell of the antiseptic.

"Ugh. That smell," he hissed, leaning down to whisper in your ear. "That’s the smell of betrayal. That’s the smell of 'we’re going to hurt you but we’re wearing white coats so it’s okay.' I don't trust it. I don't trust the lighting. It’s too bright. It’s designed to disorient the prey."

"You are not the prey," you laughed, guiding him toward the check-in desk. "You’re a grown man who survived a shipwreck."

"Exactly! I survived a shipwreck! I’ve been bitten by things in the water that don't even have names yet! Why am I paying a professional to do it on land?"

When the nurse called his name—"Maybank, Jesse?"—JJ looked like he wanted to bolt. He stood up slowly, his eyes darting toward the emergency exit. You grabbed his hand, weaving your fingers through his to anchor him.

"I'm right here, Jesse," you teased, using his full name.

"Don't Jesse me," he groaned. "Only the law and people with needles call me Jesse."

The exam room was small, and JJ seemed to take up the entire space. He sat on the crinkly paper of the exam table, which let out a loud shriek under his weight. He jumped nearly six inches.

"The paper is screaming! Even the furniture is terrified!" JJ exclaimed, pointing at the table. "YN, look at my heart rate. I can feel it in my toes. I’m pretty sure I’m having a medical event. We should probably cancel the shot and focus on my heart."

"Your heart is fine, you big baby," you said, standing between his knees and placing your hands on his shoulders. "Look at me. Look at my eyes. Forget the tray, forget the nurse."

The nurse walked in, carrying the small, plastic tray. She was a kindly older woman who had clearly seen her fair share of "tough guys" melt down.

"Alright, Jesse. Just a little pinch," she said, reaching for a cotton swab.

JJ’s head snapped toward her. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Slow down, Florence Nightingale. Let’s talk about the logistics here. What’s the gauge on that thing? Is that a harpoon? Is it a standard-issue needle or did you get that from a medieval museum?"

"It’s a standard pediatric needle, honey," the nurse smiled. "You won't even feel it."

"Pediatric? You’re using a kid’s needle on me? That’s insulting. I mean, thank you, but also, I have thick skin. I’m a laborer. I work with my hands. What if the needle snaps off like a toothpick? Then we’ve got a real situation. We’ve got a 'JJ-in-the-ER' situation."

"JJ," you warned, your voice firm. "Deep breath. Now."

JJ squeezed your hand so hard you thought your bones might actually fuse together. He shut his eyes tight, his entire face scrunching up like he was tasting a lemon.

"Okay," he panted. "Okay. I’m doing it. I’m a Pogue. I’m a warrior. I’m a... IS THAT THE SYRINGE? I SAW A GLINT! I SAW A REFLECTION OF DEATH!"

"JJ, keep your arm limp!" you commanded.

"I can't! My muscles are in a state of high alert! They’re protecting the bone!"

The nurse moved in with the alcohol wipe. JJ let out a hiss of air through his teeth. "Cold! Why is it always so cold? Is the cold part of the psychological warfare?"

"One... two... and done," the nurse said, quickly pressing a Band-Aid onto his arm.

JJ stayed frozen. His eyes were still squeezed shut, his jaw locked. "Did she do it? Did she strike? Am I bleeding out? Tell me the truth, [YN], don't sugarcoat it. How much time do I have left?"

"It’s over, JJ," you laughed, rubbing his arm. "Look. You’ve got a Band-Aid with a little crab on it."

JJ opened one eye. He looked down at his arm. He blinked.

"That was it?" he asked, his voice returning to its normal, cocky pitch. "That’s all you got, Doc? I’ve had mosquito bites in the marsh that were more traumatic than that. I didn't even feel it. I was basically meditating."

"You were screaming about medieval museums two seconds ago," you reminded him, grabbing your purse.

JJ hopped off the table, the crinkly paper giving one last protest. He adjusted his cap and flexed his arm, admiring the crab Band-Aid in the mirror.

"I was merely providing a distraction to test the nurse’s focus," JJ said, his swagger returning in full force. "She passed, by the way. Excellent technique. But let’s be real, it was my superior pain tolerance that made that look easy."

As you walked back out to the truck, JJ was already planning his "survival" story for the rest of the Pogues.

"I'm gonna tell John B the needle was six inches long," JJ decided, hopping into the driver's seat. "And that I didn't even flinch. I’m gonna tell him I looked the nurse in the eye and said, 'Is that all you got?'"

"I have a voice recording of you asking if the paper was screaming," you said, holding up your phone with a devious grin.

JJ stopped, his hand on the key. He looked at the phone, then at you.

"How much pizza is it gonna cost me to delete that evidence?"

"Two large pies. Extra pepperoni. And you have to admit that I was the brave one today."

JJ sighed, a dramatic, long-suffering sound, but he reached over and pulled you into a lopsided hug, kissing your temple.

