superbscissorsdeanexpert

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

The wind was loud asf

I want to suck her whole pussy, I need it almost like I need to breathe.

WHO SAID THAT?😦

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

Zoom In, Don’t Glaze Over: How to Describe Appearance Without Losing the Plot

You’ve met her before. The girl with “flowing ebony hair,” “emerald eyes,” and “lips like rose petals.” Or him, with “chiseled jawlines,” “stormy gray eyes,” and “shoulders like a Greek statue.”

We don’t know them.

We’ve just met their tropes.

Describing physical appearance is one of the trickiest — and most overdone — parts of character writing. It’s tempting to reach for shorthand: hair color, eye color, maybe a quick body scan. But if we want a reader to see someone — to feel the charge in the air when they enter a room — we need to stop writing mannequins and start writing people.

So let’s get granular. Here’s how to write physical appearance in a way that’s textured, meaningful, and deeply character-driven.

1. Hair: It’s About Story, Texture, and Care

Hair says a lot — not just about genetics, but about choices. Does your character tame it? Let it run wild? Is it dyed, greying, braided, buzzed, or piled on top of her head in a hurry?

Good hair description considers:

Texture (fine, coiled, wiry, limp, soft)

Context (windblown, sweat-damp, scorched by bleach)

Emotion (does she twist it when nervous? Is he ashamed of losing it?)

Flat: “Her long brown hair framed her face.”

Better: “Her ponytail was too tight, the kind that whispered of control issues and caffeine-fueled 4 a.m. library shifts.”

You don’t need to romanticise it. You need to make it feel real.

2. Eyes: Less Color, More Connection

We get it: her eyes are violet. Cool. But that doesn’t tell us much.

Instead of focusing solely on eye color, think about:

What the eyes do (do they dart, linger, harden?)

What others feel under them (seen, judged, safe?)

The surrounding features (dark circles, crow’s feet, smudged mascara)

Flat: “His piercing blue eyes locked on hers.”

Better: “His gaze was the kind that looked through you — like it had already weighed your worth and moved on.”

You’re not describing a passport photo. You’re describing what it feels like to be seen by them.

3. Facial Features: Use Contrast and Texture

Faces are not symmetrical ovals with random features. They’re full of tension, softness, age, emotion, and life.

Things to look for:

Asymmetry and character (a crooked nose, a scar)

Expression patterns (smiling without the eyes, habitual frowns)

Evidence of lifestyle (laugh lines, sun spots, stress acne)

Flat: “She had a delicate face.”

Better: “There was something unfinished about her face — as if her cheekbones hadn’t quite agreed on where to settle, and her mouth always seemed on the verge of disagreement.”

Let the face be a map of experience.

4. Bodies: Movement > Measurement

Forget dress sizes and six packs. Think about how bodies occupy space. How do they move? What are they hiding or showing? How do they wear their clothes — or how do the clothes wear them?

Ask:

What do others notice first? (a presence, a posture, a sound?)

How does their body express emotion? (do they go rigid, fold inwards, puff up?)

Flat: “He was tall and muscular.”

Better: “He had the kind of height that made ceilings nervous — but he moved like he was trying not to take up too much space.”

Describing someone’s body isn’t about cataloguing. It’s about showing how they exist in the world.

5. Let Emotion Tint the Lens

Who’s doing the describing? A lover? An enemy? A tired narrator? The emotional lens will shape what’s noticed and how it’s described.

In love: The chipped tooth becomes charming.

In rivalry: The smirk becomes smug.

In mourning: The face becomes blurred with memory.

Same person. Different lens. Different description.

6. Specificity is Your Superpower

Generic description = generic character. One well-chosen detail creates intimacy. Let us feel the scratch of their scarf, the clink of her earrings, the smudge of ink on their fingertips.

Examples:

“He had a habit of adjusting his collar when he lied — always clockwise, always twice.”

“Her nail polish was always chipped, but never accidentally.”

