#writer's pov

[deunmiu-dessie]

(unedited)³ retired simon has nowhere to go, so you offer. { his pov } [ one, two, three]

she’s like a breath of fresh air. bright and cold. a gust so frigid that it sends goosebumps to shroud his skin. like the first fall of snow. was it december now? how long has it been since he’d left? how long has he wandered? adrift like a buoy at sea. but strangely stuck, straying in place. like some sort of ghost. trapped and terrified.

he thinks she’s naive. strange, even. like a child left outside without supervision. prone to being up to no good. she’s insistent in her little fiat car. her hands are covered in a pair of creme wool gloves. and when he looks close enough he notices that they’re fraying at the seam. worn. loved.

she says her name. it’s pretty, her name. it fits. she’s expectant, waiting for him to speak. give her something, anything he’s sure. she seems like a good girl. too good, too much for him, not enough for her. he hardly even knew her. but she wants to know you. she’s being nice. nothing more. simon. that’s what he tells her and it rolls off her tongue faultlessly. “well, we’re not strangers anymore, simon.” is what she says. he finds her amusing.

it’s her eyes. that’s what makes him slide into the passenger seat. they're wide. warm. nervous— despite her being the one to offer him a ride. it’s endearing, if not a bit entertaining. and the cold has already frozen his body. he can hardly feel his feet. but he deserves this. this life that he’s been subjected to.

she’s an anxious thing. her gloved hands drum lightly against the steering wheel. she’s shit at making small talk. and from the reflection of the car window, he can see the way she works her bottom lip into her mouth. he’s tempted to thumb it from within the wet heat. he doesn't.

“could be a killer.” she smiles. her eyes brighten. it’s small but he finds himself forgetting to breathe. in and out. in and out. she smells temptingly like honey and spices, all tangy and sweet. fuck. he holds his breath. “are you?” he doesn't respond. after all the killing. the blood that stains his hands. his skin. won't come off no matter how hard he scrubs. he’s a murderer. yes, i am. she’s too trusting. he wouldn't hurt her. never.

small. is how he would describe the apartment. small but homey. filled with greenery, color, and a tiny christmas tree. it’s tucked away. surrounded by lights at its base. it smells like chocolate, milk to be specific. but her as well. honeyed spices and dried fruits, tangy and sweet. the radio that he hears plays quietly. silent night in instrumental. his heart tightens in his chest.

he’s not sure how he ended up here. surrounded by her four walls. she suggests sweetly. eyes wide and sad at his destination. he declines. she isn't the type to take no for an answer. her brows are knitted. hands tightening. he’s enamored. he shouldn't stay. he should tuck and roll out the car while he has the chance. run. like he’s used to doing. too late the two pull in. she’s pleased with herself. he grins faintly beneath his mask. cute.

the couch is a bed. it pulls out into one anyway. she busies herself. shuffling to get sheets and a comforter. it’s a faded baby blue, printed with delicate flowers. and she looks proud. smiling at the cozy couch. her lips are coated in a sheen. from the lip balm she’d put on a second ago. and he adverts his eyes when she looks toward him. couldn't meet those wide eyes. sweet and nervous. he stares instead at the makeshift bed. she speaks. grins awkwardly.

“thank you.” he means it. it’s stiff. his voice hoarse from the cold but, he means it— no matter how gruff it comes out. her hands. no longer swathed by wool gloves, slide down denim-clad thighs. lips press. and her head nods. she says his name again, but scurries before he can reply, and maybe it’s for the best. he can barely speak.

click.

he shouldn't. but he finds himself amused. good girl. he was still a stranger after all. a strange man she has willingly invited into her home. he wondered briefly if she was right in the head. right to slow for him. to smile at him. she couldn't be. unsure. he can’t get comfortable. just lays there and listens to her faint voice. walls thin. voice muffled. but words clear. “die tonight.”— “…love you.” he ponders.

he doesn't remember a ring. friend? mom? boyfriend? his heart aches. he doesn't know her. he has no right to feel anything. she was nice, too good. he was the opposite, with nowhere to go. nothing to offer. why was he here? he should leave. but sleep weighs heavy on his eyes. bing crosby lulls him to sleep. he’d be gone before she woke.

i've always thought simon to have very choppy thoughts. and always being very in his head. very observant. so yeah. listened to christmas music making this! hehehe

[eddiestightywhities]

also on ao3 HERE

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“So, I overheard this guy in the line at the coffee shop this morning talking about name meanings—”

“Of course you did,” Eddie interjects, not unkindly.

Buck turned up with beers about a half hour ago, and has had his head in his phone for the last, what, twenty minutes? Something like that.

This is the first thing he's said since Eddie let him in and he sat his ass down on the couch in silence, looking like he needed Eddie to just allow him to.

Eddie did.

“—and I thought I'd look up ours.”

He's chewing on his bottom lip like it tastes good.

Eddie surprises himself by wondering if it does.

“I'm guessing you already know what Christopher means.”

Thinking back to when Shannon asked if he liked the name, Eddie smiles.

“Means 'Bearer of Christ', or something, right? We chose it because was Shannon's grandfather's name, though. He was Greek, and she adored him.”

Searching fingers instinctively find his pendant. It's positioned to the left, sitting right over his heart.

He misses his son like he'd miss a lung.

Buck looks up at him and smiles back, and Eddie feels glad the release he'd found dancing 'round his living room earlier isn't going to suddenly disappear down the bathroom sinkhole, along with his moustache.

“So, tell me, what does Edmundo mean, oh scholarly one?”

Buck's eyebrows try to meet his hairline.

“You don't know?”

Eddie tips his head back against the couch and scrunches his mouth up into nose.

“I have sisters, man, of course I know what it means. But that doesn't mean I don't want you to tell me.”

