#noise vs memory

[processzine-org]

tally_time |||| / keeping count / losing count distorted memory of passing units misread timecodes / misheard marks a field of meaning, blurred at the edges

(from a 64x90 visual called “tally” — reshaped through proximity, blur, screen interference. how we mark time, how time marks us.)

[itslilacokay]

idea!

more in op tags for those that see this post reblogged (unless reblogger included the ideatags)

[joaeriz]

Paige x teammate reader (specifically after getting the natty)???

MVP OF MY HEART

🏀 Paige Bueckers x teammate!Reader | UConn vs. South Carolina Championship | MVP!Reader | Smut + Fluff | Established Relationship 🏀

Summary: UConn takes the championship in a blowout victory against South Carolina, and you take home the MVP trophy. But there’s only one prize you really care about tonight — Paige Bueckers. And she has every intention of celebrating you properly, on and off the court.

Word count: ~2.7k Warnings: 18+ smut (fingering, strap-on use, praise kink, oral fixation energy), fluff, post-game celebration, established relationship, very supportive girlfriend Paige Bueckers, slight size kink vibes, soft aftercare, locker room tension, and lots of love 🖤 A/N: Because Paige is so a service top in this scenario. Enjoy, besties.

HI ANON!!! thank u for being my first rq!! i stayed up all night writing this so i hope u like it :p and i wasnt sure if i should include smut or not, but based on this prompt it seems like it should be there, so ask and u shall receive ;)

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a tidal wave of sound that crashed against your senses as the final buzzer blared through the arena.

You stood frozen for just a heartbeat, your chest heaving, lungs burning with adrenaline and exhilaration. Your pulse thundered in your ears, drowning out the chaos around you. On the jumbotron, the numbers gleamed like a beacon: UConn 82, South Carolina 59.

Champions.

National Champions.

You blinked, almost in disbelief, but it was real. So, so real. The confetti had already started to rain down, showering you in blue and white as your teammates erupted around you—leaping into each other’s arms, shouting, crying, laughing.

But even with all the noise, all the celebration, your eyes searched for only one person.

Paige.

Your heartbeat stuttered when you spotted her across the court, her blonde ponytail slightly damp with sweat, cheeks flushed, and her lips curled into the widest grin you’d ever seen. She was radiant. She was electric. And she was running straight for you.

— — —

“You did it, baby!” Paige’s voice cracked with joy as she launched herself at you, her arms wrapping tightly around your waist. She was breathless, exhilarated, her breath warm against your ear as she held you like she never wanted to let go.

Your arms instinctively wound around her shoulders, holding her just as tightly. “No,” you murmured, brushing your nose against her cheek, your lips curling into a soft smile. “We did it, Paige. We did.”

But she shook her head, leaning back just enough to meet your gaze, her eyes shimmering with something more than victory—something fierce and intimate. Pride. Love, almost overwhelming in its intensity.

“No,” Paige said, her voice quieter now, reverent. “You did. You were unstoppable out there.” Her thumb brushed your cheek, smearing a little streak of sweat, but you didn’t care. “MVP, baby.”

Your stomach flipped at her words, heat rising to your cheeks. You were still trying to process it all. MVP. You. The name that had echoed across the stadium, the trophy now waiting for you in the locker room. But right now, all you could focus on was the way Paige looked at you—like you were her whole world.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” you breathed.

Her lips twitched into a knowing smirk. “Maybe not,” she teased softly, “but I’m damn glad you didn’t try.”

— — —

The celebration continued around you, but Paige’s hand found yours, her fingers lacing through yours with ease. Without a word, she tugged you away from the chaos—past reporters and cameras, past teammates dousing each other in sports drinks.

Your pulse thrummed beneath your skin, anticipation growing with every step as she led you down the tunnel and out of the flashing lights.

There was only one place you wanted to be tonight: with her.

— — —

The hotel room was a cocoon of quiet, the distant thrum of celebration still lingering in the air like a memory.

Your heart pounded as Paige closed the door behind you, her back pressed against it, her eyes locked on yours with unmistakable hunger.

She didn’t waste a second.

In two long strides, she was in front of you, her hands cupping your face as she kissed you like she needed you to breathe. Her lips were soft but demanding, tasting faintly of champagne and victory.

When she pulled back, her eyes darkened with a heat that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You don’t know,” Paige whispered, her voice rough with desire, “how proud I am of you.”

A smirk played at your lips, your pulse quickening. “I think I have an idea,” you murmured. “But you could always show me.”

Paige’s responding laugh was low and dangerous, curling around you like smoke. “Gladly.”

— — —

The kiss that followed was nothing like the ones you’d shared on the court. This was slower, deeper, laced with the heavy weight of want that had been building all season.

Her fingers tangled in your jersey, tugging it over your head and discarding it carelessly to the floor. You did the same to her, revealing the toned planes of her body, still glistening from the game.

You drank her in, every inch of her, from the curve of her hips to the hunger in her eyes.

She kissed down your neck, slow and deliberate, her hands roaming your body like she already knew every contour by heart—but wanted to memorize it all over again.

“Tonight,” Paige breathed against your skin, “I’m going to make you feel so good.”

Your knees nearly buckled at her promise.

— — —

Clothes fell away like confetti, piece by piece, until there was nothing left between you but heat and bare skin.

Paige pushed you gently back onto the bed, her eyes raking over you with reverence, like you were the prize she’d been chasing all season.

“You’ve been so strong,” she murmured, kissing the hollow of your throat. “So fierce out there. But tonight…” Her breath ghosted over your skin. “Tonight, let me take care of you.”

“Please,” you whispered, your body aching for her touch.

She didn’t make you wait.

Her fingers slipped under the waistband of your shorts, teasing you until you were writhing beneath her, breathless and desperate. When she finally slid her fingers inside you, it felt like lightning—your back arching, a gasp tearing from your lips.

“I’ve got you, baby,” Paige whispered, her pace slow but deliberate, her thumb circling your clit with devastating precision.

You clung to her, moaning her name as she drove you higher, her gaze never leaving your face, drinking in every reaction like it was her own personal victory.

“Paige, I’m so close—”

“I know, baby,” she purred. “Come for me.”

And you did.

Your body tensed, then unraveled beneath her touch, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you cried out her name. She coaxed you through it, her lips pressing kisses to your temple, your neck, your chest.

“You’re amazing,” she murmured between kisses. “My MVP.”

— — —

But she wasn’t done.

Not even close.

Paige reached for the strap-on she’d tucked into her bag earlier, her hands steady as she strapped it on, her eyes never leaving yours.

Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of her—confident, commanding, breathtaking.

“Ready?” she asked, her voice husky.

“Always,” you whispered, your body already aching for her again.

She slid into you slowly, giving you time to adjust, but the stretch, the fullness, made you moan aloud. Her hands gripped your hips as she began to thrust, each movement deep and deliberate, drawing a fresh wave of pleasure from your lips.

“Faster, Paige,” you begged, your voice ragged with need. “Please.”

She complied without hesitation, her pace quickening, her thrusts growing harder, deeper. The sound of skin against skin, the wet slick of your bodies moving together, filled the room along with your shared moans.

“God, you’re perfect,” Paige groaned, her gaze locked on yours. “I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you too,” you gasped, teetering on the edge of release once more. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop.”

And she didn’t.

She thrust into you relentlessly until you shattered around her a second time, your body convulsing with pleasure as you cried out her name, your nails digging into her shoulders.

Paige slowed only when you were trembling in her arms, breathless and sated. She pulled out gently, discarding the strap-on, and gathered you against her chest, her lips peppering soft, lingering kisses across your damp skin.

— — —

“Are you okay?” she whispered, brushing hair back from your forehead with infinite tenderness.

You nodded, your lips curving into a blissful smile. “More than okay.”

Paige kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips, slow and sweet.

“I’m so proud of you,” she murmured against your mouth. “You were incredible out there. MVP of the court…” She kissed you again, her smile against your lips. “And MVP of my heart.”

You chuckled softly, your heart so full it felt like it might burst. Curling into her embrace, you pressed your face to her neck, inhaling the lingering scent of victory and love.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, your eyelids growing heavy. “Always.”

And in the quiet after the storm, wrapped in Paige’s arms with the echoes of triumph still ringing in your ears, you knew that was the truth.

Always.

[writingoddess1125]

Too Comfortable for Routine

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x GN Reader

This was randomly written at like 2am in-between assignments so- It's kinda shit but at least Fluffy shit.

Fluff

Simon had just gotten home from deployment-

He made it straight over to your flat as per usual when he was on leave and had time to pretend be a civilian.

You two had been dating for just over two years at this point. It was hard at times however it seemed you two had sort of fallen into a perfect rhythm for each other.

When in your flat (Really his home at this point but won't say it out loud-) He would always bring some form of take away dinner as a easy meal for comfort, put his shoes by the door, duffle in the closet, greet you with a kiss, go take a shower, eat dinner and talk, watch his favorite show with you in bed- then you two would knock boots.

Perfectly planned out and executed during each return to you.

Simon was a creature of habit afterall.

Set in what he liked- especially when he came over to your flat. You respected his habits and how he liked things, having quickly noticed how he would always do things the same. So when he was to in your home you kept to what he was comforble with- (truthfully you had some theories on his nature of sticking to routine but would never voice it.)

But this time.. It was different?

Simon walked in, Boots, Duffle and a greeting of a kiss as you smile up at him.

"Welcome Home Simon" You say brightly, Simon giving a soft smile in return.

"Hey Lov" He said softly, wrapping a arm around you to pull you close.

'God he missed this-'

Leaning into his embrace, you cant help but hum happily at having him back home- safe and sound. You looking to him as you can already see his features softening, relaxation.

You lead him further into the flat as he drops his boots off in its set spot- His muscle memory routine already in full effect it seemed..

"Oh- Before I forget Si, The show is airing a bit earlier then usual, Do you wanna shower and just head straight to watching the show?"

Simon gave a heavy sigh at hearing this, before nodding in understanding. While a bit hesitant at the change, agreed.

This was unwelcomed change- However it seemed fairly alright to him. Afterall it was the same things just out of order.

You take his duffle bag and the fast food as you send him off to shower, Simon doing as told quickly- It was odd of course however it wasn't too bad.

After his admittedly very long shower he made it to your bed fast in only sweats. Seeing you'd already set up for the two of you to simply eat in bed to watch the show he liked on time, Simon and you sharing some idle chatter with each other- eating McDonald's together (aka a short and funny argument about him calling it Maccies vs you saying McDonald's) before you two lay down to watch TV.

Simon however as normal shifting in the way too soft bed, having to always adjust to not being in a cot- He moved just until he finally got comforble and lazily staring at the TV. His mind starting to get fuzzy and with absolutely no thoughts as you ran your fingers through his hair.

He didn't even really watch the show like he would normally? It felt like simple background noise unlike before when it would capture his attention.

However the warmth of your body made him melt especially under your fingers.

Unknowingly He had rested his head against your stomach, his arms wrapped around your thigh as his leg was even hiked up on your own. His massive build cuddled into you as if you were his security, his to shield from the world outside-

It was his own slice of heaven he could be wrapped in forever and ever, he just felt himself at peace. Eyes starting to drift closed as the creeping feeling of sleep came way faster then normal an-

Wait-

What the fuck?

He blinked suddently as if his brain snapped back from wherever it had just went to.

What the fuck just happened? When did he get into this position??

Simon pulled from you fast a confused wide eyed expression as he sat up quickly and looked around the room as if he didnt even remember walking into it in the first place, You raising an eyebrow at his movements as if he had just gotten punched by some invisible force to get up.

"Uh, Simon? You okay?"

You ask, seeing him slowly sit himself up property and stare at you as if you had somehow grown a second head or done something to him. Brows knitted together as he slowly slid to sit up next to you and pull you in his arms instead.

You could feel he isn't as comforble as he was before when he was laying on you, tense as he holds you to his side now like how he usually does- but now a firmer hand.

Simon mind reeling as he stared a bit blankly at the TV, the hour long show wrapping up as he didnt know what the fuck had happened- a creeping feeling going up his spine.

Was he comfortable in this routine? Despite you breaking it?

Or

Was he just comforble with you?

[alive-gh0st]

❝Nostos❞

⚜️Odysseus!Mark Grayson x Penelope!Reader⚜️

𓊈Part II — ”Epistrefó”𓊉

࣪ ˖ ࣪ ⊹˖ ࣪ 𓂃﹏﹏𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓊝﹏﹏𓂃𓂁﹏﹏𓂃 ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖ ࣪

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

📜 summary: he left. not with cruelty. not with goodbye. mark just vanished—and you stayed. it’s hard to stay normal. you try to move on. you really do. but mark’s jacket still waits on the chair. his name is still pinned in your phone. the coffee still brews for two. and the letters? they pile up. this isn’t about hope. it’s about absence. you’re not hoping. just staying, even when no one asks you to. (aka: grief without a grave. love without closure. devotion without return.)

📜 contains: sfw. slow burn. heartbreak. memory as a character. one-sided presence. two-sided ache. grief without death. love in limbo. emotionally repressed!reader. odysseus-coded!mark. penelope-coded!reader. messy handwriting vs neat black pen. polaroid keepsakes. lots of flashbacks. debbie grayson being a mother figure to reader. soft domesticity haunted by absence. boxes of unsent letters. a jacket no one can move. a girl who stays. a boy who doesn’t come back (yet).

📜 warning: emotional themes. ambiguous grief. depressive routine. unresolved love. emotional repression. survivor’s guilt. mentions of blood/injury (light). isolation. loneliness. ambiguous trauma. post-battle exhaustion. implied memory loss. existential ache. quiet breakdowns. longing dressed as daily routine. no happy ending (in this part). read gently.

📜 wc: 5983

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: thank you for waiting so patiently for this story. i had a very specific ache in mind when writing this, and it wouldn’t leave until it was posted. “Nostos” is the first half of a two-part heartbreak duology (the second part, Epistrefó, is in the works). remember that sometimes, love doesn’t vanish—it just lingers in doorways and folds itself into jackets we simply can’t put away.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You don’t check your phone anymore. Not really.

Not for him.

You check the battery. The time. The weather. The signal bars in the top corner that say you’re still here, and he’s still not. But you don’t expect anything.

You don’t hope.

Not anymore.

Not since Mark disappeared one night and never came back. Not since his contact slipped further down your recent list with each passing day, replaced by bills, deliveries, and people who went back to normal too quickly.

Still, you charge it every night. Still, you leave the phone ringer on.

Maybe that’s not hope. Maybe it’s just routine. The kind that sneaks in and settles behind your ribs when life starts to rot slowly.

The kind that whispers—if I just do this one more time, maybe…

You wake before your alarm.

The morning light creeps in like a slow apology, filtering half-heartedly through the curtains. Your hand finds the phone instinctively, thumb brushing the screen without really looking.

No missed calls. No new messages. One software update.

You ignore it all.

The house is quiet. But it’s not peace. It’s absence.

The faucet drips every six seconds. The kettle clicks on. You don’t remember pressing it. The hum of heating water sounds too loud in the silence you’ve been pretending doesn’t suffocate you.

You sit at the table with your legs folded underneath you, the mug pressed between both palms. The steam curls upward, ghostlike—like something leaving.

No movement, no noise, no presence.

You scroll anyway.

His name is still pinned.

“Mark 💫”

You don’t remember what the emoji was supposed to mean.

He added it himself like it was hilarious. Said it made him look mysterious. Said he was “a riddle in human form” and you had laughed so hard you snorted.

Mark grinned like he liked the sound of your laughter too much.

That was before.

Now the last message from him still sits there like a paperweight you never moved.

be there soon

You didn’t respond.

You never got the chance.

And you remember—

It was late.

You were at your front door, holding it open with your socked foot, arm crossed over your chest, just watching him from the hallway.

His jacket was unzipped, hoodie strings uneven, hair still wet from the shower he’d apparently taken somewhere else.

Mark didn’t say where. You didn’t ask.

