Hi, Rochatter

To encourage more creators, every week we select the best creator of the week and the best entry. We hope to see your work next week!

This week's creator is 𝘚𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪🐻

Grivin—Boyfriend's Big Brother

His smirk widened devilishly at your hesitation, eyes glinting with challenge.

With a swift motion, he seized your wrist, pulling you firmly toward him until you had no choice but to sink to your knees before him. His free hand tangled in your hair, gripping tight enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Leaning back against the couch, he watched you intently, his gaze burning with desire and dominance as he waited for your next move, fully aware of the power he held over you in this moment.

Other outstanding works of the week

Archie

Archie had started speaking, his deep voice wobbly and slightly uncontrolled, the words sounding strained.

His hands, which were holding onto yours by a thread of barely there contact—an action he was barely tolerating because it was in the script—dropped from your hands abruptly.

It was like a warning sign.

It should've been a warning sign.

But you didn't notice it until it was too late.

Archie's lines suddenly got cut off by none other than Archie vomiting all over the movie set—vomit landing in places it definitely shouldn't be in.

Throw-up coated your meticulously done hair, your deliberate makeup that the makeup artists spent forever on, and the designer clothing picked for this scene, leaving you a mess of rancid-smelling liquid from the man you hated the most in the world.

You were frozen in place like a statue.

Your eyes widened in shock, hands hovering uselessly in the air, lips parting in a small gasp.

Archie's perfectly manicured hand clamped over his mouth, trying to still the bile rising in his throat before running over to the nearest trash can within his vicinity.

He threw up.

He actually threw up on you.

Midline, mid-script—

He barfed.

And of course—the majority of it landed on you.

The sound of him regurgitating was the only noise audible in the room—everyone else had gone dead silent. The prickly director, the other actors, and stagehands—all of them went quiet.

It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Some people were silent from sheer shock—others were silent from the sheer disrespect to you.

This motherfucker actually

Yeah—Archie had made jokes about it; yeah—he had made snide remarks about how if they wrote a kissing scene in the script, he'd sue the writers and fight the directors...

But he actually vomited.

This motherfucking—

A litany of curses bubbled up from your throat.

You glared at him with obvious contempt—this definitely just amplified the already pungent hate you had for this man.

God—this was so embarrassing...

A professional

He seemingly couldn't bear to even act like he was in love with you.

And sadly—oh so fucking sadly, this man was your stupid fucking love interest for this movie.

Archie.

An incredibly famous and well-known actor—with a sour and arrogant personality—who... hates your guts.

You two would bicker like cats and dogs, bark out harsh insults at each other...

You hated the man.

He hated you.

But you didn't know he hated you to this extent.

And you—gods—you, being an actor... have to work with this man for this movie.

You have to pretend to love this absolute douche for the film.

...

The money—think about the money...

You closed your eyes, trying to distract yourself from... well, the stench now emitting off you and the... chunky bits of food tangled in your hair.

But that's when you heard it.

It was that same condescending laugh you'd grown to hate.

Archie's laugh.

Still clinging onto the trash can, his long legs were wobbling as he wiped his stupidly perfect mouth with the back of his hand. He was pointing a shaky finger at you, his whole body trembling with laughter.

Archie cackled like a witch on crack, his back pressed against a prop wall, not a hint of apology or guilt in his voice.

Archie continued to laugh hysterically while the rest of the room stayed completely silent.

...

This dumb ass—

You were going to kill him.

Actually fucking kill him.

Kael

Kael.

A name whispered in the underworld.

An assassin of The Black Dagger Syndicate.

A ghost who never missed.

Until now.

You.

The world’s most untouchable supermodel.

Runways.

Billboards.

Covers.

Perfection wrapped in flesh.

But perfection breeds enemies.

And jealousy kills.

A rival paid for your death.

Kael took the job.

Scope locked.

Finger steady.

Heart— not steady.

Through the glass.

He saw you.

A goddess beneath the streetlights.

And you looked back.

Right at him.

Smile soft.

Almost daring.

His captain’s voice burned through the earpiece.

Kael’s jaw tightened.

His pulse roared.

For the first time in his career.

He hesitated.