Buck seems somewhat happy with that.

“Well, it's a derivative of the Old English name Edmund, which is a combination of the words ēad and mund. The first part means prosperity, or riches, which is a bit of a bust, sorry man,” and he tries for a grin. It almost hits.

“But the the mund part means protector—which is pretty spot on, I reckon.”

Buck's eyelashes are kind of blonde, and kind of pretty. Eddie's thought it before, but there's just something about them in this light, in Eddie's house, on Eddie's couch.

“It's actually a real pretty name, Edmundo. Don't know if I've ever told you I think that.”

“Don't think I've ever told you your eyelashes are kind of pretty, so that makes us even, I guess.”

Eddie smiles at Buck, big and genuine, and somehow it's so easy.

Buck smiles back. Looks a little confused, or pleased, or both. Eddie's not sure, but either is okay with him.

“Um, thanks?”

Eddie bites his tongue between his teeth in a poor effort to stop his grin turning positively goofy.

Buck takes it for what it is, and bats his eyelashes at Eddie, silly, and laughs.

His whole demeanor then changes as he finally settles properly into the couch and gifts his lungs with what might be the first proper breath he's taken since he arrived.

“Anyway, Evan is the worst of the three. It means yew, like the tree? Which is—it symbolises, like, spirituality, and rebirth and shit like that. 'S not really, uh, me, you know?”

“You mean like Evan isn't really you?”

Buck bites at his red, red lip again.

Eddie decides it'd taste like cherry Chupa Chups.

“Yeah. But it's—my name.”

“Except it isn't though, it's it?” Eddie reminds him. “You're name is Buck, Buck. You decided that.”

“I don't know why he always insisted on calling me Evan. Or why I just—let him. It was kind of weird.”

Tommy.

"Called? Past tense?” Eddie flips his tongue in his mouth. Breathes a little more deliberately.

Buck looks at his phone again before he's slowly placing it down on the couch between them.

His fingers are touching the outside of Eddie's thigh, and Eddie's suddenly acutely aware that he still isn't wearing any pants.

Buck leaves his hand where it is.

“He, uh, he dumped me. Because I—”

Buck sucks in oxygen, a lot of it, and holds it in his lungs before puffing out his cheeks as he makes a show of blowing it back out again.

“I asked him to move in with me.”

Eddie was not expecting either of those statements.

"Ouch.”

Buck's fingers twitch against Eddie's skin, and Eddie feels it travel right down his leg and into his toes, which curl involuntarily into the carpet.

“You wanna talk about it?” he offers, kind of knowing Buck doesn't. He will when he's ready.

“Not really.”

Eddie licks at his lips. They taste like beer, and a little like confidence.

“How about Buck?”

Buck looks at him, perplexed.

Eddie's leg is starting to cramp a bit.

He doesn't move it.

“A Buck is another name for a stag, right?” he continues. “And the stag symbolises strength and purity—

“Don't forget fertility” Buck is looking at Eddie, and it feels like something.

Eddie snorts. “'Course, don't wanna forget fertility.”

Buck smiles the first proper Buck smile of the evening, and Eddie's feels it in his chest.

“Hey, hang on, how come you know so much about stags, Edmundo?”

“You did that project with Chris about the forest.”

Buck blinks at him.

“Dude that was, like, years ago. And, as you said, I was the one learning all about the woodland creatures and different types berries and toadstools, so how do you—”

“Because you told me,” Eddie shrugs a shoulder.

Buck blinks some more.

“And you—remembered that?” he asks.

In this moment, Eddie couldn't blink, nor look away from Buck, even if somebody were to pay him.

“I remember everything you tell me.”

It's weird but it's like the air itself is crackling as they sit here, just staring at each other.

They look at each other for what feels like a long time. Or maybe it's just a single heartbeat, Eddie can't really be sure.

He watches as Buck swallows, his Adam's apple a calling card.

Eddie isn't entirely sure of why he thinks of that.

Until he is.

When Buck moves his hand, it's to slide it fully onto Eddie's thigh to just sit there, right at home.

Eddie's suddenly blinking so much he's a little worried he might be stroking.

He doesn't mean to say, “Can you smell toast?” but finds himself saying it anyway.

Buck smile is both crooked and adorable.

“You worried you're having a stroke, old man?”

“We'd have been at the same school at the same time, Buck. I'm not that much older than you.”

“You are old and I am young and everyone and the universe knows this,” Buck claims, cocky and sure of himself once more.

Eddie licks at his lips again.

“I, uh, I think I finally believe you.”

Buck now mirrors him, licking his own lips.

Cherry Chupa Chups.

“You mean about the universe?” he's asking, like he doesn't almost always knew what Eddie means.

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes.

Buck waits.

Just as Eddie is thinking he really should go put some on some sweats or something, Buck must get impatient because he replies, “I think it always wanted you to believe.”

Eddie doesn't have a clue what time it is, or whether he had dinner or not, or how he got so damn lucky.

“I'm gonna choose to believe, because you believe—and I believe in you, Buck” he says, somehow both sure and unsure of absolutely everything that is to come.

At long last, he finds he is totally okay with that.

“Anyways, I can hear it now,” he tells Buck, “and I'm listening.”

.

unedited; pls be kind!

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edited version now found HERE on ao3 if you'd like to pop across and leave me a comment xp

[teencopandthesourwolf]

read on ao3 HERE

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He didn't mean to do it. He meant it, with every fucked-up fibre of his being he meant it, but he didn't mean to actually do it. 