You always meant to ask more questions. You never did.

“I’ll be quick,” he’d told you.

You frowned. “Isn’t that what you said last time?”

He gave you that look.

The one that said ’don’t ruin this’. The one he always pulled when he was five seconds away from pulling you into a hug and ten seconds from disappearing entirely.

He kissed the side of your head instead.

“You’ll see me soon.”

A look. A promise. Nothing more.

You’d watched him walk off with his hands shoved in his pockets, like he didn’t know what to do with them when they weren’t on you.

And then Mark never came back.

Back in the present, you unlock your phone again. Not for anything. Just for motion.

The drafts are still there.

You don’t even know how many you’ve written now. Some are seconds long. Some are full paragraphs. All unsent. All useless.

U alive or what lol

Remind me again why ur hot when ur annoying

It’s raining and you’re missing it. Again

Mark where are you

I should’ve told you not to go

Just say you miss me already. Coward

You promised, you promised, you promised

Just say something… anything

I hate you for this.

You tap a new one open. Blank screen. Blinking cursor. And you type.

Hey. You probably won’t see this. That’s fine. But I saw someone yesterday who almost looked like you. He smiled. You don’t really smile like that, but I wanted it to be you so bad I didn’t care. Just thought I’d tell you that. That I thought it was you.

That I wished it was.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you lock the screen. Set it facedown. You don’t delete it. You don’t send it. You don’t do anything, really.

The ringer stays on.

Because maybe tomorrow, the silence will break. Maybe tomorrow, he won’t still be gone.

Or maybe because that’s what you do when you love someone.

You wait.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

You didn’t mean to hold it.

Today was supposed to be about cleaning. Supposed to be about moving things around—there were sheets to wash, shoes to line up, that one drawer that collects things nobody owns.

You were supposed to finally put away the pieces of him that stayed even when he didn’t.

But the chair stopped you.

The jacket was still there. Still slung across the back like he just left it yesterday.

Like Mark might still come back for it.

It hangs exactly where he used to sit, where he’d tip backward on two legs and pretend he wasn’t breaking the chair every time. You used to scold him for that.

Not seriously. Not like you meant it.

Now, there’s no one left to play pretend-annoyed with.

Your hand brushes the sleeve as you pass. And then you pause. Fingers curling into worn fabric that still holds his shape.

You lift it gently. Not all the way. Just enough to hold it against your chest.

It smells like dust now.

But beneath that—beneath time, and distance, and everything he didn’t say—there’s still a trace of him.

That warm scent of something musky and clean and entirely Mark.

Something you only noticed the first time he hugged you and it stuck to your hoodie for days. Something that crept into your sheets and your sweaters and your bloodstream without permission.

You breathe it in.

Then again. Slower.

It’s not grief, exactly.

Not yet.

It’s something duller. Something quieter.

You keep the jacket in your arms as you move to the kitchen. You don’t even realize you’re actually wearing it until you catch your reflection in the microwave—shoulders swallowed by dark fabric, sleeves dragging.

It’s too big. Always was.

He used to joke about that, too.

“That’s the point,” he’d said once, tugging it over your shoulders when you were shivering outside. “If it fits, it’s not boyfriend-coded.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

He’d shrugged, lips tugging into a crooked smile. “Yet.”

You hadn’t answered. But you hadn’t taken it off either.

It was cold that night.

Not freezing, just sharp in the kind of way that nipped at your fingertips and made you hug yourself tighter.

You’d both been walking back from something—food, maybe. You don’t remember the details.

Just that your arms were bare and your voice was quieter than usual.

Mark had slowed beside you, watching the way you rubbed your arms.

He didn’t say anything yet. Just unzipped his jacket and handed it over like it was instinct.

You hadn’t asked. He hadn’t offered.

He just—did it.

And you took it.

He didn’t make a joke after that. Didn’t flirt. Just kept walking beside you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

But it changed everything.

Not right then. Not obviously. But something shifted.

You remember the way your stomach twisted and your heartbeat picked up. You remember thinking—

Oh.

He didn’t touch you again that night. Not once. But you felt him everywhere.

You slide the jacket off and drape it over the back of the same chair again.

Smoothing the collar down. Adjusting the shoulders like he might sit there again.

Like maybe if you leave it just right, he’ll feel it.

You keep it where you’d reach for him if he were here.

Right there. In arm’s length.

Because if you moved it—if you packed it away in a box or folded it into the back of your closet—it would mean he’s not coming back.

And you’re not ready for that.

You stir the tea. One cup. Steam rising.

Mark’s chair stays empty.

But the jacket waits.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It just… happens.

You measure out the coffee, same as always.

Scoop. Scoop. Pour. Wait.

The rhythm is muscle memory now—something buried into the mornings like breath, like heartbeat, like him.

Then you finally catch yourself.

Two mugs.

One for you.

One for Mark.

It’s like the whole room freezes.

You’d promised yourself you stopped doing this. That you finally broke the habit. You even shoved his mug to the back of the cabinet.

You swore you were done waiting.

But it’s still there.

Still chipped on the side where he knocked it against the sink one morning and said it gave the mug “character.”

It’s still black with those stupid yellow stars.

Still his.

You should’ve noticed when your hands reached for it before your head did.

Still him.

You pour the coffee anyway. Two mugs.

No sugar in either.

Just the way he drank it—and the way you learned to drink it too.

And you leave the other warm, just in case.

You sit at the table.

Mark’s cup across from you.

Untouched.

And you remember—

It was a mess of a morning.

You were late. He was later. The kitchen was a disaster, and Mark was shirtless for absolutely no reason. You were trying to make toast while he danced barefoot on the tile to a song you couldn’t stand.

You’d told him to stop being annoying.

He’d winked. Stole the toast off your plate.

You’d shrieked—actually shrieked—and chased him around the counter, barefoot and giggling so hard you nearly slipped on the corner rug.

Mark dodged you once. Twice. Then let you catch him.

Hands on your waist, your breath in his mouth, laughter tangled between your fingers as they clutched the front of his hoodie like it meant something.

It didn’t mean anything—yet somehow meant everything.

He kissed you on the cheek. And you kissed him back.

Then he whispered, “Keep the mug warm for me.”

And of course, you do.

Every morning.

You lift your own cup. Blow on it. Sip. It burns your tongue.

The second mug cools across the table.

Quiet. Still. Full.

You rinse it out before you leave the kitchen.

You always do.

Not because it’s dirty. Not because it was used. Just because that’s what you do.

When you’re still hoping.

Even if you won’t say it out loud.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

Stay productive.

That’s what people say, right? Structure helps. Routine is good. Keep busy.

Keep moving. Keep going. Keep making plans. Keep pretending you’re fine.

Like motion can patch what memory keeps splitting open.

So you write lists now.

Groceries. Cleaning. Meal plans. Things you need. Things you might need. Things to make it look like you’re okay.

Tiny tasks that make up a life—yours now missing half of what made it feel like one.

Today’s list starts the same way as always. Blank paper. Black pen. You write the date at the top like it matters.

Like it’s going to mean anything in a week.

Monday:

• Bread

• Tea

• Paper towels

• …

You pause after the third item. Pen hovers. Eyes drift toward the drawer to your left.

You shouldn’t open it. You do anyway.

You rifle through receipts and extra takeout menus, an old flashlight that barely works. And then you find it.

Folded. Yellowed at the edges. Paper soft from time and… something else.

You unfold it slowly. You already know what it is. You know how it ends.

Mark’s handwriting stares back at you—lopsided and confident, faded blue color with that kind of controlled madness that always looked better on him than it had any right to.

Like even his grocery lists didn’t know how to sit still.

• eggs

• bananas

• that almond milk you swear tastes different but doesn’t

• granola (get the one you like, I don’t care)

• more tea, we’re out again

• the cookies you pretend you don’t eat at 1am

• trash bags

• shampoo (the purple one)

• soap

• strawwber strawberry toothpaste

• something sweet (if you’re still mad at me)

Underneath that, at a slight diagonal across the corner—

’get flowers if she still looks tired.’

Drawn beside a doodle of what might be a dog—big eyes, lopsided ears, tongue out—and just next to it those three words…

’Love You…♡’

You laugh. Or maybe choke. The sound comes out somewhere in between.

You remember this list.

You’d been teasing him for writing everything on paper instead of using his phone. He’d argued phones were ”soulless,” and that “real men use Post-its.”

You’d rolled your eyes. Mark kissed your temple.

Said lists were how he kept you with him when you weren’t there.

You press your thumb into the little heart he’d drawn beside your name. The blue ink’s slightly smeared—maybe it got wet once.

Or maybe you just touched it too many times.

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid, the way it still folds exactly the same.

The way the creases fall into place like they know how to find their way back.

Like him.

You think about throwing it away.

You even fold it once.

Then unfold it again.

You stare at it until your eyes blur—until you stop seeing the letters and only see the way he handed it to you, smug and soft and so full of quiet affection you didn’t know what to do with it.

You don’t throw it out.

You just slide it back where it came from. Like it belongs in the drawer. Like it still has a purpose.

The new list started on a different page.

And you don’t write your name on it.

You don’t add cookies or shampoo or flowers. You just… let his list stay.

Right where it was. Blue ink intact. Doodle untouched.

Like maybe it’s not a list at all—maybe it’s a letter. A timestamp. A small, stupid way to say Mark was here.

And maybe that’s enough.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It starts like they all always do.

Somewhere between a joke and a lie. Between habit and hope.

You sharpen the black pen you always use—neat, intentional, boring—like if your handwriting is steady enough, your heart will be too.

The paper is folded once, creased twice, tucked behind the tray of teas and old receipts in the kitchen drawer.

There’s more where that came from.

This isn’t the first.

It won’t be the last.

You press the pen to the page, and let your hand lead.

﹏﹏

Hey, idiot,

I saw a guy today with the same shitty walk you have. Thought it was you.

Wasn’t. Obviously. He was taller.

And had better posture. So now I’m mad.

Not at him.

At you.

﹏﹏

You exhale.

It’s stupid—you know it is. But it doesn’t stop your fingers.

Doesn’t stop the ache curling behind your ribs like something left too long in the cold.

﹏﹏

I made coffee.

You’d say it was too sweet. You’d drink it anyway. And lie.

Like you always did.

Like I let you.

﹏﹏

You swallow hard. Blink twice. Don’t stop writing.

﹏﹏

I keep the jacket on your chair.

The mug near the kettle.

You’re not here. But yet you’re everywhere.

﹏﹏

The pen presses harder now. The strokes sharper. Angrier.

﹏﹏

You said I’d see you soon.

You never said it’d be the last time.

I didn’t get to say goodbye.

I don’t even know if this is goodbye.

I don’t know anything.

Except that it still smells like you when I open the closet.

And I haven’t changed the sheets. And I keep forgetting how your voice sounds when you laugh. But I remember how it sounded when you said my name.

I hate that.

I hate you for that.

﹏﹏

The paper blurs.

You don’t notice the first tear until it hits the corner of the page. A soft smear—like watercolor. Like proof.

You don’t wipe it away.

More come.

Slow. Heavy. Quiet.

Your body doesn’t sob. Doesn’t heave.

You just… leak. Like your heart sprung a hole somewhere too deep to find.

And still, your hand moves.

﹏﹏

I remember the first time you touched me like you meant it.

Not the kiss. Not the teasing.

I mean your hand on my back. Just resting there. Just… there. No pressure. No agenda.

I think that’s when I knew.

You brushed my hair off my forehead the night you stayed late. We weren’t even together. You didn’t ask. You just did it.

And I wanted to cry, even then.

﹏﹏

You’re shaking now. Just a little. Just enough for the words to tilt downward, slope off-kilter—like they’re falling away from you.

Like he did.

﹏﹏

You used to hum when you thought I was asleep. Through the bathroom door. While brushing your teeth.

I never told you I heard it. I just listened. It made me feel safe.

You made me feel safe.

﹏﹏

You pause.

And for a second, your mind goes completely blank.

You sit in it. The silence. The space where Mark used to be.

The world moves on. The faucet drips. The light buzzes. Somewhere outside, a car starts.

You look down at the page.

﹏﹏

I’m scared you’re gone.

But I’m more scared I’ll learn how to live with it.

﹏﹏

That’s the last thing you wrote.

No signature. No goodbye.

Just a confession.

You fold it slow. With care.

Then you rise. Move across the apartment like sleepwalking. Like prayer.

You kneel by the closet. Reach behind the stack of scarves and that one box of photos you haven’t opened since fall.

There’s a shoebox there. Faded cardboard. Tied with a string. You lift the lid.

Letters.

Dozens of them. Maybe more.

Some are bent. Some warped at the corners. Some tear-stained.

All unopened. All unsent.

You place the new one on top. Neatly. Lovingly. Like it belongs.

Then you close the lid. Tug the string taut again. And push the box gently back into the dark.

You don’t say anything. But in your head, you whisper—

If you come back… I’ll give you all of them.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It was raining.

Not the cinematic kind. Just grey, steady, apathetic. Like even the sky had given up.

You hadn’t spoken to anyone in two days. Hadn’t opened the blinds.

It was a Tuesday. Or maybe a Wednesday. You didn’t care anymore.

There was a knock at the door. Three short taps.

You knew it was her before you even looked through the peephole. There was a pause. Then the sound of her key turning in the lock.

Debbie didn’t wait. She never did.

She stepped inside with the same quiet confidence she always had—like someone used to walking through grief.

Like she already knew the shape of it.

You stood barefoot in the doorway. Hoodie too big. Eyes too tired.

“I brought soup,” she said simply.

Her voice was gentler than the rain.

You didn’t reply. Just nodded.

Let her set the bag on the counter and pretend the room wasn’t full of things neither of you could say out loud.

“Tea, too,” she added. “The one you like. With the weird flowers in it.”

You didn’t remember ever telling her that.

Maybe Mark did.

You didn’t ask.

The kettle clicked on. The air started to fill with steam and silence. You sat at the table while she moved around the kitchen with quiet ease—like it was still hers too.

Debbie moved like she knew where everything was. Because she did.

You sat at the table, watching her stir the broth like it was a spell.

She didn’t ask how you were. Didn’t mention him. Just placed the bowl in front of you and cupped your shoulder in one hand, soft but steady.

“Eat,” she said. “You don’t have to talk.”

So you didn’t.

The soup scalded your mouth, and maybe that was the point. You blinked too hard once. Looked down instead of up.

Debbie sat across from you. Elbows on the table. Tea in hand.

She looked tired too. But not the same kind of tired.

The kind that comes from knowing too much and saying too little.

She let the silence stretch. Let it fill every corner of the kitchen without trying to sweep it away. She sipped her tea, slow and steady, like the world wasn’t breaking apart right in front of her.

At one point, she opened her mouth. Paused. Closed it again.

You looked up.

Her eyes were fixed on the jacket. Still on the chair. Still untouched.

Still his.

Her jaw tightened. Just a little.

“You keeping it there on purpose?” she asked, like it didn’t mean anything. Like it wasn’t the first time either of you had acknowledged it.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Debbie nodded once. Almost like she understood. Like she was doing the same thing in a different house.

“He used to leave his socks everywhere,” she said quietly. “I found one under the couch last week.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Eventually Debbie started cleaning while you ate.

Folded the dish towel. Organized that one drawer you kept forgetting about. Hummed a song you didn’t recognize under her breath.

At some point, she slid the other tea towards you.

You blinked. “I don’t—”

“I know,” she said. “But you need it today.”

You obeyed.

It was awful. It tasted too sweet. Too floral. Like comfort where it didn’t belong. But you drank it anyway.

Because Debbie was right.

When she left, she kissed the top of your head and pressed a folded napkin into your hand.

“I’m not him,” she said, quiet and steady, “but I’m not going anywhere.”

You didn’t open the napkin until the door clicked shut behind her. Inside, in her neat cursive, it just said—

Eat. Sleep. Let yourself be loved.

