We weren’t in the sanctified room itself, not around the sacred table under the Reaper’s glare, not with the gavel in Jax’s hand or blood oaths carved into the air. But it was close enough—the next room, the war room, the common ground where patched men talked low and heavy. Voices braided together: shipments, debts, Oakland breathing down their necks, whispers of the Irish.
I shouldn’t have been there. But when the hell had that ever stopped me?
I perched on the arm of a leather couch, legs crossed, heels dangling lazy, sipping from some brother’s half-dead coffee cup. The bitter taste clung to my tongue. My smile was all sharp edges as I watched the club talk shop.
Jax leaned against the bar, arms folded, kutte hanging open. White shirt clung damp at the collar, sweat bleeding through where his muscles flexed. His jaw was clenched, a storm bottled inside him, blue eyes half-hidden under that blond mop. Tension rolled off him like heat waves.
I barely caught half of what was said—until one voice cut clean.
Rico. Fucking prospect.
“So, if we’re talking outsiders…” he muttered, the smirk in his tone slick as oil. “Should Roxy even be here?”
Silence fell like a blade.
Every head swung Jax’s way. Then mine.
I sipped slow, eyes half-lidded. “Don’t mind me.”
“She knows more about our business than half of you,” Jax said, voice low, dangerous.
That should’ve ended it. I should’ve let it drop.
But my blood ran hotter than my sense.
“Awww,” I purred, dragging every vowel, lashes batting as my lips curved. “Look at that. My protector. Guess being inside me buys me some respect.”
Chuckles. Some strained. Some sharp enough to cut. A throat cleared. Air thick with unease.
Then—
CRACK.
The bottle Jax had been holding shattered against the bar.
And then he was moving. A streak of leather and fury before my brain even caught up.
I scrambled to stand—half to meet him, half to get away—but it was too late. His hand fisted in my shirt, yanking me forward so fast the cup flew from my hand. Breath punched out of my lungs.
He spun me, slammed me chest-first against the wall in the narrow hallway—long stretch, broken light, blind angle that led to the back rooms. My palms slapped drywall. My cheek scraped plaster.
He pressed in close, body heat searing through denim and leather, one hand planted by my head, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. His breath scalded my ear.
“You think that was funny?” he hissed, voice shredded.
My pulse pounded. Pussy pulsed harder. I darted my gaze back, catching just enough—open doorway, three brothers on the couch, one still sipping his beer. They couldn’t see us. But they knew.
My lips curled, my voice a knife. “You gonna scold me like a good little president?” I shifted back against him, rolling my hips into his.
His growl was pure animal.
“You wanna be used?” he snarled. “Fine.”
His hand dove between my thighs, yanking my skirt up, panties shoved aside so roughly the seam bit into my skin. Fingers slid through slick heat.
“Soaked,” he spat, voice half disbelief, half hunger. “You’re fucking soaked for this.”
My breath hitched, sharp as glass. “You started it.” The words came out jagged, trembling, more confession than defiance.
He ripped his hand back, wet fingers gleaming, and then I heard it—the belt buckle clanging, zipper tearing down. A sound louder than the voices just yards away. Louder than my heart in my ears.
Hands to the wall. Feet spread. Body trembling.
Then—his cock slammed into me in one brutal, merciless thrust, burying to the hilt.
“Ahhhh—f-fuck!” My hand flew to my mouth to muffle the scream. My body seized, stretched, clenching hard around him.
He didn’t give me a breath. Hips snapped forward again, slamming me into the wall with each thrust, drywall rattling, obscene slap of flesh echoing down the hallway. His hand shoved up my shirt, gripping my breast rough, thumb pinching my nipple until I bucked against him.
“This how you want the club to see you?” His voice was jagged, gravel deep. “Bent over the wall, dripping around my cock like a little whore?”
Tears stung my eyes as I bit down on my knuckles, muffling the moan that tore from my chest. Shame and heat tangled, burning me alive. My cunt clenched harder, wetter, sucking him in with every punishing thrust.
“I should drag you into the chapel,” he gritted, hips bruising me. “Fuck you over the table where they vote life and death.”
My laugh was a gasp, a sob. “Do it.”
He barked a mean chuckle, breath hot on my neck. “Not done with this wall yet.”