Make the reader feel like they’re the only one close enough to notice.

Describing appearance isn’t just about what your character looks like. It’s about what their appearance says — about how they move through the world, how others see them, and how they see themselves.

Zoom in on the details that matter. Skip the clichés. Let each description carry weight, story, and emotion. Because you’re not building paper dolls. You’re building people.

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

“english isn’t my first langua—“ say no more.

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

── TRENCHES ༊*·˚

pairing: pirate!ellie williams & siren!reader

synopsis: love is a funny thing. it destroys. it aches. it holds you when you can't hold yourself. and that's exactly what ellie is to you; the love of your life. she's more home to you than the sea ever was, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

content: MDNI 18+ content, eventual smut, fluff, angst, gore(ish), swearing, enemies to lovers, yearning, slow burn, use of y/n, usage of alcohol, violence, sexism, speciesism, homophobia, implied kidnapping, men being horny and disgusting

word count: 3.2k

───────────────────────────────

EPILOGUE: "𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏"

THE PALACE WAS SILENT NOW — hollowed out like a shipwreck, gilded and crumbling, haunted by echoes and blood.

But not all ghosts were angry ones.

You stood barefoot on a velvet rug, the faint golden sheen of sunrise spilling through stained glass and across your skin. Your arms were wrapped around yourself, goosebumps raised against the cool morning air. A distant crash from another wing told you that somewhere — somewhere not too far — Ellie Williams was looting the place like the true pirate she was.

She burst into the royal wardrobe two minutes later, arms piled high with fabric. Silks, satins, velvets. Dresses so ridiculous they looked like they’d eaten three women whole.

“I’ve decided,” she declared, flopping half the pile onto a chaise. “If we’re going to flee the scene of a mass political murder, we might as well do it in style.”

You sniffed — not quite a laugh, but close. Your cheeks were still flushed and puffy, eyes rimmed red from the night before. You hadn’t spoken much since the throne room. But Ellie didn’t push. She just grinned at you in that sideways, defiant way of hers and held up a gown the colour of moonlight before stuffing the rest in a comically large sack.

“Try this one. Makes you look like vengeance incarnate.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I thought you hated mermaid clichés.”

“I do,” she said, walking over and gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “but I never said I hated you.”

"You did actually," you deadpanned. "On several occasions."

"Well, Joel always said love and hate were two sides of the same coin. Therefore, my point still stands."

The dress was absurd — layers of silk that shimmered like fish scales, a corset tight enough to force a gasp. Ellie laced it slowly, her fingers uncharacteristically gentle. She made a show of gasping dramatically at every detail, humming fake approval like a noblewoman’s maid.

“That neckline? Scandalous. We’re going to cause accidents in the street.”

You laughed, finally — a real sound, light and wavering, like a tide returning. Ellie smiled at it like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

She pulled an elaborate coat over her shoulders — a deep red velvet that made her freckles pop like stars across her face. Her tricorne hat didn’t match, but she could care less. Pirate first. Princess never.

“Alright,” she said, glancing around at the sheer luxury. “What else do we want? Royal soap? Diamond-encrusted chamber pot?”

You were quiet for a moment, watching her toss gloves and rings into her bag.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you murmured.

Ellie paused. “Doing what?”

“Trying to make me laugh.”

She turned to you, smile softening. “Well, yeah.”

Your mouth twitched. “Thank you.”

She closed the distance between you, cupping your cheek with one hand. “You survived hell. The least I can do is make you laugh like a fool while we rob the place.”

She kissed your forehead, then turned to the corner of the room — where something glittered.

A crown. The king’s, no doubt, left behind in the chaos.

Ellie picked it up and weighed it in her hands. “Well, well, Your Highness,” she said, voice thick with sarcasm. “Thank you for your generous donation to the Miller Retirement Fund.”

You gave her a look. “You’re not keeping that.”

“Oh, I’m not. I’m selling it.” She tossed it in with the dresses. “Twenty years of rum and freedom, courtesy of His Royal Deadness.”