Below it, smaller—

Call me if you forget that.

You blinked hard again. This time, it wasn’t because of the soup.

You tucked it in the drawer. Right under the first letter you ever wrote to him.

And you never threw it away.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It’s not hard to lie.

You thought it would be.

You thought the shape of his name in your chest would make it catch somewhere between your teeth, twist your mouth into something unreadable—but no.

When people ask if you’re okay, your voice doesn’t crack. Your face doesn’t fall. You just smile.

Tight. Bright. Fine.

”I’m fine.”

It rolls off your tongue like water. Like breath. Like maybe, if you say it enough, it’ll start being true.

You say it at the coffee shop. At the pharmacy. To the neighbor with the loud dog and the judgmental eyes.

And you say it tonight, too—when you’re out.

You weren’t planning to go.

You don’t remember saying yes. Don’t remember texting back. But somehow, you’re here anyway.

Same bar. Same table. Same people.

Same everything—except the part that matters.

The seat next to you is empty. No one takes it. They don’t even try.

It used to be Mark’s.

Always.

He’d sprawl too far, take up too much space, nudge your knee under the table like it was a secret only you two knew.

He’d make jokes too loud, smile too wide, say your name in that ridiculous sing-song tone that meant he wanted something.

You look around.

Someone laughs—you think it’s William. A real sound. Loud and open and bright.

You wonder how he can do that so easily without his best-friend but you mimic it.

And it almost feels real.

Almost.

They’re his friends.

But they became yours too, at some point.

Somewhere between group dinners and stupid game nights and Mark dragging you along even when you said you were tired.

Now they invite you without him. Pretend it’s the same.

Maybe they also don’t know what else to do.

You nod at the right times. Ask the right questions. Sip the drink Amber handed you earlier and pretend it doesn’t taste like guilt.

Eve tells a story you’ve heard before. You laugh.

It feels like theft.

On your way home, every man you pass looks a little like him.

A curl of dark hair. A familiar height. A walk that’s too casual to be a stranger’s.

And every time, your heart stutters.

Then sinks.

You’re not even surprised anymore. You barely blink. It’s like your brain keeps pressing the bruise just to make sure it still hurts.

It does.

There’s a couple ahead of you on the sidewalk. The guy lifts his girlfriend’s hand and spins her. She laughs, off-balance, clutches his jacket.

Mark did that once.

You’d told him to stop being cheesy. He said you needed more magic in your life. That he could be that for you. That he wanted to be.

You’d called him stupid.

Mark had grinned and spun you anyway.

You’d laughed.

And believed him.

It’s late when you get back.

The apartment smells like lemon cleaner and leftover memory.

You peel off your jacket, toss your keys in the bowl by the door. Kick your shoes off. Shrug.

The chair still holds the jacket.

The mug is still clean.

The box of letters stays untouched in the closet, tucked beneath everything else. Like muscle memory. Like something sacred.

You flick on the lamp. Just one. The soft one by the couch. It doesn’t light the whole room—just enough to see by. Just enough to remember.

You sit.

No sound. No movement. No laughter through the wall or door slamming shut or Mark calling, “I’m back!” with a grin in his voice like he never left.

The couch is too quiet.

Your hands too still.

You don’t cry.

You’re not even sad, not really. Not tonight.

Just… empty.

You wonder what it means to miss someone without being abandoned.

Because he didn’t leave you.

He just… left.

And you stayed.

That’s what you’re good at.

Staying.

Even when everything else doesn’t.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

You don’t know how long it’s been.

You could count the days. You could scroll through the calendar, trace your finger back through mornings and meals and missed alarms—but you won’t.

You already know time doesn’t move right anymore.

Not forward. Not backward. Just… around.

Looping like bad weather. Like a door that won’t shut all the way.

You clean the kitchen for the third time in two days. It doesn’t need it. The counter gleams. The stovetop is spotless. You scrub anyway.

The rag smells like citrus and ache.

The music you put on in the background stops three songs in. You don’t notice until the apartment goes still again—until the silence feels too loud, too final.

Like a punchline that never came.

You breathe. Stretch.

Decide today is drawer day.

You start with the junk one. Pens, batteries, some keys that don’t fit anything anymore. You find a single glove. Three twist-ties. A coupon that expired last year. Then, tucked in the very back—

A pen. Blue.

You freeze.

Not yours.

You only use black.

It’s scratched along the clip like he chewed on it. There’s a tiny smear of ink dried at the tip. The weight of it in your hand is so stupidly familiar your chest hurts.

You test it against your palm.

It still works.

You set it down like it’s fragile. Like it might vanish if you breathe wrong.

And for a second, you just… stand there. Hands on the counter. Eyes on the pen.

It’s nothing. It’s just a pen.

But it’s his.

Still here.

Like you.

You think about burning them.

The letters. The box. Everything unsaid.

You even set them out once.

One night when the air felt too heavy and your body buzzed with something desperate—something like grief or anger or just plain madness.

You pulled the box from the closet. Untied the string. Stacked the envelopes like firewood. You think there are thirty-seven now. Maybe more. You don’t count anymore.

And then you stared.

You imagined the flame. Imagined the way the ink would curl and vanish. How the words would finally mean something if they disappeared.

But you couldn’t do it.

Not because you believed he’d come back. Not because you were hoping.

But because letting go would feel too final.

Too loud. Too much.

So you put them away again. Tucked them back in the dark. You didn’t even read them.

Just… stayed.

The jacket’s been on the chair too long.

You know it. The collar’s starting to droop. The sleeves are dusted in sunlight and stale air.

So you fold it.

Not like packing it away. Not like forgetting. Just gentle. Careful. A quiet kind of reverence.

You press out the creases with your palms. Smooth the fabric like it’s skin. Like it’ll wrinkle if you look at it too hard.

Then you hang it.

Not deep in the closet. Not hidden. Just inside the door. Where you could still reach for it, if you needed to.

You do that a lot.

Not need. Not want.

Just… reach.

The call wasn’t planned. It’s not even brave. Just—impulse. A moment where your thumb hovers over that name and you press down before you can talk yourself out of it.

Debbie Grayson.

It rings once. Twice. Then her voice.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You freeze.

You didn’t know how much you missed being called that. How much you missed her warm voice.

The conversation is short. Gentle. Careful in all the places that still hurt. You talk about the weather. Groceries. Some show she’s watching. You tell her your heater’s been acting up. Debbie says she’ll send someone.

The call went quiet for a few seconds. You could hear a bird outside her window, maybe. The soft clink of glass.

“How are you… really?” she asked gently.

You said, “Fine.”

Too quick. Too flat.

She didn’t challenge it.

“Me too,” she said. Then a pause. “Liar.”

You laughed once. Quiet. Bitter.

“Still keeping his jacket out?” she asked.

You nodded before realizing she couldn’t see you. Then whispered, “Yeah.”

Debbie hummed. “Me too. It’s his hoodie, though. The one with the dumb band on it.”

You smile. “He loved that one.”

“He stank in that one,” she corrected, and you laughed again—this time without choking on it. “Wouldn’t let me wash it for two weeks.”

“He said that ruins the ‘vibe,’” you added.

“I swear, he made up half of his vocabulary.”

You fall into silence again. But this time, it doesn’t feel crushing.

Just familiar.

She sighs softly. Then—

“If he could’ve called… he would have.”

You know what she means. You also know it doesn’t help.

But you’re glad she said it anyway.

“I know,” you whisper.

But before you hang up, her voice goes soft.

“Call me anytime if you need anything, okay?”

„Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Debbie hangs up. And you’re left alone again. But not quite the same.

You say you would call.

You both know you won’t.

After the call, your hands are shaking.

You go to the bathroom. Not because you need to. Just… because it’s something to do.

The faucet hisses. The water runs warm.

You scrub your hands harder than you need to. Focus on the spaces between your fingers. The creases in your palm.

Like if you scrub hard enough, you’ll find something still yours underneath it all.

When it happens, it doesn’t feel like a breakdown.

It’s not messy. It’s not loud. You don’t drop anything. You don’t scream.

You’re just staring at the sink. At your own reflection in the mirror. You don’t recognize the girl looking back.

She’s too still. Too tired.

Too not you.

And suddenly, the weight of your own body feels too much to carry.

Your knees fold before your heart does.

You sit on the floor, palms flat to the tile, breath shallow. The water still running behind you.

Your chest stays quiet—your eyes don’t.

It’s not the ugly kind. No heaving, no sobbing, no gasping for air like you thought heartbreak was supposed to look like.

It’s just tears.

Fast. Full. Final.

You don’t stop them. You don’t wipe them away. You let them fall. Don’t curse them. Don’t name it healing.

Because it doesn’t feel like healing.

It just feels like staying.

Still here.

Still.

You crawl to the couch eventually. Turn off the faucet. Leave the light on.

The pen’s still on the counter. The jacket’s still by the door. The box stays closed in the closet. The chair is empty.

But you’re not. Not really.

You sit in the same corner of the couch where Mark used to throw his legs across your lap.

Rest your head on the same pillow he once stole for himself.

You breathe.

And in the stillness—in the ache, in the quiet, in the thing that doesn’t have a name yet—you can’t help but think that,

Mark was always good at leaving… you just never got better at staying.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌The rain had stopped hours ago, but the ground still glistened.

Mud clung to his boots. Blood dried in thin lines along his ribs. The air smelled like iron, smoke, and burnt-out stars.

Mark didn’t feel any of it.

He sat still. Quiet. Shoulders hunched beneath the battered weight of his suit. Eyes unfocused. Breathing steady, but shallow. Like he didn’t want to take up space.

Like he didn’t deserve to.

He’d stopped keeping track of time weeks ago. Or maybe months.

There was no sun where he’d been—no moon, no clock, no human-made markers to tell him whether the world still turned without him.

He guessed it did.

It always did.

The cold crept in first—through his gloves, up his spine—but he didn’t shiver. He hadn’t in a long time. Everything about him was different now.

Everything except…

His hand moved. Slow. Careful.

Fingers brushed against the hidden seam in his suit—just under the chest area, where fabric frayed from wear and war.

He peeled it back.

And there it was.

A folded square of photo paper. Faded at the corners. Edges curled with time and sweat and memory. He unfolded it with the kind of care he didn’t show to anything else anymore.

The Polaroid was creased. Smudged. Soft in places where his thumb had held it too long.

But your face—your face was still there.

Captured in half-light and joy.

One of those accidental shots—mid-laugh, hair messy, your eyes looking somewhere off-frame like someone just said something ridiculous and you couldn’t help but smile.

He didn’t even remember who took it.

Just that you hadn’t wanted to keep it. And he had.

He kept it when he left. He kept it through everything. Buried it in the lining of his suit like it was armor.

Like if he held it close enough, he wouldn’t forget how you looked when you were happy.

When you were his.

Mark stared at it now like it could answer for everything. For the silence. The distance. The cowardice.

He’d nearly lost it once.

The suit got torn in some place he didn’t have a name for. He hadn’t even noticed the rip until hours later, bleeding from the mouth and limping through someone else’s wreckage.

When he found it again—caught in the lining, damp but whole—he almost broke.

He’d never let it out of his sight again.

Now, it rested against his palm like a heartbeat.

His fingers trembled. Not from the cold. Not from pain. Just from you.

He looked at your face the way you might look at something holy. Not like forgiveness—but like the memory of it.

And then, quietly—so quiet it almost didn’t leave his lips—he whispered your name. Soft. Once.

Like prayer.

Like penance.

He tucked the photo back where it belonged. Right over his heart. Pressed the seam shut like it was a secret.

Then Mark stood.

And didn’t look back.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[childrenofcain-if]

Alternate universe where D is a football player because I can honestly see it 😂

They'd still be FwB with MC, who's a cheerleader (I love cliches heh). But at one of their final matches, they immediately run to MC after winning and kisses them in front of everyone. I've been thinking about this a lot

the locker room smelled like a nauseating mixture of sweat and antiseptic. there was an overall nervous energy in the whole area because of the upcoming game: the biggest of the season.

yale (bulldogs) vs princeton (tigers). the oldest college football rivalry in america since 1873. truthfully though? you really did not have that as your priority at the moment.

D’s shoulders were tense as they leaned against the row of lockers, their football gear half on, half off, like they couldn’t decide if they were gearing up for the game or gearing up for this conversation with you. you stood in front of them, your arms crossed, trying to hide the way your voice wavered as you spoke.

“why are we even doing this if it doesn’t mean anything to you?” you asked, your words sharper than you’d intended. you didn’t want to sound hurt, but the cracks were already showing and you hated yourself even more for it. “you said you loved me, D. was that a joke?”

D flinched, their jaw tightening.

“it wasn’t a joke,” they muttered, not meeting your eyes. “you know it wasn’t.“

“then what the hell is this?” you gestured between the two of you, the space that felt both too close and too far apart. “why can’t you just—” you stopped, biting back the lump rising in your throat. “why can’t you just be fair to us for once?”

D ran a hand through their damp brown hair, their helmet still sitting on the bench behind them. “because it’s complicated, alright? i’m really not good at this. i don’t know how to—”

“how to what?” you interrupted, your voice breaking. “how to be with someone who actually loves you? how to let yourself care about someone? how to not be a complete asshole?”

their silence was worse than any answer they could have given. you felt the sting of it like a slap.

“forget it,” you said, your voice quieter now, resigned. “this isn’t worth it. i’m not worth it, apparently. not to you.”

“don’t say that,” D said quickly, their voice low and rough, but before they could step toward you, the door opened, and your cheer teammates poked their heads in.

“hey, come on!” one of them called, her tone light but urgent. “we’ve gotta go!”

you hesitated, your gaze flicking between D and the exit. you wanted them to say something—anything—that would make you stay, that would make you believe this wasn’t just another dead end. but they didn’t.

so you left, letting the door swing shut behind you, leaving D standing there with their heart in their throat and everything unsaid on their tongue.

***

the stadium was alive in a way that almost felt sentient, the roar of the crowd reverberating through the air, through the ground, through your chest.

the cheer routine was designed to dazzle; full of sharp, explosive movements, tight formations, and splits that skimmed the edge of possibility. every count of the eight-beat rhythm had its place: a high V at one, a perfectly synchronized clap at three, a ripple of tumbling that broke apart and came back together like a flock of birds midflight.

there wasn’t room for hesitation. you had drilled it for weeks, the choreographer shouting corrections until the moves were muscle memory. your body knew what to do, even if your mind was stuck somewhere else.

somewhere else was D.

you couldn’t see them from the sidelines, not at first. the field was a mass of bodies, yale’s blue and white clashing violently with princeton’s orange and black, and it all blurred together under the floodlights.

the roar of the crowd pressed against you, a wall of sound that rattled your ribs, the kind of noise that demanded participation. you gripped your pom-poms tightly, smiling like your heart wasn’t threatening to give out, and launched into the first set of motions.

high kick. clap. shimmy. back handspring.

on the outside, you looked flawless, exactly like what the crowd wanted: all energy and excitement, no cracks in the façade. on the inside, your chest was a knot, the fight with D replaying on an endless loop in your head like a broken VHS tape.

the pyramid was next, the most complicated part of the routine. the bases braced themselves, strong and steady, while the flyers climbed onto their hands. you were in the middle, the top of the pyramid, the highest point for the crowd to see. it was a position of trust. you had to believe your teammates wouldn’t let you fall. it wasn’t something you usually thought about, but tonight, the irony cut deeper than you wanted to admit.

when you extended into the final pose, one leg straight, one bent, arms raised, your eyes landed on D for the first time.

they were in the huddle, standing tall as the team circled around them and the coach, their helmet tucked under one arm. the older man was shouting something you couldn’t hear, D’s face fierce with focus. you wanted to stay angry, but instead, you felt your chest tighten.

D was magnetic in the way they moved, their command of the team absolute. you hated how much you still wanted to be near them, how much your body betrayed you even when your heart was screaming.

the pyramid dismounted, your teammates catching you as you came down. you barely noticed the applause; you were too busy watching D jog onto the field for the first play.