The rhythm grew savage. His cock carved me open, every thrust a battering ram. The drywall thudded with each hit. Voices in the other room faltered. One brother cleared his throat. Another shifted in his seat. The silence thickened.
“They know,” Jax whispered, teeth scraping my ear. “They know what I’m doing to you. You hear it? You feel it?”
Then his hand slid down, fingers finding my clit, rubbing tight vicious circles. My whole body arched, muscles seizing, nails clawing at the wall.
“Ahhhhnnn—ohhh god—” My orgasm ripped through me, brutal and humiliating, cunt spasming around him so hard his hips stuttered.
“Fuckkk—” he groaned, but didn’t stop. His forearm braced across my back, holding me down, cock drilling harder, faster, chasing his edge.
“You push me too far,” he snarled, sweat dripping from his chin onto my skin. “Always pushing.”
“And you—love it—” I gasped, throat raw.
His body jerked, cock driving deep, and then he broke—groaning low, guttural, as hot cum spilled inside me, each pulse filling me so deep my eyes rolled back.
For a heartbeat the world was still. My legs jelly. My panties ruined. My cunt stretched and wrecked.
Then his lips brushed my ear again. Voice a razor.
“Go back out there like this. Let ‘em smell me on you.”
I turned my head just enough to catch his eyes. Feral. Spent. Beautiful. Mine.
“You’re a sick fuck,” I whispered, wrecked.
His grin cut like glass. “Takes one.”
When he pulled out, it was with a wet, obscene sound, cum dripping hot down my thighs. He tugged my skirt back into place like nothing had happened, zipped up, and strode off like a king.
I stood there ten seconds longer, breathing ragged, skin fevered. Then my heels clicked against the floor as I stepped back into the common room.
Every head turned.
No one spoke.
But the silence—it was deafening. It was everything.
The scenes I write here would be everything you could be dreaming of or want out of life. I hope you will take the time to read them and see if you want to send me some requests to.
Works Below
📌 Request Rules – What I Write
🛠️ Sons of Anarchy — Jax Teller
Feral Devotion
Jax is wild, raw, and worships her like a storm he
The crowd had been chanting all night —
“WHO ARE YOU?”
Like a warning.
Like a dare.
The answer came in patent leather.
Miz’s theme hit.
He walked out like he owned the show —
designer suit, too-clean grin, mic already in hand.
The boos rolled in. He bathed in them.
“Cut the music.
Let me do what AEW management can’t seem to pull off…”
He adjusted his jacket, slow and deliberate. Turned his head just enough to meet the hard cam.
“…and that’s properly introduce the most dangerous force in women’s wrestling today.”
Heat. Louder now. He smirked.
“You’re welcome.
Because without me—
without The Miz—
you wouldn’t even see them.”
He leaned into the ropes, taunting the fans echoing their chant back at him:
“WHO ARE YOU?”
“WHO ARE YOU?”
“Who are they?”
(he chuckled)
“They’re the future you don’t deserve.
But you’re gonna get them anyway.
Because I negotiated the greatest contract this company has ever seen:
No repackaging.
No betrayals.
No stupid face turns.
Just bloodline.
Just dominance.
Just legacy.”
The lights cut.
Silence hit like a gut punch.
Then:
bass-heavy tribal drums — slow, rhythmic, heartlike.
Red spotlights flared once… twice… three times.
Smoke curled at the stage like something was rising from the ashes.
And out they walked.
🔥 The Ones Enter
Mai Reigns, draped in gold and steel, eyes fixed forward like a queen already sitting on her throne
Malia Fatu, smirking like fire lived in her lungs, pacing with heat in her shoulders
Talisua Fatu, ice-cold stare, expression unreadable, every step calculated
Three women. One purpose.
They didn’t look at Miz.
They didn’t look at the crowd.
They just walked — slowly — into the ring, silent as gravity.
Miz stepped back, just enough to let them form a wall behind him.
“Ladies and gentlemen… bow down to the true heirs of this business.”
“The Empress — Mai Reigns.
The Firestarter — Malia Fatu.
The Silent Storm — Talisua Fatu.”
“Together…
they are…
The Ones.”
The crowd roared — part awe, part disbelief, part fear.
A "HOLY SH*T" chant cracked through the noise like thunder.
And then…
“DMD.”