Stiles had just—been so very fucking Stiles, in that stupid, irresponsible jump-head-first-into-the fray-on-everybody-else's-behalf kind of way that he has about him, and after the pack had neutralised the danger but everybody's veins still had more adrenaline than blood coursing though them, Derek felt—feels—so fucking livid, and so damn grateful, and so utterly, utterly muddled that he's grabbed Stiles by the shoulders and is pulling the kid's body into his own, hard, crashing their torsos together like a devastating highway collision, arms enveloping Stiles's shoulders as a crushed car bonnet wraps itself around a tree. 

Now—here, at a clearing in the trees on what has been Hale land for generations going back centuries, with Stiles in his space, and his nostrils, and in his fucking head—Derek is terrified. 

There's a fairly stilted, “Whoa, okay, alright, we're doing this, huh, big guy?” but then Stiles is relaxing into the hug. He sort of melts, actually, snaking long and wiry yet surprisingly strong arms around Derek's waist; so very warm, and alive, alive, alive.

“Stiles, you shouldn't have—why do you always have to—you could've fucking died!” he admonishes, although it doesn't come out half as harshly as he means and wants it to. 

Lost, Derek shoves his nose into Stiles's neck, and breathes.

Stiles lets him, because of course he does, cocking his head to the side to accommodate Derek's needs.

“Must be a day that ends in Y, huh, Der?” he answers, ever the class clown.

Derek quietly growls his annoyance and relief in equal measure, and even though he senses the rest of the pack has now gathered around them, and hating that he has an audience for this, he squeezes Stiles into him impossibly more.

Stiles wheezes comically, then jokes more, because humour is his default in any situation. “Why don't you ease up a bit there, buddy? Kinda need this work of art that I call a body in one piece if I'm ever gonna save your wolfy-ass again, oh alpha, my alpha.”

Derek shuts him up with a slick lick to the jugular. The kid shivers beautifully, but even Derek's tongue doesn't keep him quiet for long. Only Stiles Stilinski could ramble incessantly with a werewolf at his throat. 

“Okay, shit, that—ahhhhhhh, that tickles, Fido! Do I need to get the collar and chain on y—oh my fucking god!”

Derek clamps his jaws around the most exquisite throat he's ever seen, smelled, dreamed about, and growls out a warning sound that causes the betas to back off and Stiles to go weak at the knees.

Mine, he thinks loudly.

After a few moments of Derek gnawing on Stiles's throat, once they're alone in the preserve, other than the nocturnal animals and eery sound of the wind picking up from the west, Derek releases his jaws' hold on the sheriff's boy—the boy who runs with wolves; little red riding hoodie; the best human Derek's ever known—and soothes the purpling mark with a lingering press of his lips.

“Oh!” is amazingly all Stiles has got—although Derek can satisfyingly smell Stiles's arousal, his wolf now howling inside of him at the delicious scent.

“Yeah, oh,” he answers, after trying his level best to calm the feral instinct he has to pull them both down into the undergrowth and mate the boy.

He finally pulls away from Stiles, but doesn't release him from his grip entirely. Fire-red irises find big, brown doe eyes, and a smirk that Derek wants to lick right off Stiles's face and replace with a look of pure ecstasy.

“Stop doing stupid things,” he demands.

Begs. 

“Yeah, no, probably never gonna—oomph!” 

Derek kisses Stiles, kisses him like it's the end of the fucking world because he's realised that every time Stiles puts his own life in danger, it feels like it might be.

Stiles doesn't hesitate this time, though. He kisses Derek right back like he gets it.

Now found, Derek takes, and he takes, and he takes.

Stiles kisses like nobody else in existence, Derek is sure of it; he is earth and wind, fire and water.

Fucking elemental. 

When he presumably needs to breathe, Stiles tears his lips away from Derek's—swollen and blood-red—and Derek can't help the whine that escapes his. Their foreheads bump as they both pant, attempting to settle as they shake with post-fight waning nerves and a feverish desire.

Stiles says, “How ‘bout if you keep doing that, I'll get myself a bigger bat?”

Derek both hates and loves the smile that spreads across his face like a rash, entirely of its own volition. 

“How about next time, you just wait for me?” 

“Deal,” Stiles grins and kisses Derek again, and Derek hopes it's the kind of deal that's forever.

.

for @greyhavenisback—love yew, love <3 (unedited, soz!)

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now edited and on ao3 HERE

[byoldervine]

Different POVs In Writing

POV - Short for Point Of View, meaning that the audience is experiencing a story from the perspective of a specific person or outside entity; they are part of the story in one way or another

• 1st Person POV - Experiencing a story from the perspective of the main character. Pronouns will be I, me, my, mine, etc

• 2nd Person POV - Experiencing a story from your own perspective as if you were a character within the story. Pronouns will be you, your, yours, etc. Stories are rarely written from this perspective outside of Choose Your Own Adventure style stories

• 3rd Person POV - Experiencing a story from an outside perspective. No personal pronouns will be used for you, but other characters will be referred to as he, she, they, it, etc

• 4th Person POV - Experiencing a story through a collective perspective. Pronouns include we, us, someone, anyone, etc. I’ve never seen a story written from this perspective. Fourth person perspective is mostly used in livestreams, in which the chat forms a non-specific collective presence that are all addressed as one

[hislittleraincloud]

Sigh.

Marilyn Thornhill's plans started BEFORE Wednesday's physical appearance at Nevermore. Thornhill knew she was coming--Weems had to have told her to prepare for her arrival, since yanno...students don't just pop in out of the blue (even though the show's pace makes that illusion for viewers). They had to special order her a uniform. Her arrival at Nevermore had to have had a backdrop of at least two weeks before the show's intro scenes.

Thornhill, upon learning that Wednesday Addams was coming and going to be rooming with Enid once she arrived, then proceeded to unlock Tyler and had him kill those THREE hikers in the woods (the two that were killed a week prior, and then the dude who was shown in Episode 1). She told him of the plans to resurrect Crackstone using Wednesday Addams. If you do go back to watch their initial interaction, Tyler didn't seem surprised that her name was Wednesday.

