Meiii @emikowasnothere - Tumblr Blog

I am once again begging people to realize that AI checker doesn’t work. it’s never worked. it’s notoriously known to have flagged human-made works as AI and AI-generated works as human-made. and by feeding it people’s works, you are feeding more works to AI, because apparently the machine itself is AI.

the only thing AI checker does is harm genuine artists and people in general too.

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luvzayne

anomaly from the deepspace: you’re our future… WHAT?!

synopsis: you meet your kids from the future. the catch? you and him aren’t dating.

character/s: zayne, sylus, rafayel, xavier, caleb x f!reader (separate)

warning/s: none!

note/s: same names used from my previous dad!lads fic bc i honestly can’t be bothered to think of new ones. also, it’s been a while and i know i’ve disappeared for months but!! i’m back now <3. i hope yall enjoyed this one <3

zayne:

the doctor sat at his desk, typing away whilst simultaneously taking down notes from the thesis that he was reviewing. his hazel green eyes were focused on medical terms that he jotted down.

a soft knock interrupts his trance as a confused greyson enters the office holding the hand of a little girl who seemed to have finished crying.

3hks

How to Write in FIRST-PERSON in a Way That Sounds NATURAL

When I just began writing, I entered some kind of first-person phase, where all my stories were written in, well, first-person POV. Looking back at it, however, I didn't really know how to write in this narrative, so my writing felt cringe and my characters, for lack of better terms, rather 'pick-me.'

First-person does some things better than third (or second) person. Some might say writing in first-person is easier too, since you focus mainly the main character, who also happens to be the narrator.

The thing is, first-person is also difficult to pull off because let's face it: it's incredibly easy for this POV to feel awkward. It can feel like the protagonist is talking to a camera, creating a weird sense of breaking the fourth wall.

With that being said, if you're struggling with executing first-person POV without the choppy dialogue, thoughts, and storytelling, this is just for you!

1. Do Not Talk to the Audience

In first-person, addressing the audience is often both seen as informal and awkward. In writing generally, it's best to avoid talking to the readers, but in first-person especially most cases of "talking with the audience" feels odd to the reader because it normally occurs during internal dialogue or self-monologue in a situation where they are (or feel) alone.

These lines are meant to move the plot forward, introduce characters, etc., but they feel unnatural because your main character is thinking these thoughts that we normally wouldn't have.

Thus, the key when it comes to avoiding "talking to the audience," using thoughts, the best way is to ensure that they generally think about stuff that most would take note too.

If you're against this because perhaps your character is neurodivergent or processes things differently, that's completely fine, but I'm talking a very broad spectrum of "general."

For example, we notice people and their features. A natural observation could be "Oh, this woman is really tall." We think stuff like this often--with this line, you aren't reaching out to the readers. However, with something like "I have brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles," you're suddenly pulling the readers into the scene (not in a good way) because no one ever just suddenly describes themselves like that. The readers know this subconsciously, so now, you're talking to the audience.

But speaking of descriptions, this brings me to my next point!

2. Don't Let Your Main Character Describe Themself

Have you ever read a story in first-person that beings with something like: "My name is... I'm a student... I have dark hair... I like..., etc."?

Not only is that obviously talking to the audience, but it's also establishing early biases in the readers that might not exactly true. Of course, objective points such as ones about race, eye color, height and whatnot may very well be true, but their descriptions about their personality may not line up with what the audience sees.

So yes, when I say don't let your protagonist describe themself, I mean both physically and internally. Instead of making your character say, "I'm kind, I'm patient, I'm unique, I'm blah blah blah," let your readers figure that out. Let your readers determine what kind of character your protagonist while establishing as few presumptions as possible.

3. Actions Work Best

Alright, so if you can't let your main character describe themself despite the story being told from MC's POV, what do you do to expose their personality? Easy; you reveal it through their actions.

What a person does arguably tells the readers more about them than the words your character says. Additionally, it allows the reader to interpret the character's actions in their own way, instead of having an "objective" frame of them.

For example, if an employee is patient, you can show this by demonstrating how well they deal with a difficult customer. When the customer is raising their voice, the worker remains calm, direct, and listens. They don't lose their temper and try their best to assist the customer although the customer themself isn't being cooperative. Not only do you highlight this employee's exceptional patience, but you're also exhibiting their willpower, maturity, and equanimity.

That means so much more than a "I'm patient," "I'm calm," or "I'm responsible."

4. Your MC's is Untrustworthy

Let's face it: if any of us were to write a story of our lives (like a journal), it'd be filled with inaccuracies we might be unaware of.

This is the same for your story; your MC also has warped views. They might judge characters inaccurately and misunderstand situations because they have biases. Their judgement isn't always going to be on point.