💥 Britt Baker’s Interruption
The crowd exploded as Britt stormed the ramp — Toni Storm and Willow flanking her like backup in a street fight.
Her boots hit the steel hard. Her mic came up faster than her breath.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“You show up here with Hollywood money and daddy’s name and you think you’re running our division? AEW wasn’t built for you — and it sure as hell isn’t giving anything to you.”
The Ones didn’t flinch.
Malia laughed — loud, reckless, amused.
Talisua took one step forward. Just one.
The crowd leaned in.
Then…
Mai raised her hand.
Malia froze mid-step. Talisua halted mid-breath.
Silence fell like a blade.
Mai stepped forward, slow and composed, her voice low and clean like steel through velvet.
“You don’t get it.”
(She looked at Britt. Through her.)
“You’re not the division.
You’re the leftovers.”
Beat. Not a single breath in the arena.
“We didn’t come to join you.”
“We came to bury you.”
She lifted one finger.
The other two followed. Miz, just behind, raised his brows — smirking like a man who already won.
Miz (low, smug):
“Ladies… gentlemen…
and Britt Baker especially…
Get used to the view.”
(beat — the camera leaned in tight)
“Because these three?
They don’t chase crowns.”
(smirk)
“They inherit them.”
🎵 Exit:
The Ones turned first.
Slow, synchronized. Unbothered. Undisputed.
Miz followed like a kingmaker in perfect stride.
In the ring, Britt stared after them like fire waiting for oxygen.
Toni’s jaw was set. Willow’s fists were already clenched.
Commentary (barely breathing):
“They just declared war on the women’s division.
And The Miz…
The Miz is their mouthpiece?”
The training room was empty except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the slow drip of a broken pipe near the far wall.
Asuna sat on the bench, tying the laces of her boots with steady fingers.
Bakugo stood near the door like a fuse with nowhere to burn, arms crossed, eyes locked on her like he was waiting for something — or someone — to explode.
“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” he snapped, voice sharp enough to draw blood.
Asuna didn’t flinch. “Like what?”
He scowled harder, if that was even possible.
“Like I’m not broken.”
(She paused, just for a second — enough for him to catch it.)
“You look at everyone like that,” he muttered. “But when it’s me, it—”
(His voice cracked, subtle but real. He turned away. Fists clenched.)
“It makes me want to prove you right.”
(beat)
“And I hate that.”
He faced her again, something raw behind the explosion-colored eyes.
“I hate how much I want to be good enough for the way you see me.”
(Her eyes softened. She didn’t speak.)
“So quit doing it,” he said.
(beat)
“Or don’t. Just… don’t stop.”
He took a breath like it hurt.
“'Cause if you ever stop looking at me like that… I don’t know what the hell I’ll turn into.”
“Your Quirk’s dangerous,” Hawks said, his voice too casual for the truth it carried.
Asuna glanced at him from the rooftop ledge where she sat, legs dangling over the edge of the city. Lights below flickered like distant stars — cold and out of reach.
“So’s yours,” she murmured, arms wrapped loosely around her knees.
He tilted his head, feathers ruffling as a breeze passed between them. “Yeah, but mine doesn’t make people fall in love with me.”
(beat)
“At least not on accident.”
Her lips parted, a protest forming — but he cut her off, stepping closer, hands in his pockets.
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s not your fault. ‘Halo’ does the heavy lifting, right?”
(he crouched beside her now, voice dipping lower)
“But I’ve seen how people look at you. How they forget to breathe when you smile.”
She didn’t speak. Just stared at the sky, as if the stars might give her a different answer than the one rising between them.
“They want to save you,” Hawks said. “Even when they’re the ones who need saving.”
(beat)
“I’m not immune to it, Asuna.”
His voice was quiet now, rough around the edges.
“And I hate not knowing if it’s you I want…
or the part of me that wants to be wanted.”
She turned to face him, eyes searching his like she was daring him to lie.
“And what do you think?”
He held her gaze. Didn’t blink.
“I think I’d fall for you even if your Quirk never worked again.”
(He stood then — fast, too fast — and gave her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.)
Rain hit the alley like a drumbeat, neon bleeding through puddles while jazz wept from a busted speaker down the block.
Spike had seen a lot of bounty hunters.
None of them wore a red jacket like her.