Even his giving her her father's file was a means to manipulate her into staying. He sure as Hell wasn't going to actually drive his master's key to a train station to shuffle her off somewhere. It was all manipulation.

He needed to keep her at Nevermore and alive so that Thornhill could use her for the Crackstone resurrection.

The actual side story is Tyler's human feelings for her. It's yet another old trope, the "bully/killer/kidnapper/bad guy falls in love with his target". And in Episode 8, he made it clear what happened to him, and there was no indication that he was coming back from it, treating her like shit in the woods before he transformed and was about to gut her. Like Weems said, they're too violent and unpredictable. It is a good guess that in the beginning, Hydes are confused and terrorized by their actions until it starts to become pleasurable (like he described to Wednesday). There's a reason why Hydes were banned from Nevermore...if the outcasts can't even deal with them, then they are a creature that can't be tamed once they've begun killing at a regular rate. Hyde Psychopathy trumps human feelings (again, evidenced by how he treated her in the woods before Enid intervened).

If we are to give the storyline any integrity, this is how it's done. Otherwise Episode 8 (the whole dang storyline actually) would just end up being nonsensical garbage.

Tyler saved Wednesday for real?

okay so I'm going to try and explain this the best way I can. Okay so remember when wednesday went to save rowan only to find out he was after her and then he attacked her and tyler saved wednesday by k*lling rowan?

Okay now you know how a lot of people just assume the only reason he saved her was because she was the key and Marilyn needed her alive.

I'm gonna tell you right now why I don't think that's the case. For one if we just assume that the entirety of episode 1 tyler had no clue who wednesday was, which would explain why he'd even agree to help her leave town in the first place. Then there's no way he could've been under Thornhills orders then to save her.

Second the MAIN reason I don't think those was orders is because of what tyler said in like the next episode. Wednesday explains to tyler that the monster didn't attack her and Tyler genuinely seems amazed at that. It sounded like he was thinking, " Wow I wanted to save you but I didn't think I actually could." Kind of wording he used there.

People usually overlook that small line dismissing it as him acting, but if it's one thing that rings to be true for Tyler is it seems Tyler's real personality broke through on multiple occasions, and this to me was the very first clue. Besides the one when he literally tells wednesday he wished he could leave with her.

[high-quality-tiktoks]

This is exactly what it looks like🫠

[beepboopappreciation]

I always see people talk about how cool becoming a cyborg would be, replacing parts of our flesh with metal and pistons and cool gadgets.

Why don't we talk more about the horror that is the opposite of that?

A computer who grafts lab-grown skin in patches onto their own form to feel. To experience a gentle and cool breeze passing by, or the oppressive sweat-inducing heat that their systems produce.

A robot with an organic eye to help them see as their creators once did. Imperfect, sure. But it seems to have quite an uneasy effect on organics, and doesn't that make it more than worth it?

A machine with blood coursing through its systems, flowing through the central chambers, in and out of its beating heart. Perhaps if the heart holds up, it could add lungs to help circulation.

A being that resembles a man at a distance, but upon closer inspection it is clear that he is instead a cacophony of skin, mismatched body parts and features, with just a few robotic limbs and mechanical parts visible. It smiles at you, the wide grin revealing that none of its teeth match.

He lurches toward you, hair from at least three different scalps falling carefree in front of its shoulders. You take a step back.

Where is the line drawn between cyborg and robot with human parts? Do you know? Does it know? Does anyone know?

It gets closer. You continue to retreat. Your back brushes against a wall.

You don't know where that line is, you've decided, but you're positive this individual has crossed it.

Having cornered you, it reaches its mechanical hand out, fingernails grafted on the metal tips. You blink, locked completely still from fear for just a few moments. It angles his hand in invitation. He wants you to take it. You hesitantly accept.

Under the metal you can feel . . . something, flowing, pulsing just beneath the surface wanting to escape. It's warm.

"Wh.. what do you want?" You manage to sputter out.

The being shakes your hand, his smile returning. "A friend," it replies.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Point of View

Point of view (POV) - the position from which the events of a story are observed.

The author establishes point of view through the use of characters, dialogue, actions, setting, and events.

Authors rarely speak in their own voices. Instead, they assume a particular persona and adopt a "voice" that enables them to narrate their stories and novels. This voice is called point of view.

4 Common Points of View

1. Omniscient 2. Limited Omniscient:

Major character

Minor character

3. Objective 4. First Person:

Major character

Minor character

OMNISCIENT

The story is told in the third person ("he," "she," "it") by a narrator who knows everything about the characters, actions, and events.

The narrator is able to move in time and place, to shift from character to character, and to reveal or conceal as little or as much as he or she pleases.

This type of narrator is "all knowing."

Example from "Godfather Death:"

"He ought to have remembered his godfather's warning."

The narrator has unlimited knowledge, even knowing the mind of Death, and he comments on and evaluates the doctor as he is dying.

LIMITED OMNISCIENT

The story is also told in the third person, but only from the viewpoint of a single character, whether a major or minor one.

The author selects which character to see through, and the narrator is confined to knowing only the thoughts and actions of that character.

Such a character is the "lens" through which events pass in the story.

Example from Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary:

"Charles went upstairs to see the patient. He found him in bed, seating under blankets, his nightcap lying where he had flung it....The fracture was a simple one, without complications of any kind. Charles couldn't have wished for anything easier. Then he recalled his teachers' bedside manner in accident cases, and proceeded to cheer up his patient...."

It is only through Charlie's eyes that readers "see" and learn about the patient.

OBJECTIVE

The story is told in third person, but the narrator does not enter the mind of any character.