And I still see some of yall say ‘make this fic into a character ai pls!’

WE ARE RUNNING OUT OF WATER

Get off those god forsaken generative ai apps or you will go down with those who care

Especially those of you in the fanfic community, you steal your own work by going on c.ai and simultaneously kill us

For those who don’t know, ai takes from fresh water to cool its computer systems and the water can’t be recycled. ChatGPT alone uses 500 million gallons of water a day, and the AI industry used more water last year than the plastic water bottle industry. It also produces nothing original and takes from artists and writers alike.

It’s boring in the apartment, the rain having washed out any prior date ideas you two had thrown around. Life is completely silenced from the cold droplets of water. You’d been cuddling on the couch for the past three hours, one random movie starting and ending, only to be followed with another one that Eijirou can’t bring himself to care about.

But hey. You’re cute. And you’re looking at him with mischief in your eyes. Might as well indulge you.

“Emotionally or physically?”

Eijirou’s never been the kind to take your bait, either positive or negative; he’s always been able to read you like a book, keeping tabs on when you’re feeling playful or when something is truly bothering you, when you’re hungry or truly annoyed, and despite reading the novel time and time again, it’s one he continues to see through every day.

And right now, based on the cheeky look you’re giving him, he knows you’re too playful for your own good.

You gently knock your head against his, as if trying to provoke him in the cutest way possible, “I dunno; are you always this clueless?”

Physical.

He smirks, bringing a mammoth hand to cup the back of your neck, squeezing the meat of it gently, “I don’t know; you’re the one who agreed to date me.”

“What a mistake,” you scoff.

And yes, Eijirou likes to try and make you work for his attention when you’re feeling playful, he likes the little whines and pawing you send his way, the way you smother his face in non-penetrating bites and rough squishes of his cheeks with obscene and absurd words about how cute he is.

But sometimes, his hands hooking under your arms is plenty, as he forces you down onto the couch. Occasionally, the playful, fake punches he delivers to your laughing tummy do just the trick. The squeals of excitement you give him tell him everything he needs to know about how badly you wanted and how badly you needed this attention.

"You! Are! So! Mean! To! Me!" He prompts each of the words with more playful, barely connecting punches, watching as you bat his hands away and try to curl in on yourself, despite him being positioned between your legs. You writhe, giggling and squealing at the gentle touch not quite matching the not-so angry words. "Why!"

"B-Because you're lameee!" You manage, and oh, Eijirou's jaw slacks at the words.

All before a smirk curls on his cheeks.

"I'm lame?" He scoffs, hands mercilessly squeezing your hips and relishing in the screams you give him, "I'm lame, I indulge your feral behaviors and this is how you repay me? Telling me I'm lame?"

You don't answer, you can't, not when he leans down to pepper kisses on your neck and whisper raspily in your ear, "lemme tell you something, brat- you are the lame one here. I, on the other hand, am so strong, so suave, so smart-"

"And lame!"

He pauses his fingers and his words before raising back up straight. You twitch occasionally, trying to prepare for the next attack from your boyfriend.

With the tip of his tongue licking his bottom lip in an attempt to convey a lack of amusement (even though he's thoroughly enjoying himself), you scream out as he grabs one of your wrists in his big hand, bringing it up above you. You try desperately to tug it out of his grip, but you're quick to scream out "NO, NO, NO!" when he manages to catch your other and in his grip and marry your two wrists together under one heavy palm. You're absolutely flailing, trying so hard and failing to free yourself from his merciless grip.

To no avail.

everyone knows the office is a breeding ground for rumors, scandals, and secrets. kento often prides himself on steering clear of those, but no matter how hard he tries to keep his distance; the coworkers around him are always buzzing with new stories and scandals.

truthfully, he hates his job and finds it utterly unfulfilling, but he endures it all for the steady income.

tonight, the two of you are sprawled together in the living room. some sitcom plays on the tv, providing the background noise for your evening, though neither of you is really paying attention. kento has just finished telling you, almost offhandedly – about how a coworker’s boyfriend got caught cheating with her best friend. apparently, it’s the latest headline that’s got everyone buzzing in the office lately.

your eyes widen as you grab onto the nearest pillow, fingers squeezing the fabric in anticipation. “hold on… so she caught her boyfriend cheating on her, with her own best friend?! did she at least slapped one of them?! i need ALL the full details now!” you demand, barely able to sit still.

your grip on the pillow tightens as you wait for his response, hoping for the next juicy revelation – only to be met with his trademark stoicism.

“… i’m not really sure, honey. i didn’t think to ask.” he shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. if there’s one thing about kento, it’s that he’ll give you all the headlines but never the full scoop. clearly, men just aren’t built for providing all the good gossip—which honestly sucks.

