Hi there! I'm a 19 year old neurodivergent nerd enjoying her tiny corner of Tumblr. This is where I'll dump a lot of my fics as well as whatever hyperfixations are getting me through the month. Plus classic Tumblr humor that brings a smile to my face. For my Star Wars content, visit my sideblog @lavenderlemonade47! See my masterlist.
I'm a lover of all things cute or pastel. If it wasn't evident by my username, I'm also an avid reader and writer! My main fandom right now is Star Wars, though I may post for other ones in the future.
I'm still getting my feet wet with writing fanfiction, so I won't be taking requests at the moment.
I do not consent to the use of any of my works to train large language models (LLMs).
Be kind and respectful and we'll get along! I don't want to see any bigotry on either of my blogs. Racism, sexism, ableism, homophobia, or anything of the like will get you blocked.
Last but not least, take care of yourself. Drink some water! <3
Still rocking an NFT icon in this day and age is like seeing a confederate flag on the back of someone’s truck. You lost 100 years ago, fucker, it’s over.
[ i can’t remember the blog that i learned it from, but if i can find it, i will link them here ]
in this tutorial, i’m going to teach you how to make gradient text like this in your tumblr posts. i work off of desktop, so i’m going to follow those controls.
Exactly one year ago, I drove to high school one last time to pick up my diploma after having graduated at the top of my class.
Today, I passed my EMT psychomotor test after having spent the previous night alternating between studying and adding the finishing touches to my brainrotted Triple T x reader fic.
Summary: You're exhausted after trying and failing to assimilate into arboreal culture. So you go on a tryst with the one log that reciprocates your affectionate advances.
Even if just for one night before SoraAI shuts down and the algorithm moves on.
Relationship: Tung Tung Tung Sahur x F!Reader
Rating: 18+. MDNI on this post or else you will get the baseball bat.
Warnings: Surrealism and existential questions, decay of the universe, cultural assimilation, loneliness, and species-related body dysphoria. Foreplay with cowgirl position. Several atrocious puns.
Word Count: About 1.1k
Author's Note: Partially inspired by "i would split myself like timber just to hold you (the sound the bat makes at midnight)" by r1chiez on AO3.
Enjoy. I sacrificed my dignity and sleep to make this.
Your blisters were always a nuisance to get rid of.
Not so much for the discomfort itself. You’d grown accustomed to the perpetual itch and tenderness after working in the forest for long enough. The life of logs left little room for rest; tasks were undertaken everyday with the utmost stoicism, from burrowing into an orange’s skull to improvising home renovations in strawberry elephants. Dwelling on the pain would have only slowed you down.
Instead, the bumps mottling your fingers reminded you of only one thing.
Disgusting humanity.
Your soft flesh had no place in the FYP’s arboreal plains. Trees didn’t share your warm blood and lumpy form; smooth bark, defined grain, and sturdy branches were the norm. Species of moss and flora cycled in and out of style by the season.
Sometimes, you weren’t sure why you kept trying.
Intercourse was the only outlet by which you might receive the most fleeting glance of admiration. With the dizzying range of colors and trunk shapes that defined tree society, you hoped you could find your niche. You made it a habit to braid petals into your hair before each encounter. Sweetly perfumed sakura buds. Petals of magnolia that shone as white as swan's down.
Yet even the titillating red centers of witch hazel did no good. The half-hearted thrusts of birch men would inevitably shake them from your hair. The sight of it dimmed something in the gaze of all of them.
You'd always clean up alone after that.
Timber girls found solace in the post-coital grooming ritual with maple leaves. For you, the speckled ridges served only to solidify the ache.
What was need if it belonged only to yourself?
You didn’t have much time left. The fuzzy resolution of the clouds and the extra finger sprouting from your coworker’s hand told you everything.
SoraAI’s models were failing.
Perhaps the others had become aware of this fact, too. Even when they blamed you for the accident that resulted from your boss clipping through the table at Brr Brr Patapim’s house.
The loggers fired you after that.
You considered yourself alone before then—your sole interactions of the day being the shallow exchanges that occurred in the morning and at shift change. Except now, you no longer held the privilege of solitude among others.
Now, it was solely yours to bear.
So you resorted to the old reflex reserved for nights when it all became too much.
You scrolled Timbr.
The usual crowd was all there: the ones that treated lovemaking with the same perfunctory detachment as manual labor. Cedars that left you on read and rationalized their neglect with the passing of pollination season. Hawthorns who were cunning dirty talkers but left weeping lacerations on your skin with their sharp spines.
