Fiction - Blog Posts

Hello everyone, new writer here!!

I have some writing ideas in mind but I thought it'd be wiser to start off by writing what you guys want to read first then I might elaborate the projects I already have in mind.

GENERAL INFOS:

English isn't my first language so please be bear with me if I make any mistakes (which will happen for sure)

I probably won't write for a male!reader. Nothing against male readers, of course, but I feel that I don't have enough writing skills to write as well for a man as I would for a woman. That being said, I still might try it out in the future if it's something that many of you want. Gender neutral is also totally fine to me!

Keep in mind that I'm still studying so I might not be always able to post the same day someone sends a request, but I'll try to write my fics in no more than 3 days after the commission

If any fic I write contains spoilers from the book/series/movie THERE WILL BE A WARNING so that I don't ruin anything to anyone🤗

FANDOMS I WRITE FOR:

The Arcana

Dragon Age, all four games

Game of Thrones, all series and books

Kingdom of Heaven

Lord of the Rings, Silmarillion and other book characters included

Baldur's Gate 3

Death Note

My Hero Academia

If you want fics from other fandoms you can still ask me and I'll do some research on it so that I can make something, but it will take more time ofc.

THINGS I WON'T DO (smut related):

Anything revolving a lack of consent so no noncon, dubcon, cnc,...

Pedophilia and zoophilia (ew)

Any naughty actions related to any sort of bodily discharge (period excluded)

Any butt stuff related activities, no shame in who likes it at all but it's something that I just don't like personally and wouldn't be comfortable writing

I think that is all you guys need to know for now, once I'll get enough fics done I'll add the masterlist in this post too so you guys can see if my writing is of your liking.

Byeeee hope I'll see you in the requests!!!!

I’m writing this so there’s some kind of record in case I die. When I die, maybe. The longer this has gone on the more inevitable that has felt. I don’t know why this is happening or who is doing it to me. I wish I could point a finger at someone so the cops or whoever finds me after all this is over can get the bastard doing this, but…there’s nothing. Nothing!

I think I’m getting ahead of myself, though.

I’ll start at the beginning.

No one gets regular mail anymore. Everything is done through email or DMs. I mean, people still get junk mail and stuff, but not like mail-mail. I think that’s what made me so curious when I got the first envelope.

It didn’t have my address on it, or any stamps, or even a return address. Just my name written in a tidy script in the very center of the white rectangle. It wasn’t a legal envelope—more like the kind birthday cards come in. I don’t know why, but at the time it unnerved me. It wasn’t anywhere near my birthday, and the handwriting didn’t look like anyone’s I knew.

The envelope isn’t what’s important, though. I mean, it kind of is, but what was inside the envelope was more important.

The flap was tucked into the envelope, unsealed. When I opened it, two Polaroid pictures spilled out into my hand, one after the other in an eager cascade. If I didn’t know better, I would have said they jumped out of the envelope.

Curious and more confused by the moment, I flipped the pictures over.

The first one looked like something out of a horror movie. It showed a large concrete (or what I assumed was concrete) room. Concrete walls, floor, ceiling. In the center of the room was a hooded lamp hanging down over a person, naked, and tied to a chair. They were slumped forward, body weight straining against the ropes that bound them to the non-descript metal chair.

I blinked down at the thing, confused and more than a little worried. I had no idea why someone would send this to me. The shadows in the picture were too thick to make out the person’s face. I wondered if it was someone I knew, if this was supposed to be some kind of ransom demand, but there was no note accompanying the photos. My heart was already hammering as I looked at the other photo, hoping to find answers.

Instead, I found a picture of my face.

There, in halide and plastic, was my fucking face.

A pit opened up in my stomach as I stared down at it and my brain went blank. It refused to comprehend what was in front of it. In the photo, a gloved hand held a fistful of my hair, yanking it backward so my limp head rose enough to make me recognizable. My features were slack, like I was half-asleep or maybe drugged. I looked back to the gloved hand, but the wrist and arm were both covered by the sleeve of a sweater, making any guess as to who they were impossible.

It felt like the air had been punched out of me. I realized I was shaking, but couldn’t bring myself to look away from the half-lidded eyes—my eyes—in the picture.

I thought it had to be Photoshop—what else could it be?—but how do you Photoshop a Polaroid? It was one thing to create a Polaroid effect in the program, but that didn’t mean you could create a physical one. I’m not gonna lie, I don’t know much about photo editing, but I supposed it was possible to Photoshop something like this and then take a picture with the Polaroids. But I couldn’t see anything in the pictures to indicate they weren’t legitimate. Either way, I couldn’t stomach whatever sick joke someone was trying to play.

I tossed the photos in the trash, and tried to put it from my mind.

And before you ask: yes, I thought about going to the police, but I didn’t think they would do anything. Technically speaking, no crime had been committed so even if I insisted on making a report, and even if I could convince them to dust for fingerprints or whatever cops do, I had little confidence that whatever this was wouldn’t be filed away and never see the light of day again. And, I guess, part of me just wanted to forget about it. Can you blame me? Those pictures freaked me out and I just wanted to pretend it never happened.

A week later, thought, there was another envelope in my mailbox. Same nondescript white envelope, unsealed, with my name written in unfamiliar, tidy handwriting.

My first instinct was to toss it into the trash without looking at the contents. No way in hell did I want to see more freaky pictures made to look like I was being held captive or…or worse.

To this day, I wish I had listened to my gut and thrown the envelope away—better yet, I wish I had burned it.

But I didn’t.

I can’t explain it. Even if I was a better wordsmith, I don’t think I could put into words the compulsion I had to open that envelope. It would be easier, even, to say that it was as if I was possessed—that it wasn’t really me unfurling the flap that had been tucked into the stiff white paper backing, or like I was being controlled when I pulled the next two photos out of the sheaf. But none of that is true. It was me. I did those things and I will never—never—stop regretting that I did.

Like last time, there were a pair of Polaroid pictures in the envelope.

But the images were…not like last time.

It was still my face in the images, and as best I could tell they—I?—was still in the concrete room. The same black-gloved hand had a grip on my hair, but this time…

(Jesus fucking Christ even just typing the words is hard; my hands are shaking just remembering it)

This time it looked as if I had been beaten bloody. The face—my face—was beaten almost beyond recognition. The only thing I had to really indicate that it was still me was the bone-deep feeling of recognition I had with the person in the image. My lips were swollen, bleeding from a split in the corner of the bottom lip. Bruises darkened my face, a cut on one cheek bone indicated where I’d been hit especially hard, and the eye on that side looked swollen and bloodied. Blood dribbled from my hairline and ran in rivulets down the side of my face.

Just looking at the picture made me feel like I needed to bolt. I wasn’t sure where I would go or for how long, but the need to get out of my home and go somewhere—anywhere else—was intense. But how could I go? I had no way of knowing who was doing this. They could be anyone I spoke to on the street. Someone I knew. A stranger. Where could I even go that would be safe?

I fought to control my breathing as I paced in my kitchen, needing to move my body before I screamed. It took all of my willpower just to stay indoors instead of running out into the streets and just run, run, run.

Finally, I looked at the other image.

A second hand had entered the frame, wearing black gloves like the first one and holding a pair of pliers. The rusted metal tips were inside my mouth, clamped onto a bloodied tooth already halfway out of a socket. My face was still swollen and beaten, lips stretched wide in a silent scream that I could all but hear. Tears made clean streaks through the rivers of blood on my face.

I remembering swearing over and over, my spine slick with sweat as I looked at the image over and over, trying to discern anything that could help me find out who was sending these fucked up images and why, but there was nothing. It felt like there was too much air in my little kitchen and yet I couldn’t get any of it into my lungs.

That was the first time I’d had a panic attack.

I didn’t know what it was until my friends found me a short time later, huddled in a corner and hyperventilating. In full honesty, the rest of that night was a blur. I remember my friends helping me drink water, trying to talk me down from whatever ledge they thought I’d climbed to. Despite my fears and uncertainties of who could be sending the pictures, I made the choice to trust them. Desperate for someone to see what I was seeing and help me figure out what to do or who to talk to, I tried to show them the Polaroids, but when they looked at the pictures, there was only a square of darkness, as if whoever had taken the picture had left the lens cap on.