You bit your lip to hide your smile. “And what will you buy me, O Retired Pirate Queen?”

Ellie looped her arm around your waist. “Whatever you want. Dresses. A ship. An island. A bed that doesn’t creak every time we breathe.”

You leaned into her, your head resting against her shoulder. She smelled like sea salt and ash, like memory and promise.

The palace was still burning behind you — a history undone. But the future, for the first time in years, felt unwritten. Soft around the edges. Cracked open like the horizon.

Ellie pressed a kiss to your temple and murmured, “Let’s get out of here.”

And this time, you didn’t run. You walked. Together. Draped in stolen silk, hearts still beating, priceless objects in a sack of future dreams.

───────────────────────────────

ONE MONTH LATER — GALVESTON, TEXAS

The morning smelled of salt and citrus.

Somewhere down the road, a baker was opening shop, the scent of warm bread drifting through wooden shutters that let the sea breeze in. Seagulls cried out like gossiping drunks. Sunlight spilled across the room, dappled and golden, playing across the faded quilt that half-covered the bed.

Ellie stirred slowly beneath the sheets, one arm curled around your waist like she’d never quite learned how to sleep without you there. Her nose was pressed to the crown of your head, breathing in strands of your hair as though it steadied her.

And you — you were still sleeping, chest rising in a quiet rhythm, cheek soft against the curve of her collarbone. Bare legs tangled with hers beneath the sheets. Fingers resting lightly on her ribs.

She could’ve sworn your breath synced with the waves.

Ellie didn’t move. Not right away.

Not when the sunlight crept higher. Not when the seagulls screamed louder. Not even when the loose shutters groaned in the wind. She just stayed there, still and grateful, holding you against her like something sacred.

It didn’t feel like a month had passed since Saint Barbara fell. Since the palace echoed with dying gasps and silver clattered on marble. Since Ellie had dragged you, shaking and silent, out of the blood-slicked throne room and into the night.

She didn’t regret it. Not for a second.

But it clung to you both. Lingered in your silences. Surfaced in the dark.

And still — somehow — you had found Galveston. A port where no one knew your names. A place full of fishermen, poets, and dockside drunks too tired to care who you kissed or where you came from.

The town had given you shelter. The sea had given you peace. And Ellie… Ellie had given you her heart, unspoken as it was.

She lifted her hand now, gently brushing her thumb across your cheek. You sighed at the touch, shifting slightly in your sleep — only to burrow closer, burying your face against the pirate’s chest with a sleepy hum.

Ellie smiled, lips barely moving. “Still clingy, huh?”

You didn’t respond. Just nuzzled closer, as if trying to hide in the heat of her.

The window rattled again, a breeze slipping past to stir the curtains and the edge of the worn map tacked up above the desk. It flapped gently — the map Ellie had bought two weeks ago, red thread pinned across possible routes, some leading east into the Caribbean, others into myth.

But not today. Not now.

Ellie’s focus returned to the weight of you against her chest, the steady beat of your heart against hers. She’d memorised it — the way you exhaled when you were almost waking, the twitch in your fingers before your eyes fluttered open. The little noises you made when her hand drifted down your back, slow and soft and wordless.

She could lie here forever.

And maybe, just maybe, she would.

Because in a world that had tried to bury you both — in salt, in sin, in secrets — you had clawed your way back up. Found each other in the ruin.

Ellie pressed a kiss to your hair, her voice barely a whisper.

“Still with me, songbird?”

This time, your breath hitched. Just a little. Then your lashes fluttered and you blinked up at her, dazed and lovely in the morning light.

You didn’t speak. Just smiled.

And Ellie, heart full and foolish, smiled right back.

You blinked the sleep from your eyes, staring at the ceiling where the shadows danced with the sway of the wind. You could still feel the ghost of the rope burns, the heaviness of the cage, the coppery taste of that song in your mouth. But those memories were distant now — blurred beneath layers of new mornings, soft touches, and the steadiness of Ellie’s presence.