Roxanna stepped from the shadows with smoke on her breath and precision in her hands. Twin pistols sang before the punk could even scream — one shot disarmed, the other crippled. Clean. Efficient. Beautiful, if you liked danger dressed in leather and secrets.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. Just said:
“Name’s Roxanna. See you around, cowboys.”
Hours later, she docked on the Bebop like a storm that refused to announce itself. Jasmine and gunpowder in the air. A ship shaped like a blade.
Even Faye looked twice. Ed was already singing.
And Spike? He lit a cigarette and stared too long.
He should’ve known better.
But then again, when had he ever made smart choices about women who could kill him?
“That new bounty hunter…”
“Roxanna.”
“Right. She yours?”
Spike took a drag from his cigarette. Didn’t answer.
Just blew smoke out the side of his mouth and said,
“She’s nobody’s.”
Faye scoffed from across the room. “Could’ve fooled me. She walks in here like she’s already earned her keep.”
“Maybe she has,” Jet muttered, polishing a pistol without looking up. “She’s good.”
“She’s dangerous,” Faye bit back. “That’s different.”
Ed poked her head up from under the table. “She talks like shadows and shoots like thunder! Boom boom pow!”
Jet grunted. “She’s precise. And she doesn’t miss.”
Faye rolled her eyes. “And yet somehow, Spike’s the one watching her like she’s a cigarette he forgot to finish.”
Spike leaned against the doorframe, eyes half-lidded, voice low.
“Some people walk into your life like a storm.
Others…
like a reminder you never put the fire out.”
He flicked his ash and walked off.
Faye stared after him.
“And what the hell does that mean?”
Ed just giggled. “It means the cowboy’s gonna get burned~!”
Asuna Yagi — daughter of All Might, healer with a Quirk that makes people love her. Not admire. Not respect.
Love. Obsessively. Irrationally. Desperately.
They call it “HeartFlare.”
A glow that pulls people close. A smile that makes them stay.
She saves lives with a touch, and loses herself one piece at a time.
UA trained her like a symbol. The League wants to break her like one.
And somewhere between late-night rooftop confessions and missions that never make the news…
She learns what it means to be wanted for real.
Not for the power. Not for the last name.
For her.
They never understood what “We the Ones” meant — not really.
Not until the silence cracked wide open.
She didn’t walk into AEW like a challenger.
She stepped into a ring built on legacy, laced with expectation —
a battlefield made of bones, waiting to break.
Mai. Malia. Tai.
These aren’t just names.
They’re declarations.
No stumbles behind the curtain.
No weak links waiting to snap.
Every glance cuts. Every move dares.
Steel in their hands. Fire in their veins.
The lights dim.
Not for drama — for reverence.
A hush settles, heavy with knowing.
And then — the table breaks.
Not for pop. Not for spectacle.
For warning.
Mercedes Moné doesn’t look down.
She stares across.
Legacy meets legacy. Neither willing to blink.
Will Ospreay doesn’t offer alliance.
He doesn’t kneel.
He stands — because standing with her is survival now. Not strategy.
Malia’s fire flares too close to Copeland’s legacy-shadow,
and somewhere in the rafters,
family watches.
Waiting.
“You’re still breathing because she smiles when you walk in.”
A whisper.
A truth.
A threat, dressed in silk.
Steel signs the contracts now.
Silence enforces loyalty.
And in the corners of every dim-lit arena,
an empire begins to rise.
They thought The Ones was just a faction.
AEW didn’t get a team.
It got a reckoning.
I’ve been sick since August 23. It’s September 1 now. I was so ill I even had to go to the hospital. I’ve only been off work for four days, and you would think in a time like this my family — my blood, the people who are supposed to care for me — would support me, or at least show they love me. But instead, they want me to pay them just to stay home.
They tell me it’s my fault I got sick. My fault for not having the insurance to cover everything. They don’t care if the medicine makes me sick — they say I don’t need to take it every 12 hours, just take half now and half later. As if my health doesn’t matter, as if it’s not serious.
What hurts most is the way they treat me, like I’m dumb. Like I don’t understand “how the world works,” when really what they’re showing me is that in their world, money matters more than family, more than love, more than helping someone when they’re down.
All they seem to care about is the money I give them. They say the bills still have to be paid, and if I can’t work, then that’s my problem. Basically, they’ve made it clear: if I get sick and can’t keep up, then I’ll end up on the street. And no one is going to come save me.