***

D’S POV

D glanced toward the sideline. toward you. again.

it was ridiculous, the way you could disarm them from thirty yards away. you weren’t even looking at them. your head was bent close to one of your friend’s, your pom-poms hanging loosely in your hands. you were supposed to be listening to your captain, but D could see the faint smile on your lips, the way you kept sneaking glances toward the field like you weren’t paying attention at all.

like your eyes were searching for D.

D tore their eyes away before anyone could notice. they didn’t need their teammates teasing them about this—not right now. it was bad enough that their chest felt like it was caving in every time they saw you, bad enough that your fight before the game was still fresh in their head, your voice sharp and shaking, your words a blade sliding between their ribs.

why can’t you just be fair to us?

the truth was, they didn’t know how to. not the right way. not in a way that didn’t make them feel like they were standing naked in a room full of strangers, every scar and bruise and ugly thing about them laid bare.

you deserved better than the mess that they were. you deserved someone who didn’t flinch at the idea of love. someone who could give you everything without being afraid they’d ruin it before it began.

but even as they told themselves that, D knew they couldn’t let you go. not really. not ever.

“alright, team,” coach barked, snapping D back to the present. “this is it. princeton’s undefeated this season, but so are we. you want to be champions? prove it. show everyone you’ve got what it takes.”

the team roared their agreement, slapping helmets and clapping shoulders, the kind of camaraderie that made D feel grounded and restless all at once. they shoved their helmet on and jogged out to the field, their cleats digging into the turf, their breath coming steady and sharp.

they could do this. for the team, for the win, for yale.

no.

for you.

***

the first quarter passed in a blur of plays and hits, the kind of bone-rattling intensity that left D’s hands shaking with adrenaline. they took the snap, rolled back, dodged a tackle by inches, and launched the ball downfield.

the crowd erupted as yale’s receiver caught it just shy of the endzone, but D didn’t stop to celebrate. their eyes found you again, like a compass always pointing to their north star.

you were clapping, your pom-poms bouncing, but there was something off about your gorgeous smile. it didn’t reach your eyes, and D knew it was their fault. they’d put that ache there, and it killed them to see it.

focus. they had to focus.

***

the second quarter was worse. princeton’s defense was relentless, their linemen big enough to make D feel small—a very uncomfortable thing. every play felt like a war, every hit a reminder of how close they were to losing. the score was tied at halftime, and the locker room was a mess of noise and sweat and tension.

“get your head in the game, diaconu,” their coach snapped, pulling D aside as the team filed out. “you’re playing like you’ve got something else on your mind. whatever it is, leave it in here. got it?”

“got it,” D said, even though they didn’t.

they didn’t leave it in the locker room. they carried it back onto the field, where it sat heavy in their chest, driving them forward and holding them back all at once.

you were watching. D could feel your eyes on them every time they stepped up to the line, every time they called a play. it made them want to be better, to play harder, to show you that they weren’t just a coward who couldn’t say the words you needed to hear.

it wasn’t enough to just win. they had to earn you back.

***

YOUR POV

you watched in horror as princeton’s linebacker, a hulking person who looked more suited for professional wrestling than college football, blindsided D after a throw.

it was a dirty hit, helmet to helmet, and D went down hard. you froze, pom-poms slack in your hands, as the crowd erupted in boos. for a second, D didn’t move, and your chest seized with panic. but then they rolled onto their side, their hand going to their helmet, and relief flooded through you so fast it made you dizzy.

they got up, wobbling slightly, and waved off the trainers who tried to check on them.

your fingers dug into the plastic of your pom-poms, the edges biting into your skin. you wanted to scream at them to stop being so stubborn, to let someone take care of them for once. but you were stuck on the sidelines, powerless to do anything but watch.

it was the last quarter and the score was tied, and every play felt like life or death. the crowd was on its feet, the noise deafening, as D took the snap for the final play. they dropped back, scanning the field, their movements precise and fluid. princeton’s defense was closing in, but D didn’t flinch. and then, with a leap that seemed to defy gravity, they threw the ball downfield.

touchdown.

the stadium erupted. the crowd screamed. the cheer squad jumped and waved their pom-poms like their life depended on it, but you couldn’t move. you just stood there, your heart pounding, your eyes locked on D.

they ripped off their helmet, their face flushed and damp with sweat, and for a moment, they let their teammates surround them, clapping them on the back, shouting their praise. but D’s eyes were searching, scanning the sidelines, until they found you.

and then they ran.

it wasn’t graceful or dramatic—it was desperate and urgent, like they couldn’t get to you fast enough. the crowd blurred around you, the noise fading into a dull hum, as D closed the distance between you.

they didn’t stop when they reached you, just grabbed you and pulled you into their arms, burying their face in your shoulder like they were afraid to let go. you could feel their heartbeat racing, their chest heaving as they caught their breath.

“i’m sorry,” D said, their voice muffled against your uniform. “i’m so sorry. i’m an idiot. i was scared, okay? i love you and i didn’t want to screw this up. i didn’t want to screw you up.”

you pulled back just enough to look at them, their gray eyes raw and unguarded, and you felt your own walls crumbling rapidly.

“you love me?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

D nodded, their hands gripping your arms like you might vanish if they let go.

“i do. i love you,” they said, their voice cracking. “i love you so much it scares the hell out of me.”

you didn’t even realize you were crying until D’s thumb brushed a tear off your cheek. you let out a shaky laugh, leaning into them.

“i’m still supposed to be mad at you,” you said, but there was no heat in it.

D smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made your chest ache.

“yeah,” they said. “but can you be mad at me and be completely mine?”

you nodded, choking back a sob as you wrapped your arms around their neck, pulling them into a kiss. the noise of the crowd surged back in, louder than ever, and it mingled with D and your teammates hollering suddenly. but it didn’t matter. nothing mattered except D’s lips on yours, their hands on your waist, the way they held you like you were their centre of gravity.

when you finally pulled back, D rested their forehead against yours, their breath warm against your skin.

“will you still be cheering for me, baby?” they asked, their voice soft but hopeful.

you laughed through your tears, pressing another kiss to their lips. “always.”

[eyothings]

So out of nowhere this december, i've been hit with nostalgia and decided it was time to rewatch Buffy The Vampire Slayer's entire series after the last time it aired on tv, meaning 20 years ago.

Not only it shaped a whole side of my lil sister personality, it is also the favorite show of one of my cousin and closest friends.

And considering the state i'm in after finishing season 7, i know for sure Spike is the origin of my utter love for anti-heros, England and ennemies-to-lovers trope.

He is one of those characters that stay with you forever.

C'mon look at him, LO_OK.

I had very few memories of the show, only some big moments: Angel leaving for a spinoff, Spike ♥, Dark Willow, Spuffy - Basically I remembered almost nothing.

The first season set the tone for me, i forgot the serie was very funny, and what worked right away was the simple fact that they didn't act seriously either, the actors looked like they just had fun. On top of that, even if i already knew that, the show is very feminist and advanced for its time.

I also forgot how much of an asshole Xander is. lol

The worst season for me is clearly season 4, and between you and me, and me and you, it's unsurprisingly because of Riley and the army.

The best season is obviously season 6, and not only for Spike and Spuffy but for Buffy's whole personality.

I have so much to say about the show really, but I'll stay focused and talk about the two ships: Bangel and Spuffy (and a bit of Riley). Note that it is purely my point of view, based on what i like to see and read in fiction and how I perceive the characters, there is clearly a big difference compared to real life. As well as any "bitch" mentioned here is only affectionate. And if you're crazy enough to read the entire post, I apologise in advance for the many mistakes in my writing, as English is not my mother tongue.

The moment i'm writing this VERY long ass post, I've only just started to watch Angel the series for the first time and I've only seen the first season, so my thoughts on him may change in the future, but I don't think my pov on the ships will. I am also aware of some events in seasons 8 to 12 (comics).

• Bangel:

To be honest I liked their love story more when Angel was Angelus.

First, them falling in love never really clicked, I guess they played the love at first sight trope, but she was 15 and he was 200; at that age, any man who was pretty enough and a bit dark would've worked for her. (I won't talk about a 26 y/o man falling in love with a 15 y/o teenager, the man is from 1727, at this point it's not even the same culture okay??)

I thought I'd still give it a chance and root for them, even if I was fully aware of him leaving and Spike would be the new romance (I FORGOT THE WASTE OF TIME WITH RILEY), because they actually talked about all the issues, they knew something was off with their love story but they couldn't stop.

I have not much to say about the nature of their love, it was a cute romance at best, but the more they went further the cringier it'd get, I still have trauma about their kiss noises, no kidding.

They slept together and Angel becomes Angelus, which is supposed to be sad and add some angst, but Angelus was so charismatic, I didn't care about Angel anymore.

And what can I say? I think the soul vs no soul aspect played kinda badly, they all said that Angelus was incapable of love since he had no soul, but we had the concrete proof that love was possible thanks to Spike & Drusilla to begin with ??

I was hoping that, since they sold us their love as super powerful and intense, Angelus would end up falling in love with Buffy, especially after the episode in which both are possessed by ghosts in season 2 episode 19 - I Only Have Eyes for You - which is my favorite moment between them:

but NO, Angelus cannot love, and only Angel can:

It's either we get the flavored guy but no romance or the bland one with a half romance.

Talk about the greatest love story there.

And the whole season 3 is Angel and Buffy having a teen romance:

"Let's just hold hands and kiss but nothing else"

Of course I guess this kind of love story is possible, but it is made clear they both feel the sexual tension each time they kiss, they even dream of doing it. So the only thing that comes of it, is frustrating feelings, for Buffy, for Angel and for us watching them going nowhere.

The hottest moment they have is when Angel bites her to survive.

Surely for a love story that is sold to be so grand, I expected Angel to find a cure for the curse? And fight for his love or something?

♫ Nope, he just leaves. ♫

♫ Bitch talks about fighting for what is worth and bails out at the first difficulty. ♫

i cannot even blame Joyce here, she made the right call, for real. Mother knows best, but he had the chance to prove her wrong.

And in parallel to that we are introduced to Spike, a vampire with no soul who is one hundred times worth Angel, just by existing.

And there is so much to say, whether or not Spuffy was intended, whether or not Angel is supposed to be the love of Buffy's life; After reaching seven seasons, I can guarantee without any hesitation, that Spike is the one, there is no contest.

I can't, for the life of me, believe one second that Joss Whedon and the rest of the team wrote the enemies to lovers story of the last two decades without doing it on purpose? They were so much into Angel, to realize what was happening?

They sold me Angel and Buffy being the "forever love", and, in a way, they are, but only because they cling to the "what could've been".

Of course they will always be attracted to each other until they really try. They'll always idealise their love story and fill the plotholes with their imagination. But it is dramatically bound to end in disaster.

And no, Buffy, I cannot take you seriously when you say "I loved him more than I will ever love anything in this life" ; You were a teenager, it is normal to feel more deeply when you're 16, but that doesn't mean anything, and you know it too well.

Angel left her broken, unable to trust anyone, unable to trust herself and alone: If the love of her life doesn't want to be with her, then who will? (♫ We have an idea ♫ )

Soul or not, he has been a coward, with no intent to get to know Buffy, her family, her friends. He decided what was best for her without asking her.

All he does after that, is coming back into Buffy's life at the worst moments to be jealous.

♫ He is that toxic boyfriend who comes back with puppy eyes each time you try to move on. ♫

Every time he appears in an episode it's to disappoint even more: I was rooting for him, I even missed him A LOT in season 4 !

And, sure, meanwhile, the dance between Spike and Buffy was already ongoing since season 2, but we really didn't have any concrete scenes between them that could seal the ship for good (them under Willow's spell in season 4 doesn't count). So the best option at that moment was the hope for Angel to come back.

Buffy never really had the chance to move on from Angel because of Riley and his insecurities, but also because Angel cannot seem to move on, while moving on at the same time ? ! ? ♫ Bitch has a child ♫

The moment Angel left the show, it should have been for good. (Note aside, I'm still having a hard time believing the character had his own spinoff because of his popularity, when we barely saw him hanging around in the first 3 seasons, wouldn't have it been simpler for him to stay and have more scenes, like Spike?) • Riley & Buffy (Briley??)

And so Angel never came back, and we got Riley instead. He was the perfect choice to make the bridge between Bangel and Spuffy. She needed to experience a "normal" romance, with a "normal guy" to know what it's like and to understand what she really wants, but one season and a half was way too much. ♫ I ended up googling " WHEN is Riley LEAVING? "♫ The moment Buffy said she held back her strength when training with him, was enough to see what was coming.

Riley was nothing else than just an army guy under steroids who couldn't even handle his girlfriend being stronger than him.

Him blaming Buffy for not really being around when her mother was dying was the cherry on top of the loser's behavior.

Buffy needed someone with whom she could be 100% herself, an equal, and Riley knew he wasn't half of that; so he made her pay? By cheating on her and leaving? Then coming back a year later to brag about his wedding? Lmao give me a break Riloser.

So now Buffy is alone AGAIN, both men she thought she loved, left without looking back. ♫ Over my shouuulder ♫

And from those two relationships, we can already see what she needs in a romance:

- An emotionally available man - That can be there for her without pushing her - Someone who doesn't flee the second he encounters the smallest difficulty - A man strong enough for her to unleash the full force without being afraid of hurting him ♫ yes i'm talking about sex ♫ - Someone who understands her role as the slayer and her crazy life - Someone selfless capable of protecting her family and friends - Someone she can trust.

♫ And now, ladies and gentlemen, lets welcome ♫

• Spuffy:

Ok first a bit of context here: I disagree about people criticizing Buffy season 6 Lets just understand whats going on: Bitch sacrifices herself to save the world and her sister; at that moment, she feels peace for the first time in her life, for the first time she is not afraid to die and fulfill her destiny by choice. She has an heroic death, ends up resting in paradise...

♫ Then her friends who can't handle to live without her, decide to bring her back to life. ♫

Not only she comes back to life in her fucking coffin, she also: - Has to crawl to the surface (almost dying stupidly) - Has to act as if nothing happened - Has to be the slayer again - Cannot even go back to university - Has even less prospect for a normal life - She is poor - She needs to find money (ends up working in a fast food) - Has to thanks her friends for bringing her back to the life she never wanted - Is being blamed for not really being around.

♫ I WOULD HAVE BEEN SO FUCKING PISSED YOU CANNOT EVEN IMAGINE ♫

So what? She comes back, feels different, depressed, alone AGAIN and figuratively chained to a life she still doesn't want, and the only person who does understand what she is going through is Spike. Spike who has been here for her family and friends the whole time she was dead, meaning, he did it because he wanted to, because he felt genuine pleasure in hanging out with them while keeping his promise to protect Dawn.

He could have left, but never did, even though his love was one-sided, he loved her so much he stayed.

♫ Death couldn't do them apart ♫

He has been a father figure for Dawn, but not only that, Spike was also the only vampire Joyce liked and trusted, a presence she didn't mind in her home without Buffy around.

And Spike did love Joyce very much ♥

And I have so much to say about Spike, he is that multi-flavored character with so many layers, who stays interesting with or without a soul. He is a slayer's killer, seen as one of the most dangerous vampires, that anyone should be scared to be around, he has so much confidence in himself, he doesn't even mind being so freaking pathetic when it comes to love.

He is not even afraid nor ashamed to show his affection, to be vulnerable, to be open about it, and most of it, he just embraces it without a care of the outcome, he is just living by the day, knowing perfectly that everything could stop at any moment. Though, that being said, i'm still well aware Spike has also MANY flaws, all he does is mainly driven by love but it is still extreme and twisted due to his soulless condition. I really don't know where to start, because i feel like Buffy and Spike's destinies are intertwined - They are a mirror to each other. Buffy's behavior has anything to do with Spike, as Spike's behavior has anything to do with Buffy - it is really like watching a dance.