“You’re staring,” Ellie muttered, her voice thick with sleep, lashes fluttering against her cheeks.

You smiled, voice rasping. “You’re warm.”

“‘M not a damn campfire,” she mumbled, pulling you closer anyway. Her lips brushed your hair. “But I’ll keep you warm. Always.”

The promise lived in her chest, where your ear rested. You heard it in the steady beat of her heart, a lighthouse’s call in the storm, guiding you home.

You tilted your face up, catching her gaze — those piercing green eyes, still sleepy but unguarded in the morning light. There had been a time when she looked at you with nothing but suspicion, barbed words and narrowed eyes. Now? Now, she looked at you like you were the sea itself.

“You’re staring,” you echoed, teasing.

She reached up, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear with a crooked grin. “Can you blame me?”

Your lips met for a breathless second, slow and unhurried, the kind of kiss that spoke in sighs instead of declarations. It was the kind of intimacy that asked for nothing and offered everything. When you finally pulled apart, you felt the laughter building in your throat.

“We should get up,” you murmured, not moving an inch.

Ellie groaned, flopping back into the pillows. “Ugh, responsibilities.”

“Breakfast.”

That got her.

The scent of rising dough wafted up from the kitchen, carried on a breeze through the house. It smelled like cinnamon and earth, warm yeast and a dash of smoke. The comfort of home, tangible and thick in the air.

Together, you climbed out of bed — your movements slower, a little hesitant, but filled with quiet affection. Ellie moved around you carefully, her hands brushing yours as she helped you slip into a soft cotton robe. She’d spent hours sewing the neckline with delicate shells she claimed matched your eyes.

You made your way downstairs, feet padding over the wooden floors. The house was small but filled with light, every corner warmed by the sea breeze and the stories you were learning to write together.

Joel stood by the stove, apron dusted with flour and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He turned as you entered, grinning around a wooden spoon clamped between his teeth.

“Well, look who finally crawled outta bed,” he drawled, setting down a tray of golden-brown rolls with pride. “And not a minute too soon.”

“Are those…peach turnovers?” Ellie sniffed the air like a pirate catching the scent of treasure.

“Sure are.” Joel winked. “Used the last of the orchard batch. Figured we deserved a treat.”

You blinked, startled. “You bake?”

Joel laughed, a deep, comforting sound. “Sweetheart, when you live at sea as long as I have, you either learn to bake or learn to eat rocks.”

Ellie nudged you with a smirk. “He’s not half bad, y’know. Thinks it makes up for all the brooding.”

Joel rolled his eyes, but affection glimmered in the lines of his weathered face. “You’ll be grateful when you’ve got a warm roll in your belly, kiddo. Go on, sit down before I change my mind.”

The three of you gathered around the rough wooden table, steam rising from mugs of fresh-brewed coffee and pastries piled high on chipped plates. The sea could be heard just outside the open windows, waves rolling onto the shore in a steady hush.

It had taken less than a day after the fall of Saint Barbara for Ellie to sell the king’s crown. The gem-encrusted monstrosity fetched more coin than either of you had seen in your lifetimes. Enough for a ship. Enough for a home. Enough to start again.

Ellie had used it to buy this house on the sand, with faded blue shutters and whitewashed stone, and to commission a sleek, fast ship she’d named The Lark, after the first bird you’d ever seen take flight. Joel had arrived two weeks later, summoned by letter and intuition.

“Looks like the two of you finally settled down,” he’d said when he first saw the house, eyebrows raised, mouth curled in a smirk.

“Shut up,” Ellie had muttered, ears red. But she hadn’t stopped smiling for hours.

Now, Joel sipped his coffee, glancing between you and Ellie as you tucked your feet under the chair and stole another piece of bread from Ellie’s plate. You were glowing, even with sleep in your eyes and scars still healing across your wrists.