The narrator objectively describes events from the outside.

The reader is left to infer the character's inner thoughts and feelings.

The narrator knows which details to use to communicate deep meaning.

Example from Dashiell Hammett's the Maltese Falcon:

"Spade's thick fingers made a cigarette with deliberate care, sifting a measured quantity of tan flakes down into curved paper, spreading the flakes so that they lay equal at the ends with a slight depression in the middle...."

Readers must infer that Spade is deliberate, cool, efficient, and painstaking during a crisis; the author never uses those adjectives to describe Spade.

FIRST PERSON

The story is told in first person ("I"), through the thoughts and feelings of the narrator, not anyone else's.

What reaches the reader is subjective.

So, more important than whether the narrator is a major or minor character is the narrator's reliability.

An unreliable narrator can present a distorted picture of events; a reliable one can render events with accuracy.

Example from Aesop's Ant and the Grasshopper:

"Cold and hungry, I watched the ant tugging over the snow a piece of corn he had stored up last summer. My feelers twitched, and I was conscious of a tic in my left hind leg. Finally I could bear it no longer. 'Please, friend ant,' I asked, 'may I have a bit of your corn?"

Readers only know the thoughts and feelings of the grasshopper. They know nothing about what the ant thinks or how the ant feels.

Determining Point of View

The attitudes and opinions of a narrator aren't necessarily those of the author.

Don't confuse a character with the author.

To determine point of view, ask who the narrator is and what pronoun the author attaches to the narrator.

Also ask yourself what role, if any, the narrator plays.

By using a particular point of view, an author determines how much the narrator reveals about the characters.

If these writing notes help with your poem/story, do tag me. Or send me a link. I'd love to read them!

More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ POV

[gingerhastoomanyobsessions]

the lords in black are so interesting to me because. they’re so us. we’re watching the citizens of hatchetfield suffer for our own entertainment just as much as they are. we’re their accomplices in all of it

pokotho made hatchetfield into a musical because musicals are entertaining. and we ate that shit up! it’s soooo fun watching a little man scramble as the world around him bursts into song. the musical genre is satirized because pokey knows how the genre conventions work just as well as we do. we like watching musicals so much that black friday and npmd are musicals, too, even though they don’t revolve around pokotho’s plans as much as tgwdlm. we want them to sing. pokotho does too.

bliklotep is the audience and the audience is bliklotep. trail to oregon calls the audience “the watcher with one thousand eyes” and that’s not all, in watcher world blinky seems to be able to see through the eyes of anyone and everyone who loves spectacle. he wants to see the characters go through angst because WE love angst. it’s fun to watch alice and bill express their buried frustrations. blinky wants it to end in bloodshed because he loves tragedy, and let’s face it, so do we. it’s like that one post about how hamlet is aware of the audience and is angry that we don’t do anything to intervene because we want to see how it plays out. personally, I think blinky could have stopped the woodwards if he really wanted (he’s an elder god, after all) but alice shooting him shifted the narrative so that the emotional payoff would be more fulfilling if they escaped. and blinky loves a good story.

t’noy karaxis has blorbos. we joke about it, but that’s really what it is, isn’t it? he’s the fan who watches the movie again and again and again and again to see his favorite character’s dramatic death scene. he’s the guy who writes and reads angst fics by the hundreds because he likes to see his faves cry. he’s the hatchetfield enjoyer who’s on the edge of their seat waiting to see how ted kicks the bucket this time. the bastard’s box is pretty much just an ao3 account filled with whump and hurt no comfort. he’s sadistic AND he genuinely adores ted, because we fans are often cruelest to the characters we love the most. he puts ted through character growth— the realization that his life went the way it did because of his own mistakes, his inability to be vulnerable with jenny before it was too late— and he does that by writing a 56-chapter angst fic that’s still updating to this day

nibblenephim is the fan who voraciously devours every scrap of content that a creator produces and demands more, more, more. let’s face it, the fandom will never let starkid rest until we see this story through to its end. and then someone will demand a sequel series. nibbly is hungry because we will never stop yearning for more stories. he’s simple because that desire itself is simple— as humans, we need creativity like we need air to breathe. nibbly wants more because we want more. and we will never be satiated.

wiggog y’rath is the ruler and the king because he’s the self-inserting writer. I think jon matteson plays paul *and* wiggly for a reason— wiggly is the only lord in black to be played by the same actor in every single show, and that actor also plays the protagonist of tgwdlm. wiggly wants to be the protagonist. he tries to force himself into the human world of hatchetfield because he wants to participate, dammit! he wants to be the bestest ruler that the earth has ever seen! everyone has to love him because he’s going to be their bestest fwiend! when he appears in human form he’s gonna be the prom king! he’s the ebony dark’ness dementia raven way of the hatchetfield multiverse. he wants every human character to bend to his whims and to love him and to put him at the tippy-top of planet earth because he’s the writer and the writer’s main character, you fuckheads, and he can make whatever story he wants, whether the other characters like it or not! if you’ve ever written a self-insert story? congratulations! you’ve been wiggog y’rath.

and the funny thing? I don’t think the lords know that they, too, are as fictional as anyone else in hatchetfield. maybe blinky knows— he sees through the audience’s eyes, after all�� but I don’t think the others do. if they did, maybe they’d be a little less tyrannical. a little bit nicer.

but then the starkid writers wouldn’t have much of a story to tell, would they?

[caturnmoon]

My first ever Astrology Observation ✨

(so please be kind! 🫶🏼🧿)

🎟️ I realize it is now officially Leo season (happy birthday Leo babies!!🦁) and I’d like to point out that Leo risings (and moons to a lesser extent) tend to exude more of that regal energy more naturally than Leo suns honestly. Like their presences alone attract attention, and not the other way around.