Spike allows her to embrace and explore the darkest part of herself - She was always the perfect girl everyone expected her to be.

She needed to do good, to BE good, but what if she, for once, chose the other side? Of course she never went as far as Faith did, but she allowed herself to fall into a forbidden romance, and to go against everyone's expectations, because she only felt something when she was with him. And i loved this part of her, because to me, she finally has flaws! I mean, she always had some but not to that extent. And maybe, maybe being like this, was a way for her to never fall completely into the darkness nor into Spike's influence.

Maybe she was in an inner battle between good and bad.

Maybe it was an unconscious way to either push him away, or test him to see if he will ever leave her. Abusive or not towards Spike, let's not forget that he is still William the bloody, and the only thing that stops him from killing anyone is the chip in his brain. We're still talking about the guy who would have easily killed Willow if he had the chance, the one Buffy wouldn't trust at all without that said chip.

Even though Spike has done TREMENDOUS good deeds with the scoobies, he is still a slave to his primary emotions.

Don't get me wrong, this is why i love Spike SO MUCH, his duality as a soulless vampire is everything. The man can talk to you about his favorite romantic show and a minute later kill someone in cold blood and find a great pleasure in both.

♫ Anyway ♫

Above all things, they are in love, and this love is extremely intense, deep, powerful, unbearable and terrible.

Thanks to Tara, Buffy realizes she did not come back as any different as before she died and realizes the horrors she has committed to Spike by treating him like a monster he never trully was.

Buffy ends up admitting her wrongs and grows out of her darkness and chooses to be good and to end her relationship with Spike. And she is glowing and glimming, and she's not his anymore.

Which leads Spike to end up doing something awful.

And what does he do after that??

He leaves the city...

♫ ♫ ♫ ♫ TO FIX HIMSELF ♫ ♫ ♫

Ladies and Gentlemen, we are in the year 2002, and yes you read me well:

THE BAD GUY GOES TO FIX HIMSELF TO BE WORTHY OF THE GIRL

♫ William the bloody risked his fucking life in a trial to get back his soul ♫

She doesn't fix him, he does it on his own because he knows something must be done to repair his wrongs, that his love needs to be purified of his monstrous side to be a better man and stand at her side.

And even though she doesn't know that, she is still looking for him, even after what he has done, she is always drawn to him, she always wants to be around him.

Then she learns he got his spark back for her and she does everything in her power to keep him by her side.

Because now it is time for Spike to embrace the brightest part of himself thanks to Buffy.

I love them so much, especially in season 7 because they don't even have to act romantically to show how deep their love is for each other. How simple it has become, how instinctive their complicity is. They know how to complement each other, it is almost symbiotic.

They are clearly not ready to be together again until they really sort things out but Spike has seen the best and the worst parts of her, and is still hers entirely, and will always be.

As much as Buffy has seen the best and worst parts of him, and she still trusts and loves him to the point of asking the initiative to remove the chip in his brain. ♫ On top of desperately not wanting him to die ♫ Also, without knowing it yet, she is entirely his and will always be.

Buffy sees Spike’s worth, and Spike sees Buffy’s, even when neither of them can see their own.

They lift each other up, and become an unbreakable force, to the point that no one can split them.

And this is one of my favorite parts of Spuffy, in season 7:

Before, she would never have let Spike kill a human, not even out of revenge. But now, she’s willing to let his shadow take over if it means keeping him alive, just as he learns to hold it back. To me, episode 17 - Lies My Parents Told Me - marks how far their connection has grown: Buffy running as fast as she can to save Spike Spike's past with his mother, helping him make peace with some of it, as part of his ongoing redemption arc ♫ it broke my heart ♫ Spike coming back to his senses to beat the shit out of Robin, and giving him a last chance Buffy telling Robin she'll let Spike kill him next time he even tries to harm Spike Buffy choosing Spike over Giles Buffy choosing Spike over the "common sense" Buffy choosing love over her duty (even if she pretends otherwise) ♫ Buffy, you cannot fool Spike, but you cannot fool us either! ♫

And i love this parallel with the end of season 2 when she had to choose duty over love and kill Angel. This is Buffy allowing herself to be a bit more selfish while Spike is allowing himself to be a bit more selfless.

And then in the middle of the biggest battle of her life, she is overthrown over shitty excuses ♫ i have a LOT to say about the Scoobies but that post is insanely long to add some salt ♫ and who is the one that still has her back? Spike. Spike has always been unconditionally here for her and never let her down, which even the Scoobies didn't always do.

Spike is the one who delivers the most selfless and beautiful love declaration of the whole show, to her. When she needs it the most, because he is the only one who can see her.

And his love is what gives strength to Buffy to trust herself and pursue her goal. He is the one who brings back the light in Buffy, who pushes her to live and accept her fate as being the one.

And talking about light,

♫ What a freakin' poetry to have centered Spike's whole redemption arc around it ♫

He was always pursuing that light, whether in Cecily when he was a human or Buffy as a vampire. All he had to do was bring the light into him and embrace his humanity to fulfill his redemption. And so he makes the ultimate sacrifice, And he glows. Not only he saves the world willingly and selflessly but he also gives back the fire inside Buffy, frees her from Sunnydale and her role as the sole slayer.

♫ "I love you" - "Spike" are the last words Buffy says in the show ♫ • Conclusion A freaking long ass post only to say that to me, Spuffy is very well written as enemies to lovers, thanks to Jane Espenson, Douglas Petrie & Marti Noxon. Though i think Spike still suffers some injustices, but I'm glad he got the respect he deserves in the comics, (which i consider canon) : Not only does Spike end up as part of the Scoobies but also with Buffy, and he is the only one with whom she fights for their relationship to last. ♫ And they're endgame in season 12 ♫ (Thank you Christos Gage)

I also think JW made many mistakes for Bangel to work: I know he was kinda annoyed by Spike's popularity at first and wanted Angel to be seen as the main vampire of the franchise, which led him to give Angel his own spinoff, but by doing that, he also broke the link between Buffy and Angel. Which ultimately led Spike to have a more organic evolution with her instead of Angel. They both had their own paths in their own separate worlds, which forced JW to accept Spuffy as being the logical conclusion. Just as Cordelia was also the best choice for Angel to grow and be more open about his emotions. Claiming in interviews that Angel is the love of Buffy's life without ever demonstrating it concretely in any of the media itself makes this statement fall flat. I do not hate Bangel, I think the ship was necessary for Buffy to grow, but i do see more Angel as her first idealised and tragic love, while with Spike, it is more grounded, mature and based on mutual respect, trust, acceptation and stability.

♫ Angel should have stayed and Spike and Drusilla should have had their own spinoff, and i'd have paid to see that. ♫ • My pov on Sprusilla?

Literally nothing to say about them, they match each other freak to a level no one can ever comprehend.

♫ They are a perfect match and untouchable. ♫ ♫ May they end up together again and last for eternity. ♫

♫ With animals. ♫ (alive)

[sissylittlefeather]

Kink Madness: Round 7

Voice Kink vs Cum Play

This is like, choose your daddy. He's very dominant in both of these, so have funnnn... Also, the second one is a prequel to my Daddy/Baby series (Daddy Likes His Coat, Daddy Likes His Football, Daddy Loves His Baby, Daddy Needs His Baby).

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, smut obviously, reader calls Elvis "daddy" in both, and the second one is very intense. He's angry, but not at reader. Everyone is consenting, but he does get a little mean. Spoiler alert, but he puts his hand on her throat and calls her a slut.

Voice Kink: 68 Special Elvis

He looks like a fucking god. The thought overwhelms you as you watch Elvis stalk around the stage in his black leather suit. He's like some kind of caged animal on that tiny lighted square and it's taking everything inside you not to crawl up there and let him have his way with you. But you're sure his wife is here somewhere too, so you'll have to wait until he's finished.

You're not sure you can wait that long though as you rub your thighs together in the audience. Everything about him is driving you wild, but his voice, his voice, is really what's killing you tonight. He keeps growling and grunting and it's all the same noises he makes when he's inside you, thrusting and sweating and filling you with himself. Your center aches with the memory of him there most recently and it's all you can do to keep your hands away. Still, you rock a little in your seat for more friction and you can feel yourself getting close.

He's about halfway through Love Me Tender when he looks down and sees you. He hasn't known you long, but you've quickly become his favorite thing about filming in Los Angeles. But when his eyes land on you, your face almost knocks him clean over. Your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth and your eyes are closed. He knows that face. Then, he sees how your hips are rocking gently and it almost undoes him. He has to look away quickly to keep singing, but he growls in the mic unintentionally.

That last growl is what you needed to push you over the edge and you gasp a little and grab your thighs. He can't help but look back at you and sure enough, there it is.

You're having a full-blown orgasm right there in the audience of his show. His dick is so hard it hurts where he has it pressed against his lower stomach by these damn leather pants. He's already cum once on stage during this filming process, but that was yesterday. He's determined not to do it again, but you are not helping. Your face contorted in pleasure is almost too much.

You ride out the waves of your climax, your body pulsing and sweating, and pray no one around you notices. Luckily, they're all too focused on him and you're able to gather yourself, for the most part.

As soon as filming is finished, he makes eye contact with you and you know that's a silent command. You immediately head to his room and hear him make all kinds of excuses to be alone with you. When he finally shakes off the last of the guys, he walks in and quickly closes the door behind himself, a mischievous little smirk on his face.

“What was that, sugar?”

“What was what?” It dawns on you that he saw you and your cheeks go pink.

“You, makin’ that face and rubbin’ your little thighs together. For all of God’s green earth to see.”

“I don't know what you're talkin’ about.” But you do and you're already dripping wet again at the thought of him watching it happen. He backs you up to the wall, pinning you against it with his body.

“I think you do.” He lowers his voice and growls in his throat. “Tell me what happened.”

The change in his voice almost has you coming apart again right where you stand. “I-I-I came.”

He brushes his lips against yours, kisses your cheek, and then leans in to your ear. “You came? I didn't even touch you.”

You whimper and press your hips against his, feeling his cock where it strains against his leather pants. “Didn't have to. Your voice…”

“You like my voice, sugar?”

You moan softly as he growls in your ear again. “Y-yes. I love it.”

“Good. Listen, then.” He sits on the little couch and pulls you into his lap, straddling his hips. “Get my cock out.”

You don't hesitate to follow instructions, your little hands trembling as you quickly unzip him and pull out his aching length.

“Good girl. Now wrap your little hand around me.” You do, your grip firm but gentle. He groans and your pussy clenches around nothing. “Stroke it.”

You start to pump him slowly and he leans his head back. “Harder. You know how I like it, sugar.”

He moans again as you tighten your grip and stroke him faster. The sound of his voice caught in such a deep moan has your center so wet, your panties are soaked. As you work him with your hand, he grabs the back of your neck and pulls you in close and then presses his thumb to your clit over your panties. “Fuck, sugar. You're drippin’. You really do like my voice.”

“Yes.” You whimper as he starts to make slow circles on you.

“How bad do you want this cock inside you?” He whispers in your ear, his cheek pushed against yours as you continue to pump him. It sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core. “Tell me, sugar. How bad?”

“S-so fuckin’ bad…”

“S’what I thought. Rub yourself on it.” You roll your hips forward to grind your clothed pussy on his dick. His precum mixes with your wetness and your panties are almost see-through. “Mmm… good girl.”

He hooks one finger in your panties and yanks them to the side, exposing your glistening pussy. “Goddamn, sugar. Look at you. Now get daddy’s cock good and wet.” You drag the head of him through your folds, both of you moaning in unison. “You want me to fill you up? Give you a good reason to cum?”

“Oh god, yes daddy, please.”

“Come on then, sugar. Take daddy’s cock like a good girl.” He lifts your hips and sinks you down onto him slowly, stretching you out inch by inch. “Thats it, baby. You like that? You like being opened by daddy’s big cock?”

You feel him hit that spot so deep inside you and whimper loudly. “Y-yes, daddy.”

“Good girl. Now cum. Let me feel it this time.” You start to roll against him while he thumbs your clit and it feels like you could die it's so good.

“Fuck, daddy.”

“Come on.” He grunts with the sensation of your pussy tightening on him and the sound is enough to push you over the edge. You cry out as your orgasm slams into you and you shudder and pulse around him, the electric pleasure rushing through you in waves. “Yeah, baby.”

He groans and holds you still as he cums too, throbbing and spilling inside you as you milk him. You press your sweaty forehead to his as you both try to recover from the intensity of your shared release. He looks you in the eye and whispers against your lips.

“You cumming in the audience might've been the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.” Your eyes widen in surprise.

“Really?”

“Yes. You might be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

“Elvis…”

“I'm serious, sugar. I hope you never stop lookin’ at me like this.” You smile softly and kiss him gently.

“I don't think I ever will.”

******

Cum Play: EOT Elvis

Elvis is mad. And not just, like, yelling mad. He's kicking tables and screaming mad. When he gets back to the suite you're sharing, his hair is wild and he takes off his glasses and throws them at the wall as hard as he can. You raise your eyebrows as they shatter onto the carpet.

“Elvis…”

“FUCKIN’ COLONEL. PIECE OF SHIT MOTHERFUCKER.” He kicks over an end table and sends everything on it flying. You sigh and look at the stuff on the floor. This is not the first time you've seen him in a rage like this.

“Elvis.”

“FUCKIN’ FATASS BASTARD.”

“ELVIS.” He stops and turns to look at you, nostrils flared as he seethes.

“What?!” You don't even flinch and it's not lost on him. You're the first girl he's ever known who hasn't cowered in fear when he gets like this. Maybe it's the way you were raised, but you get more steady as he gets more turbulent. Right now, you're so calm you could perform brain surgery.

“What do you need?” You ask him, not quietly, but not aggressively either.

“Need?! I don't know. Fuck!” He turns and throws an ashtray at the wall and then drops into a chair, hands in his hair. You walk over to him, not carefully, smoothly.

“Fuck is right. That's what you need.”

“What?” He looks up at you with his eyebrows screwed up in confusion.

“You need to fuck. Me. Right now.”

“What? No? Baby, have you lost your ever-lovin’…” But he trails off as you stand in front of him and start to undress. Once you're naked, you bend over and put your hands on his knees.

“You need this negative energy out of you. I'm gonna fuck it out.” He opens his mouth to protest, but goes silent as you turn and walk away from him to the bed and then climb onto it on all fours. “Come on, daddy. Show baby how mad you are.”

He grunts as you wiggle your naked ass at him. Then, he's on his feet, shedding layers as he walks towards you on the bed.

“I'm pretty fuckin’ mad, baby. I don't think you know what you're doin’ pokin’ me like this.”

“You think I'm scared of you? Scared of big bad daddy with his bad temper?” He slaps your ass with one of his big hands and squeezes it.

“Stop it, baby.”

“Make me.” You lean down on your arms so that your glistening pussy is right in front of him. He growls and pushes his fingers into you up to the rings.

“Make you? Make you?” He slams his fingers in and out hard and you whimper with the mixture of pain and pleasure.

“Yeah, daddy. Show me how mad you can get.”

“Show you? I'll fuckin’ show you.” He growls as he pulls your hips back to him gruffly. You bite your lip as he teases your entrance for a second before he slams his whole aching cock into you.

“Oh!” You let out a little moan as he starts to pound into you.

“I'll show this little pussy just how mad I am.” He speaks under his breath, but you can hear him.

“Louder, daddy. I wanna hear you.”

“Fuck. You don't want this, baby.”

“Don't tell me what I want! Harder!” He groans loudly and squeezes your hips so hard you know there'll be bruises in the morning. You curse under your breath as he drives into you with so much force you lose the ability to think straight.

“Don't… fuckin’... tell me… what to do…!” He punctuates each word with a harder thrust. And then, without warning, he pulls out and flips you over, slamming back into you, hard.

“Yes, daddy. Just like that.” You whimper and he reaches down to wrap his hand around your throat. He doesn't choke you, but he grips you with just enough pressure to let you know he's there.