The pictures were gone.

And yeah, I get the whole ‘pics or it didn’t happen’ thing. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to convince my friends or the police without proof. The next time the envelope showed up, I tried to take pictures with my phone. The one after that, I tried to record a video. It didn’t matter. No matter what I did, the files were corrupted, unusable, or gone. Just gone. Deleted themselves so thoroughly I couldn’t even dig them out of the trash folder in my phone gallery.

At that point, I thought I’d lost my mind. I couldn’t think of a single logical reason why or how this was happening. Not for the Polaroids, or why no one else could see them, or what was going on with the digital files. None of it.

Meanwhile, the images in the Polaroids were getting…worse.

A sick feeling rolled in my stomach daily. As much as I wanted to believe these were some kind of deep fake, there was something about it that felt so undeniably real. It got to a point where I couldn’t go out to my mailbox without the anxiety forcing me to empty the contents of my stomach. I had to wait until someone came to visit and ask if they could get my mail for me. And there was always an envelope along with whatever junk or bills that had been piling up. Every. Single. Time.

The stress made my life impossible. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t go to work. I couldn’t even leave the house most days. If I did, there was always the chance that my tormentor could find me and make good on all the threats they’d been sending me. At that point, that was all I could think of those Polaroids as: promises of violence.

Even now, I feel like I’m marching toward an inevitable pain. A future filled with only pain and suffering and that no matter what I do, there’s no stopping it. Only delaying it.

But I digress.

One of my friends said I needed to get help. Maybe I should have listened to them back then, but I was convinced that if I couldn’t get proof of the pictures themselves, then I would get proof of whoever was putting the envelopes in my mailbox. I figured I could at least that that to the police.

I ordered one of those self-installation security systems—the one with the off-brand Ring doorbell, cameras on my front door, mail box, etc. I even bought extra locks for my doors and windows. I spent the rest of the day setting up and testing my new security system. By the end of it, I felt pretty proud of myself. I was certain I was going to catch whoever was doing this and could turn them into the cops and all of this would just be a big bad dream. But I was wrong.

Sure enough, the security system picked up on movement around midnight that night. The new motion sensor light on the porch sprang to life, illuminating a figure wearing a dark hoodie. I jolted as fear struck me like lightning. They were tall, wide, imposing. They seemed impossibly large. Unavoidable. Undeniable.

I was watching them through the lens of a camera with two locked doors between us, and yet I felt as small and vulnerable as if they were in the room with me at that moment.

My eyes roamed the figure over and over, trying to find some kind of distinguishing features, but they angled themselves so the light shone from behind them. They became a dark silhouette—a shadow of death.

They stood there, still and stone for what seemed like hours. Even with the video on fast-forward, they hardly even swayed. Near 3AM, they turned, very slowly, toward the camera as though they knew exactly where to look for it. With agonizing slowness, they reached a gloved hand into their pocket and pulled out three polaroid photos. The camera refocused as the figure brought the pictures closer to the lens.

The first picture showed me duct tapped to the same chair with the figure standing behind me. Instead of pliers, they held a knife. The figure on my screen held up the second photo. In one hand they held the knife. In the other, an ear.

I wanted to look away, wanted to delete the video and crawl deep, deep under the covers of my bed, but I couldn’t move. I was transfixed at a cellular level as the figure showed the third picture. The same bloodied knife hovered over the image of my downcast head. For a moment, I thought all that had changed between photos was the position of my head, but I soon realized something else had changed. The ear in the hooded figure's hand...it was the other ear.

My hands were shaking as I watched the figure pull the photo away from the lens. They dropped them onto the doorstep and walked away into the night.

I was practically soiling my pants but I took the security footage down to the police. When I pulled it up to show them…you guessed it. The file was corrupted and unusable. The police told me that without evidence or a suspect, they couldn’t even make a report. Useless bastards. No wonder people don’t like cops! I was basically trapped in my house, terrified, at my absolute wit’s end, and they couldn’t even make a report?!

Anyway, like I said at the beginning, I’m writing all of this in the inevitability of my death.

It’s been a few weeks since I was able to capture that first video, and my large friend has been on my doorstep every night. They don’t always have pictures. Sometimes they just stand there, staring at the camera lens as if they can see through it and into my eyes. My soul?

On the nights when they do have photos, they’re…I can’t even say. Each one is worse than the last, detailing my slow and steady dismemberment.

I can’t explain why, but I know that once the photos finally detail my death, that this figure is going to come for me. It isn’t going to matter how many locks I have on my doors, or how many weapons I horde in order to protect myself. It’s going to get in here and it’s going to take me and it’s going to do to me every single thing that happened in those pictures.

I still don’t know how or why this is happening, only that I can’t avoid it any longer.

I’m scared. God, I’m so fucking scared, but I don’t know what else I can do. If there’s even anything that can be done.

My friends have given up on me and I don’t have any family. Not even a pet. I’m alone. Just like in those photos. So, if you’re reading this, know that they’re my last words. I needed someone else—anyone else—to know what happened to me. I don’t know if you’ll believe a word of it, but if nothing else, can you do me a favor? Remember me. Please. I’m so alone and so afraid and I know that eventually I’m going to disappear. I just don’t want to be forgotten, too.

SOOO... I feel like I'm an awful writer

Well, I'm not really sure where to start this. I'm a teenager. And I wrote a book. I'm getting it published soon. And I have an awful feeling that it's nothing but garbage. I did the best I could, I reviewed it a hundred times, I've rewritten and thought about stuff over and over again, but I still feel like it's no good. Without giving any spoilers, it's a slice of life book about 14-year-old girl in the eighth grade, with 6 out of 12 chapters taking place in school. Her and her parents have moved out of their old neighborhood 7 months before the book starts.

I want to make this a trilogy. I technically started this book series in 4th or 5th Grade, and I made a lot of google slides and I didn't really get better until a few months ago, when my dad got me a publisher through one of his former coworkers.

I really haven't wanted to admit it, but I'm pretty nervous about what the reception will be like. I feel like I'm just gonna get torn apart by critics, reviewers, and everyday book lovers across the nation or something.

Okay, this actually made me feel better. I hope anyone reading this has a good day/night!

!!!

Welcome to fiction venting!

We're a safe place for fictionkin and fictives to vent about their source, their mems, sourcemates, or really anything related to their fictional identity.

We are a SAFE PLACE. We won't judge you for what you need to vent about. You are welcome here.

We currently have one mod, Mod V. I use she/her and he/him pronouns. I am not personally a system, and would like to stay out of syscourse. I am, however, fictionkin.

Hi, first publication is a CRAZY THEORY I have, but maybe it has sense, idk, you tell me.

I feel like what dark sun that affected that 35% of universes, included this one… if we check really closely what happened in “Moon’s NIGHTMARE encounter While Hunting Dark Sun” we see not ONLY sun begging to have an excessive hate for moon, but moon also suddenly wanting to shut him down (it is not really clear still, we still don’t know a lot about it, but if it was sudden, a sudden hate or annoyance, this could have more sense); and, maybe this is also making moons not caring about their ‘family’ or suns, just like nexus, who now only saw Sun like a tool and an obstacle; not to mention, that in MaSM sun also gets away really sudden, with reasons ofc, rlly good ones, but I believe this universe might be getting affected too, because, as we know, suns tend to be the heart, the voice of reason, the happy one? Yeah, but the most morally correct one after all, although MaSM sun doesn’t only get away but begins becoming aggressive, blood thirsty after g.bunny, having the urge to beat him up HARD, to make him suffer, like that one sun TSAMS moon visited and the MaSM moon, as I mentioned before, seems to stop caring about his sun, not really caring that he left in the episode where he almost joins eclipse.

So, my theory is that Suns are beginning to hate moons so much explicitly than before, also getting aggressive, UNSTABLE, and trying to hurt/kill them; while moons are getting careless about their family/suns, wanting to only take advantage of them or getting rid of them; I also believe this is affecting our universe as well, before all this, Moon was beginning to open more with sun and trying to help them, but after what happened he’s slowly becoming careless about him.

DAMN IT THAT WAS LONG

Golden eyed and juvenile, advicor to the missing and tragic.

Not all his creations are fearsome.