🎟️ honorary mention for astrological positions that naturally attract attention and notoriety are heavy Capricorn placements. ♑️ Cap also rules the 10th house in zodiac which is literally the house of career, legacy and who we aim to become in the material world in this lifetime. So anyone with any of these placements in their chart are no stranger to attention…whether good or bad depends on other aspects in your chart. (I.e. Queen Elizabeth II)

🎟️Gemini energy at its absolute evolved is HIGHLY spiritual and cosmically connected! Look for Gemini degrees in your chart that can highlight this also! (example: my Scorpio sun is at the 15th degree and I’m a medium that can commune with spirits. Gemini rules communication thanks to Mercury!)

🎟️following on qualities celebrated by the sun, those with an Aries Sun are exalted by the sun as Aries thrives there. My little brother is an Aries Sun and was exalted as the favorite by my mother. Lololol they can naturally thrive in the spotlight and thus be accustomed to being the center of attention. Aries are the infants of the zodiac so they naturally require a lot of attention! Especially the Aries suns.

🎟️I know the 6th house highlights the work place and health/routines etc. but if positively aspected with planets like the sun and Jupiter can point to massive success and wealth.

🎟️multiple 4th house placements are also a low key fame indicator! And ancestral inheritance (spiritual or material).

🎟️a lot of royalty have heavy Scorpio influence in their chart or 12th house placements; I guess this points to them being “hidden” from the rest of the world and in their own world. Scorpio also represents power and concealed power at that.

🎟️in sidereal astrology folks with revati moons tend to have rocky childhoods but are DIVINELY guided and protected. This guidance only gets stronger with time and are known for their spiritual wealth and boon. Can also indicate massive wealth later in life. They’ll always be nourished by the universe. 💫

🎟️Gemini risings are literally the social butterflies of the zodiac and you can’t convince me otherwise. They literally have never meet a stranger and can navigate almost any social situation with ease!

🎟️I’ve noticed that both placidus AND whole sign systems are equally effective in chart analysis. Especially if you have placements on the cusp of another house! For example, I’m a 12th house stellium in placidus but a 1st house stellium in whole sign and I resonate with both! This is why it’s important to take both systems into consideration!

Until next time! 👽🖖🏼

[the-torchwood-magician]

"I'm sorry" (don't hurt me-)

"I'm sorry" (I love you -)

"I'm sorry" (don't leave me-)

"I'm sorry" (I'm scared-)

"I'm sorry" (I need you but I don't want to admit it-)

"I'm sorry" (please stay-)

"I'm sorry" (are you upset with me?)

"I'm sorry" (please hold me-)

"I'm sorry" (please don't yell-)

"I'm sorry" (I'm bothering you, I'll go-)

"I'm sorry" (you're not upset but you're quiet and I must have done something wrong-)

"I'm sorry" (I need help but I don't want to bother you-)

"I'm sorry" (I shouldn't have bothered you, but I need someone-)

(eta: why does this have 100+ notes WHO HURT YOU DO I NEED TO FIGHT THEM?)

[hyuckieblr]

DREAM HAUS Smoothie EP. 2 — Chenle

[eddiestightywhities]

Eddie stumbles from his tangled bedsheets to go take his nightly piss—alarm clock beaming its 4:03 AM display directly onto his sleep-wrecked retinas and etching it there for what will possibly be all of eternity—because being past the age of thirty is all fun and games. 

Bare feet padding quietly as an exhausted still half-asleep one hundred and seventy-five pounds not far off six-foot guy can manage, he's just about to pass the living room when he hears... something.  

He stops. Holds his breath. Listens. 

Buck is mumbling, talking in his sleep.

“And, man, I (something something) you. Because you always listen to me; never make me feel bad for (something something), always make me feel like I'm worth sticking around for, and I (something something) for that, Eddie.”

Buck is dreaming. Buck is dreaming about Eddie. Buck is dreaming about Eddie making Buck feel wanted. 

Eddie smiles—and before realising what he's doing he is in his living room, leaning over his couch, leaning over Buck, and pressing a soft kiss to Buck's birthmark as if he's done this a thousand times before. 

Buck wakes, blinks, smiles sleepily back at Eddie, cute as a bug, and is then craning his neck to peck his own soft kiss to the small mole underneath Eddie's left eye. 

With the speed of a gunshot or a lightning strike, Eddie suddenly doesn't know why the hell Buck is sleeping on his couch instead of in his bed, or why the hell he hasn't had the guts to tell Buck that he is so, so in love with him—especially after Buck split with Tommy a few weeks back and started testing the water with Eddie when Eddie grew a moustache and styled his hair a little differently and suggested they go to that gay club down on Burbank together to drink stupid amazing pink cocktails and dance the night away as if they didn't have a care in the world)—and then just as fast, he's thinking fuck it, and la vida es demasiado corta, deciding to remedy the latter (with the hope it might remedy the former) by saying, “It's ass o'clock in the morning, Buck, and I really fucking love you.” 

Eddie's best friend is at once wide a-fucking-wake, eyes the size of abuela’s best Talavera dinner plates, mouth doing a pretty great impression of a guppy as he gawps up at Eddie. 

There's a concerningly long moment of silence, before Buck says, “Oh.” 

Like a champ, Eddie chooses to ignore the way his heart plummets as it tries to relocate somewhere deep in his gut, because he's had to get pretty damn good at that, what with everything that has happened in his loco life. So he just smiles again, a little dimmer, a little more tight-lipped, while nodding his head and rolling his eyes in a yeah, silly ol’me, huh? sort of way, and is about to push himself upright with the hand gripping the top of the couch so that he can drag his sorry ass back to his bedroom and get a tension headache from not allowing himself to cry and getting zero sleep for what will probably be the rest his life and— 

That's when Buck reaches out, a big hand grabbing at Eddie's waist. 