5. Don't Be So Straightforward with Thoughts

This is a more casual suggestion, really, but it can be good to avoid excessive straightforward-ness with thoughts. Thoughts play a big part when it comes to writing in first-person because you have free access to them, but the thing is, with comments like "I like her shoes," "this food is good," and "that's a nice car," you're not really saying anything. It's too blunt.

Believe it or not, you can describe more by staying vague.

Let's say your character admires someone's beauty. While you could totally say "Wow, she's so gorgeous," you could also say something like, "I wonder what'd life would be like if I looked like her," "I wish I could look like her," or even better? Describe how people's eyes follow her. How everyone glances at her. At how the wind suddenly seems like some sort of photoshooting prop rather than the weather with the way it blows through her hair. These examples all reveal your protagonist's admiration for the woman's beauty, but also show envy, curiosity, and genuine interest. They demonstrate more than just the woman's looks; they demonstrate your protagonist's character.

CONCLUSION

The biggest takeaway here is basically to don't be so direct with the readers by not being too direct with your MC's thoughts. Honestly, I suggest trying to use as little thoughts as possible and focusing more on the bigger picture to make this happen.

Remember, your character is telling their story--it's not you who's narrating!

Happy writing~

3hks <3

poetryforall

-Rumi

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theaawalker

Good Traits Gone Bad

✧ Empathy → Emotional Exploitation

Empathy is the heartbeat of connection. It's he ability to feel alongside others, to hold space for pain, joy, fear. But when someone becomes hyper-attuned to emotions, they might begin to use that insight as leverage. What began as compassion shifts into subtle control. They know what others fear, need, or hope for. Then, they exploit it, nudging choices and reactions under the guise of care. The warmth of empathy cools into quiet manipulation, wrapped in smiles and soft voices.

✧ Intuition → Paranoia or Presumption

Intuition is powerful. It guides, warns, and illuminates. But when someone relies too heavily on gut instinct, they may stop seeking context or clarity. They begin to assume intentions, predict betrayals, or treat hunches as fact. What once helped them understand unspoken truths now drives wedges between them and others. Intuition becomes a filter that distorts rather than reveals.

✧ Bravery → Recklessness

True courage inspires others. It faces fear while acknowledging the cost. But courage without wisdom can spiral into recklessness. The brave character begins to leap before looking, refusing help, or seeking danger not to help others but to prove something. Worse, they may sacrifice themselves repeatedly in ways that seem noble but are fueled by guilt, ego, or escapism. What once protected others now isolates or endangers them.

✧ Uniqueness → Alienation or Superiority

Being different is a gift -- a perspective the world needs. But when a character’s uniqueness becomes their identity, it can harden into alienation or quiet arrogance. They begin to believe no one can truly understand them. Or worse, that others are too ordinary to matter. They stop connecting, start dismissing. Their individuality, once empowering, becomes a lonely throne.

✧ Honesty → Weaponized Truth

Honesty builds trust, clarity, and integrity. But when honesty becomes detached from compassion, it cuts instead of connects. The character may justify harsh words as "just being real" or “telling it like it is,” ignoring the emotional wreckage left behind. What began as transparency turns into a shield for cruelty. Truth without tact becomes a blade.

✧ Optimism → Denial

Optimism sees hope in hardship, light in shadows. But relentless positivity can blind someone to real danger or silence the pain of others. The character insists everything will work out, even when it won’t. They dismiss warnings, ignore wounds, or refuse to acknowledge their own struggle. What started as radiant hope becomes denial in disguise, robbing others of permission to feel.

✧ Loyalty → Loss of Self

Loyalty is sacred. It anchors trust and sustains love. But loyalty without discernment can turn into self-erasure. A character might defend the wrong people, tolerate mistreatment, or silence their conscience -- all in the name of loyalty. They stay, even when it hurts. They follow, even when it breaks them. What began as devotion becomes a chain.

✧ Humanity → Overwhelm or Emotional Collapse

To be deeply human is to feel joy, rage, sorrow, wonder -- all fully. But a character might become so open to the world's weight that they drown in it. They struggle to regulate emotions, internalizing every injustice or heartache. Their humanity is profound, but it becomes unsustainable. Their openness turns into fragility, and their emotional world consumes them.

✧ Altruism → Disintegration of Boundaries

The altruist gives freely, loves fiercely, and seeks nothing in return. But when they give too much without limits, they fade from themselves. They neglect rest, silence their needs, and begin to believe that self-worth is earned only through sacrifice. Eventually, others begin to rely on them, but never truly see them. Their selflessness becomes a slow disappearance.