“You planning to sail out soon?” Joel asked after a long pause.

Ellie exchanged a glance with you. “Maybe.”

You reached for her hand under the table. “We like it here.”

Joel gave a small nod. “Good. You deserve to rest.”

There was more to say — about the past, about the blood spilled in marble halls, about the weight of voices and choices — but none of it needed to be said now. The healing was in the silence, in the laughter between sips of coffee, in the way Ellie looked at you like the storm had passed and the sun had finally returned.

From beneath the table, a snout nudged against Ellie’s bare ankle, followed by a pair of large, pleading eyes that could rival a stormy sky in drama. A second later, the dog gave a half-hearted woof, more complaint than command.

“Pearl,” Ellie warned, trying to sound stern but failing utterly. “We talked about this.”

Pearl — a scruffy cream-coloured mutt with one floppy ear and a tail that wagged like a wind vane on the high seas — sat down with all the exaggerated patience of a saint. Her eyes locked on the peach turnover cradled between Joel’s calloused fingers, and her mouth opened in a hopeful pant.

“She’s doing the thing again,” Joel said, amused, holding the pastry higher. “That guilt-tripping siren stare.”

You nearly choked on your tea laughing.

“She learned from the best,” Ellie said, smirking as she nudged your knee under the table. “You remember the first time she tried that with you?”

You did. How could you forget?

The memory swam up, warm and bright.

It had been just days after escaping Saint Barbara. You were still sore and aching, your voice hoarse from the throne room and your mind brittle like thin glass. You hadn’t spoken much, hadn’t eaten much either. You’d sat curled up on the edge of the cot in Joel’s cabin, still convinced that the world could collapse at any moment.

And then the door had opened.

You’d expected Ellie, her boots loud against the deck boards. But instead, a blur of fur launched into the room and made straight for you, tail wagging so fast it could’ve summoned wind. A wet nose pressed to your cheek before you could react.

You’d screamed. Or at least tried to. It came out more like a strangled yelp as you scrambled back, slamming against the wall.

Ellie had rushed in after, swearing under her breath. “Shit—shit, I forgot Joel picked up a stray in port.”

You had stared at the creature — panting, tail wagging, paws far too big for its legs — and gasped, “What is that?”

“That,” Ellie had said, barely containing her laugh, “is a dog.”

The concept was foreign to you. The sea had no such animals. In siren legend, land creatures were slow and clumsy, walking on four legs and smelling like dust. But this one… this one had eyes that looked at you like it knew something, like it cared. No bloodlust. No fear. Just the eager, unshakable belief that you were its person.

You hadn’t wanted to touch it at first. But the dog had curled up beside your bed anyway, guarding your silence without question. That night, you’d whispered, “Pearl,” without knowing why.

Maybe it was because of her pale coat, soft like sea-foam. Maybe it was the way her eyes shimmered with layers, like light through water. Or maybe it was because, like the ocean’s hidden treasure, she’d appeared in your darkest hour.

You’d named her Pearl. And she hadn’t left your side since.

Back in the kitchen, you broke off a piece of bread and leaned down to offer it.

“Just one bite,” you whispered.

Pearl didn’t hesitate. She licked it from your fingers and let out a pleased huff before circling your chair and plopping down beside your feet, clearly satisfied.

Joel pretended to scoff. “She’s spoiled rotten, that one.”

“She’s perfect,” you said, scratching her behind the ears. “She’s my first friend who didn’t need words to understand me.”

Ellie watched you, that familiar softness blooming behind her eyes.

“She understood from the second she met you,” she said. “Same way I did.”

You turned to her with a smile, lips brushing the rim of your mug. “You were more stubborn.”

“Still am,” Ellie admitted, “but I get there eventually.”

Pearl thumped her tail, bumping the table leg, and you all laughed.

The warmth of the morning continued — not just in the coffee or the pastries or the sun rising over the Gulf, but in the way it settled between you. Like sea glass smoothed by time, every sharp edge made gentle.