Eddie's gaze tears itself away from those beautiful Talavera eyes that are shining brightly in the thick darkness of his sleeping house, settling where Buck's hand is holding him in place, where the contact blazes; not like fire but like the ever-burning candle flame that's lived behind Eddie's ribcage for the past seven or so years.

“Eds, I’m—I wasn't, like, awake enough to, uh, to, to, to process that? And the thing is—” 

“Hey, no, Buck, it's okay, you don't need to explain.” Eddie's heart is falling, falling, falling, right to the very soles of his feet. “I shouldn't have just blurted that out at you, without any preamble—

“Eddie.”

“—and I definitely shouldn't have bothered you while your were—”  

“Eddie." 

“—sleeping, I just—

“Eddie, will you shut up!”  

Eddie's teeth clack as he dutifully swallows the rest of his rambling. 

“Can you please just listen to me for a sec?” Buck pleads.  

“I—yeah, Buck, sure. I'm sorry, ‘course. Sorry.”

Buck takes a breath. “You don't gotta be sorry, Eds, I was just trying to say: The thing is, I have said a lot of dumb things in my life—like a lot—but me saying ‘oh’ to you telling me that you love me? Yeah, no, that has to top the bill. Dumbest fucking thing that's ever left these lips.” Eddie can't help it when his gaze flickers to the pretty culprits; it's an involuntary action by this point. “Because,” and Buck is now licking at them—tongue wet and lush against plush red—before he's honest to Dios batting those beautiful blonde eyelashes of his in Eddie's helpless direction, then breathing his next words right into Eddie's mouth as he leans up, pulling Eddie into him at the same time and fanning the flame in Eddie's chest by saying, “I really fucking love you too, Eds.”  

And then he's kissing Eddie again—only this time he's pressing his lips into Eddie's lips, and Eddie is right there with him, kissing Buck back as if they've done this a thousand times before. 

When Buck has to pull away, presumably to prevent a crick in his neck—Eddie cannot fathom even half of another good reason to stop—Eddie goes to follow him down, so eager after so long, wanting to cover the entirety of Buck's body with the entirety of his own. But Buck shakes his head and says says, “No, wait, Eddie.”  

Before Eddie's heart can start digging its way down through the carpet and floorboards and foundations and dirt to some place that resembles an old forgotten underground well, Buck is asking, “Can I come to bed with you?”  

Then Eddie gets whiplash from having to will his heart from beating right out of his chest with just how much happiness is bursting its way in there; with Buck bursting in with all of his love and sharing it with Eddie, just like everything else in their lives.  

Eddie feels his cheeks flush when he says, “That's, uh—honestly, Buck? You'd kinda be making my favourite recurring dream come true, if you did.”

“Well, you shot my recurring dream down in flames, Eds, by not listening to me for what must be the very first time in seven literal years and talking right over my heartfelt love confession—even if I did end up stealing your line,” Buck smiles. Then he frowns and tuts dramatically.“You're a monster, Eddie Diaz,” he adds, teasing.   

Eddie pays back Buck's grin with added interest, because it's as infectious and unstoppable as the common cold.

“Firstly, you had just answered 'oh' when I told you that I loved you, and secondly, does this monster not get a pass seeing as we just got off a clusterfuck of a twenty-four and it's ass o'clock in the morning and I'd assumed you were trying to let me down gently?” 

“Absolutely not, Firefighter Diaz. One should never assume when it comes to a Buckley.” He follows the statement with a pointed look. “But I might think about letting you make it up to me,” and he's now grinning again, and this time it's a sort of sheepish, hopeful thing, “if you agree to being the teaspoon to my tablespoon in your big, comfortable bed. What do you say?” He bats those blonde lashes again, as if Eddie would need convincing. 

“I say yes sir, Firefighter Buckley,” Eddie agrees instantly, obviously, bending down to scoop a surprised Buck up and over his shoulder and into a very appropriate Evacuation Lift, Buck kind of squealing hilariously when Eddie sets off for his bedroom at what is a pretty impressive pace, if you were to ask Eddie. 

And after they've sunk their bodies beneath the tangled bedsheets at ass o'clock in the morning (4.12 AM to be precise), and as Buck wraps the entirety of his long self around the entirety of Eddie, in Eddie's bed—their bed, now, Eddie's hoping—Eddie breathes in a full breath for the first time all summer, allowing himself to love and be loved.  

His next big breath is a couple of weeks later, when Christopher comes home and rolls his eyes at Eddie and Buck after they tell him they're together, merely giving them a slightly obnoxious finally! in that patented teenage tone before heading to his room to set up his gaming station and settle back in, like he'd never even been away.  

Oh, and in case anyone were to wonder, Eddie would have to admit that he really, really loves being the little spoon—almost as much as he and Buck love each other. 

.

on ao3 HERE if you'd like to leave me a comment!

[teencopandthesourwolf]

read on ao3 HERE

.

“I'm good, Stiles.”

Stiles thinks about the times when, all too often, he himself says I'm good in that particular way, and thinks about how it actually means everything in his life is currently lighting up like a dropped match landing in a trail of gasoline.

In the space of a single heartbeat, he knows he would somehow harness the contents of an entire fucking lake to dampen down that metaphorical trail for Derek, murdering the thought of that lost little boy playing Hide-Go-Seek in Derek's pale eyes.

Only he isn't about to start talking about things being on fire. Not to Derek, not ever.

Instead he says, “I always had this rule, you know, where I’d flat out ignore a problem and wait for it to—and I used to swear to myself that this would actually happen—” His lips drag themselves up one side of his face as he sweeps an arm dramatically through the drizzling rain and the pressing twilight. “—just go away.”

