FanfiQ
Serf
- Local time
- Today 9:36 PM
- Messages
- 3
- Age
- 34
- Pronouns
- She/her
Who are you, how long have you been writing and what kind of things do you like to write?
I am Fanfi, 34 years old, playing for more than 10 years. Just mostly in german before.
How long do your replies tend to be and what is your writing schedule like?
I try to be a fast replier. I will write at least once a day than not more, if I find the time. I am very transparent about my free time and what I like and what not.
What is your tolerance level for gore? Violence?
Always depends on the story. It just shouldn't be just because, always with Plot intent. I am more a fan of leaving it to someones mind than graphic depictions.
Do you write sexual content? If so, what are your kinks? Limits?
Yes. Ratio 50/50 til 70/30 always in favor of storytelling and our predefined standards.
I am a dev, but surely not passiv. I am searching a soft dom mostly. That does not mean, that I do not like it rough sometimes. My favorites are dirty talk, oral, handjob (both ways), sperm (creampies, facials, ...), outdoor, lite choking, spanking, orgasm control, edging, toys, masturbating together, dry humping, semi-public, restraints
What is a must is kissing and talking while lovemaking!
What is okay but not needed is anal, dub-con, cnc, breathplay
My limits are everything that belongs to the toilet, everything that would be almost everywhere illegal, humiliation, blackmail, cheating, orgys and threesomes (sorry I am that kind of girl!)
Do you write any fandoms? (Please bear in mind that any characters under 18 and any high school settings must be aged up)
Yes, I write mostly fandom. Although I Change sometimes the plot drastically creating a whole new story.
Now onto my Plot Idea:
Canvas & Criminals (Gangster Romance Comedy)
Prison wasn't so bad if you overlooked the obvious reasons: the cellmates, the food, and the loss of three years of your life. But Archibald MacLeod, Lenny Cole's right hand and the Metropolitan Police's favorite punching bag, had a consolation prize: letters. They arrived monthly, written on fine paper—sometimes with ink smudges, as if the writer had scribbled with impatience—and escalated from respectful admiration to a tension that was hard to conceal in a cell with three other men.
Archy had no idea who his mysterious admirer was. That was about to change. And it was going to complicate everything.
* * *
Quinn Cole was the family's black sheep—or as Lenny put it: "The biggest disappointment of my life."
She was born with a silver spoon in a house full of handshakes that ruined people. While her schoolmates waited for fathers who came home from business meetings—Quinn painted. She drew. She wrote. She did everything except what was expected of her.
Law school was supposed to be it. Harvard. Oxford. Some prestigious name on a diploma that would complement Lenny's fleet of attorneys. Instead, Quinn enrolled at the Royal College of Art and came home with glittering eyeshadow, dyed hair streaks, and an unshakeable grin.
That was her mistake.
Lenny Cole wasn't the kind of man you said "I don't care" to. He was the kind of man who solved problems with a look. So he solved Quinn like a problem: quickly and permanently. At twenty-seven, she was officially a non-person—not dead, but erased from the will, removed from family photos (digital and analog), deleted from his life like a faulty real estate ledger.
Most daughters would have crumbled. Would have cried, offered to change, promised to improve.
Quinn did the opposite.
She rented a studio in Shoreditch—with help from her grandmother, the only person in the family with backbone and her own bank account—and built a life that was everything Lenny despised: creative, chaotic, rebellious, and completely uncontrollable. Her art installations were provocative. Her performance pieces asked uncomfortable questions. She worked with graffiti artists, photographers, musicians—everywhere real people lived, not in the sterile office towers of her father's empire.
The letters to Archy began as a gesture. A gesture of solidarity, you might say. Quinn had always a thing for him, just never showed it. She liked men who stood for their convictions—or at least men who stood for others, even when those others were Lenny Cole. There was something tragic about Archibald MacLeod, those broad shoulders carrying Lenny Cole's debts. Something noble about a man who could keep his mouth shut.
So she wrote to him. At first, they were genuinely sweet things—inspiring, poetic, understanding. You're not alone, the letters said. There's someone out here thinking of you.