Interesting Fact #1

Novels were forbidden in the Spanish colonies by the Inquisition. The literary genre of novels was seen as dangerous. Reading a novel could warrant one jail time and humiliation. Novels weren't published until after independence at the beginning if the 19th century. This ban on fiction was part of the inquisitions goal to rid the "fictional disease" that plagued them.

Information from Latin America: Fiction and Reality by Mario Vargas Llosa.

If you any more information related to the fact, or you have corrections, Please share! I would love to hear!

Why do all chubby reader fanfics have to have the reader being degraded and humiliated, LIKE it’ll start with some sexy or awesome concept in the story and then boom, submissive reader. LIKE PLEASE FEED ME SOME DOM PLUSIZED ACTION. But when I do find one It ends up poorly written and rushed or to short. HELPP

Prompt #49

When you woke up in the morning, your biggest concern was your next exam.

Now you are currently arguing with a ghost (who already told you four different stories about how they died), while running away from a demon and you are maybe the only person, who can stop the apocalypse.

And you haven’t even had lunch yet.

46 character smash cake (brownie) my bestie and I did.

Theirs

Mine

Oh yeaaa...

Hello, everyone. Ashcroft LGBT+ Production House is happy to present Eternal Chronicles Season 1 Episode 1 Part 1: A Brighter Day. We are a small crew working within limited means so apologize ahead of time for any technical roughness. This video is rated mature for violence and some anti-lgbt hate speech [used by bad characters/we are not promoting such speech] and some other foul language. With all that out of the way, please enjoy the video. A BRIGHTER DAY - Eternal Chronicles, S01E01 Pt. 1

Basic starting premise for another story that takes place in my multiverse

An ageless loli Neko-Kin ( Cat-Girl ) professor along with their mysterious femme fatal alien body-guard, a queer exiled vampire noble and their ghostly former demon-hunter companion walk into out-of-the-way shire-like village during the harvest festival where they intended to have a nice jovial night of drinking and fun only to have the night interrupted by the arrival of two terrified young children on the verge of death who flee into the festival pleading for help to save their mother from a monster they claim has taken over their home and trapped their mother inside. The village elders request that the 4 strangers ( The professor, her body-guard, the vampire noble, and their ghostly companion ) go and aid the children in the rescuing of their mother and defeat the monster.  One of the village residents named Oskar Lochlan ( an Anam-Forge Gunslinger ) with a disturbing past agrees to join them in aiding the children and so together the group sets out as the children lead the way back to their house that dwells along the side of long-forgotten path on which no one ever travels anymore. 

P.S. = I am always looking for those who are interested in helping me create something beautiful, bring ideas to life and hopefully expand the amount of LGBTQIA+ media out there at the same time. If you are interested or would like to talk then please contact me here on Tumblr. Thank you all for your time.

Gwendoline Christie

flirts, cute (ig), confused, they are in love. but they don't know.

GIF NOT MINE

[Just flirt. They are in love, especially reader. God. i love Gwen. Gwendoline and her Bf have an open relationship and are ok with having other relationships, but love each other *in this fic*. ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE]

Gwendoline Christie x Famous!Reader?

-

These days, everything just feels like a loop. Invitations, invitations and more invitations for parties, fashion shows and work. You felt full of it. You wake up and have to go straight to some meeting, you wake up and have to go somewhere, just to stare at people talking, you wake up...and you have people peppering you with questions and asking you to step on them. Not that you hate your fans, but you're just tired. You need some time. You are overloaded.

Sitting at one of the tables, not far from the stage, watching another fashion show that you were invited to and had to attend, because your husband is obsessed with money and knows that the source of all this is you. You let out a sigh, hoping this will be over soon. With the way you are barely able to concentrate on the show in front of you right now, you know this day is going to be unbearably long.

After trying and failing miserably to pay attention to the presenter on the stage, you decide to give up. You've given yourself a good forty minutes of trying, but your interest in what’s going on is non-existent and you're more than convinced that if you need whatever he's presenting, chances are it's already in the package you got.

What you still don't know is how you're going to spend the rest of your time. Not wanting to be too disrespectful by using your cell phone mid-presentation, you grab your not-so-big bag and pull out a blank piece of paper and a pen just to do some random doodling. Aimless. But sadly, drawing eyes or hands are no longer on your to-do list. But even so, you continue to draw, your eyes almost closing from sleep. A few minutes go by and you're just getting even more bored. Somehow while drawing you can’t shake the feeling of someone watching you. This is starting to make you uncomfortable. With a spunk of curiosity you lift your head to look around, trying not to be too obvious for everyone to notice. You can the other tables in the room, trying to discover the source of the sensation. When you finally achieve what you've been unknowingly looking for, you feel your breath hitch at the sight. All you find is a woman watching you like you’re a piece of art.

And in your opinion, this woman could be a painting that came to life. As you stare at the woman, you can tell that she could be the most beautiful woman in the world. Her medium blonde hair with curls like a tangle of beauty. An invitation to affection, the strands making small curves, like a smile. Unlike you,who’s pretty much just awkward, the rest of her is something like everything that could be described as something indescribable, the picture of professionalism. The delicate white skin that you would love to touch with your kindness, the lips of blood that boil not for heat but for love, the crystalline eyes, so deep that they carry more stories than a book can tell. It's the color of someone who carries something more than windows of the soul on her face; it's brute strength, beautiful and affectionate. That pulls your eyes to hers The irises of her eyes being the true art-stained space. Eyes you find hard to look away from.

Still sitting and looking at the woman, you can tell she noticed the red in your cheeks, shoulders and collarbone. Just like her, after being caught looking. But she doesn't look away, being unflinching with her eye contact. Her focus makes you even more flushed and confused, which makes you feel that the look isn't for you. After scanning the room thoroughly for the second time. You're sure the looks is for you, and it makes you cringe a little. Meeting her eyes again, you see that she smiles a little wider as she sees that you finally understand that she is looking at you.

But the universe might not want you to have a distraction or something. The man on stage calls your name, grabbing your attention. He’s talking about the models and the shows. Congratulations to you, since You helped with this. But now, really? The man continues, trying to keep your attention.

Try as you might, you can't break free of the woman's gaze. Smiling gently at the man, the rest of the adults and your husband standing around, you can't help, but steal some looks in the woman's direction. It's like you're stuck like this. And sometimes you can catch her looking and it's emotional, leaving warm little goofy smiles when you catch her looking. It's more exciting to know that she's interested in you and the game you've played with her. When everyone was up for the treats you got out of your chair so fast, you almost fell. You noticed the woman laughing and you're not sure how, but you somehow heard it. You just want her with now, because the sound was the most divine thing you ever heard.

"Are you well?"

Your husband asked, a small tone of false concern in his voice. You just wave chim away. Not much dialogue, just looking for the woman in the crowd. Your interest in her just grows, you want to go to her. But you’re failing. So you decide to go ask your close friends about this woman. Whispering to the not so short woman to your left you ask: *f/n = friend name*

"f/n do you know who this woman is?"

"Which one?"

"That one. Medium blonde hair, red lips, tall and pink dress."

You gesture vaguely in the direction of the mystery woman, not wanting to be too obvious.

"Oh, her. Her name is Gwendoline Christie, an actress who works with Tim Burton."

"Oh okay. Thanks."

"Why the question? Don't say something is going on."

Your friend whispers questioningly, with a rather interesting face and a sly smile. You just shrug your shoulders and curse under your breath. Going back to looking at the woman, she looks like she is not noticing you, she's talking to a man with glasses. They look really close. You blink with a frown on your face but try not to care too much and just walk over to the treats. Flirting certainly made the time pass faster than expected, but it also does something else. It made your heart beat faster in anticipation. What you have no idea. And hope to feel that, again. Take a moment to consider her thoughtfully, looking unobviously in your direction, for which you are more than grateful. 

—

inspiration from: Know Your Name. An fanfic in AO3 with Larissa x Reader.

Hope u liked this <3

I think i am going to make a part two 💀

(person who helped edited for a better english, bc Idk nothing: @lils-cards love u)

—

- baby gwen have my heart rn

GIF NOT MINE

"Do you ever dream of land?" The whale asks the tuna.

"No." Says the tuna, "Do you?"