“waitt… why not!?” you groaned, tossing your head back dramatically against the couch.

he blinks, looking genuinely confused by your clear distress. “it felt rude to pry. besides, i figured if they wanted me to know, they’d tell me themselves.”

for a moment, there’s a beat of silence. the tv flickers idly, casting shifting patterns of light across the coffee table but you’re too busy side-eyeing your husband. letting out a theatrical sigh, you flop sideways across the couch, head coming to rest against his lap while your legs stretch out dramatically over the armrest.

you squint up at him, your toes wiggling off the edge almost like a silent protest at his utter deficiency in spilling all the good stuff. “you’re honestly a lost cause… how are you this bad at collecting all the deets?!”

he only lets out a quiet huff, a resigned little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “it’s not that i’m unwilling to gossip, i just prefer to mind my own business,” he answers simply.

you narrow your eyes, unable to hold back a teasing grin. “nooo, you’re just a ‘grandpa.’ next thing i know you’ll be telling me about the rising grocery prices and how loud the neighbours are.”

he raises an eyebrow, deadpan. “well, the neighbours have been a bit loud lately…”

“kento!” you groaned, but your stern tone cracks as a giggle escapes.

“… see! you’re proving my whole point.”

he sighs in defeat, gently scooping you into his lap despite all your protests. his arms wrap securely around you—solid and grounding, the faint scent of his citrusy cologne settling around you like a comfort blanket. “… maybe being a grandpa isn’t so bad after all,” he mutters, voice low and content. “i don’t really care much for office gossip, coming home to you is simply enough.” he adds.

“well then, lucky for you… i’ve got a soft spot for charming grandpas.” you shoot back, fingers looping lazily around his collar.

he presses a kiss to your temple, utterly unbothered. “… i’m glad that you do.”

a/n: not proofread, and i fear this might just be canon 😭

─ · · smut, cockwarming, morning cuddles

Morning comes slowly on the surface. It's all honey light and sunkissed warmth dripping through the curtains; a luxury Wriothesley only rarely gets to experience. It feels dreamlike, to have the sun on his skin instead of prison lamps, the weight of blankets instead of his coat, and you, soft and warm. He is holding you tightly, the embrace alone reveals that you are something he refuses to surrender.

He wakes before you. He always does. It gives him a few stolen minutes to simply look, to memorise the way sleep makes your features softer, to feel your body curl back into his firm chest. His arm is snug around your waist, as if his body decided in the night that he wasn't letting you go just yet. He would rather endure the slight tingles in his limb than lose the pleasure of holding you.

One day after his birthday, and the world underneath already awaits to dig their claws into their beloved Duke yet more.

But Wriothesley isn't quite ready for that business yet. He rather dares to let his other hand drift from the curve of your hip up to your waist, the pads of his fingers tracing the lines of skin and softness beneath the sheets. A pleased little hum tunes in his throat, a private sound made of contentness and fondness, before he shifts just enough that the two of you fit even closer, like puzzle pieces interlinking.

You didn’t notice the mistletoe at first.

One second you were mid-sentence, hands full of something warm and festive, the room loud with laughter and clinking glasses. The next, a broad hand hooked lightly around your wrist and tugged you backward with casual certainty.

“Careful, ma.” He murmured, voice low and amused. “You’re standing somewhere dangerous.”

You looked up.

Green leaves and white berries, hanging innocently enough, like it hadn’t already sealed your fate.

Your face heated instantly. “Toji, seriously?”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming, the corners of his mouth curling like he’d won something. “House rules.”

Before you could argue, he dipped his head and kissed you. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was the kind of kiss that made it clear he had all the time in the world and intended to use it. His hand slid to your lower back, warm and grounding, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

When he pulled away, you were breathless and flustered, scowling even as your hands stayed fisted in his shirt.

“That was unnecessary.” You said.

He hummed. “Didn’t feel unnecessary.”

You escaped the moment he let you, disappearing into the room with your dignity only mildly singed. However, you should’ve known better.

The second time, he caught you by the waist as you passed beneath it, lifting you just enough to steal another kiss. Shorter this time; smugger.

“Again?” You hissed when he set you down.

He shrugged. “Y’didn’t say it was a one-time thing, ma.”

After that, it became a pattern.

Every time you wandered too close, he was there: a hand at your hip. Fingers laced with yours. A quiet, pleased sound when he pulled you under the mistletoe like it was his personal excuse. Sometimes the kisses were slow and lingering. Sometimes they were quick, stolen things that left your pulse racing.

At one point, you caught him standing beneath it alone, arms crossed, watching you from across the room.

Your eyes narrowed. “You are not subtle.”

He grinned. “Never claimed to be.”

When you finally gave in and walked over on your own, his expression softened just a touch - just enough.

“Thought you might give in.” He jested.

This time, when he kissed you, there was no teasing rush. Just his enveloping warmth, and the quiet understanding that he’d keep finding excuses to pull you close, mistletoe or not.