The Guardians of Camoria by A.A. Walker

Follow || Like || Comment || Repost || My Novel ⇚⇚⇚

thank you, i am farkle :)

thewriteadviceforwriters

🍖 How to Build a Culture Without Just Inventing Spices and Necklaces

(a worldbuilding roast. with love.)

So. You’re building a fantasy world, and you’ve just invented: → Three types of ceremonial jewelry → A spice that tastes like cinnamon if it were bitter and cursed → A holiday where everyone wears gold and screams at dawn

Cute. But that’s not culture. That’s aesthetics.

And if your worldbuilding is all outfits, dances, and spice blends with vaguely mystical names, your story’s probably going to feel like a cosplay convention held inside a Pinterest board.

Here’s how to fix that—aka: how to build a real, functioning culture that shapes your story, not just its vibes.

─────── ✦ ───────

🔗 Culture Is Built on Power, Not Just Style

Ask yourself: → Who’s in charge, and why? → Who has land? Who doesn’t? → What’s considered taboo, sacred, or punishable by death?

Culture is shaped by who gets to make the rules and who gets crushed by them. That’s where things like religion, family structure, class divisions, gender roles, and social expectations actually come from.

Start there. Not at the embroidery.

─────── ✦ ───────

2.🪓 Culture Comes From Conflict

Did this society evolve peacefully? Was it colonized? Did it colonize? Was it rebuilt after a war? Is it still in one?

→ What was destroyed and mythologized? → What do the survivors still whisper about? → What do children get taught in school that’s… suspiciously sanitized?

No culture is neutral. Every tradition has a history, and that history should taste like blood, loss, or propaganda.

─────── ✦ ───────

3.🧠 Belief Systems > Customs Lists

Sure, rituals and holidays are cool. But what do people believe about: → Death? → Love? → Time? → The natural world? → Justice?

Example: A society that believes time is cyclical vs. one that sees time as linear will approach everything—from prison sentences to grief—completely differently.

You don’t need to invent 80 gods. You need to know what those gods mean to the people who pray to them.

─────── ✦ ───────

4.🫀 Culture Controls Behavior (Quietly)

Culture shows up in: → What people apologize for → What insults cut deepest → What people are embarrassed about → What’s praised publicly vs. what’s hidden privately

For instance: → A culture obsessed with stoicism won’t say “I love you.” They’ll say “Have you eaten?” → A culture built on legacy might prioritize ancestor veneration, archival writing, name inheritance.

This stuff? Way more immersive than giving everyone matching earrings.

─────── ✦ ───────

5. 🏠 Culture = Daily Life, Not Just Festivals

Sure, your MC might attend a funeral where people paint their faces blue. But what about: → Breakfast routines? → How people greet each other on the street? → Who cooks, and who eats first? → What’s considered “clean” or “proper”? → How is parenting handled? Divorce?

Culture is what happens between plot points. It should shape your character’s assumptions, language, fears, and habits—whether or not a festival is going on.

─────── ✦ ───────

6. 💬 Let Your Characters Disagree With Their Own Culture

A culture isn’t a monolith.

Even in deeply traditional societies, people: → Rebel → Question → Break rules → Misinterpret laws → Mock sacred things → Act hypocritically → Weaponize or resist what’s expected

Let your characters wrestle with the culture around them. That’s where realism (and tension) lives.

─────── ✦ ───────

7.🧼 Beware the “Pretty = Good” Trap

Worldbuilding gets boring fast when: → The protagonist’s homeland is beautiful and pure → The enemy’s culture is dark and “barbaric” → Every detail just reinforces who the reader should like

You can—and should—challenge the aesthetic hierarchy. → Let ugly things be beloved. → Let beautiful things be corrupt. → Let your MC romanticize their culture and then get disillusioned by it later.

─────── ✦ ───────

📍 TL;DR (but like, spicy): → Culture is not food and jewelry. → Culture is power, fear, memory, contradiction. → Stop inventing spices until you know who starved last winter. → Let your world feel lived in, not curated.

The best cultural worldbuilding doesn’t look like a list. It feels like a system. A pressure. A presence your characters can’t escape—even if they try.

Now go. Build something real. (You can add spices later.)

—rin t. // writing advice for worldbuilders with rage and range // thewriteadviceforwriters

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voughtwifeannie

How to Structure a Oneshot That Hits Like a Thunderclap

“A good oneshot is a single breath—sharp in, slow out.”

A oneshot isn’t just a short story. It’s a moment, a mood, a slice of intimacy that wouldn’t survive being stretched into a full-length fic. Here’s how to make it count.

Pick One Core Emotion

Build the whole thing around a single feeling. Obsession. Longing. Regret. Euphoria. Grief.