"I have never seen it." Says the whale, "but deep in my body, I remember it."

"Why do you care," says the tuna, "if you will never see it."

"There are bones in my body built to walk through the forests and the mountains." Says the whale.

"They will disappear." Says the tuna, "one day, your body will forget the forests and the mountains."

"Maybe I don't want to forget," Says the whale, "The forests were once my home."

"I have seen the forests." Whispers the salmon, almost to itself.

"Tell me what you have seen," says the whale.

"The forests spawned me." Says the salmon. "They sent me to the ocean to grow. When I am fat with the bounty of the ocean, I will bring it home."

"Why would the forests seek the bounty of the oceans?" Asks the whale. "They have bounty of their own."

"You forget," says the salmon, "That the oceans were once their home."

Your supervillain nemesis is little more than goofy comedy relief, always coming up with clunky machines and insane, nonsensical schemes. When a new dangerous villain appeared, your nemesis utterly destroyed them, and then continued on like nothing happened.

🩵🤍Master list 🤍🩵

Epic the Musical X Star Wars The Bad Batch (WIP)

Epic the Musical Original Concept Album (If anyone wants to listen 🎧✨🩵)

Act 1 Masterlist

Characters in Act 1

Hunter as Odysseus (WIP)

Robin as Penelope (WIP)

??? as Eurylochus

??? as Permides

??? as Elpenor

??? as Polites

??? as Aeolus

Lula as Winions (Lulaions)

??? as Athena

??? as Poesiden

??? as Zeus

??? as Circe

??? as Tiresias

??? as Hermes

Act 2 (WIP)

…

Free Bird.

A Star Wars fanfic.

Chapter One (WIP)

🤍 OC showcase 🤍

Robin (Updating soon for the plot!!!) | Lily (Updating soon for the plot!!!)

🔫 One-shots 🔫

Too Sweet for a Sarge (Part One?)

💞Hunter X Robin 💞

Hug attack! 🤗 (incomplete art)

Sunset walk (Omega and Wrecker sneak up >:3 )

Happy birthday ,Cyar’ika…

Happy birthday, Cyar’ika… (part two)

More than “Friends”…?

🩵Robin art🩵

New arrival! Robin introduction

Help show me around?

Caged bird

Meet Me in Saint Louis 

✨Art doodles✨

Girlboss snips (peaker sky guy)

Sing with us!

Robin from Honkai Star Rail!

It’s late and I should be asleep… but…

A new character will be revealed soon. They might be in the way of Robin and Hunters relationship… yeah. ❤️‍🔥

Btw once RLF (Robins Lost Files) Part one is out for a few days

Meet me! 🩵🤍

Too Sweet for a Sarge

Part 1(?)

(Hunter X F!reader)

My first!!

Might be a part 2 (?)

I have been working hard on this one shot or smt and hope you all like it❤️

Heads-up: Fluff, kissing, Hunter is such a dad, matchmaker Omega, helpless Hunter, thinking of you too much 😳, cringe(?), omega being more of an older sister she is to Hunter, might go into she or you, Sorry it’s my first! 😂

Summary:

Omega always noticed how Hunter looks at you, the way his lips would turn up and eyes twinkle a bit whenever you laugh or enter the room. So she decides to take matters into her own hands. 😈

———————

Song reference: Love me by Fia

It’s always brand new to me

See, the butterflies, my palms get sweaty

My thoughts and my heart stay heavy

You got this Kinda affect on me…

——————

——————

“Huntah?”

Hunters ears picks up as the little blonde girl Omega comes into the marauder after a visit with you, Omega would always be with you whenever he or the guys were too busy to watch omega as they help around the village of Pabu.

Ever since they came to visit Pabu months ago and during the Tsunami and rebuilding on Pabu Island they had met you.

You had given them a thank you gift of baked goods from your family’s bakery on upper Pabu which was greatly and safely unharmed from the Tsunami disaster, Hunter never thought you would come into his life, or even knew about it, there was something of you that made him think of you more often than a friendly relationship you both had grown. But he didn’t really overthink it that much

Omega would always go to your family’s bakery to make sweets and such, you always welcome her in as you both make a mess in the kitchen or either make a delicious treat to share with others. He once tried a treat yourself and Omega had created when he went to visit.

But whenever you would go visit them and hand him a treat, he would feel his knees numb up when his eyes would trace the outlines and contour of your face… the way the sun hits your eyes and skin making a soft glow over them… your smile… the light tint on your face when he compliments you… you…

You. You. You. You. You. You—

“Hunter?”

He immediately snapped out of his thoughts of you and felt his face flush red as he looked at Omega, he hoped omega won’t question.

“Yeah, kid?”

He asked the small clone girl as he runs his trembling hand over his flustered face, the face of a man being caught in his thoughts.

Omega raised a brow and step fully into the marauder, reading his face and seeing her brother in his state of embarrassment.

“I just came back from hanging around with (Y/n), are you okay? You look red…”

Kriff.

He rubs his face again and sighed before looking at Omega, he knew he was caught and regrets it.

“Nothing to worry about kid, you go wash up for bed, it’s already late don’t you think?”

“But it’s the afternoon—“

“You heard me.”

Omega groans and walks to the small room in the haul of the marauder to pick her clothes up and head up to the small refresher of the ship, making a sarcastic salute before saying.

“Sir yes sir…”

Hunter huffs a soft chuckle though his nose, he couldn’t believe of how long it’s been… Omega had changed and he wished nothing will ever change that.

———

“Come on Hunter!”

He looks around the area, a breeze of wind in his way as he watched Omega run with Wrecker through the beach, Tech and Echo talking about whatever they had in mind, the scent of the ocean filled his senses in is nose…

And a soft hand, smaller compared to his large and rough calloused hand brushing his.

He looked down to see you in a white dress, shoulders bare and feet against the sand, your sandals in your occupied hand as you weaved your hand in his, he squeezed your hand softly and smile down at you.

“Hunter…?”

“Yeah…?”

You look up at him and smile, your mouth opens to say something until he felt a jab on his side.

——

“HUNTER!”

He jolted up and saw that Omega was waking him up, he groaned and rubbed his face with his hand and look at Omega with a moody look.

“What kid…?”

Omega smiles and points at the small plate of treats on one of the built in tables of the marauder.

“She brought us food this morning, you should’ve seen her! She was wearing a pretty floral dress and she had a hibiscus in her hair! She was so pretty!”

His eyes went wide as she said of your visit, he missed a precious moment and you had already gone.

“Why didn’t you wake me? I could’ve said hi or something”

Omega shook her head and picked up a cupcake from the plate with a white and blue frosting covering the vanilla cake under, with a small coat of pearl candies on it.

“I was about to when she came over, she said it was okay and she didn’t want to disturb your sleep.”

Hunter felt his face grow a light shade a pink.

You’re too sweet for me…

As Hunter thought Omega started to notice signs…

Her brother was in love with you.

She smirked after she finished her cupcake before throwing it in the trash, she began to head to the ramp of the marauder but Hunter spoke up.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Omega shrugged her head and adjusted her blue jacket and took a step out before running out. Hunter sighed and shook his head before standing to stretch.

As he stretched his back he spoke.

“What is she up to…”

——————

Soooo Spy X family

LETTTSS GOOO

I honestly was hoping for Ouran high, but SXP is so bad batch coded

Only available to vote for a week :P

Oh and here’s rex 💙🤍

Me trying to write stories ROMAN SANDERS EDITION

(Now including drawn picture also made by me ( ´•̥̥̥ω•̥̥̥` ))

Me trying to write stories ROMAN SANDERS EDITION

1193 words and counting. Trigger-Warning slight alluding to self-harm +negative thoughts.

That wasn’t that bad Roman tried to convince himself. He’d been through way worse right . . .? Wait was that considered a good thing. He brought his hands to his head. It had begun agonizingly pounding earlier in the day and he could feel the pressure in his ears akin to something like a buzzing sound had begun making its presence known. He felt sluggish and lethargicness crept upon him. Surely they hadn’t meant it that way. Not like their intend was hurting him. So why did he feel so . . so hurt. It was like a piece inside of him was broken off. The piece that carried all his confidence. His admittedly now feeling false bravery. The bravado that helped him conquer his less then awesome feelings. He heard creaking footsteps up the stairs and some soft whispered goodnights.