Outside, the waves rolled. And inside, the silence that followed was not empty, but full. Full of healing. Full of second chances. Full of dog hair and warm bread and Ellie’s hand brushing against yours beneath the table.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, Pearl snored loudly at your feet, completely at peace.

Later, you stood barefoot on the porch, watching the sea stretch out toward the horizon. The sky was streaked with pink and gold, and the breeze toyed with your hair.

Ellie came up behind you, arms looping around your waist as she pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder.

“Thinking again?” she murmured.

“Always.”

Her chin settled on your shoulder. “Say it.”

You hesitated. Then, “I never thought I’d have this. You. A home.”

She squeezed you gently. “You always deserved it.”

You turned in her arms, eyes shining. “Even after—”

“Especially after.”

And that was the end of it. Not the story, but the fear. Not the beginning, but a promise.

Ellie cupped your cheek, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. “The sea gave you to me. I’ll never stop thanking it.”

You smiled, resting your forehead against hers. "Even when I'm a monster from the trenches?"

"Especially when you're a monster from the trenches. Those claws of yours? Absolutely terrifying. But when they're digging into my back as I f—?"

You shut her up by pressing your lips against hers. Somewhere behind, Joel cursed as the oven smoked and birds scattered from the rooftop. Pearl ran after them. The world spun on.

You were safe. You were home.

And love — messy, mortal, magnificent — had finally found its place on both land and sea.

───────────────────────────────

taglist: @jazzyxox @rhian88 @boricuasirena25 @sleepingwasp @hyperbabes @vangoes @iluvelliewilliamsasf @jester-loverre @ellieslittleslutt @mariesmagix @morticeras @l0veylace @angelicalovesgirls @ellsbigshoes @azxteria @eriiwaiii2 @oneinameliann @alyaserrax comment to be added!!

a/n: so. it's over🧍idk how to feel rn tbh. this series is my baby, it's the 1st thing i've ever written on tumblr and i couldn't be more grateful for all of you who have supported it.

@valeisaslut was the reason i even started writing again in the first place. before trenches, i was locked in a serious writer block for years that i never thought i'd overcome. but because of her, i have the most amazing supporters and mutuals now. EVERYONE SAY TY VAL!! <333

tysm to everyone who's taken the time to read my work, it means the absolute world to me. and to my lovely readers and moots who've supported me since day one (you know who you are), i can't thank you enough!! 😭🫶🫶🫶 i hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as i did writing it, you're so amazing and gorgeous and sexy and ilysm <3333

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

studs really need more recognition for being absolutely fucking amazing and for everything they do for the lgbtq+ community; god I fucking love them and I need them to know that I love them

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

thinmking about studs

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

Im trying to read on ao3 but so many writings are literally ai

My brain can't even understand what's happening in these dumb fuck stories

It feels like when you zone out when reading so you have to go back to reread but I've LITERALLY been so tuned in MY BRAIN CANT GRASP WHATS HAPPENINGGGG I HATE AI

It's like this weird constant repetition of sentences and unnecessary words literally wtf

And also all of these stories were written in like the past day???? I've been using ao3 for like a decade I KNOW people are not posting that constantly on that damn site OGNSBNENDND I HATE AI SO MUCH

QUIT BEING FUCKING LOSERS AND POSTING YOUR AI BULLSHIT NO ONE LIKES YOU PEOPLE

THERE IS NO SOUL IN YOUR SHIT AI WHY WOULD ANYONE WITH ACTUAL PASSION ENJOY IT

Im so upset 😭

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

knight!vi x masc/butch-king!reader

«Golden brown» Pt. 1

Pt. 2

The throne room was crowded with noise—noblemen murmuring, advisors gesturing with ink-stained fingers, guards standing like statues at every column. You sat on the throne, newly crowned, the weight of gold unfamiliar and heavy on your head.