None of them could give you what you needed. You swiped left until your index ached.
Normally, the routine was enough to shut your eyes. You already felt your lids growing heavier against the glow of your screen in the dim bedroom.
Until one profile caught your attention.
Tall. Polished grain. A broad smile and a baseball bat that could kill.
Tung Tung Tung Sahur.
Even the rhythm of his name, softly percussive against your tongue, stirred something in you. You wet your lips as you pressed the heart button.
You didn’t know felling could feel like this.
Tung Tung’s lips tasted of spiced honey as they crashed against yours, tongue and phloem melding in a fibrous dance.
He pressed against you with such a needy insistence that you could almost imagine the servers collapsing tomorrow.
Maybe they would. If you squinted, you swore you could see the bedframe blur.
But with Tung Tung’s bark grinding so exquisitely against your thighs, you could forget.
He whimpered. “...are you sure about this?”
You hesitated.
Your previous partners—if you could even call them that—began with no such niceties. Sex was a mechanical series of motions: a disrobing, rocking, puncturing, and release that left you more exhausted than elated. Some of them swatted you when you least expected it, or crushed your throat with their roughened hand and squeezed until you saw twice as many stars as usual.
Every one left you with a faint taste of salt and copper in your mouth.
But not Tung Tung. He ceased his undulations to await your answer with wide brown eyes.
Your face grew hot. You shifted in place, slinging one knee over his. Gingerly, your palm moved to his chest, applying gentle pressure until he receded into the rumpled sheets.
You never did it like this before. On top with added leverage.
Somehow, the new position didn’t leave you queasy. You shuddered—not out of fear, but warm anticipation.
“Y-yeah, Tung.” You smiled. “Pound me like one of your timber girls.”
His warm laugh spilled freely into the room, melting the tension from your muscles like frost from clovers in the spring.
He didn’t rush the first ministration, giving you ample time to settle your weight on either side and arch your back. By the time he finally slid into you, you were practically gasping at the way his root filled you.
He really was premium lumber.
“Fuck,” he panted. “You take my wood so well.”
Your grip tightened against his wrists. In the absence of a smart quip, only a decadent moan escaped you as you rode the waves of pleasure.
“Could take some more—” You managed breathlessly. “ —if you want.”
Altman. The grin he flashed you should have been against guidelines.
Like sun-leavened oak, Tung Tung split you in two. You squirmed, nectar-drunk and walls beating as fast as the wings of an August hummingbird. You picked up the tempo, both of your breaths growing labored in the closing space between you two.
The electric feeling in your core threatened to burst every time he bumped against your clit. When you shut your eyes, the rhythm was almost a private symphony.
“Tung Tung,” you whined. “I’m gonna—“
“Go ahead, blossom.” He grunted, “Let me tap that sap.”
With one final push, you let go.
You wept in our own ways; white and amber sap mingling together. Sticky and sweet, it clung to the two of you as he finally sheathed his root. You cried plaintively at the sudden emptiness; he chuckled and pulled you closer under the duvet.
“What a logging.” He exhaled. “Wish I could have pollinated you earlier.”
You snorted.
“Wanna do this again next season?”
You did. Badly.
But the letters on the cover of his diary were already bending together in a manner you didn’t notice when he first scooped you into his arms.
You almost got dressed to leave.
Yet his heart kept beating steadily behind his solid trunk. The bed was warm. The nocturnal creatures began their evening song. Wrapped up in each other, the sound registered as a serenade.
Summary: You're exhausted after trying and failing to assimilate into arboreal culture. So you go on a tryst with the one log that reciprocates your affectionate advances.
Even if just for one night before SoraAI shuts down and the algorithm moves on.
Relationship: Tung Tung Tung Sahur x F!Reader
Rating: 18+. MDNI on this post or else you will get the baseball bat.
Warnings: Surrealism and existential questions, decay of the universe, cultural assimilation, loneliness, and species-related body dysphoria. Foreplay with cowgirl position. Several atrocious puns.
Word Count: About 1.1k
Author's Note: Partially inspired by "i would split myself like timber just to hold you (the sound the bat makes at midnight)" by r1chiez on AO3.
Enjoy. I sacrificed my dignity and sleep to make this.
Your blisters were always a nuisance to get rid of.