If a full-length fic is a symphony, your oneshot is a single piano note.

Ask: What should the reader feel when they finish?

Ex: “This oneshot is about the moment someone realizes they’ve already fallen in love.”

Limit the Timeline

Don’t span days. Or even hours, if you can help it. The strongest oneshots focus on a single scene or moment.

A kiss in a hallway.

A final goodbye at dawn.

A confession said too late.

Tight time = tight tension.

Start Late, End Early

Drop us into the scene already in motion—no lengthy set-up. And leave us just after the climax, not long after.

Don’t: “They met three years ago and…”

Do: “It’s raining the night he finally says it.”

Your oneshot should feel like eavesdropping on something private.

Structure Like This

ACT I: Setup (15–25%)

Who are we with? Where are we? What’s simmering under the surface?

ACT II: The Shift (50–70%)

Something changes. A kiss. A fight. A confession. A memory.

The mood deepens or flips—this is your emotional peak.

ACT III: The Fallout (15–25%)

How does it end? A single line. A final look. A choice not made.

Leave a lingering echo, not an epilogue.

Let Style Do the Heavy Lifting

A oneshot gives you space to lean into voice, imagery, and metaphor. Write like it’s the last thing you’ll ever write.

“He says her name like it’s a prayer, but the gods stopped listening hours ago.”

Mood. Matters.

luna-azzurra

Vibes for Characters #3

Who Wear a Mask So Well, They’ve Forgotten Their Real Face

(The ones who are always what other people need and don’t know how to be anything else)

⛧ Mirrors the energy of whoever they’re talking to. You like jokes? They’re funny. You want quiet? They’re calm. You want deep? They’ve got metaphors. ⛧ Looks in the mirror and always thinks something feels… off. Like they’re wearing skin that isn’t quite theirs. ⛧ Doesn’t have favorite things, only the ones that make other people smile. ⛧ Says “no worries!” while bleeding out emotionally behind their back. ⛧ Knows exactly what to say to make someone feel seen, but has no idea how to ask for that in return. ⛧ When alone, they go silent. Like the absence of an audience erases the performance—and there’s nothing left. ⛧ Changes tone, style, even posture depending on who they’re with. ⛧ Has friends in every circle, but no one they call at 2am. ⛧ Desperately wants someone to look past the glitter and say: “You don’t have to do that. You’re allowed to just be.” ⛧ Tells stories like they’re happening to someone else. ⛧ Always “fine.” Always helpful. Always on. Until they’re not. ⛧ Has a dream version of themselves they only let exist in daydreams. Somewhere where they’re messy, soft, real and still loved.

Who Would Die for Everyone but Don’t Think Anyone Would Mourn Them

(aka the quiet martyrs, the ones who love big but feel forgettable)

⛧ Always offering to help. Always the one who stays behind to clean up. ⛧ Doesn't ask for favors—not because they don’t need them, but because they don’t believe they’re allowed to take up that kind of space. ⛧ When someone thanks them, they brush it off with “It was nothing.” ⛧ Treats their own pain like a footnote. (Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.) ⛧ You could compliment them, and they’d smile, but their eyes would still say Why are you being so nice to me? ⛧ Constantly afraid of being annoying, even when they’ve barely spoken. ⛧ Hides their breakdowns by being “the responsible one.” Always smiling, always functional, quietly unraveling. ⛧ Finds comfort in tasks. Dishes. Errands. Anything that gives them purpose. ⛧ Would take a bullet for you and apologize for bleeding on your shirt. ⛧ Thinks no one really knows them, but blames themselves for that. ⛧ Their phone background is a quote that hurts. (“You are enough” makes them cry a little in the dark.) ⛧ If someone did tell them they matter, they’d cry, and then probably never believe it again.

Who Are So Emotionally Numb, They Don’t Realize They’re Already Breaking

(For when burnout becomes a personality trait and disassociation is just Tuesday)

⛧ Says “I don’t care” a lot. Usually means “I can’t afford to.” ⛧ Lives in a weird fog, can’t remember what they had for lunch or what day it is, but somehow still functioning. ⛧ Never first to speak in a group. Often doesn’t speak at all unless directly asked something. ⛧ Laughs at the right times. Smiles when expected. You wouldn’t know anything was wrong unless you really looked. ⛧ Hasn’t cried in a long time. Not because they’re fine, because they forgot how. ⛧ Avoids mirrors. They don’t recognize the person looking back. ⛧ Can’t get excited about anything anymore, but keeps pretending like they can. ⛧ Keeps busy to outrun the numbness. Lists, routines, always moving. ⛧ Their sleep is either 12 hours or none at all. No in-between. ⛧ Gets caught staring at nothing, often. Blames it on “spacing out.” They’re not. ⛧ Doesn’t think about the future. The idea of hope is exhausting. ⛧ Still shows up. Still tries. That might be the most heartbreaking thing of all.

thespianinthebackcorner

Hey hey hey writers!!! Especially y'alls who are struggling to develop character or have white room/still character syndrome!!!