But Quinn could not stay sweet for long. She was too alive for that, too hungry for his attention. So the letters grew bolder. Sensual. The words became weapons and caresses at once. She described her hands, her thoughts, her fantasies about a man she only knew as the loyal dog of her father.
Always yours,
Princess
* * *
Now, three years later, Archibald MacLeod walked out of prison into a London that had changed and yet remained exactly the same. The police still waited for Lenny. Lenny still waited for his loyal Archy. And Quinn? Quinn waited in the Shoreditch studio, paint under her fingernails and a new letter she hadn't sent yet.
Then Vukovich arrived.
The Russian entered London's real estate world like someone examining another man's art collection—with a critical eye, quiet pleasure, and absolute conviction that he could buy anything he wanted. He was elegant, obscenely wealthy, and had a peculiar interest in things that weren't for sale: old master paintings, rebellious artists, and apparently—much to everyone's surprise—a wild, red-haired artist named Quinn Cole, who has only eyes for a man in the Background of things.
While Archy was fed back into the machinery of Lenny's operations, the threads tangled. Power and art, love and loyalty, family and betrayal.
\\\*
Hello dear roleplay friend
If you've read this far, thank you. I'm searching for a creative, enthusiastic writing partner who wants to help shape this world of Romance with me. I'm committed to driving the story forward within this universe. That means we'll be building a living, breathing world—one populated with compelling secondary characters, genuine emotions, and all the complexity that entails. Ideas are not just welcome; they're encouraged.
This Idea is losely inspired by the movie Rock'n'Rolla— but I'm equally invested in reimagining the story, making it something entirely our own, thus my partner does not need to know the movie. Your role will be Archibald. I am the chaotic artist Quinn.
Writing Style: I'm flexible. I enjoy both first-person and third-person perspectives, and I'll adapt to whichever feels right for our narrative. I'm passionate about writing, but I don't expect novellas from my partner—we'll find a natural rhythm together.
Content Warning: This story will and could contain NSFW content, including smut, adult language, trauma and violence. These elements serve the narrative and character development. Of course all the characteres are well over 18 years old
If you are interested in this scenerio hit me up with something creative and funny. Please don't message me just a one liner.
For all the other people, I wish a you a happy day.
I am Fanfi, 34 years old, playing for more than 10 years. Just mostly in german before.
How long do your replies tend to be and what is your writing schedule like?
I try to be a fast replier. I will write at least once a day than not more, if I find the time. I am very transparent about my free time and what I like and what not.
What is your tolerance level for gore? Violence?
Always depends on the story. It just shouldn't be just because, always with Plot intent. I am more a fan of leaving it to someones mind than graphic depictions.
Do you write sexual content? If so, what are your kinks? Limits?
Yes. Ratio 50/50 til 70/30 always in favor of storytelling and our predefined standards.
I am a dev, but surely not passiv. I am searching a soft dom mostly. That does not mean, that I do not like it rough sometimes. My favorites are dirty talk, oral, handjob (both ways), sperm (creampies, facials, ...), outdoor, lite choking, spanking, orgasm control, edging, toys, masturbating together, dry humping, semi-public, restraints
What is a must is kissing and talking while lovemaking!
What is okay but not needed is anal, dub-con, cnc, breathplay
My limits are everything that belongs to the toilet, everything that would be almost everywhere illegal, humiliation, blackmail, cheating, orgys and threesomes (sorry I am that kind of girl!)
Do you write any fandoms? (Please bear in mind that any characters under 18 and any high school settings must be aged up)
Yes, I write mostly fandom. Although I Change sometimes the plot drastically creating a whole new story.
Now onto my Plot Idea:
Canvas & Criminals (Gangster Romance Comedy)
Prison wasn't so bad if you overlooked the obvious reasons: the cellmates, the food, and the loss of three years of your life. But Archibald MacLeod, Lenny Cole's right hand and the Metropolitan Police's favorite punching bag, had a consolation prize: letters. They arrived monthly, written on fine paper—sometimes with ink smudges, as if the writer had scribbled with impatience—and escalated from respectful admiration to a tension that was hard to conceal in a cell with three other men.
Archy had no idea who his mysterious admirer was. That was about to change. And it was going to complicate everything.