He then allows his arm to fall unceremoniously to his side, and the sound of hand slapping khakis rings out through the sparse and quiet branches of the preserve's stripped bare trees.

“Okay.” Derek says the word with an infinitesimal shake of his head, looking as if he wants Stiles to stop talking.

Thing is, if Derek wanted Stiles to stop talking he would say Stiles, stop talking.

So, Stiles troops on.

“And it kind of worked, a little bit. For a little while, at least. ” He takes a hit of chilly November air. Releases it slowly, enjoying the crazy plume of breath-smoke it creates. “Until I met you,” he shrugs.

Derek blinks and it's a betrayal, giving away his hard-won secrets.

Stiles briefly wonders who else—who left in the world—would know this about the werewolf standing opposite of him. Stiles doesn't need to be a ʼwolf to know this stuff, not when it comes to Derek Hale.

He tries not to look at Derek's lips when Derek licks them before asking, “What are you talking about, Stiles?”

“Magick,” he answers, his feelings and other things shifting underneath the layers of his skin, crackling away like a hundred tiny Roman Candles traversing his bloodstream and manifesting as gooseflesh.

Rolling his hoodie sleeve, he lifts a cold hand between the two of them and allows a miniscule fraction of whatever beats like a heart at the earth's core to flow up through the ground and into his feet and up his legs and down an arm, warm and thrilling, to then spring free out of his right palm.

A small sphere of pure light around the size of a tennis ball now glows about an inch above his hand, kind of like an oversized firefly—and just as alive.

“Cool as fuck, huh?” Stiles mutters, basking in its incandescence, super-proud of himself. Then he gets to his point. “Deaton showed me how to harness my spark, yeah? But I would never have found it in the first place, if you hadn't followed Scott and I into the woods that day.”

Derek blinks again. His jaw ticks like a clock.

“Stiles, that's a little like saying one, two miss a few, ninety-nine, a hundred,” he deadpans, and Stiles can't help but bark out a laugh.

Then he steels himself for one anticipatory moment before daring himself to take a step closer to Derek.

Derek stays put.

“Doesn't make it any less true,” Stiles shrugs.

Derek just stares at him for a moment, before peering down properly at Stiles's little orb, for the first time since Stiles summoned it.

“You've been practising,” he says simply, his eyebrows doing their thing.

He's now staring at Stiles's effort as if he wants to sink his fangs into it, like you would a quarter to test if it's real.

“Is it freaking you out?” Stiles asks.

“No,” he answers flatly. “I think it's cool as fuck,” and he looks up at Stiles like he might want to keep looking.

Stiles wants him to never stop.

“Then here, you can have it,” he says.

He takes another step closer to Derek.

They are toe to toe, now, and still Derek doesn't bolt, nor pounce, nor warn Stiles off.

So, Stiles—really slowly—reaches for Derek's hand.

Derek lets him.

Stiles then transfers the light to Derek's palm, cupping his hand around Derek's to ensure it keeps hovering there. He directs their hands to Derek's chest, stopping right over his heart and flattening them both there, he and Derek watching as Stiles's spark dissipates into Derek's body, leaving behind a few wispy tendrils of light that Stiles guides back into himself with a couple of waves of his free hand.

“Now, whenever you're good, I can be right there being good with you, even if I'm not around,” Stiles says, and then he hopes and hopes when he asks, “Is that okay?”

Derek smiles, and it's the first truly happy-looking smile that Stiles has been privileged enough to witness blooming on that beautiful, beautiful face of his.

“It's better than okay, Stiles,” he says. “It's magick.”

.

unedited, soz! this is for @dontcallpanic (pip knows why) <3

.

...edited version now found HERE on ao3 if you want to drop me a comment xp

[theotherwoman-emily]

🫀Smut Dialogue Prompts-Mens POV🫀

1. “You feel so good around my cock.”

2. “You’re so fucking wet.”

3. “So fucking tight.”

4. “So fucking perfect.”

5. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

5. “It feels so fucking good.”

6. “Let me cum.”

7. “Make me cum for you.”

8. “Please let me cum.”

9. “Fuck baby. I’m so close.”

10. “Please. Please.”

11. “Fuck. Fuck.”

12. “Just like that baby. Move. Just. like…”

13. “Please. Fuck. Yes. Make me cum. Make me cum deep inside you.”

14. “Your turn.”

15. “I want to make you cum baby.”

16. “Your cunt is such a perfect fit for my cock.”

17. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock.”

18. “I love it when you whimper my name.”

19. “Oh, you like that?”

20. “I love watching you take in every inch of my cock into that perfect body.”

21. “I love the sight of you on your knees for me.”

22. “That’s it baby, take my length all the down that deep throat.”

23. “Fuck. You’re unmanning me.”

24. “Fuck. Deeper baby.”

25. “Keep going baby. Cum all over me.”

26. “That’s it baby.”

27. “Use your voice.”

28. “Use your words.”

29. “Good girl.”

31. “You’re such a whore for me.”

32. “You’re soaked baby.”

33. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll always feel me inside you no matter where you go, or what you do, you’ll feel me.”

34. “I’ll fuck you anywhere, and everywhere. In front of anyone, and everyone.”

35. “Everyone will know who you belong to baby.”

36. “Get on your knees and beg for it baby.”

37. “Beg for me pretty baby.”

38. “Don’t tease me baby.”

39. “Don’t fucking stop.”

40. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

41. “Desperate little thing aren’t you baby?”

42. “How does that big cock make that tight pussy stretching those walls?”

43. “Take it baby.”

44. “I can feel you stretching to take my cock baby.”

45. “You take it so good baby.”

[heywriters]

Second Person Point Of View