Not so much for the discomfort itself. You’d grown accustomed to the perpetual itch and tenderness after working in the forest for long enough. The life of logs left little room for rest; tasks were undertaken everyday with the utmost stoicism, from burrowing into an orange’s skull to improvising home renovations in strawberry elephants. Dwelling on the pain would have only slowed you down.
Instead, the bumps mottling your fingers reminded you of only one thing.
Disgusting humanity.
Your soft flesh had no place in the FYP’s arboreal plains. Trees didn’t share your warm blood and lumpy form; smooth bark, defined grain, and sturdy branches were the norm. Species of moss and flora cycled in and out of style by the season.
Sometimes, you weren’t sure why you kept trying.
Intercourse was the only outlet by which you might receive the most fleeting glance of admiration. With the dizzying range of colors and trunk shapes that defined tree society, you hoped you could find your niche. You made it a habit to braid petals into your hair before each encounter. Sweetly perfumed sakura buds. Petals of magnolia that shone as white as swan's down.
Yet even the titillating red centers of witch hazel did no good. The half-hearted thrusts of birch men would inevitably shake them from your hair. The sight of it dimmed something in the gaze of all of them.
You'd always clean up alone after that.
Timber girls found solace in the post-coital grooming ritual with maple leaves. For you, the speckled ridges served only to solidify the ache.
What was need if it belonged only to yourself?
You didn’t have much time left. The fuzzy resolution of the clouds and the extra finger sprouting from your coworker’s hand told you everything.
SoraAI’s models were failing.
Perhaps the others had become aware of this fact, too. Even when they blamed you for the accident that resulted from your boss clipping through the table at Brr Brr Patapim’s house.
The loggers fired you after that.
You considered yourself alone before then—your sole interactions of the day being the shallow exchanges that occurred in the morning and at shift change. Except now, you no longer held the privilege of solitude among others.
Now, it was solely yours to bear.
So you resorted to the old reflex reserved for nights when it all became too much.
You scrolled Timbr.
The usual crowd was all there: the ones that treated lovemaking with the same perfunctory detachment as manual labor. Cedars that left you on read and rationalized their neglect with the passing of pollination season. Hawthorns who were cunning dirty talkers but left weeping lacerations on your skin with their sharp spines.
None of them could give you what you needed. You swiped left until your index ached.
Normally, the routine was enough to shut your eyes. You already felt your lids growing heavier against the glow of your screen in the dim bedroom.
Until one profile caught your attention.
Tall. Polished grain. A broad smile and a baseball bat that could kill.
Tung Tung Tung Sahur.
Even the rhythm of his name, softly percussive against your tongue, stirred something in you. You wet your lips as you pressed the heart button.
You didn’t know felling could feel like this.
Tung Tung’s lips tasted of spiced honey as they crashed against yours, tongue and phloem melding in a fibrous dance.
He pressed against you with such a needy insistence that you could almost imagine the servers collapsing tomorrow.
Maybe they would. If you squinted, you swore you could see the bedframe blur.
But with Tung Tung’s bark grinding so exquisitely against your thighs, you could forget.
He whimpered. “...are you sure about this?”
You hesitated.
Your previous partners—if you could even call them that—began with no such niceties. Sex was a mechanical series of motions: a disrobing, rocking, puncturing, and release that left you more exhausted than elated. Some of them swatted you when you least expected it, or crushed your throat with their roughened hand and squeezed until you saw twice as many stars as usual.
Every one left you with a faint taste of salt and copper in your mouth.
But not Tung Tung. He ceased his undulations to await your answer with wide brown eyes.
Your face grew hot. You shifted in place, slinging one knee over his. Gingerly, your palm moved to his chest, applying gentle pressure until he receded into the rumpled sheets.
You never did it like this before. On top with added leverage.
Somehow, the new position didn’t leave you queasy. You shuddered—not out of fear, but warm anticipation.
“Y-yeah, Tung.” You smiled. “Pound me like one of your timber girls.”
His warm laugh spilled freely into the room, melting the tension from your muscles like frost from clovers in the spring.
He didn’t rush the first ministration, giving you ample time to settle your weight on either side and arch your back. By the time he finally slid into you, you were practically gasping at the way his root filled you.
He really was premium lumber.
“Fuck,” he panted. “You take my wood so well.”
Your grip tightened against his wrists. In the absence of a smart quip, only a decadent moan escaped you as you rode the waves of pleasure.
“Could take some more—” You managed breathlessly. “ —if you want.”