The mind palace fell empty on sound as its residents started heading to their respective beds. I should probably get some shut eye too thought Roman as he looked around his room. He hadn’t had the time or to be honest motivation to clean it up for a while now. His energy seemed to have wounded down a lot lately. He would put it down to the amount of videos they had been making. But truthfully he wasn’t very much present in them at all let alone having his ideas represented as anything less than annoying. He twirled his messy hair in between his fingers, twiddling his thumbs while rocking back and forth a bit. The silence that now protruded the vacant mind surroundings made the whining in his ears stand out all the more. He grabbed his temple and began rubbing circles on his forehead. He didn’t want things to be this way. It all felt so complicated. And like his incompetence was already making everybody uncomfortable enough. Without highlighting all his other flaws. Normally he loved the spotlight but now it made him itch.

The thought alone made him have trouble breathing. He should be more put together. How could he dream of having a grand live on the stage if he couldn’t even stand a meager spotlight. He felt woozy had his room always been this of kilter, this . . dizzying. His vision blurred had he been crying this whole time. How long . . . he tried wiping away his tears as new ones grew in their places. The clock face on his nightstand was barely legible through mist his eyes produced. It read 02:10 AM. Had he really been rummaging through his hair and been sat thinking here for this long. SHIT- Logan had a schedule he wanted to keep and he didn’t want to be tired and late for the morning meetings. Ouch . . .his head stung if it wasn’t for him feeling immobile he would have moved to pick up some painkillers for his worsening headache. Then again he didn’t wanna wake up the others by making too much sound going to find it in the cabinets below. He’d been warned before about being too noisy and off-putting when trying to practice his favorite musical songs. Keep it down Logan had yelled. Yeah will you can it with your sappy bullshit his mustachy brother had added. He’d tried whisper singing ever since. It didn’t have that much flare to it, but if it made them happier he’d be glad to be of their backs.

The inside of his head felt as if someone had knocked his brain around quite a few times. Cut all its supports out and the remaining short-circuiting heap had been set on fire as some sort of twisted fun added bonus. He sniffled rubbing the underside of his nose and eye sockets. He probably deserved it. The way he’d been performing lately was about as garbage as he felt. The clock face blinked 03:00 AM it read. No, no NO . . . this had to stop. He wasn’t even supposed to stay up again. He was exhausted it took longer than he wanted to admit to come up with his sup-par ideas as it was. He didn’t need to create more problems for himself and everyone around him. He slammed down his fist against his carpet and then recoiled in shock as he remembered he shouldn’t produce sounds this late into the night. Frustrated he dug his nails into his palm and bit on his knuckles as he closed his arms around himself. His knees seemed to tremble a bit, he noticed as he looked down. Was this the self-soothing Virgil had talked about. It didn’t seem that soothing to him.

He looked at his fingers they were cold and absent of colour apart from the stained ink and the numerous papercuts on them. He’d really been trying. It might have looked easy from the outside but ‘’It was all a Ruse’’. As Deceit would so say. More and more often he felt that it was all just too much and that balancing it was getting more impossible as it became harder to smile to himself in the mirror. What had been the last time he’d truly felt accomplished. Like he got his stuff together or at least made it look presentable enough to fool everyone. His heavy eyelids started to droop over his glossy dry red tear stained eyes until they shot up to look at his calendar.

Crap.

He’d forgot. He was so busy being fucking sorry for himself that he’d missed the big red circled due date of the upcoming script. If something had to pull him over the edge this was it he’d reached his limits. And felt surrounded. He started drawing panicked breaths heaving over on himself. He didn’t know what pounded harder his head or his chest. They were gonna be so mad at him or worse they'd be staring on in drooping disappointment as he would stand there ashamed in the corner , uneasy shuffling his feet. Patton would throw out a halfhearted it’s okay kiddo. With Thomas sighing looking away as Logan crumpled his paper up and muttered something about no respect for a proper schedule in the background, again having to adjust each and every detail in his already busily packed important planning scheme. If this was only a mild version of a so called panic attack that he’d had explained to him by Virgil. He couldn’t imagine what a full blown one must have actually felt like. He felt so sorry for the dude. How could he ever manage to put on any sense of composure if he had to have these on an at least a monthly basis. the walls felt like the were eerily closing in on him. He wanted to scream to cry out for help but only a meekly weak sob would be forced out of his throat that as the shadows in the corners of his narrowed eyes started to crop up and he lost his already faltering vision to the black surrounding his corneas. His body sunk to the ground like a melted puddle.

A loud Thud-was heard as his head slammed against the floor.

Okay so I decided to write a bunch of the requests on Saxon and just post one everyday so don’t think I forgot 😭 but while I was writing I was watching remember the titans (the best movie to ever exist imo no exaggeration) and I saw sunshine and how fine he was. And then I went to look for some fics of him and there are NONE. And he was one of the only boys to not discriminate when joining the team like he was so cute. I might create a story with him and a black reader because I can see it so clearly. So now I have to ask should she be the coaches daughter? Or a cheerleader? Or I was thinking she’s good with numbers so she helps the coaches on the sidelines but doesn’t actually care for football. Please tell me yall seen this movie because I need help I wanna write this so bad

࿐ ࣪ ۪ INTRODUCING 𝒜NGEL READER

𓂃 angel reader, ‘baby’ — pretty girl, soft spoken, poc, jasmine oils, ethereal, arizona green tea, gold rings, loud bracelet stacks, gold, underlining words that make her heart ache, natural hair, coconut hair products, floral slip dresses, crooked teeth, dimple, lochlans obsession, sun kissed, open windows, lilys, sunlight catching in her curls, summer fling, sweet, kind, ‘baby’, —literal angel

taglist.. @italiansunsetss @sylvanianngirl @st7rnioioss-alt @sincerelykelsss @throatgoat4u @wiseladypoetry @gracieabrmslvr @pearlzier @1-hypegvrl @piperrrr-16 @mackyyyk @luna443 @flowerxbunnie @calliepie @cupidsword @notaboutlovebyfiona @recklesssturniolo @littlebookworm803 @blissfulxsins @camsturnz @st7rnioioss @yearlyism @cinnamoncunt

Their random pair group science project in THE 70s

CHRIS & HAMZAH – ELECTRICITY

Why They Got Paired: Mr. Calloway assigned them when they both took too long picking a partner.

Where They Worked: Chris’s basement, but mostly just goofed off.

How They Split the Work: Chris insisted he had a “vision” for the project but did no actual research. Hamzah tried to take notes but kept getting sidetracked by Chris’s nonsense.

Final Grade: C-.

WORKING TOGETHER

Chris and Hamzah met up at Chris’s house on Saturday afternoon, but calling it a “work session” would be a stretch. Chris’s basement was dimly lit, old band posters peeling off the walls, a stack of records leaning against a dusty turntable. A single lightbulb flickered overhead, which Chris immediately used as a teachable moment.

“See that?” he said, pointing dramatically. “Electricity, man. That’s our project right there. The light flickers, and boom. science.”

Hamzah exhaled through his nose. “That is literally not how that works.”

Chris flopped onto the couch, tossing a football in the air. “Yeah, but like… imagine if we just walked in, pointed at the lights, and said, ‘Electricity. You need it. We got it.’ Then sat back down.”

Hamzah ran a hand down his face. “I cannot fail this class, dude.”

Chris sat up, suddenly serious. “You think I’m gonna let you fail? Trust me, I got this.”

He did not have this.

By the time Sunday night rolled around, all they had was a half-finished poster with the words Electricity: It’s Important! scrawled across the top in marker. Hamzah, fully resigned to his fate, shook his head.

“We’re bombing this.”

Chris grinned. “Nah, man. We got charisma. That’s half the battle.”

PRESENTATION DAY

Standing at the front of the classroom, Chris tried to hold it together. Hamzah, on the other hand, was already choking back laughter.

“Alright,” Chris started, gripping the edge of the poster like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “So, electricity. You need it. We got it.”

Hamzah pressed a fist to his mouth, shoulders shaking.

“It’s, uh… real important,” he managed, voice cracking slightly.

Chris cleared his throat.