Look into Uta Hagen's acting techniques, specifically her 9 questions. I'm not kidding. She built off Stanislavski's techniques to help actors develop their characters and roles & bring that to the stage- specifically, and this is why I'm pushing Hagen specifically and not anyone else, their relationship with the set, props, other characters, setting (yes that's different from set), history and the play's plot, and how that changes how they act and speak. I have my textbook open I'll take some pictures.

If you need a transcript/image description I'll put it under the cut, they're a little blurry cause I'm bad at holding my phone... I know alt text is a thing but I don't want y'alls to have to scroll through a tiny box lmao.

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dionysiaproductions

halcyon-writings

nav.

Zayne had a certain habit. You observed him enough times to make note of it. Whether it was just the two of you or when you were out with a group of friends.

You would sit on a bench or chair, your bag on your lap. Zayne stands behind you, his hands on the back of wherever you were seated. You’d type at your phone, most likely to see what sort of meal you both wanted or a new spot you wanted to check out.

Your friend notices as well, when it is the group of you all around the city. She gives you a secretive smile when Zayne stands behind you as you sit, like a routine. His eyes are sharp and focused, yet when you show him your screen so that he can look at the cafe’s menu, they soften.

“It’s sweet,” Your friend comments, the corner of her eyes crinkle. Zayne had gone to grab the order, volunteering since the place looked busy.

“What is?” You ask, still not getting it just yet.

“How he does that little protective thing,” Another friend explains for her, mentioning what she’s also noticed. You can’t help but flush a little, the back of your neck getting warm. “And how he easily makes sure you’re able to keep space in the more crowded spots.”

You can’t help but laugh a little, your heart skipping a beat. Now that she pointed it out, you can’t deny it. Not that you wanted to, but it was just something you could add to the long list you loved about Zayne.

“I guess it just happens so much when we’re out that I didn’t realize it was so novel,” You admit.

Your friend simply grins cheekily, the other giggling lightheartedly, but both say no more as Zayne returns with the order. He pulls out your chair at one of the nearby tables outside, pushing it in for you once you sit. As well as taking his seat dutifully at your side.

It was beautiful out, so it was no surprise for the city to be a little crowded today. With the recent rainy days, the sun and gentle breeze were a welcome surprise.

Even so, as you all walk, Zayne’s palm rests gently against the small of your back, still giving you the freedom of movement, but also helping you balance on the sidewalk in between the other groups of people or kids playing around the park.

Your friends notice, but they don’t tease you about it… not too much anyway.

Zayne’s own eyes crinkle slightly in amusement. When you send him a curious glance, Zayne only takes one of your hands, giving it a gentle squeeze as he entwines your fingers together. In between, when he thinks no one is looking, he lifts your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

You smile in return.

luviruu

a fool in love

♡ ft. love and deepspace men x fem!reader ♡ synopsis: they're simply fools who are just head over heels in love with you, but you don’t need to know that. or do you?

comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! (ꈍᴗꈍ)♡

xavier

♡ it’s late. the kind of late where the world is quiet and soft, wrapped in the hush of twilight and the flicker of the streetlights outside the window. the two of you are sitting chris crossed on his bed, a mess of shared snacks between you and a movie playing in the background. you’ve both stopped pretending to watch it, too busy talking about your previous mission and how he ate the evidence, laughing quietly, floating in the kind of easy silence that only happens when two people know each other too well.

he’s leaning back on his hands, shirt slightly rumpled, hair a little messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times. he looks at you for a second longer than usual, like he’s thinking about saying something. then he looks away quickly, down at the comforter like it suddenly got really interesting.

you nudge him with your foot. “what?”

he lets out a faint chuckle that sounded like he let out a breath, then shrugs. “nothing.”

“that’s the most suspicious ‘nothing’ i have ever heard.”

he makes a face. “you’re not gonna let it go, are you?”

you just raise an eyebrow in response.

he groans softly, flopping back on the bed dramatically as if he’s beating himself up to work up a courage. “fine, okay, it’s a bit dumb.”

“you always say that right before you say something very not dumb.”

he covers his face with his hands for a second, then peeks at you through his fingers.

“…yeah, okay, so what if I dreamt about kissing you?” he blurts out, voice a mix of hope and fear. “haven’t people have those type of dreams?”

he pauses at your silence.