“You like that, you little slut? You like daddy’s cock punishing you like this?” He moans and his eyes roll back as he pounds you.

“Y-yes. I love it, daddy.” He can feel the edges of his release closing in as he slams into you harder than he's ever fucked a woman before.

“Get on your knees then.” He growls, squeezing your throat a little before letting go. You scramble off of him and down onto the floor in front of him. “Good girl. That's daddy’s good little slut.”

And then before he knows what he's doing, he's pumping his cock and shooting cum all over your face. You close your eyes quickly and open your mouth, but he continues to cover your cheeks and lips and forehead. When he finishes, he exhales and steps backwards, spent. He looks at what he's done to you and stumbles over to the bed, sitting on the edge and then laying down. You feel around on the floor for something and eventually find your panties, using them to clean off your face. When you finally blink your eyes open, you turn to see him lying on the bed staring at the ceiling.

“Daddy?”

“I shouldn't have done that.” You lay down next to him on the bed and he wraps an arm around you to pull you in close to his side. He looks down and caresses your cheek with his thumb. “I'm so sorry.”

You look up at him and shake your head. “Don't be. I asked for it.”

“But still–”

“Elvis, you needed to get that out of you. You didn't hurt me.”

“You sure?” His eyes are round and blue and tortured as he looks down at you.

“Yes. Are you still angry?”

“No.”

“Then I did exactly what I was trying to do.”

“Baby…”

“I love you, Elvis.” He freezes for half a second. That's the first time either of you has used that word or even entertained the thought that this could be more than just sex. He thinks about what you just did for him, how you put his needs first, how you're always there for him, and have been, since the start. And then it just comes tumbling out.

“I love you too, baby. So goddamn much.” You smile a little and kiss the end of his nose.

“Whatever you need, daddy. Baby’s here. And I'm not goin' anywhere.”

“Thank you.” His voice is thick with emotion and he leans in, pressing his lips to your forehead. It's a hell of a beginning, but it's yours, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

******

Don't forget to reblog! Thank you!

Taglist:

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[holylulusworld]

Their Bride (Snippet 1) - Kinktober 28

Summary: You always dreamed of letting your dirtiest fantasies become reality. Your men made your dream come reality.

Pairing: fem!Reader x Nick Fowler, Ari Levinson, Lloyd Hansen, Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers

Warnings: mentions past consensual non-con/dub-con roleplay, kidnapping, multiple partners,  mentions of sex tape, mentions of callboys/prostitution

Trope: Post-coitus moment

A/N:  A short follow up to: Best bridesmaid ever

Kinktober vs Flufftober 2024

“Just relax, lean back, and enjoy how we dismantle your ex.”

Lean back and relax, Ari said, while you tried to wrap your head around the situation. Not moments before they revealed their true identities, you believed your bridesmaid and best friend hired the most handsome and best callboys walking on earth.

The fulfillment of your secret desires still lingered in the back of your mind. Memories flashed up, bringing back every moment of desire and lust.

Did their true identity change your desire for them after all of them gave you what your body and mind were craving? You pondered when Ari stepped back inside the room to hand you a cup of your favorite tea.

“I can see the wheels in your head spinning,” he said, sitting opposite you in an old armchair, while you watched him with curiosity. This man did unspeakable things to you and your body but looked almost shy when you stared at him. “We never said that we are callboys, sweetness. You gave in to our demands so easily; we just went with the flow. At first, we only wanted to scare you a little and fuck with your finance’s mind.”

“What?” You gaped at Ari. Did he just make it sound like they didn’t lie to you? “You made me believe you’re the callboys my friend hired.”

“Baby cakes, do you honestly believe guys like us offered their dicks for money?” Lloyd chuckles as you try to not throw the cup of tea at him. “My meat is a filet mignon, not a cheap burger.”

“Hansen, you’re not helpful. Not at all,” Ari grunted. “We should explain our plan to her. Y/N is not a pretty doll you can use and put in a corner.”

“Oh, Levinson,” Lloyd plopped down on the couch next to you. “I won’t ever put my muffin into a corner. I’ll make her scream my name any time of the day.” His hand crept up the nightgown they offered you this morning, one of many designer clothes they got for you. “Right, sunshine. You loved it when I got down on you to tickle your clit with my mustache.”

“Lloyd!” Steve snapped at the man next to you. “We wanted to talk, not bend her over the couch too. Let’s finish her ex-fiancé off before we get to her naughty cunt again.”

“Doll, are we having a party?” Bucky strolled into the room, Nick hot on his heels. They sipped at their coffee while undressing you with their eyes. Similar eyes, turning you into a puddle of goo whenever they look at you. “What do you want me to do to you today?”

“Get your shit together. No sex this morning. If we want to hit Walker hard and fast, we must do it now. Let’s give him a taste of his own medicine. I want him to suffer through every scream and moan we forced out of his lovely fiancé.”

You watched Ari take over the lead. He wildly gestured while talking, making you whimper more than once. You barely listened to what he had to say. These five men fulfilled your darkest desires and offered a new life to you within the same heartbeat.

How could you ever go back to a normal life? What would you tell anyone? That you let these five men, members of the mob on top of all, do unspeakable things to you?

You’re ruined in more than one way.

“How about you enjoy the show, cupcake?” Lloyd said, and wrapped one arm around your shoulders. “Later, you can enjoy more of me. Let’s sneak out and do it outside like the animals.”

“Lloyd!” Steve snapped his fingers in Lloyd’s face. He was done with Lloyd’s endless appetite for you and the noises you made for the mustache-wearing bastard. “Stop thinking with your dick for once, will ya.”

“Let us have our fun. We already fucked Walker over by fucking his lovely bride. He still thinks she’s going to marry him. How about you stab him in the back and twist the knife?”

“I prepared everything,” a new face stepped into the room. A cocky guy with glasses and spiky dark blonde hair. He was wearing a pink shirt with an imprint saying go petunias.

You would’ve giggled at his outfit, but he switched a large monitor on and talked about hacking into John’s system and other things you don’t understand.

“Alright,” he said. “A livestream would’ve been much funnier, but this will do too.” He dipped his head to look your way. His cheeks turned red, and he gasped loudly. “Oh, she’s here.”

“Stop staring at our girl,” Nick warned before pointing his index finger at him. “Get the job done. We don’t have all day.”

“Name’s Jake,” he said, instead of doing his job. He flashed you a smile, making you giggle. You could imagine turning him into your sweet puppy. A stark contrast to the roughness your other men provide.

“Jensen, do your job!” Ari barked at Jake. “I want results, and I want them now!”

“Here we go,” Jake said. He typed away on the keyboard, starting a countdown. You watched John on the monitor. His phone rang, and he got a message to switch his laptop on.

John sat down on his expensive leather chair and switched the laptop on. Jake immediately took control of the laptop, easily hacking into the computer.

Moments later, you could hear the scene you remembered so well unfold once again. Your moans and the men barking orders at you filled your ears as John grabbed his laptop to smash it against the wall.

“Hah, as if this would stop me!” Jake snickered. “Let’s drive him insane.”

Next: Playing with their bride

Tags in reblog.

[demie90s]

Just In Time

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ Diana Taurasi x Reader ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ Part 2

MASTERLIST MORE

⭑ pairing: Diana Taurasi x reader (soccer star!fem!reader)

⭑ summary: You were that girl in high school—averaging 30 points a game and dunking before prom. But you chose soccer over basketball and built an empire. Now you’re courtside at the Aces vs. Mercury game in Vegas.

⭑ genre: Slow-burn tension, legend-to-legend energy, flirty sports banter, unexpected chemistry

⭑ warnings: Swearing, casual cockiness, mutual eye-stalking, mentions of high school glory days

⭑ word count: ~ 0.8k

The camera didn’t even have to pan twice.

The second your face lit up on the Jumbotron, the crowd’s noise doubled. Phones flew up. Commentators’ voices pitched higher. And you just grinned from your seat—soft, effortless. Like you didn’t realize you were one of those people now. The kind crowds whisper about before they even spot you. The kind that gets a personalized clap track and a shout-out during timeouts.

“Y/N L/N, ladies and gentlemen,” the arena host announced over the system. “Soccer icon, multi-sport prodigy, and today’s honorary basketball royalty.”

You lifted a hand in a wave, flashing a lowkey smile, teeth biting at your glossed bottom lip. Diamond-studded “L/N” earrings caught the light. Nothing extra, but the kind of shine that made people lean in anyway.

Your friends—three of them, two influencers and a WNBA rookie you grew up with—were already gassing you up in the row behind you.

“She act like she ain’t break the high school scoring record,” one muttered, recording a story.

“She act like she didn’t drop 45 with the flu,” another laughed.

You didn’t correct them. You just rolled your eyes and tucked your hand back under your chin, watching the game unfold in front of you.

But it wasn’t until halftime, as the Mercury were jogging into the tunnel, that you heard it.

“Little L/N?”

You turned, and your smirk widened. “Coach T?”

Phoenix’s head coach was already walking toward you with his arms open.

“I should’ve known you’d be at a game like this. Still pretending soccer’s your main sport?”

You let out a soft laugh, standing to hug him. “You still pretending you weren’t begging me to commit after sophomore year?”

“Because you had thirty-four points, nine boards, and seven assists on a broken ankle.”

You shrugged, letting that memory sit. “Still lost that game.”

“By two. In triple overtime. And you had no bench.”

A few of the players were slowing down behind him, watching the interaction. And cameras, of course, never missed shit.

“She looks familiar,” someone muttered.

“Familiar?” Tibbetts scoffed. “She was on the cover of SLAM at sixteen. Almost went to UConn. Would’ve if she didn’t fall in love with soccer. What’d you end with in high school again?”

“Something light,” you said.

“Girl,” he grinned. “Twenty-nine hundred points. All-time state record. First player in school history to average a triple double two seasons straight.”

Someone whistled. Someone else blinked. And that’s when you heard her.

“That was you?”

You looked up—and the way Diana Taurasi stood just behind the tunnel barrier, arms crossed, head tilted, like she was trying to solve a problem…yeah. That was a core memory being printed in real time.

“Depends,” you replied slowly. “You a fan of broken ankles or buzzer beaters?”

She smiled. Real slight. “I’m a fan of the real ones. And apparently, I missed one.”

Coach chuckled and clapped you on the back. “Come catch up in the back after. I’ll let security know. They’ve been asking about you since the first quarter anyway.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” you asked.

“Everyone.”

⸻

The postgame locker room smelled like sweat, lavender, and a hint of champagne. Phoenix had pulled off a win—barely—but the vibes were still high. Music was playing low, and phones were out. Cameras too, content teams getting their last shots for the night.

You slid in lowkey, dressed in simple black cargos, a tank top, and a cropped open hoodie. Jewelry still on. Vibe still locked.

And when Diana spotted you, sitting on a folded towel across from her locker, water in hand, leaning back like this was your postgame too?

She just stared.

“Coach really let you in, huh?”

You raised an eyebrow. “He offered. Multiple times.”

“Figures.”

You looked at her again, and this time, you didn’t mask the way your eyes dropped—once, twice, maybe lingered too long on the line of her jaw and the way her bra strap peeked from beneath her loose postgame shirt.

“And you really played like that? For decades?” you said, half-mocking, half-mesmerized.

She smirked. “Still do.”

“Mmm. You’re lucky I picked cleats.”

“And you’re lucky I’m retired. Almost.”

Her voice was low. Purposeful. The kind that tested waters with every syllable.

You sipped your water. “Is that a challenge?”

“No,” she said, brushing past you, towel slung over her shoulder. “That’s a fact.”

⸻

Later, when most of the players had filtered out, Diana found you standing by the private team kitchen, talking to one of the media staff. Laughing a little too effortlessly. Shoulder leaned against the counter, head slightly tilted like you didn’t notice her watching again.

“You ever think about what could’ve happened?” she asked, walking up beside you.

You didn’t have to ask what she meant.

“All the time,” you admitted. “But I’m not mad at how it turned out. I still ended up courtside.”

“Could’ve been on the court though.”

You turned toward her, slow. Measured. “You regret any of it?”

She shook her head. “No. But I wonder who’d win.”

You stepped closer. Just enough to make her register the shift.

“I would’ve made you work for it.”

“You would’ve tried,” she said back, voice even.

A pause. Tension humming.

And then?

You grinned. “So what I’m hearing is…I should come to more games.”

Diana’s eyes narrowed like you’d just dunked on her.

But when she answered, her tone was light. Controlled. Dangerous.

“I dare you.”

[processzine-org]

Songs Without Words Felix Mendelssohn // Op. 62, No. 6 🎹 Played by Ethel Leginska

Another silent score enters the archive.

A piano roll designed to be heard — yet now only seen. A piece titled “Song Without Words” — yet now without sound. Hand-played by Ethel Leginska, one of the first women to conduct major orchestras, who fought for both musical and personal expression in a time that preferred quiet obedience.

These holes are her hands, her pressure, her breath. But there is no pianola. Only paper and memory.

The piece itself — a “song” that rejects language, speaking purely through melody. Mendelssohn believed meaning lived beyond words — that music could express what language couldn’t.

It’s a poignant mirror of the signal // noise project. This is music for the unheard. Perception without sound. Emotion without speech. Signal, stripped.

[vivsinkpot]

Romantic Prompts: The One Who Watches vs. The One Who Shines.

Some romances burn loudly. Others linger in the quiet — in glances, in stillness, in the ache of being unnoticed.

This is for the ones who watch, and the ones who shine too brightly to see they’re being watched.

Here’s ten prompts for the kind of love that’s felt in silence, and seen too late — or just in time. Pronouns are interchangeable.

1. “He never noticed her in the corner. But she noticed everything.”

She stayed just out of reach — not quite part of the scene, not quite outside it. He filled the room like sunlight, and she lingered where the light didn’t reach. But she saw it all: the tremble in his hands, the hesitation before a laugh, the way his shoulders curled inward when no one was looking. She didn’t need to be seen to know him.

2. “He shines so brightly everyone sees him, but no one sees him clearly.”

Everyone adored him — that was the trouble. He was a constellation, dazzling and distant, drawn in gold. But she knew what others missed: how he hated crowds, how his gaze darted to the exit when laughter got too loud. He wore charm like a costume. She saw the person beneath it.

3. “She knows something about him no one else does.”

He always stepped out of the party for five minutes at a time. No one noticed, except her. She watched him light a cigarette with shaking fingers, shoulders drawn tight like string pulled too far. She knew it wasn’t about the smoke. It was about the quiet. She never followed. She just waited until he came back.

4. “What does it feel like to be adored from afar — and then to realize it?”

At first, he thought it was coincidence. Her gaze lingering a moment too long. A laugh at something no one else heard. But then it kept happening. He started to feel it — that gravity. That quiet, unwavering attention. It was terrifying and tender, being seen that clearly by someone who asked for nothing in return.

5. “You look at me like I’m a cathedral.”

She said it like it was an accusation. A deflection. But his voice was steady when he answered: “Because you are.” He saw her in fragments — beauty in broken things, holiness in how she tried to stay soft in a world that demanded armor. Of course he looked at her like that. How else could he?

6. “He finds her alone — and understands something unspoken.”

He found her in the library, hands buried in old books, soft light on her cheek. She didn’t hear him come in. She was too absorbed — not in the page, but in the memory of his voice echoing through the hall earlier. When he called her name, gently, it wasn’t surprise she saw in his eyes. It was understanding.

7. What do they admire in each other that no one else notices?

He admired her stillness — how she moved like water, calm and clear. She admired his chaos — the way he threw himself into the world with both hands, unafraid of being hurt. Everyone else saw what sparkled on the surface. They loved what lived underneath.

8. The watcher always thought her love was invisible.

She thought he’d never notice. How could he, when everyone else vied for his attention with fireworks and noise, and she only ever offered silence? But he did. One night, he caught her staring — and didn’t look away. He smiled, slowly, like he’d known all along.