“Right. So. Electricity comes from, uh, power plants… and lightning. And, like, when you plug stuff in, boom. It works.”

Mr. Calloway pinched the bridge of his nose. “Explain the diagram.”

Chris turned to their hastily drawn diagram of a battery, wires, and a lightbulb, none of which were labeled.

“Right, so you got electrons. They, uh, zoom through wires—”

Hamzah, tears in his eyes while scratching the back of his neck, added, “Not scientifically accurate, but sure.”

Chris powered through.

“And they make stuff work. That’s basically it.”

A silence hung in the air. Then, from the back of the room, Nate muttered, “Genius.”

The class erupted into laughter.

MANDY & QUEN – PHOTOSYNTHESIS

Why They Got Paired: They picked each other.

Where They Worked: The library, but mostly spent time laughing, giggling, gossiping.

How They Split the Work: Mandy did the research. Quen made the project visually appealing and cute.

Final Grade: A-.

WORKING TOGETHER

Mandy and Quen sat at a library table, surrounded by open textbooks and crumpled notes.

“So, photosynthesis,” Mandy said, flipping through a book. “It’s how plants turn sunlight into energy. They take in carbon dioxide and release oxygen.”

Quen twirled a pen between her fingers. “So, plants are out here minding their business, making their own food, not needing anyone?”

Mandy smirked. “Exactly.”

Quen tapped her chin. “Independent queens. Love that.”

Mandy rolled her eyes but was clearly amused. “Yes, Quen. Plants are independent queens.”

Quen grinned and started sketching a tree with sunglasses onto their poster.

PRESENTATION DAY

Mandy stood confidently at the front of the room while Quen adjusted their colorful poster on the chalkboard.

“Photosynthesis is the process in which plants convert sunlight into energy,” Mandy explained.

Quen nodded, leaning into the mic. “Basically, plants are self-sufficient badasses.”

Mr. Calloway sighed. “Academic language, please.”

Mandy fought a smile. “Right. Plants absorb sunlight through chlorophyll, take in carbon dioxide, and release oxygen. It’s why we can breathe.”

Quen gasped. “Breathing?! I love doing that.”

The class chuckled.

MATT & MARTIN – THE SCIENCE OF SOUND

Why They Got Paired: They were the last ones left.

Where They Worked: Martin’s attic, surrounded by random junk.

How They Split the Work: Matt tried to keep things on track. Martin kept derailing into weird facts.

Final Grade: B.

WORKING TOGETHER

Matt sat on the floor with a notebook, actually trying to work. Martin was balancing a spinning record on one finger.

“Did you know the loudest sound ever recorded was from a volcano in 1863?” Martin said suddenly.

Matt sighed. “Martin.”

“People heard it from 3,000 miles away. Imagine just chillin’ and then—BAM—volcano.”

“Martin, focus.”

“This is focus.”

Matt gave up.

PRESENTATION DAY

Matt cleared his throat. “Sound is made when vibrations travel through the air and reach your eardrum.”

Martin grinned. “Also, dolphins use echolocation, which means they’re basically underwater superheroes.”

Matt exhaled slowly. “Please ignore him.”

Mr. Calloway rubbed his temples.

“Moving on.”



Mr. Calloway sat back in his as the bell rang chair, rubbing his temples as the last presentation ended. Some were disasters, some were impressive, and some were just… what they were.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s just hope the next two project turns out better.”

taglist.. @italiansunsetss @sylvanianngirl @st7rnioioss-alt @sincerelykelsss @throatgoat4u @wiseladypoetry @gracieabrmslvr @pearlzier @1-hypegvrl @piperrrr-16 @mackyyyk @luna443 @flowerxbunnie @calliepie @cupidsword @notaboutlovebyfiona @recklesssturniolo @littlebookworm803 @blissfulxsins @camsturnz @st7rnioioss @yearlyism @cinnamoncunt

in my head all my 70s au characters all go to a school called Brighton High School and they’re all seniors having the time of their lives before college with their different friend groups. Interacting every so often in classes for projects and school fights and bullying freshman together.

LOCHLAN SMUT PLEASEEE everything im seeing is so fluffy but we all saw the way he kisses so um 👀

PINKY PROMISE

lochlan ratliff and reader smut

The boat sways gently beneath you, the ocean stretching endlessly into the dark. Everything feels too much, the soft hum of waves, the distant laughter below deck, the warmth of your skin against the cool night air. You’ve never done drugs before, and now you’re out of your mind, your senses cranked up to a hundred. You can feel everything. The way the wind grazes your arms, the rough texture of the boat’s carpet beneath you, the erratic thudding of your own heart.

Lochlan sits across from you, legs crossed, his fingertips trailing absentmindedly over the floor. His pupils are blown, his lips parted like he’s trying to catch his breath even though he hasn’t been running. You’re hugging your knees to your chest, trying to steady yourself, but you can’t. You’re both too aware, and it’s making you jittery.

It’s not like everyone else. They’d crashed a while ago, scattered below deck, passed out in a tangle of limbs and abandoned drinks. But you and Lochlan? You’re still here. Stuck in this hyper-aware, touch-starved limbo.

You try to distract yourself, rambling about the game earlier, how ridiculous it was, how terrifying it felt in the moment. Lochlan listens, a lazy smirk on his face, nodding along as you giggle.

“You practically made out with Saxon,” you tease, nudging his knee with your foot.

He groans, rolling his eyes, shaking his head like he can’t believe you’re bringing it up. “That was barely making out.”

You laugh harder than you should, breathless and lightheaded. It feels like you can’t stop. It’s like everything is funny right now.

Lochlan chuckles too, but then his laughter fades, his smile lingering but different now. A little tense. A little hesitant.

You’re still giggling to yourself when he finally speaks.

“Saxon kissed you.”

Your breath catches slightly.

“He was practically trying to eat you,” he adds, and his voice is teasing, but there’s something else beneath it. Something unreadable.

Your stomach twists.

“Yeah,” you mumble, pressing your cheek against your knee. “It was… weird.”

He watches you carefully.

You exhale, licking your lips. “Like, it was rough.” You frown slightly, trying to piece together the right words. “Like I had to force myself to like it.”

Lochlan’s fingers flex slightly on the carpet. His knee bounces once before stopping.

Then he says, “I could do a better job than that.”

Your head snaps toward him, eyes wide, before you burst into laughter. You’re convinced he’s joking.

But he doesn’t laugh.

He just looks at you, waiting.

Your smile falters slightly, your heart hammering against your ribs. You try to play it off, voice wobbly as you tease, “You don’t have any experience.”

He smirks a little. “I wouldn’t try to swallow you.”

That warmth in your stomach spreads, creeping up your neck. The boat sways gently, and suddenly, you feel weightless.

“Can I try?” he asks, voice softer this time.

You don’t say yes.

You don’t say no, either.

And he doesn’t know what that means, so he just leans in.

Your breath stutters, but you don’t move away.

At first, it’s just a peck, soft and fleeting. He pulls back, grinning like this is the funniest thing in the world, but you’re not laughing.

He notices.

This time when he leans back in, it’s different.

His lips press into yours again, slow and unsure but eager, and you kiss him back, tentatively at first. He exhales through his nose like he’s relieved, like he wasn’t sure if you’d kiss him back at all. His hands slide down your back, hesitating before settling on your hips.

It’s awkward and clumsy and neither of you care.

You rest your hands on his shoulders, unsure, barely touching, until he presses forward, his weight gently easing you onto the carpet. Your back meets the floor, and then he’s above you, hovering, breath shaky, eyes locked on yours.

The world around you fades, the ocean, the boat, the distant murmurs from below deck.

Just you. Just him.

His lips find yours again, and this time it’s deeper. Slow. Uncertain. His hands tighten on your waist, then drift lower, settling just above your thighs like he’s testing the waters.

You exhale sharply against his mouth, gripping his shoulders tighter. He tilts his head, pressing closer, and your stomach flips, heat coiling low in your belly.

The touches are hesitant, inexperienced, but it doesn’t matter.

As you and Lochlan's kiss deepened, you felt something inside you ignite, an ache that spread through your body, demanding attention, demanding satisfaction. You pushed yourself up, your chests pressing against each other, and Lochlan's hands instinctively slid down to your hips, gripping you tightly, anchoring you to him.