Altman. The grin he flashed you should have been against guidelines.
Like sun-leavened oak, Tung Tung split you in two. You squirmed, nectar-drunk and walls beating as fast as the wings of an August hummingbird. You picked up the tempo, both of your breaths growing labored in the closing space between you two.
The electric feeling in your core threatened to burst every time he bumped against your clit. When you shut your eyes, the rhythm was almost a private symphony.
“Tung Tung,” you whined. “I’m gonna—“
“Go ahead, blossom.” He grunted, “Let me tap that sap.”
With one final push, you let go.
You wept in our own ways; white and amber sap mingling together. Sticky and sweet, it clung to the two of you as he finally sheathed his root. You cried plaintively at the sudden emptiness; he chuckled and pulled you closer under the duvet.
“What a logging.” He exhaled. “Wish I could have pollinated you earlier.”
You snorted.
“Wanna do this again next season?”
You did. Badly.
But the letters on the cover of his diary were already bending together in a manner you didn’t notice when he first scooped you into his arms.
You almost got dressed to leave.
Yet his heart kept beating steadily behind his solid trunk. The bed was warm. The nocturnal creatures began their evening song. Wrapped up in each other, the sound registered as a serenade.
Summary: Your first birthday away from home at university wasn't quite what you expected. Thankfully, a reliable friend helps you see it another way.
Relationship: Emmet Brickowski/Reader (can be read as either or romantic)
Rating: G
Warnings: No major ones. Only mild angst/fluff with comparison pressures and mild sensory overwhelm.
Word count: ~1.0k
Dividers by @rmstitanics
Your birthday present arrived in a vending machine.
You’re not sure what you expected out of your first time celebrating the occasion at university. Certainly not this. Your mind was scattered between the chicken scratch of old notes, the garble of your instructor’s prerecorded lectures on double speed, and the highlighted lines of an assigned reading that seemed to bleed together the longer you looked at them.
You had a midterm tomorrow. You told yourself ahead of time that you would still find a way to make today memorable. Yet somehow, between your friends’ conflicting schedules and the meager digits in your checking account, a party never quite came together.
Cake would have been too expensive, too late, and far too impractical for a shared mini fridge that could barely hold your leftovers. What could you even do with candles when they weren’t RA approved?
Driving, too, was out of the question. Freshmen didn’t have the privilege of parking their cars on campus.
So this was your last resort. Your third favorite candy bar, squashed behind a smudged glass pane in the dorm lounge.
Is it even chocolate if it’s been collecting dust for an inordinate amount of time? You weren’t certain if you knew the answer to that.
You fished a crumpled bill from your pocket and fed it into the slot. For one perilous moment, your candy bar hung in the balance of the metal rings.
Then another. You held your breath through suspense that felt almost comical.
As if gravity itself decided to take pity on you, the treat was finally released from the coil and hit the bottom with a thunk that sounded too loud in the otherwise empty room.
Your small triumph was gooey between your fingers. You sighed. Figures. The air conditioning unit had been broken for a week.
You wiped the beginnings of sweat from your brow—the action more reflex than necessity now. The staleness of recycled air and the smell of abandoned takeout pressed in on you a little too much. The gray couch creaked beneath you in protest as you sidled onto the cushions.
You opened social media while peeling back the wrapper.
You didn’t know what you hoped to gain from looking again. Closure? At the very least, enough distraction to turn your mind off for a few minutes.
Regret curdled in your stomach.
The feed was awash in a flurry of extravagant parties. Layered cakes with impossible fondant and blazing candles posed next to beautiful people flashing wide grins. Top-tier venues booked with dozens of presents stacked on table after table. Glamorous tuxes and dresses that seemed to catch the light of the camera like magic.
Your mouth felt dry as you tapped out of the page.
The whine of the machine hammered at your ears. Somewhere down the corridor, your floormate slammed the microwave shut and punched in some numbers.
Hopefully he wasn’t warming up fishsticks again.
The warped square of chocolate gave easily beneath your thumb. You almost smiled at the warm gush of—
“Wait, is that caramel? That’s the good stuff!”
You startled so quickly that the bar nearly slipped from your hand.
Emmet was propped over the arm of the couch, eyeing your candy with the eager anticipation of a kid on an Easter egg hunt.
“It has to be a top ten flavor for me. Perfect combo of sweet and squishy.”
You huffed softly. “Really?”