You were young. Beautiful, yes—but that wasn’t what made the room pause when you looked up. It was the stillness in your gaze, eyes far older than your face. Sharp and unflinching. The kind of person who had already learned that ruling meant being both blade and sheath.

Vi stood at the edge of the crowd, armor still bearing the dust of travel. She hadn't intended to end up there and stay longer than necessary. She was only meant to deliver a letter—a sealed message from a minor northern lord who owed fealty to the crown. But she had lingered when she shouldn’t have. Something about the tension in the room had kept her rooted. Something about the young monarch had drawn her like a moth to a flame.

A servant noticed her strange, cautious presence and leaned forward to whisper to the king. You looked up and rested your gaze on Vi with a slight frown.

"You," you said, and the whole room quieted. "Step forward," voice like ice cracking.

Vi did not move.

"You’re not deaf, are you?" You asked, arching an eyebrow.

Vi sighed and stepped out of the shadows, holding her helm in her hand. "No, Majesty. Just not used to being called out in rooms like this."

You tilted your head, your gaze fixed on Vi with a serious expression but with a growing, odd curiosity. "You’re not court guard."

"No, Majesty."

"You’re not a noble."

"Gods, no."

A flicker of amusement passed over your face. "Then what are you?"

"I'm just a simple wandering knight," Vi said plainly, but there was a hidden meaning in her words. "I was ordered to deliver a message. I didn’t mean to linger."

"And yet you did." You replied in a calm voice, tracing your lower lip with your thumb in a thoughtful gesture.

Vi looked into your eyes, holding a eerie spark in them. "I don’t like the way they look at you."

The room chilled. Several advisors bristled. A few guards shifted, giving a more threatening air.

But you didn’t move.

"And how do you look at me?"

Vi paused, almost hesitantly, and then said: "Like someone who’s about to be surrounded by hungry wolves."

For a long moment, there was silence. No one seemed to want to rebuke Vi's words. Some eyes held a dangerous haze as they settled on you, waiting for your reaction.

Then you stood.

"Come here."

Vi stepped forward, her boots echoing off marble. When she stopped at the foot of the dais, you descended the stairs, each step deliberate. You stopped only a breath away with your hands behind your back.

"Most people look at me with awe. Or hunger. Or fear," you said quietly, tilting your head slightly. "You don’t."

"No," Vi replied, firmly.

"Why?"

"Because you don’t need awe. You need someone who’ll bleed for you without asking why." A pause. "And someone who’ll tell you the truth when everyone else lies to keep their heads on their shoulders."

You studied her like one might study a blade—measuring its edge, its weight.

"Can I trust you?"

Vi didn’t blink. "No. But I won’t betray you."

That—strangely—seemed to please you.

"Good," you said. "Because I don’t need trust. I need loyalty."

Your eyes scanned Vi in detail, an attention that Vi found intimidating.

"What’s your name?"

"Violet. No title. No land."

"Just a sword?"

Vi shrugged. "And a spine. Which seems to be in short supply around here."

Your smile was slow, dangerous. Not amusement—approval.

You turned to the room, voice rising with regal command.

"Dame Violet is hereby named to my personal guard. Effective immediately. Anyone who questions it can speak to me alone."

Gasps followed and murmurs. Fury hidden in silk and lace.

But Vi? She just bowed her head with a hidden smile, the kind that flickered more in the eyes than on the lips.

"Yes, Majesty," she said, her voice steady, respectful.

Inside, though—inside, her chest burned with something fierce and complicated. Pride, yes. But also disbelief. A memory stirred: the first time she held a sword with trembling hands, the nights spent training in silence, bleeding on the stone floors no one ever bothered to clean. She had dreamed of honor once, before the world taught her to stop dreaming.

And now—this. Chosen by the king.

She did not look up. She couldn’t. Not yet. The smile might break into something else.