“…no?”

his face is slowly turning red, eyes wide in a way that would be funny if your heart wasn’t suddenly doing somersaults in your chest.

you blink at him, trying to decide if you actually heard that right, or if your brain is just filling in blanks you’ve been too afraid to admit exist.

“you dreamt about kissing me?” you repeat, just to make sure.

he sits up way too fast, clearly regretting saying anything but trying to play it off like it’s no big deal. “i mean— yeah? just once. maybe twice. okay, like… three times. but it’s not weird, right? that happens. to people. who are friends. and we’re partners (for work.). right?”

you stare at him, eyebrows raised.

he falters. “You’re really not helping here.”

“i’m just trying to figure out what kind of friendships are in the books you’ve been reading,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady while your heart tries to beat out of your chest. “because in mine, people don’t usually kiss their friends. at least not in dreams.”

He lets out a huff, flopping backward with a pillow over his face. he’s punching himself inside; he should’ve let your relationship marinate a little longer. “you really didn’t have to say it like that.”

you laugh, which makes him peek out from under the pillow, a little surprised.

“you’re ridiculous,” you say softly.

“and you're not weirded out right now, which is… honestly unexpected,” he replies, a little cautiously.

you look at him, really look at him—his nervous fidgeting, his hopeful eyes, the way he’s still holding his breath like the next thing you say could break him. he has always been fragile in your hands.

so you shift a little closer, just enough that your knees are touching, “maybe I didn’t dream about it, but I’ve definitely thought about it.”

his eyes widen by just a faction. “wait. seriously?”

“seriously.”

he’s silent for a beat. then: “so… should we see if it’s as good when we’re awake?”

your lips twitch into a smile. “i was hoping you’d ask.”

zayne

♡ you find him in the usual place: sitting by the window of the little café that’s almost always empty in the late afternoon. he’s got a half-eaten pastry in front of him, something fluffy and sugar-dusted and a steaming cup of tea, both untouched for the last few minutes. his fingers are fidgeting with the wrapper, and she can tell he’s deep in thought.

“you look like you’re about to perform surgery on that poor pastry.” you say, sliding into the seat across from him.

he glances up. “i was… thinking.”

“no kidding,” you teases gently. “about what? the sugar content of that cake?”

he almost smiles, but doesn’t. “something else.”

you lean your elbow on the table, chin in hand. “alright, lay it on me.”

he’s quiet for a moment longer, eyes flicking to your face and then quickly back to the pastry. then finally, “[name]…how do I know if I have a crush on someone?”

you blink, caught off guard. “wait” your brows furrow, “you?”

he raises an eyebrow, deadpan. “is that so hard to believe?”

“no! no, it’s just—” you straighten up a bit, clearing your throat. “okay. well… usually, you can’t stop thinking about her. even when you try to do so. and you kind of… feel the need to be around her, no matter what happens.”

his expression doesn’t change much, yet, his fingers stop moving.

“and there’s this fluttering,” you continues, a little more softly now, looking at the view outside the window “like, in your chest or your stomach. especially when she smiles at you, or when she says your name. and then it gets to the point where you just… want to kiss her.”

you trail off, before turning your attention back to him. “why are you looking at me like that?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just gives you a long, unreadable look, except you know him, and you can see it now, beneath the cool exterior: the slight softening of his eyes, the way his lips twitch at the corners like he’s holding something in.

“…i think i’ve confirmed my theory,” he says quietly.

your breath catches. “oh.”

a small pause.

“want to help me test the next part?”

rafayel

♡ the sun’s starting to dip low, brushing the ocean in gold. It’s quiet, apart from the rhythm of the waves and their footsteps in the sand. you're walking a step ahead of him, like always, although your sights are for shells that washed up on shore. your guard slightly lowered as he told you that you’re technically “off-duty.” he’s barefoot, his pant legs rolled up, and he’s carrying his shoes.

you’re scanning the beach. he’s watching you.

then, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, he reaches out and laces your fingers together.

you glance down at your joined hands, then up at him. “what are you doing?”

he shrugs one shoulder, looking out at the ocean like it’s super fascinating. “nothing.”

“nothing?”

“yep.” a pause. then, in a voice that’s way too breezy to be innocent: “You know i’m just saying, but me holding your hand doesn’t, like, mean anything, by the way. not in that way, at least.”

you raise an eyebrow, but say nothing.

“unless,” he adds quickly, turning his head just enough to look at you from the corner of his eye, “you, miss bodyguard want it to mean something. i don’t mind. that’s also cool too.”

you stop walking. he almost bumps into you.

“are you flirting with me or…?” you ask.

he laughs— actually laughs, bright and unguarded. “honestly? a little of both.”

you stare at him for a beat, then gently squeeze his hand.