“Totally! It tastes like the sun if it were mushy. Whoa…what do you think the sun would taste like?”
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Honestly, this candy isn’t even my all-time favorite. It’s just kind of…” You hesitated, trying for a second to say something articulate. You failed spectacularly.
“Convenient?” Emmet offered. “It’s right there. In a vending machine. Pretty good setup if you ask me.”
“I guess,” you responded unevenly. “It’s the only thing I could get. It’s not even like there’s any place that would be open now.”
“Hey,” he said slowly. “That’s not a bad thing. It means you get to stay inside! We could make it a cozy movie night or something. That’s awesome by itself.”
You pursed your lips. “Yeah. Except…nothing turned out how I thought it would.”
Did it even count as a birthday when your “cake” was a half-melted chocolate bar and the only message waiting on your phone was an oversaturated floral GIF from a relative you haven’t seen in years? When it was between this and scarfing down your roommate’s stale Oreos to drown out the karaoke session blaring through your walls at 10:37 PM?
Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You clenched your teeth.
Emmet tilted his head; it didn’t take him long to come up with an answer. “I mean,” he gestured at the candy in your hand. “You’ve got something good to eat. You’re wearing really comfy pajamas. Sounds like a solid start to the night. All you need is some popcorn!”
“Sure.” You nodded. Worry creased your brow. “But I can’t stay up too long. I have a test soon.”
Of course, Emmet wasn’t deterred. “Well, maybe we don’t need an entire movie right now. How about a show?”
Your shoulders relaxed. A show. You could do that.
“Okay,” you murmured. “But just one episode, right?”
“Sometimes one is the perfect amount. Especially if it’s about something cute like Mrs. Scratchen-Post’s cats!”
The corners of your mouth crept up. “A girl from my discussion section told me about a new series. Some kind of nature documentary series on cheetahs.”
“Close enough!” Emmet grinned. “They’re just like big cats. And really smart! Maybe it’ll rub off on you tomorrow. Hold on…you think cheetahs could actually do that?!”
You chuckled. “We could find out.”
Your phone was far from the ideal screen to stream fearsome predators on. At six percent charge, you couldn’t press play without first plugging it into the outlet beneath your bed with the extended cord your family insisted on packing.
It was an awkward fit in the corner of your messy bunk. Somehow, things still felt…nice. Emmet insisted on making a “nest” of the pillows— “They make everything better!” —and became oddly invested in one particular cub with only a minute of screentime.
The narrator’s voice was just enough to draw your attention and make your eyelids heavier. At some point, you felt Emmet’s head against your shoulder.
You didn’t pull away.
Author’s note: This was based on the feeling of my own nineteenth birthday this semester. What a weird age it's been so far.
P.S: For those of you in school, good luck on finals. Emmet's rooting for you and so am I!
-dont go to the emergency room with dental problems. go to the dentist
-bagged greens are cheaper than pre-made salads
-taco bell is NOT worth the money anymore. 1/4 cup mayo, 1/4 cup sour cream, 3 tblspoons pickled jalapenos+2tblspoons of the jar liquid, 2 tsp paprika 1 tsp cumin 1 tsp garlic powder 1 tsp onion powder salt+pepper. all in your blender. creamy jalapeno sauce
-dont quit your job unless you have a bunch of job interviews lined up immediately after
-use resources. food bank, unemployment, housing assistance, financial aid, etc. yes there will be paperwork. but Do It
-dont stay awake longer than 20 hours. you Will start to become impulsive and cranky. resting for 20 minutes is better than trying to stay awake
-for every 2 hours you spend looking up close at screens, spend 20 minutes looking at something far away from you. stretch your wrists a lot
-dont do that yoga stretch where you roll your head around your shoulders. youre grinding down the joints in your neck
-be nice to your friends, bullying them as a joke gets old. if you need a ride somewhere at least offer them gas money
-brush your teeth at any time of the day but especially before you sleep. dont snack in bed if you can help it. make your bed the Clean Teeth Zone. keep floss picks by your bed
-dont tell your boss youre adhd/autism/depression/suicidal. dont trust your coworkers with that. you NEVER know how people will take it and its none of their business
-train your pets to go to the front door when they hear a fire alarm
Thank-you to all of my new Internet stranger friends for being so gracious about having my post shoved onto your dashboards. I loved reading all of your kind tags and comments! Both Martin and Bosco have been gone for several years now but for 24 hours, they felt very present in my life. I greatly appreciate this gift. ❤️