* * *
Quinn Cole was the family's black sheep—or as Lenny put it: "The biggest disappointment of my life."
She was born with a silver spoon in a house full of handshakes that ruined people. While her schoolmates waited for fathers who came home from business meetings—Quinn painted. She drew. She wrote. She did everything except what was expected of her.
Law school was supposed to be it. Harvard. Oxford. Some prestigious name on a diploma that would complement Lenny's fleet of attorneys. Instead, Quinn enrolled at the Royal College of Art and came home with glittering eyeshadow, dyed hair streaks, and an unshakeable grin.
That was her mistake.
Lenny Cole wasn't the kind of man you said "I don't care" to. He was the kind of man who solved problems with a look. So he solved Quinn like a problem: quickly and permanently. At twenty-seven, she was officially a non-person—not dead, but erased from the will, removed from family photos (digital and analog), deleted from his life like a faulty real estate ledger.
Most daughters would have crumbled. Would have cried, offered to change, promised to improve.
Quinn did the opposite.
She rented a studio in Shoreditch—with help from her grandmother, the only person in the family with backbone and her own bank account—and built a life that was everything Lenny despised: creative, chaotic, rebellious, and completely uncontrollable. Her art installations were provocative. Her performance pieces asked uncomfortable questions. She worked with graffiti artists, photographers, musicians—everywhere real people lived, not in the sterile office towers of her father's empire.
The letters to Archy began as a gesture. A gesture of solidarity, you might say. Quinn had always a thing for him, just never showed it. She liked men who stood for their convictions—or at least men who stood for others, even when those others were Lenny Cole. There was something tragic about Archibald MacLeod, those broad shoulders carrying Lenny Cole's debts. Something noble about a man who could keep his mouth shut.
So she wrote to him. At first, they were genuinely sweet things—inspiring, poetic, understanding. You're not alone, the letters said. There's someone out here thinking of you.
But Quinn could not stay sweet for long. She was too alive for that, too hungry for his attention. So the letters grew bolder. Sensual. The words became weapons and caresses at once. She described her hands, her thoughts, her fantasies about a man she only knew as the loyal dog of her father.
Always yours,
Princess
* * *
Now, three years later, Archibald MacLeod walked out of prison into a London that had changed and yet remained exactly the same. The police still waited for Lenny. Lenny still waited for his loyal Archy. And Quinn? Quinn waited in the Shoreditch studio, paint under her fingernails and a new letter she hadn't sent yet.
Then Vukovich arrived.
The Russian entered London's real estate world like someone examining another man's art collection—with a critical eye, quiet pleasure, and absolute conviction that he could buy anything he wanted. He was elegant, obscenely wealthy, and had a peculiar interest in things that weren't for sale: old master paintings, rebellious artists, and apparently—much to everyone's surprise—a wild, red-haired artist named Quinn Cole, who has only eyes for a man in the Background of things.
While Archy was fed back into the machinery of Lenny's operations, the threads tangled. Power and art, love and loyalty, family and betrayal.
\\\*
Hello dear roleplay friend
If you've read this far, thank you. I'm searching for a creative, enthusiastic writing partner who wants to help shape this world of Romance with me. I'm committed to driving the story forward within this universe. That means we'll be building a living, breathing world—one populated with compelling secondary characters, genuine emotions, and all the complexity that entails. Ideas are not just welcome; they're encouraged.
This Idea is losely inspired by the movie Rock'n'Rolla— but I'm equally invested in reimagining the story, making it something entirely our own, thus my partner does not need to know the movie. Your role will be Archibald. I am the chaotic artist Quinn.
Writing Style: I'm flexible. I enjoy both first-person and third-person perspectives, and I'll adapt to whichever feels right for our narrative. I'm passionate about writing, but I don't expect novellas from my partner—we'll find a natural rhythm together.
Content Warning: This story will and could contain NSFW content, including smut, adult language, trauma and violence. These elements serve the narrative and character development. Of course all the characteres are well over 18 years old
If you are interested in this scenerio hit me up with something creative and funny. Please don't message me just a one liner.
For all the other people, I wish a you a happy day.