“hm. good,” you say. “because you’re not as smooth as you think you are.”

he smirks. “you’re still holding my hand, though.”

“only because you look like you’d trip over a seashell without supervision.”

“rude,” he says, absolutely beaming now.

they walk a little farther, the soft hiss of the waves filling the space between them. he’s still holding your hand; not making a big deal out of it, not looking at you, just swinging your arms lightly like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you start to think maybe that was it. just another playful moment, like always.

then he says, lightly, “don’t get used to this, by the way.”

you glance at him. “to what?”

“this” he lifts your hands. “me being sweet and vulnerable and emotionally available,” he says, dramatically gesturing with your linked hands. “it’ll ruin my whole reputation.”

you snort. “what reputation?”

he gives you a wounded look. “’ll have you know i’m very exclusive and very high maintenance.”

“very high maintenance,” you reply, he gives you a look ready to squeeze your cheeks. “and yet here you are. barefoot. holding my hand.”

he shrugs, casual as ever. “what can I say? i can make exceptions.”

you playfully roll your eyes. you can tell by the way he won’t quite meet your gaze, by how long he holds onto your hand even as they head back up the beach— that he meant it. that all of it, wrapped in sarcasm and smirks, was real.

he wanted this to be a bit more. a little louder. but he doesn’t want to rush things, he can wait.

and that’s fine. because you can already hear him loud and clear.

i love you.

sylus

♡ the neon lights from open information bars and pubs flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the alleyway. the city was alive, but it was a dangerous kind of alive— full of opportunity and threats, all tangled together. his footsteps echoed softly against the concrete, the weight of his presence somehow making the danger feel less threatening. you walked beside him, always a step behind, always on alert. it was a game you had played with him for too long; trying to read him, understand him, while he effortlessly stayed two steps ahead.

the two of you stopped at the edge of a rooftop, looking out over the city. he didn’t need to say anything; the view said everything. this was his world. this chaos. this lawlessness. and you weremthe only one he ever let close enough to see it.

"have you ever thought about what you’re doing here?" you asked, your voice steady, but there was a hint of something you couldn’t hide. a curiosity you kept hidden behind a mask of indifference.

he glanced at you, that smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. just like a cat. "of course. every day. i just don’t care what happens here." he paused, his eyes lingering on yours. "what matters is who’s left standing when all the dust settles."

you frown slightly, his eyes landing on your hands that clenched the wall that stopped you from falling. but he didn’t give you the chance to react before speaking again, his tone light.

"we should compare hands, you know?"

You turned to him, brow furrowed. "what?"

"relax," he said, with that usual glint in his eyes, “it’s not like we haven’t done anything worse."

you hesitated, feeling your heart skip a beat, your immediate instinct being to pull back.fingers twitching involuntarily. the first time he’d grabbed your hand, it had been against your will. he’d been so casual about it, so sure of himself,in a way that left no room for argument, you felt a mixture of surprise, anger, and fear. but now, he was trying to act like it was just another casual request, like you weren't on the edge of resisting again.

“i’m not interested in playing your games,” you said, voice flat, but you didn’t pull your hand back when he reached for it. you just stiffened. his grin grew wider, the challenge in his eyes evident. “i’m not asking you to play, sweetheart. i’m asking you to hold my hand. that’s all.”

he laced your fingers together before you could fully react. his hand was warm. steady, unbothered, as if this was just another part of the endless games he played with you. you were used to his teasing, his relentless needling, but there was something different now. his touch wasn’t just about control; it was about possession. and you hated how that small, simple connection made your heart race.

his hand, as always, was steady. calm. It was the touch of someone who never asked for permission, never hesitated. someone who commanded everything they wanted. and you hated that you found yourself so drawn to him, even when he teased you like this.

“you’re infuriating,” you muttered under your breath,“yet you’re still holding my hand,” he pointed out, his voice lighter now, almost like he enjoyed the small win. “and you’re not pulling it away, so…”

your jaw tightened, and you almost pulled away again, but instead, you stayed still, letting the weight of his words settle between them. “you never make anything easy, do you?”

“never said I would,” he answered, shrugging like it was nothing, though you could see the glint of something more behind his eyes. “but you don’t really mind. do you?”

his voice lowering just a fraction, something softer in it that you used to rarely hear. "i just want to see what it’s like. to feel you there."

You glanced at him, trying to keep the walls up, but they were crumbling faster than you could manage. his touch, so simple yet so persistent, made everything else seem so small.

"does this mean you're finally admitting you have some feelings for me?" you asked, trying to tease, trying to keep your usual edge.

he didn’t look at you, instead focusing on their hands— his fingers still idly tracing the lines of yours.