9. “Do you ever get tired of being seen?” “Do you ever get tired of being invisible?”

He asked it like a joke, but his voice cracked. She didn’t laugh. She looked at him — really looked — and said, “Yes. All the time.” The room felt smaller then, quieter. For the first time, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.

10. The roles reverse — when the watcher becomes the watched.

She watched him this time — across the room, while he talked to someone else, while he smiled like he wasn’t holding anything back. And now she was the one trying not to stare. Not to ask. Not to reach for something she hadn’t realised she missed until he stopped looking back.

Whether you’re writing yearning, hidden devotion, or the slow shift from distance to intimacy — this dynamic leaves its mark.

More dynamic-driven prompt sets coming soon.

[yanderenightmare]

hey, marie! i have a question for the helpdesk!

any advice for what to describe in a scene? I find myself just sticking to the plot points, which are just action-based, but it's always sorta boring in the end.

I guess my question is how to make scenes feel natural and richer without descriptions becoming excessive?

On Scene Descriptions

Great question!

What Can You Put in a Scene?

Honestly? Absolutely anything. Anything you can think of. Anything at all.

From describing objects and surroundings, to character descriptions, their inner thoughts, memories, associations, emotions, tone of voice, dialogue, body language, facial expressions, actions, and interactions.

Anything and everything, and all things I’ll cover down below.

And so, first off…

Scenery!

Describe the surroundings. 

Where are we? What place is it? What's around? What sticks out? Observations! Is stuff new or old? Expensive or cheap? Any wear and tear, or is everything perfectly up to code? Is it dirty or clean? Messy or tidy? Is it dark or bright? Are we inside or outside? Is it day or night? What’s the weather like? 

But don’t just focus on what you can see, use all five senses to your advantage! Is it hot and humid or cold and brisk? Is there an odor? Can you taste it on your tongue? Is there anything around that makes a sound like a waterfall in the distance, bird chatter, club chatter, or a very annoying clock on the wall?

Show, Don't Tell gets important here. A phrase writers hear a lot. But what does it actually mean?

Well! Showing vs Telling basically states that describing something through visual detail is more convincing than using a simple standalone verb or noun. 

Take a forest, for example. You can state that your character is traveling through a forest, but a forest isn’t very descriptive. 

What kind of forest is it? Where is it? What’s in it? 

A rainforest is humid and hot. A birch forest is flat with skinny trees. An oak forest has a lot of branches and a ton of roots you can trip over. A pine forest is dark and misty, growing scarcer the higher up the mountain you travel. Is it an overgrown and bewildering forest, or a beautiful and enchanting one? Is the canopy thick, blocking out the light, or open and bright?

Furthermore, a forest has plenty of other things aside from just trees, like moss beds, rocks, tracks, mushrooms, wind, fresh scents, foul scents, animal noises, creaky old branches, caves that moan, shrubs that rustle, plants, bushes of berries, poisonous things, fallen leaves, barnacles, twigs on the ground, markings on the treestems, carvings left by former travelers, trash, long-forgotten cabins that might not be as abandoned as originally believed, animal dung, streams, lakes, waterfalls, sudden cliffs, dead trees, fallen trees, uprooted trees, rotting animal carcases, skeletal remains, and so many other things…

So basically, what Showing vs Telling wants you to do is paint the scene. Don’t just tell the reader they’re in a forest, or a shopping mall, or in the mountains, or at school—describe it to them. And again, don’t just focus on what you can see—taste, touch, scent, and sound are just as important!

An easy tip is to simply put yourself in the shoes of the character, close your eyes, and imagine being there, then describe that experience.

This also applies to—

Emotions!

Through the rules of Show-Don't-Tell, you should focus on describing body language and facial cues instead of standalone verbs.

Take fear, for example. You can say your character is scared, but, like anything, being scared is an arbitrary emotion and can essentially mean anything from feeling somewhat anxious to absolutely terrified beyond wit’s end. 

So instead of simply saying they’re scared, you’ll describe what they look like or do or think when they’re scared. 

Think cold sweat, stammering, shivering, feeling frozen, having big eyes, a beating chest, being lock-jawed, or screaming while making a run for it. 

Again, put yourself in the shoes of the character and describe every sensation and observation you can think of, like you’re trying to sell the emotion to your readers.

You can also play around and use the character’s inner thoughts to do this.

Take love, for example. Sure, you can say that a character is in love. But again, there are many different types of love out there. So, how does this character experience love?

This is where inner thoughts work magic:

You’re looking at him and he does everything in his power to act cool—act cool, act cool, act fucking cool. His heart’s beating with the bass of a drum—he wonders if you can hear it from where you sit. God, how embarrassing. You’re just studying together, and he can’t even focus enough to read a single sentence. He hasn’t turned the page once, and you’ve already made a whole book’s worth of notes. That’s why you’re staring at him, isn’t it? You’re probably wondering what’s wrong with him, and it’s a good question. He’s wondering as well—what is wrong with him?

The word love or crush isn’t used once, and yet, describing that feeling through showing or, in this case, inner thinking, paints a better picture of this character’s experience than it would have if it were to have been disclosed from the get-go that the character was in love.

This way, it also becomes a better journey for the reader, as if they're getting brought along on the discovery with the character.

All this being said, however, it’s not as if you’re not allowed to simply tell it how it is sometimes. Not everything needs to be disclosed in close detail all the time—but that’s something we’ll revisit later in the post.

For now, let’s move on to lights, camera—

Action!

You mention that too many action descriptions become boring. I agree! They're monotone and weak on their own and should be followed up with other scene-describing methods or joined with dialogue.

I feel like the difference between a good action sequence and a bad action sequence is that one feels like you're lining up one and one domino, whereas the other one feels like you're watching dominos fall after each other. One is work, the other is payoff.

It should be payoff.

But how do you make it feel like falling dominoes? It's not always easy, but try to limit the number of actions that happen at random and make everything happen for a reason—reactions and objectives over standalone actions. Why are the characters doing what they're doing? What made them do what they're doing? What are they trying to achieve? Is something hindering them? Is something working to their advantage? What are they thinking and feeling while doing what they're doing? And does that have any effect on how they're doing what they're doing?

Furthermore, what they've now done should be the direct cause or kickstart of the next action, and so on and so forth.

When you have two characters in a scene, you should make the action volley between them. He does this, which made her do this, but then he did this, and she had to do this.

Otherwise, if there's only one character in a scene, you should volley between action and inner thought. As I mentioned earlier, walk us through their thought process. Why are they doing what they're doing?

On another note, I often feel that actions are underrated. Or rather, that they’re often not used to their full potential.

Let’s go back to the forest real quick. Yes, the character is walking through the forest.

But what does it really entail to walk through a forest? What happens?

You get tired, of course! You get sweaty, you get dirty, weariness turns to exhaustion, you're thirsty, you're hungry, now you're cold, you're anxious to get to where you're going, you're not entirely sure if you're going the correct way, and oh my god, you're lost!

On yet another note!

Actions are described when characters do something, obviously. And they tend to do something when the plot requires it.

But actions can be used to describe the scene in ways visual descriptions can’t. So, don't just make your characters react and interact with each other; make them do so with the scenery.

Again, yes, our character is walking through the forest. That’s the action the plot requires. However, there are so many actions that’ll make the experience more vivid. For example, make the character touch things—make them balance themselves against trees and feel the branches they duck under. This way, you can describe the rough texture of bark against the character’s palm and really immerse the reader. Make the character trip and fall, and there are suddenly new opportunities. Make them climb, make them tired, make them start running because of a sound they heard, make them kick leaves, have them pick up a stick out of boredom, make them collect rocks, make them juggle as they walk. Again, there are so many options to make the scene more vivid.

Replace basic scene descriptions with scene interactions such as this, pair the entire thing with dialogue, and it'll read like a movie!

Something we'll also discuss later on, but for now, onto—

Characters!

Now, I've already described emotions and inner thoughts, which are what tell your reader most about the character.

But, appearance-based character descriptions are also neat!

Facial features, quirky things like scars and beauty marks, freckles, eye colors, skin color, hair color, how all those colors are different in different lighting, glowy skin, dry skin, patchy skin, oily skin. Have they showered? Do they wear makeup? What are they wearing? How are they wearing it? A shirt can be so many things—ironed, crumpled, buttoned up or buttoned down, patterned, white, dirty, loose, tight-fitted, tailored, cheap or expensive. Are they’re shoes well-worn or newly bought? Any piercings? Where and what type? Gold or silver? And since they have one on their lip, might it make you wonder if they have others in places unseen? Any tattoos? Where and what type? Traditional black or colored? Badly inked or impressive? Original or cliche? Muscles or not? Does it make you wonder how much they hit the gym? Any bruising? Bloody knuckles, scuffed knees, crooked nose, black eyes, popped lip. Do they have neat hair? Does it look like they frequent the hairdresser? Is it their natural color? Have they even brushed it today?

Yeah, I think you get it. Description can and should tell a lot about a character.

And if I haven’t made it clear yet, descriptions should be telling the story. Which also means that they shouldn't be used haphazardly. But again, that’s something we’ll return to later in the post.

But, before that, we must lastly cover—

Dialogue!

At this point, we’ve gone over different methods of describing a scene, but as you mentioned, a text can quickly become quite heavy if it’s solely based on descriptions alone.

This is where dialogue becomes an author’s best friend.

Dialogue is the easiest way to breathe fresh air into a text when you feel you've only been writing action sequences or long spouts of descriptions. Dialogue will break up body text like no other.

At the same time, however, dialogue is also a double-edged sword for the same reason. So even when it gives us a break from long-winded descriptions, it can be a little tricky to glue things back together again when you’ve made that break.

On top of that, making dialogue feel fluid is tricky for plenty of other reasons as well. First off, there are only so many times you can use the word said.

To be honest, if my draft didn’t start off with a lot of dialogue, I have a really hard time implementing it at any other point. And so, I don’t have too many tips right here other than saying that dialogue doesn’t always have to be isolated between “quotation marks”.

For reference sake, here’s an example of a very action-based story that has dialogue, but zero bunny ears: The Quartering Act.

Another tip is that you don’t always have to refer to the person who said something after they said it. It’s fine to simply skip to an action or other description. Let your readers do what they do best and read between the lines. They’ll know from context who it was that said what. This way, you won’t exhaust the usage of the word said and its synonyms.

Lastly, try to use different ways of breaking up dialogue. Explaining the character's tone of voice works once, then it remains spent until their tone of voice changes. Meanwhile, it’s time to use other descriptions. Having a list of synonyms for said is very useful. But you should also try to play around with other options, such as breaking dialogue with inner thoughts, actions, emotions, sudden associations, minor flashbacks, and other disturbances that come naturally.

What I’ve found useful is giving the character something to hold and fiddle with or something to do while they’re talking. This gives you more options other than needing to repeat she-said-he-said.

Again, for reference sake, here’s another short example: Stay. Read it and you’ll see how that entire conversation could have just as easily happened while they were still in bed, but by making the reader move around while looking for something, the entire scene becomes more lively with better flow.

Again, my biggest piece of advice is to try to immerse yourself and see what things you think you would feel, think, and focus on if you were the one talking or listening.

Now, finally, in order to use all of the things we’ve just covered, you need to—

Know The Scene!

Yeah, you can put anything in a scene. But does that mean that everything should go in a scene?

No.

As you mentioned, too much description becomes excessive, and only describing actions becomes monotone. Too much of anything is tedious to read, and a sure-fire way to stifle the momentum.

Take character descriptions, for instance. If it's our first time seeing a character, then of course, a description of his features and attire is warranted. But there's no need to give a full description of someone the reader knows every time they walk into a scene. The name alone will suffice. Unless, of course, there’s something fundamentally off about the character this time around. But otherwise, no, your reader does not need to know what someone is wearing every time they enter the scene.

Additionally, it also depends on whose point of view we're looking at things from. Meaning, if a character walks into a scene that’s new to the reader, but well-known by the character holding the point of view, it might be more natural to describe what relationship they have with each other in a string of inner thoughts and less natural to go into detail about their hair and the color of their eyes as the one holding the point of view is probably not going to be focusing on those details. You can still mention it throughout the text when it becomes natural to do so, but bombarding the reader with a whole paragraph of appearance descriptions is often unnecessary, boring, and sometimes even a little disorienting.

Similarly, if the scene takes place inside the home of the character with the point of view, we shouldn’t receive a full description of their house. Why would they be focusing on what type of pictures are up on the mantle or if their sofa is made of leather and has embroidered throw pillows? That’s an observation made by an outsider. But we’re supposed to feel like we’ve been here countless times before. And so the place shouldn’t be introduced as anything new, but completely familiar. So instead, we’ll focus on anything that’s out of the ordinary. Such as if anything has fallen out of their designated place, if there are dishes left out, if the character is only now noticing how the wall paint is starting to chip, how they remember when they first picked out that color. Anything you might think of when walking around in your own house.

Again, obviously, if we’re following the point of view of another character who is entering this house for the first time, it would be natural to describe their observations of the place.

But anyway, returning to my point. Yes, anything can go in a scene, but you should only keep the things that work to the advantage of the scene.

And that’s where the editor side of authorship steps in for the creator, and you start making some critical decisions where you’ll have to be tough and strike those things you’ve written that don’t work in favor of the scene.

In other words, all scenes are different because they all have a specific purpose to achieve. To know which of the listed literary devices to use, you first need to identify the purpose of each scene and create focal points for the reader. 

What’s really important here? What should be the takeaway? What’s the point of this scene? And what does the scene need in order to further that point?

If you want to slow things down to create suspense, more descriptions should be added for longer pauses. If it's a fast action-based scene, you'll want to keep descriptions short and concise to create a fluid domino effect. If it's an emotional scene, you'll want to focus on inner thoughts and body language to immerse the reader in those feelings. And meanwhile, on top of everything, there’s also dialogue to weave in.

This is all complicated stuff, and not something you learn overnight or by reading this Helpdesk edition. It’s taken me years, and I mean years, to learn any of this, and it’s still not a hundred percent.

It’s truly nothing short of a fucked up thing, because something that works in one scene won’t always work in another scene, even when they’re similar. There are plenty of scenes I post where I’m not happy with the flow, where I’ve given up on finding the right sentences, words, and structure to make it perfect for myself. But that’s the name of the game. You’re not going to get it right every time. But you can be sure that every time, good or bad, is another step towards betterment.

And so, hope this helped and good luck!

♡ NIGHTMARE'S HELPDESK

[alchemistc]

fascination with your presentation | bucktommy 1/1

read on ao3

Tommy likes to touch things. It's just a random quirk of his that Eddie's noticed - a hand sliding along the back of the couch as he follows Eddie into the kitchen to grab a beer, fingers balancing along the table as he leans, elbow pressing into the frame of the doorway like he's gauging the space between walls.

He's tactile - a smack to the space between his shoulders, fist bumps and high fives and teasing hair ruffles when he's got Eddie pinned in the middle of a spar and they both know Eddie isn't getting out of it.

It's nice. There aren't a lot of men, especially with their background, in their line of work, who are remotely comfortable expressing affection like that.

He's a fan.

Christopher is less so, when Tommy lays a big hand to the crown of his head and goes for a noogie. He huffs, rolls his eyes, rolls his head forward and away from the touch, makes some noise about a call he's supposed to make later that night and how he doesn't want his hair messed up for it, and Tommy holds his hands up in apology, fighting a grin as Chris smooths his hair back down.

Eddie's used to it already, so it takes him a second to really notice Tommy rounding the edge of the table to flick through papers and pictures and receipts tacked to the fridge as he digs through one of his drawers in search of the bottle opener he knows he has stashed in here somewhere. Eddie's more of a twist cap beer guy, but Tommy's oddly flavored fancy bottles always need an opener.

"Here," Tommy says, and Eddie turns just in time to catch the keys Tommy slings at him.

"I don't like your truck that much," Eddie tells him, which is a lie.