You could feel his need, matching your own, as he pulled you closer, his body molding against yours, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. You moved together, the kiss growing more urgent, more desperate. Lochlan's fingers dug into your skin, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins.

Lochlan’s breath was uneven, his forehead barely brushing against yours as he hovered over you. The moonlight reflected off the water, painting shifting silver patterns across his skin. His lips were pink and kiss-swollen, his pupils dark and blown wide.

He wasn’t trying to be rough, it didn’t suit him. But there was something different in the way he touched you now. A little more sure of himself, a little more desperate. His hands traced tentative patterns down your sides, warm and steady, but there was an urgency to the way he kissed you, like he was trying to memorize the way you felt beneath him.

Your heart pounded so hard it nearly drowned out the waves lapping against the boat. You gasped softly when his fingers skimmed under the waistband of your bikini bottoms, not entirely pushing, just testing. Your hand instinctively closed around his wrist, stopping him.

Lochlan froze. His breath hitched, and he pulled back just enough to search your face, eyes flicking between yours, afraid he’d pushed too far.

“I—” he started, voice rough, but you shook your head quickly.

“It’s not that,” you whispered, though you weren’t even sure what that was. “You just…you donn’t know what you’re doing. Not really.” And the thought sent a nervous chill down your spine, despite the heat between you.

Lochlan let out a breathless laugh, resting his forehead against yours. “Yeah? Well, neither do you.”

You squinted at him, narrowing your eyes, and he smirked, soft, teasing, almost offended.

“Please…” His voice dropped, quiet and pleading. “Lemme try. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

You hesitated, searching his face for any hint of doubt, but there was none. Just Lochlan. Just the boy who had spent the whole night laughing with you, the boy who looked at you like you were something delicate and precious, even as his hands trembled slightly against your skin.

Finally, you nodded.

His lips parted slightly, exhaling in quiet relief. But before he could do anything, you grabbed his face between your hands, making sure he was looking right at you.

“You can’t tell anyone,” you whispered, voice firm despite the way it wavered at the edges. “I mean it. No matter how much Saxon gets in your head, you can’t spill.”

Lochlan’s brows furrowed. “Saxon doesn’t get in my head.”

You tilted your head, unconvinced. “Promise me.”

Something flickered behind his eyes before he sighed, holding out his pinky. “I won’t tell. Pinky promise.”

You hesitated for half a second before wrapping your pinky around his.

The moment you did, he pressed you back down against the soft, warm deck, lips crashing onto yours again, filled with a new kind of urgency. His fingers dipped under your waistband, dragging your swim bottoms down just enough for him to kiss along your stomach, slow and reverent, like he was worshiping you.

You feel his hands on your bikini bottoms, pulling it down slowly, giving you the opportunity to stop him if you want to. But you remain motionless, staring at the ceiling, silently granting him permission to continue.

As the fabric slides down your legs, you sense his eyes drinking in the sight of your exposed skin. He lets out a barely audible breath, his voice a husky whisper that seems to vibrate against your flesh.

With deliberate care, he lifts your legs, draping them over his shoulders. The position is intimate, vulnerable, and you feel a flutter of trepidation mixed with excitement. You're not sure where this is headed, but you trust him enough to follow wherever he leads.

His fingers brush against your inner thighs, the light touch sending shivers down your spine. You hold your breath, anticipating what might come next. Instead of plunging ahead, he parts your legs the slightest bit, as if savoring the taste of uncertainty.

Then, without warning, his face descends, his breath hot against your core. You gasp, your body tensing reflexively, but he continues undeterred,he moves closer and presses a feather-light kiss against your clit. The sensation is electric, and you can't help but clamp your thighs around his head, a mix of pleasure and embarrassment washing over you.

"Ow," he murmurs, his voice muffled by your grip. "Sorry," you whisper.

He returns between your thighs, his tongue gliding over your slick folds in long, languid strokes. Each pass sends waves of pleasure coursing through you, your hips twitching involuntarily in response. Your fingers thread through his hair, holding him close, unsure whether to guide him or not.

As he works, his nose occasionally brushes against your clit, the slight friction adding another layer of pleasure. Your moans grow louder, more urgent, your body beginning to quake with the approaching climax.

His movements become more insistent, his tongue delving deeper, exploring every hidden crevice. You're lost in a haze of pleasure, your mind foggy with the sheer intensity of the sensations coursing through your veins.

Suddenly, a particularly skilled lick sends you over the edge. A strangled cry tears from your throat as your body seizes, convulsing in your orgasm. Your hand flies to your mouth, muffling the sound as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over you.

When you start to relax, you release your death grip on his hair, panting heavily. He looks up at you, mouth wide curled into a shocked smile and he laughs at the sound you made. Without warning, he peppers your thigh with soft kisses.

Irritation flickers across your features as he laughs at your post-orgasmic vulnerability. You shove his forehead half-heartedly, trying to hide the pure utter embarrassment in your face. He catches your wrist, his grip gentle but firm, and presses a tender kiss to your palm.

Satisfied with the gesture, you relax into the carpet, the cool fibers a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from your skin.

With a contented sigh, he reaches over to gently tug your bikini bottoms back into place, covering your still-sensitive flesh.

He lays beside you on his back quietly. The both of you breathing heavily but at different paces, chests rising up and down at different times. Not even looking at you. And you not looking at him. Almost trying to see if you regret what you had just done.

Neither of you speaks, content to drown in the aftermath of your shared experience. Eventually, you both turn to face each other, exchanging smiles.

Breaking the silence, you both erupt in laughter.

sorry this is so long but this was my first time writing smut and I was feeling like Shakespeare.. I got a lot of requests and I’m trying to do them all in a short span of time..

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I was wondering if you could do a Lochlan Ratliff x reader where she’s also visiting Thailand and they just have a whole romantic time together like puppy innocent love

SOMEONE NEW

lochlan ratliff and reader

The sun glistens on the surface of the pool, water shifting like liquid gold as guests lounge nearby, the soft hum of conversation mixing with the occasional splash. You let your hands drift through the cool water, your body weightless as you float, eyes half-lidded against the heat. Everything feels slow, dreamlike, the kind of afternoon where time doesn’t seem to move at all.

And then you notice him.

He’s at the far end of the pool, standing waist-deep in the water, running a hand through his damp hair. He looks out of place, not in a bad way, just… different. Like he’s unsure of what to do with himself. His light eyes flicker around the pool deck, glancing at the groups of people laughing and talking, before landing on you.

For a second, neither of you move. Then you smile, small, unsure, just enough to acknowledge the moment.

He smiles back, hesitant at first, then real.

“Hey,” he says, shifting his weight, the water rippling around him.

“Hi,” you reply softly.

It’s quiet for a beat, neither of you quite knowing what to say next. You’re not even sure why you say it, but the words slip out before you can stop them.

“Wanna play mermaids?”

His brow furrows, his lips parting slightly in confusion. “Mermaids?”

You nod.

For a moment, he just stares at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re serious. Then, to your surprise, he lets out a small laugh. He scratches the back of his neck, his cheeks coloring slightly.

“I, uh… don’t think I know how to play mermaids.”

You grin, tilting your head. “It’s not that hard. You just have to swim like one. Kick your legs together instead of separately.”

He squints, like he’s considering it, then exhales through his nose, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle. “You’re messing with me.”

“I’m not! Just try it.”

He sighs dramatically, like he’s about to do something humiliating, and then dives under. You follow, watching as he awkwardly keeps his legs together, barely making any progress through the water. When you both surface, you’re already laughing.

“Okay, that was terrible,” you tease.

“Yeah, no shit,” he breathes, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead. “How do you do it so fast?”

You shrug. “Years of experience. You’re talking to a pro.”

His lips twitch, like he wants to say something sarcastic, but he holds back. Instead, he just watches you for a second before blurting, “I’m Lochlan, by the way.”

You give him your name in return, and he repeats it like he’s testing how it feels in his mouth.

The afternoon drifts by in easy conversation, playful splashes, and attempts at swimming like mermaids that leave both of you breathless with laughter. You don’t expect to see him again after that—vacation friendships are fleeting, and the resort is big enough that you could easily go the rest of the trip without running into him.