"maybe," he said, his smirk still there, but with an edge youcouldn’t quite place. "but you’d have to admit something too."

you cocked your head, eyes narrowing. "what’s that?"

"that you’ve been trying to avoid me this whole time. not because you hate me, but because you know better than anyone how hard it is to stop."

your breath caught in your chest.you wanted to snap back, to push him away, but the truth was, you didn’t want to move. not yet. not with the way his hand felt in yours, like a small, unspoken claim. and in the end, you knew that’s exactly what he wanted. to leave a mark. even if it was a small one.

caleb

♡ he hadn’t planned on you finding him like this.

the curtains were drawn, casting the room in a dim gray light. the air was heavy with silence, broken only by the uneven sound of his breathing. he sat upright in bed, back propped against the wall, his blanket pulled tightly around his shoulders like armor. even now—sweaty, pale, clearly feverish, he refused to look helpless. that was never an option around you.

but of course she found him anyway. she always did.

he was so insistent, he locked his door hiding away. that was until you had enough and brought your gun to his door handle and shot it open.

you sat quietly on the edge of his bed, careful not to crowd him, placing the small bowl of soup on the bedside table. he’d barely acknowledged you when you walked in, just looked away, jaw tight with quiet shame. like you seeing him like this was some kind of defeat.

he let the silence linger only for a moment, then broke it with a whisper, almost unsure of himself.

“do you know that i feel strange whenever you’re around?”

his head turned slightly, just enough for you to see one of his eyes, glassy with fever, flick toward her. he blinked once. slowly.

you smiled faintly, trying to lift the weight in the room. “really? you’re still teasing me when you’re sick?” you leaned in a little and gently poked his shoulder. “meanie.”

a sound left his throat— half a huff, half a laugh. he closed his eyes and rested his head back against the headboard, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“i didn’t want you to see me like this,” he muttered, voice hoarse and low. “i don’t... like this.”

you softened. “i know. but i’m still here.”

he looked at you then. really looked at her. his face was flushed, his hair damp with sweat, and yet there was something unshakably steady in the way his eyes met yours.

“you’re not supposed to take care of me,” he said, like it hurt to admit it. “i made a promise. to always protect you. not the other way around.”

you reached out slowly and took his hand, his fingers tense at first, then slowly relaxing beneath yours.

“i never asked you to carry everything alone,” you said gently. “you promised to protect me, yeah. but I never said you had to do it at the cost of yourself.”

he didn’t answer right away. just stared at their joined hands, his thumb brushing lightly against yours like he was grounding himself there. you could see the fight in him still, fighting his body, fighting his pride, fighting the fear that you’d outgrow him, leave him behind like some childhood relic.and you hated that.

so you squeezed his hand.

“you’ve always been there for me. let me be here for you, too.”

and finally—finally—he let his shoulders fall, the tension melting just a little as he leaned towards you, forehead resting gently against your arm.

“…you really don’t know how to back down do you?,” he mumbled, voice muffled by exhaustion.

You simply smiled as you looked down at him, eyes warm as you stroked his hair back from his forehead.

“not when it comes to you.”

and for once today, he didn’t argue.

writing-prompt-s

"YOU HAVE THREE WISHES," the genie says grandly. "Oh no, that's fine I don't need all three. I just wanted one." The genie raises an eyebrow. "So what is your 'one' wish?" "I wish for time to stop every time I pick up and read a book—and start again when I put it down, so I always have time to read."

writing-official

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sylusslittlekitten

Audio Masterlist 🎧

Some 18+ audios that I’ve heard that sound a little like the LADS men to me.

They're not supposed to be them, but in the audio, it kinda matches the sounds or phrases they've said in their cards.

NOTE: These audio tracks are not from the game. They are 18+. Do not interact or listen if you are underage.

*WARNING: USE HEADPHONES 🎧*

Xavier

Zayne

Rafayel

Sylus

Caleb

poisonf0rest

Overc*mming Writer's Block 3

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐕

♱⋅── zayne x reader

♱⋅── about: Between being in the midst of your medical residency and being an up-and-coming author, it’s safe to say your personal life has been placed on stand-still. That is, until your editor decided that your next novel needed explicit smut scenes. That is, until your mentor and boss ends up striking a deal for you to help with “inspiration” for said novel. That is, until you fuck Zayne four times and your life changes forever. Partially inspired by manga of the same name by Nae Awaji

♱⋅── word count: 10.8k holy

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, bondage, oral, pussydrunk zayne, PRAISE kink, breeding kink, actual sex this time, no more blue balling, nightly rendezvous card

art credit to @/chimmyming on X

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