So here I am, alone, realizing that the people I thought would care for me don’t. It hurts. But at least I can tell the truth about it here.
Thank you everyone who has been loving and liking all my post. I love to see them. They make me feel so happy to see people love the idea that comes out of my head. I was sick in the hospital for a few days so hopefully I will be able to make more creative stories.
What happens when a werewolf enforcer falls for a witch powerful enough to scare vampires?
Atlas left his Colorado pack for love. Yuki turned her back on leading her own coven for freedom. Together, they're building something the supernatural world has never seen—a relationship that crosses every line, breaks every rule, and threatens every tradition.
But hiding their love in a world that forbids interspecies relationships is killing them both.
When a vampire confrontation forces Yuki to reveal her devastating elemental powers, they realize they can't keep living in the shadows. Enter Havenwood—a mysterious Pacific Northwest sanctuary where werewolves, vampires, witches, and humans coexist openly.
One application. One chance. One town that could change everything.
Atlas is seven feet of protective werewolf energy who calls Yuki his "pack of two." Former enforcer turned devoted partner, covered in wolf tattoos that tell his life story. He'll plan every detail to keep her safe—but can't interfere when her magical family comes calling.
Yuki wields fire, ice, lightning, and earth with unprecedented power. She saved Atlas's life and created an unbreakable magical bond between them. Now she's the ideas woman to his strategic planning, dreaming of their café "The Bewitching Hour" where all supernatural beings can gather safely.
But getting into Havenwood means facing a council interview, navigating supernatural politics, and proving their business plan can serve everyone from vampire councilwomen to centaur nature-lovers.
And that's before Yuki's terrifyingly powerful witch family discovers where she's hiding...
🌙 Enemies-to-lovers? No. More like "lovers-against-the-world"
⚡ Found family meets supernatural politics
🔥 Business partners by day, magical bonded mates by night
🏠 House hunting with a werewolf = 15 acres and room to run
☕ Café ownership meets supernatural community building
Perfect for fans of supernatural romance, cozy fantasy vibes, and couples who are absolutely ride-or-die for each other.
🎮💥 Looking for Collaborators for a Visual Novel Project! 💥🎮
Hey everyone! I'm currently working on a visual novel called No Saints in Charming — a crossover fanfiction-inspired game combining the worlds of Sons of Anarchy and Peaky Blinders. It's gritty, emotional, character-driven, and full of high-stakes family drama, romance, loyalty, and violence.
🌹 The Story:
Roxanna "Roxy" Blackwood (née Shelby) has been living under a false identity in Charming — hiding the fact that she's Tommy Shelby's little sister. But when she falls for Jax Teller and throws herself between his son and danger, everything explodes. Her secret identity, her connection to one of the most dangerous criminal families in the world, and the collision between SAMCRO and the Peaky Blinders? It's all about to blow wide open.
💥 Why This Matters:
This is more than just fanservice. It’s a fully plotted, character-rich narrative with emotional depth, worldbuilding, and choices that matter. It explores loyalty, love, power, identity, and what it means to survive when you come from legacy and violence.
🎨 What I’m Looking For:
I'm currently seeking someone who’s familiar with or willing to work in Ren'Py, Unity (VN style), or Visual Novel Maker to help bring this to life. I’m open to hobbyists, students, or creators who just want to be part of something cool.
✨ I’m funding this myself, so the budget is small — but I’m willing to work something out for your time (a modest fee or revenue share if the game performs well). Everyone involved will receive full credit and support. This is a passion project with serious heart, and I want it to shine.
🎮 What I bring:
Story. Character design. Full written scenes. Art references. Branding. Planning. Writing is nearly complete for the opening act and key arcs.
🖤 If you're someone (or know someone) who’d love to join a storytelling project with crime, romance, betrayal, and ride-or-die energy — hit me up.
📩 DM me or email [your email here]
🚧 Project Title: No Saints in Charming
📍 Engine: Flexible (Ren’Py, Unity, or VNM)
💡 Genre: Crime drama / Romance / Visual Novel / Crossover
🎭 Rating: Mature — emotional themes, violence, criminal content
I don't know about you guys but i love this pictures so much. It's super cute at least I think so.