And from that day forward, they were never apart—not in war, not in peace, and not in the quiet spaces where duty twisted into something far more dangerous.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 ���� 𓆞𓆝 𓆟

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

I’m fed up with sevika fics sometimes I swear I’m reading something really cute or just fluff and sweet and then it turns in a really kinky, hard, violent smut with the worst dirty talk ever like HELLO you don’t need to write a full ass long part of terrible smut just bc it’s sevika istg

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

If this is too hard to read, imagine living it.

No one’s talking about Palestine anymore.

The airstrikes aren’t trending. The rubble isn’t photogenic enough. The activists that were dragged off the streets in Israel and locked away for demanding an end to genocide? No one’s asking about them. No headlines. No hashtags. They’ve been swallowed up by the silence.

This is what happens when it’s no longer fashionable to care.

People forget. Not because it stopped happening—but because it stopped being new.

Palestine is still burning.

Children are still buried beneath cement.

Families are still counting the bodies of loved ones, day after day after day.

But if it’s not flashing across someone’s feed with a Spotify playlist and a neutral-toned infographic, it doesn’t exist to them.

Meanwhile, in Los Angeles, ICE is dragging people out of their homes.

Mothers. Fathers. Queer immigrants. Children.

Detained. Disappeared. Forgotten.

And the influencers? The ones who had so much to say in 2020? Silent.

Too busy filming “day in my life” videos in $300 activewear to talk about actual people being deported in their own neighborhoods.

Too worried about brand deals and algorithms to mention the fact that there are literal raids happening right now.

Not a whisper.

They’ll wear a shirt that says “Be Kind” but they won’t say “Free Palestine.”

They’ll make a TikTok about “good energy” while someone gets shoved into a van down the street.

They’ll post about self-love but not about state violence.

Because comfort is addictive.

Because platforms become prisons.

Because caring too loudly is “bad for engagement.”

And the media? Complicit.

Newsrooms have gone quiet. Gaza isn’t headline-worthy anymore.

It’s too “messy,” too “controversial,” too “draining.”

It doesn’t sell ad space like the Met Gala does.

But you know what?

It’s not too messy for the people living it.

It’s not too draining for the children who can’t sleep because of the drones.

It’s not too complicated for the people ICE is ripping from their families in LA.

So no—this isn’t easy to read. It’s not supposed to be.

If it’s hard to scroll through this, imagine living it. Imagine surviving it. Imagine waking up every single day knowing the world will move on without you, while you are still grieving, still resisting, still screaming into a void that only echoes back silence.

If you have a platform, use it. If you have a voice, raise it.

And if you choose not to—

Don’t pretend you care.

Don’t wear the shirt.

Don’t post the rainbow.

Don’t light the candle.

Don’t tweet about mental health or kindness or “allyship” if you won’t talk about deportations, if you won’t say Palestine, if you won’t name the violence you benefit from.

This isn’t about what’s trending.

This is about who’s dying while you scroll past it.

And no, you can’t look away forever. One day, that silence will come for you, too.

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

ik i just run a tumblr smut page BUT!!!

FUCK ICE, free palestine, free congo, FUCK trump, FUCK musk, no one is illegal on stolen land, and if u disagree, FUCK YOU TOO!!!

i’ve said this before but if u support that fuckass orange in office, idc if ur a silent follower or ur like is ur only form of interacting with me, just know, i don’t want it!!! and u are a terrible person!!! 😛

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

MEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEO

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

a film about the jim crow south, detailing the southern experience for people of color (specifically black) and oppression through religion, exploitation, and organizations against us and how we rise above it through music, love, family, etc. and YOU people js wanna focus on the white guy that you wanna fuck. got it, got it!

last post complain abt ts i swear ☹️

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

Im thinking things tht aint in the bible

have this sevika sketch as an apology for being so inactive 💔

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

her curves are fucking insane DEAR GOOOD

[superbscissorsdeanexpert]

why can’t y/n just hold her own 🙁 i don’t wanna be a uwu baby little bimbo baby girl i want to be a normal person who can hold a conversation without stuttering and actually has a consciousness outside of the love interest