Tommy tips his head forward to indicate the keys. "Bottle opener, Diaz."

Which makes sense. He should get one for himself, actually. It's a little shocking neither one of them carries a utility knife on them. The preparedness rules maybe didn't stick after discharge as well as they could have

Tommy's gaze drifts, and Eddie watches his head tilt, ring and middle finger reaching up to tap at one of the pictures on the fridge. Chris and Buck, a few years back, some trip to the museum during either Buck or Chris' dinosaur phase. Buck's holding a giant stuffed pteranodon ("Pterodactyls were smaller and had cone-shaped teeth and backward-projecting crests, actually, and this isn't technically the most accurate depiction anyway, it's generally accepted they probably had feathers, now." -- So, definitely Buck's phase, now that he's remembering.) and Chris has a specific brand of smile across his face that Eddie has quietly dubbed his Buck-smile. Something around the edges of his eyes that's always just a little brighter for Buck.

"Cute picture," Tommy says, and Chris's eyes draw to it as Tommy taps his knuckles once-twice to it before dropping his hand to his side.

It's not the first time someone in this circle of three has brought up Buck.

The first night Tommy'd been here, camped out on the couch watching a game, Chris had had a million questions, and Buck had come up pretty naturally over the course of them comparing disasters they'd been a part of, or worked.

Chris had brought up the tsunami, which had led to a back and forth where they discovered Tommy had likely flown right over them at least once during that disaster of a day, and then it had evolved into Chris memorializing all of Buck's greatest (most traumatizing) hits - pinned under a fire engine, climbing a crane tower in the middle of a county wide panic about a shooter targeting firefighters (he doesn't bring up Eddie being shot, which - maybe they should revisit that at some point, make sure Chris isn't burying that), Buck getting struck by lightning, Buck taking charge in the bridge collapse.

And obviously, if Chris was gonna debate Star Wars, he was gonna bring up Buck's involved opinions on Machete order and OG vs Prequels vs the Somehow Palpatine Returned era, and be delighted that Tommy's opinion differed from Buck's, because that made Chris the victor in that ongoing battle.

Buck is a big part of Chris and Eddie's lives, so he's gonna be dropped into conversation. Nothing strange about that.

Tommy always calls him Evan, which is a big old dose of whiplash every time, and he can't think why he does that, because despite Buck introducing himself (weirdly) as Buh-Evan Buckley, they've seen each other since, and no one else Tommy talks to calls him Evan, so he doesn't know why Buck hasn't corrected him.

Chris' mouth does something strange as Tommy keeps looking at the picture, his expression going a little curious in a way Eddie can't quite parse, and then he's grinning. There's no reason to be suspicious, except for the way he actually puts down his phone to engage with Tommy as Eddie passes a beer off.

"Yeah, Buck always takes me to exhibits every time there's a new one. He's cool like that."

Tommy hums around his first sip, expression placid, posture relaxed. "Maybe I could take you to the next one."

Christopher's eyes narrow.

Eddie's lost.

"Uh, not without Buck. Carla took me once without him and he pretended to be fine about it for weeks until I asked him to take me again. He was not happy we went without him. But you could come with us."

Tommy tap-tap-taps his finger against the rim of his bottle, unfazed by the slightly territorial way Chris had phrased it. Eddie's fazed. Eddie is not sure there's not a second layer to this conversation he's missing. "I'll look it up. Jot it down in my day book."

Christopher is too young to have a clue what that means, but he doesn't seem to be quite done with whatever the hell it is he's got going on right now. "Good," he says. "Buck's single right now, so he's got a lot of extra time for stuff."

Tommy's gaze flits to Christopher's, and Eddie doesn't have a fucking clue what's going on, but it's a weighted look for half a second before Chris' gaze turns back to his phone.

"You have his number, right? Maybe you should call him and figure out a day we can all go."

Something happens around the corners of Tommy's mouth that he hides by tipping the bottle mouth against his lips again. "Yeah. I've got his number."

For a second Eddie wonders why, before he remembers catching Buck down at Harbor before the fight. When had Buck gotten his number?

"Cool," says Chris, eyes already glued back to his phone. "We usually get lunch first. Buck really likes pizza."

"Everyone likes pizza," Tommy says, eyes glimmering with mirth that Eddie absolutely does not know the source of.

"Yeah, but Buck's picky about it. He says there's a perfect pizza to crust ratio that most places don't get right. Also he likes it when they have a stone oven, and the little pizza risers."

Tommy rolls his tongue over his teeth. And - why is Eddie watching this interaction so carefully? It's not like he's worried Tommy's gonna say something weird to his kid, even if his kid is being weird.

"I'm gonna go throw the game on. You hungry?"

Tommy's eyes shift to meet his, and Eddie feels that same frisson of excitement he gets sometimes when Buck is paying close attention to him. "I could eat. Not pizza though. There's nowhere around here with a good stone oven."

"Dad likes pineapple on his pizza, his pizza opinions suck."

Eddie tosses his hands up. This is an old argument, one created entirely by Buck because Chris hadn't minded a good Canadian pizza before Buck declared war on them. "Pizza's just pizza. I was thinking Chinese, anyway."

"Can we get those spring rolls Buck always gets?"

Tommy's gaze slips to the fridge one more time, eyes drifting across the picture he'd pointed out earlier, before he unclips the menu for the Chinese place down the street from its spot half-covering the calendar to hand it off to Eddie. He spots the circle around their plans for Thursday and reaches out to touch the date.

"You invite anyone else for Thursday?"

Eddie rolls his top lip over his bottom one. "Buck hates basketball, turns me down every time I ask. I might ask Chim, though, he and his brother always liked to play."

Literally nothing in Tommy's expression changes, but Eddie feels like he's reacting to something in that sentence anyway. He's trying to figure out how to cut the weird tension in the room when Christopher starts listing off his order, and he's so distracted by trying to get a list prepared to call that he misses two thirds of Chris and Tommy's continued conversation, which is somehow, for some reason, still about Buck. Geez, is Chris pissed that Eddie's got a new friend? He should invite Buck next time he makes plans to hang out at home with Tommy.

----

"It was a date," Buck tells him, a week and a half later, while Eddie's staring at his phone like looking hard enough might make it, and his relationship with Marisol, maybe disappear. Just for a little while, while he squares things up with God.

Eddie tosses his phone, turns to look at Buck in the second before it computes, manages to pull back just enough so that it's not a full, ridiculous double take.

"When you and Marisol ran into me and Tommy, we were on a date."

"Really?" Buck usually tells him the second he's interested in someone, because for some reason he thinks Eddie has any idea how to have a loving, lasting relationship, even though Eddie's been lobbing live grenades straight at love since he was fourteen. He hadn't said a word to Eddie about -

Well.

Well actually --

Well shit.

Oh, he's definitely giving Tommy and Christopher both shit about this later.

"Wait, Tommy's gay?"

A whole host of things are suddenly lining up -- Buck at Harbor the afternoon before the fight, and Buck asking half a million questions after the fight, and Buck and Tommy both picking at the thread of Christopher's praises for the other, and -- Buck had been jealous. Buck had been jealous of Eddie spending time with Tommy. Buck had shoulder checked him to the court and sprained his ankle because he liked the guy enough to lose his head about it.

Oh, he's gonna hold this over all of their heads for sure.

Which for the moment is apparently not that great an idea because Tommy'd pressed pause after one date, which is fast even for Buck. He tells him so.

"When we ran into you guys I kinda made an idiot of myself and he said he doesn't think I'm ready." Buck looks -- sad. Disappointed. Nervous, hands rubbing at his thighs like he's soothing himself. It's a fair point, on Tommy's part, even if he doesn't know all the details.

(Something about hot chicks pings in the back of his mind, but he shelves it for later.)

Buck's never really hinted at romantic inclinations in that direction, although some of his comments about good looking guys are making a little more sense, in retrospect.

"What do you think?" Eddie's pretty sure he knows the answer to this question, but he asks anyway, because Buck likes to work these things out. He likes to talk about them. Eddie imagines not being able to articulate exactly what he was feeling without wondering if his friends would think it was weird probably (definitely) contributed to his wildly dramatic behavior the last few weeks.

Geez, Tia Pepa would be eating this telenovela shit up.

"I kinda can't stop thinking about him," Buck tells him, and it's a voice Eddie's not entirely sure he's ever heard from Buck before -- at least when he's talking about someone he's into. Buck's always got a checklist and a trillion rationalizations. Now he just sounds... smitten.

And Tommy is too, Eddie thinks. He is absolutely gonna call him out for pumping his kid for information. Maybe accuse him of only befriending him to get to Buck -- see if he can make the unflappable Tommy Kinard flap, a little.

"You should call him," Eddie tells him, already imagining double dates with a partner of Buck's he doesn't hope will spontaneously combust in the middle of dinner. Maybe between Tommy, Chris and Eddie they can finally convince Buck to go to one of the car shows he's always rolling his eyes at. Maybe Tommy and his terribly hidden romantic side can actually match Buck's crazy.

Eddie hugs Buck on his way out the door and feels the tension drain from his shoulders.

Maybe touched starved Buck will get to enjoy that little tactile quirk of Tommy's, too.

[daretolovemyrambling]

ARCANE: unreliable narrators (Silco and Vander focused) PART 1

I haven't really been in this tag/fandom before the season 2 finale, but can we talk about how both Vander and Silco are unreliable narrators? Especially when it comes to their flashback scenes?

I don't get why i've seen so many take the flashbacks we got in the show at face value. The show makes clear time and time again that when we get a flashback from the point of view of a single character, they are an unreliable narrator.

some examples of other characters:

on the left: biased/not the reality (character's memory/pov) vs on the right: unbiased/reality (our, the viewers, pov)

I'm going to use video clips and transcripts of the memories because I can't just gif like 5 minutes of scenes. Since you can only have one video per post, I will have to post this in several parts.

Let's start with Warwick's memories from 2x5:

We see that the memory of Warwick in episode 2x5 is all over the place, memories from the past 15-20 years come flooding back in bits and pieces. 

In the first moment of this scene we see Warwick running through the mines, then we see Singed who has experimented on him, we see the Monkey Toy aggressively banging it's cymbals against each other, then we see a younger looking Silco about to swing something at an enforcer, for a split second the Monkey's face replaces Silco's, we see that it was a bottle bomb and set that enforcer on fire.

I think this represents Silco's almost obsessive nature when it came to their fight for Zaun's freedom, the Monkey overwhelms you with it's loud noise the same way Silco likely overwhelmed Vander with his ruthless actions.

the next scene, Silco looks horrified at Vander and we cut to Vander drowning Silco, then back to the moment Vander (and likely Silco) discover Felicia's lifeless body. 

We see a moment of Vander punching an enforcer with his gauntlets from 1x1, cut to the Monkey's face again, then we see Warwick's perspective of the prison fight with the enforcers in 2x4 (we see him choke one of them out with his claws) and slashing several more of them brutally.

Finally, we cut back to the mines were he hallucinates a toddler-aged Powder crying her little eyes out (it looks like something that actually happened. I think this might be a moment shortly after he takes in the girls. Powder looks like she just woke up from a nightmare, her body language is shy and scared). He softly wipes the tears away with his left hand (same hand he used to choke Silco and an enforcer just a few moments earlier) 

Powder's face turns into Jinx and then pre-teen Powder and we follow Powder's lifeless gaze to Felicia dancing at the Jukebox, before finally, Vander images a Silco shortly after the murder attempt, this Silco is still dripping wet from the lake (and he uses his signature glass) but smiles at Vander invitingly (likely a moment that actually happend but was warped by the many nightmares Vander likely had about what he did).

The idea that Silco escalated the Bridge Riot and thus caused the death of many Zaunites, including Felicia and Connol, is definitely supported by this short memory, but it's *not* the only way you can read the scene. Vander's memories are evidently completely scrambled, he is remembering the worst moments of his life all at once.

It's just as valid to say that Silco was not there during the Bridge Scene in season 1 episode 1 as to say that he was!

That is what makes unreliable narrators so interesting, we can make assumptions to what happend, but if we don't get an unbiased view at a scene, we don't know for sure if it happend the way the narrator imagined it.

Examples where we have unbiased flashbacks would be flashbacks like Mel's childhood in 1x8 and the Bar scene with Felicia in 2x5. In these scenes we don't follow the pov of one character, of course information is still omitted from us to an extend, but we can make our own assumption instead of seeing the biased/narrow pov of a single character.

[mochiotomedumplings]

some parallels & contrasts & links between sunday and aventurine:

- overcautious, uptight, likely trust issues & low self-opinion & insecure & self-destructive (derived or pointed out in quest)

- put on a facade while dealing with others, heavily performance-themed (sunday with his 3 act play and literally fighting on a stage, aven also boss fight on stage and quest had him reminiscing while running around a stage)

- more performance related (sunday’s choir theme, his trailer & liking for fine music, aven’s pov quest ending with him “going on stage” and putting on a show for his gamble)

- past, present and future (sunday’s history lesson, aven’s “other selves” after being harmony’d, penacony both being a turning point for them to sorta move on from the past)

- sister and family (both love their family more than themselves, both have lost part or all of it and had to cope without actual parental figures in unfriendly environment)

- more on family (both still keep memories/ traces of their lost family even now, aven with his father’s shirt and sunday’s still accompanied by the echoes of faded dreams - “echoes of the memories someone once held of their beloved family”)

- “blessed” in their own path (sunday being powerful enough in harmony to usurp dominicus and touch ena, aven “never loses”)

- religious theme (aven still practicing gaiathra’s rituals, sunday almost-god and biblical reference)

- tangent paths (sunday with his order and divine laws i.e. things must happen this way, aven with his luck and destiny i.e. this will happen)

- caged bird/ captive theme (sunday and his dove, aven and slave + prison theme, both seem as though they control their own fate but not really)

- 2 sides of the same coin (not risking anything and risking everything, control everything vs leaving the final hand in luck, knowing everything vs hiding everything, save everyone vs destroy the world)

- possibility (sunday used to not entertain such noises and risks as said by wonweek while aven is all about playing with bigger risks for bigger reward… no possibility of failure vs the smallest possibility of success)

- both yapper in a way (charmony dove sunday would probs talk at length about things he knows/ has mulled over, see how aven has much to share about things he knows in his voicelines)

- colors (playable: dark vs bright pants, blue+white coat vs green+black coats, gold theme everywhere; family head vs stoneheart: white suit dark inner shirt vs black suit white inner shirt; sunday’s gold eyes and aven’s blond, aven’s eyes kinda similar to ena’s eye with vibrant shades like sunday’s harmony thingy)

- more on appearance (hand behind back thing, left vs right; aven’s eyes of avgin & gaiathra vs eyes everywhere on sunday & ena; bird reference, peacock man vs chicken wing boy; both have a gold scarf and flowy coat tails; both avgins and halovians are known for their good looks)

- crazy (one’s a crazed gambler and the other’s been called a lunatic)

- lost (aven seemed lost on what to do before penacony, plus self-destructive methods, then he found resolution after the slash to live on; sunday had it all planned out before penacony, plus self-destructive methods, then he lost it all and now finding new ways to the future)

- their voiceline about the other is slightly off (sunday described aven’s plan as a grand performance - which he is known to like - then giggled before saying he wants to “clash on stage” again; aven is mostly confident/ chill talking about others & their affiliation but complains about sunday’s method - did not mention halovian or The Family - and then wants to observe sunday’s new plan/ game)

- unjust destiny (their past of suffering, but also their shared outlook on life being inherently unfair and assigning “value” to people)

- referencing the other (wonweek mentioned aven as an influence, aven’s past got explored as he got harmony’d by sunday, “inherently unjust destiny” featuring him being questioned by sunday into revealing his past and feelings, sunday’s voiceline to aven about keeping principles when “golden touch” started with “winning 200% but losing all principles”)

- perfume (both shown to like the Evernight Carnival perfume from Aventurine Timeline)

they have so much in common 💕