Yo! You Actually Found My Services Page 🎉
Okay, first off—heck yes, you’re here. Seriously, it means a ton that you’re poking around to see what I can cook up for you. This is where my love for creative chaos turns into actual, usable stuff for other writers, artists, and daydreamers chasing their next big idea.
So, What’s On The Menu?
AI Art Covers That Actually Pop Off
Alright, let’s be real. You’ve seen those covers that look like a template from 2002. We’re not doing that. You bring me your wildest idea—moody fantasy hero, swoony romance, space cats with laser eyes (hey, no judgment)—and I’ll wrangle the AI magic to make a cover that actually 'stops' people mid-scroll. Basically, your book’s gonna look hot, not half-baked.
Blurbs That Don’t Suck
Ever try to sum up your story and end up sounding like you’re ordering at Subway? Been there. I’ll take your tangled plot and turn it into a blurb that yanks people in and leaves ‘em wanting the rest ASAP. Novels, fanfics, blogs, your D&D campaign diary—if it needs words, I’ve got you.
Story Critiques That Don’t Feel Like a Roast
Look, I’m not here to rip your work to shreds or butter you up with fake praise. You get honest, friendly feedback—think “supportive pal who actually cares,” not “high school English teacher with a red pen and a vendetta.” I’ll hype up what’s working and nudge you on what could be even stronger. You’ll walk away pumped, not crushed.
Document Typing (Because, Yeah, Life’s Messy)
Handwritten stuff everywhere? Notes in your phone, scribbles on napkins, scanned PDFs from 2010? Same. I’ll turn that chaos into clean, digital docs, no sweat. Perfect for anyone who still likes doodling on paper but needs stuff online.
When I’m Not Doing All That…
I’m deep in fandom rabbit holes. My Hero Academia, Naruto, Pokémon—you know, the good stuff. I write way too much fanfiction and get way too attached to my OCs (I regret nothing).
I game. A lot. Still obsessed with Final Fantasy XV (don’t @ me, Noctis deserved the world) and the Tales series. These games basically fuel my brain and sneak into my writing whether I mean it or not.
Oh, and I’m constantly hunting down new coffee shops or plotting my next mini adventure. Sometimes it’s a random road trip, sometimes it’s just wandering the city. All those vibes, they end up in my stories—intentional or not.
Real Talk: Why Your Support Matters
Making art takes time, caffeine, and the occasional meltdown. If you commission me or toss a coffee my way on Ko-Fi, you’re not just buying a service—you’re helping a fellow creative keep the lights on and the inspiration flowing.
Every gig lets me travel more, upgrade my setup, and get better at what I do. Plus, I learn something new with every single project. Seriously, your support means more than you know.
Whether you need a killer cover, want someone to hype up (or polish) your story, or just wanna chip in because you like my vibe—thank you. Big time.
Let’s Make Cool Stuff Happen
This isn’t just a business thing. I wanna collab, get to know your vision, and make sure what we create feels so “you” it hurts.
Wanna chat about your project? Hit me up! I swear, we’ll have fun and end up with something awesome.
Thanks for stopping by and thinking of me for your creative shenanigans. Now, come on—let’s make some magic. 🚀
“The world doesn’t ask for permission to be beautiful. It just is.”
I came across this image and couldn’t stop staring. That kind of quiet, glowing magic where the world slips into stillness for just a moment. The way the cliffs cradle the cove like a secret. The way the sun bleeds into the sea. It almost doesn’t feel real — like the kind of place you only find in dreams or RPGs.
But if you're wondering where something like this could actually exist? You’d probably be looking at Navagio Beach in Zakynthos, Greece or maybe the cliffs along the Amalfi Coast in Italy. That intense cerulean water, fiery sky, and rugged beauty scream Mediterranean paradise — the kind of hidden gem you reach by foot or boat, just in time for golden hour.
Places like this remind me why I want to travel more. Why I want to feel the wind off the cliffs, the warmth of sunset on my skin, the salt in the air. Not just scroll past it.
I’m making a list of places like this — not just to visit, but to write about. To turn into stories. Maybe I’ll find this cove one day… or maybe I’ll build one in a book and live there in my own way.
✨ Tag me if you’ve ever been somewhere that looked like this. Or if you’ve seen it in a dream. Or a game. I wanna know.