But later, as you’re walking through the lobby, you hear someone call your name.

You turn and find Lochlan jogging toward you, slightly out of breath, as if he had to talk himself into doing this.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh—do you wanna… umm.. walk around or something? Shop? Get food?”

Before you can even answer, a voice cuts in.

“You’re ditching me for her?”

You glance over and see a guy much older, very handsome, lounging on a nearby chair, watching Lochlan with a smirk. He looks between the two of you, then shakes his head in exaggerated disbelief.

Lochlan shrugs. “Yeah… sorry Saxon ”

Saxon rolls his eyes. “Whatever, dude. Have fun with your little date.”

Lochlan’s face flushes, but he ignores him, turning back to you. “So?”

You nod. “Yeah. I can go.”

The streets are alive with movement, a warm glow settling over the market as the sky begins its slow descent into dusk. You and Lochlan weave through the crowd, stopping at every other stall, fingers brushing as you reach for the same thing more than once. Neither of you acknowledge it, but neither of you pull away, either.

“You would totally rock this,” he says, holding up a sequined button-down, his face completely serious.

You snort. “Oh, absolutely. I was just thinking I needed something to blind people with.”

He grins, shoving it back onto the rack. “What about this?” He pulls out a pair of neon pink shorts.

You deadpan. “I think you should get them.”

He holds them up to his waist. “Be honest—do they bring out my eyes?”

You pretend to consider. “You might be starting a whole new fashion trend.”

Lochlan laughs, tossing the shorts back. “Okay, so no pink shorts for me. Got it.”

As you move deeper into the market, the scent of grilled meat and spices fills the air. A street vendor calls out in Thai, waving a skewer of something unidentifiable.

“You ever had that?” Lochlan asks.

You shake your head. “Let’s try it.”

He gives you a skeptical look but doesn’t argue, ordering two. The first bite is a mistake. You both cough at the same time, grabbing for drinks as your faces scrunch up in unison.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, swallowing quickly. “What was that?”

“I have no idea, but I think my mouth is on fire,” Lochlan says, eyes watering as he fans his tongue.

You burst out laughing, and despite the disaster, he does too.

The evening air is warm as the two of you wander through the night market, weaving between stalls filled with silk scarves, carved elephants, and street food sizzling on open grills. The smell of grilled skewers and fresh mango fills the air, and Lochlan reaches for your hand without thinking, pulling you toward a stall selling colorful woven bracelets.

“You think this would suit me?” he asks, holding up a bright pink one.

You laugh. “Absolutely not.”

He smirks. “I’m getting it anyway.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something soft about the way he looks at you as he hands over a few baht, slipping the bracelet onto his wrist.

“Now you have to get one too,” he says.

You shake your head. “That’s not how this works.”

“Sure it is,” he grins, grabbing another bracelet, this one blue, softer, the color of the ocean at dusk. Without asking, he takes your wrist, fastening it gently around you. His fingers linger just a little too long, his touch warm against your skin.

Your heart stumbles.

For the rest of the night, you don’t let go of each other’s hands.

As the night deepens, the market glows with lanterns, the energy shifting into something softer, quieter. Without really thinking about it, you slip your hand into his again even after only letting go for two minutes. He doesn’t hesitate to intertwine your fingers, squeezing lightly like he’s been waiting for this moment all day.

At the end of the market, you pause near a quiet corner, away from the crowd. The silence between you is comfortable, but there’s something else there, something unspoken.

Before you can overthink it, you lean up and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

It’s barely a second, but when you pull away, Lochlan is already looking at you.

And then, without a word, he tilts his head down and catches your lips in his.

It’s quick, just a heartbeat, but it’s enough to leave your stomach in knots.

When you part, you meet his gaze, your breath still unsteady. His hand, still laced with yours, tightens slightly.

For a second, neither of you move.

And then, slowly, he leans in again.

This time, you don’t hesitate.

By the time you’re standing outside your room, the resort quiet except for the distant hum of the waves, neither of you want to say goodnight.

Lochlan hesitates, shifting on his feet, then reaches out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your cheek, feather-light, and you swear he’s closer than he was a second ago.

“Thanks for today,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Me too.”

And then, before you can second-guess it, you lean up and kiss his cheek.

It’s meant to be quick, a simple goodnight. But the second your lips touch his skin, he turns his head, just slightly, just enough.

Your lips meet his.

The kiss is soft, barely more than a breath, but it sends a rush of warmth through you, curling in your chest, your fingertips.

When you pull back, his eyes are wide, searching yours, like he’s wondering if that really just happened.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

He smiles, small, almost shy.

“Goodnight,” you whisper.

“Night,” he murmurs, watching you as you step inside, closing the door behind you.

And when you press your fingers to your lips, still tingling from his, you already know—

sorry this is long I got lost in the sauce..

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⋆ ࣪introducing.. 70s GOLDEN BOY ART DONALDSON

golden boy art.. may live and breathe tennis, but he’s not just his sport. Off the court, he’s the picture of effortless style, pressed polos, crisp white shorts, loafers without socks, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose like he belongs in some glossy magazine spread. Even when he’s lounging, he looks like he has somewhere important to be, like he’s already won at something.

golden boy art.. doesn’t read much, but when he does, it’s always something too intellectual, something dense and complicated. He wants to be the kind of guy who reads Camus or Kerouac at a party, drink in hand, looking effortlessly cool, but the truth is, he barely makes it past the first few pages before he gets bored. Still, he keeps a book on his nightstand, just in case.

golden boy art.. was raised in country clubs and private schools, where competition was just as much about who you knew as how you played. He’s always been good at both. He knows how to charm the right people, shake the right hands, flash the right smirk. He’s got that old money ease, the kind of confidence you can’t fake, but underneath it all, there’s something restless. Like he’s always searching for the next thing to chase, the next high, the next game.

golden boy art.. was raised in country clubs and private schools, where competition was just as much about who you knew as how you played. He’s always been good at both. He knows how to charm the right people, shake the right hands, flash the right smirk. He’s got that old money ease, the kind of confidence you can’t fake, but underneath it all, there’s something restless. Like he’s always searching for the next thing to chase, the next high, the next game.

golden boy art.. never turns down a dare. Jumping into pools fully clothed, sneaking into concerts without tickets, taking a road trip to nowhere just because someone said he wouldn’t. He thrives on impulse, the thrill of the unexpected, the idea that life is only as interesting as you make it.

golden boy art.. is secretly a romantic, but he’d rather die than admit it. He doesn’t do grand gestures, but he’ll remember the way you take your coffee, the song you hum under your breath, the exact shade of your eyes when the sun hits them just right. He teases more than he compliments, but when he does say something sweet, it sticks with you for days.

golden boy art.. loves the ocean. Not just for the way it looks, but for the way it feels, cold saltwater against sunburned skin, the endlessness of it, the way it makes him feel small in a way he actually likes. He’ll dive under waves like he’s chasing something, stay out there longer than he should, come back to shore breathless and grinning.

golden boy art.. has a way of making everyone feel like they belong, even when he feels out of place himself. He’s the life of the party but also the guy who’ll sneak out early just to drive around with the windows down, radio low, smoke curling from his lips as he sings along to some song no one else remembers.

golden boy art.. is the guy who falls asleep with a book on his chest but never actually finishes reading it. He likes the idea of being well-read, but he prefers stories that move, movies, music, things with rhythm and motion. He’s seen every classic film twice and can quote entire scenes from memory. He thinks Casablanca is overrated but The Graduate is genius.

golden boy art.. loves the chase. Loves the way people look at him, the way they lean in when he talks, the way they fall into his orbit without him having to try too hard. He flirts like it’s a game, all teasing grins and lingering touches, but sometimes, just sometimes, he catches himself meaning it. And that terrifies him.

golden boy art.. is all confidence and charm until he isn’t. There are nights when the weight of expectation feels heavier than his racket, when the pressure knots in his chest so tightly he can barely breathe. He doesn’t talk about it. Doesn’t know how to talk about it. Instead, he drowns it in late-night drives and half-finished cigarettes, in the feeling of someone else’s hand in his, grounding him, steadying him, reminding him that he’s not just golden boy Art Donaldson, but something more. Something real.

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