Second Person Pov - Tumblr Posts

Poem: Pink Lemonade

You poured out your pink lemonade

and placed the glass inside the sink,

where the faucet rained down on it

and washed the memory away

of puckered lips and the sour kiss

between you and that cold bottle.

j.p

Poem: Pink Lemonade

You poured out your pink lemonade

and placed the glass inside the sink,

where the faucet rained down on it

and washed the memory away

of puckered lips and the sour kiss

between you and that cold bottle.

j.p

Poem: Pink Lemonade

You poured out your pink lemonade

and placed the glass inside the sink,

where the faucet rained down on it

and washed the memory away

of puckered lips and the sour kiss

between you and that cold bottle.

j.p

POV you and your friend get lost and so you ask your good friend Y/N to ask for directions, completely forgetting that Y/N is absolute crap at speaking to pretty women, so now you have to watch Y/N try and stutter their way through asking for directions

hello creator here this was made as a sorta joke lol. I just drew Mangle like that and then went ‘wait what if I added Y/N to this’ so I did

Ok so I saw how you said you wanted to write for narnia in your request guidelines so, imagine if you will:

Reader and Caspian with a sort of rivals to friends to lovers. Charting the transition from "My prince" (Sarcastic) to "My prince" (playfull, joking) to eventually "MY prince" (loving). Hope this makes sense, lots of love <3

when people check the request guidelines <333 also this request was so good that i had the people vote upon it. soldier reader for the win

masterlist

You’re not sure what makes you more angry, the fact that you broke your sword or that the prince was there to see it. If it were not enough of a ruination to your day to have your blade break in half like a child’s wooden toy, if it were not enough to have to retreat through the storms of other fights and clashing metal and skulk to the background to get another, you were witnessed by the one person you detest most of all.

You should not be hating Prince Caspian. He just makes it rather easy to do so. He is the physical embodiment of this world, the crown on high, the savior of your every waking hour, all because he happened to be born into the right family at the right time. It is not his fault that he is one of the most powerful men in all of Narnia, but it is not the result of his labor, either. He is simply the prince, and there is nothing more to say on the matter.

That is quite different from you, then. You had to claw your way up through the ranks, sacrificing skin and sweat so you could eke out a win time and time again. Your trials served you well, gilding your brow with the title of captain of the guard, but it wasn’t like anything was handed to you. No, not at all. Yet, by virtue of his predestined position, Caspian technically has control over every soldier in Narnia. He outranks all of your efforts by the crown put on his head when he was just an infant.

This is the way of the world, and the way that it has always been. It makes no sense for you to hate him so fervently over something he cannot control. Caspian is an easy scapegoat, though, a figurehead for you to heap your regrets upon like laurels. It is not his fault that he was made prince. It is not his fault that you despise him for being one.

You’ve had time to grow accustomed to your life of blood and sweat, however, and today should have been no different. This morning was an amalgamation of at least a dozen different mistakes, though, and that ruined your day before it hardly even started. You woke up a little too late, you snapped at your friends then regretted it half a second later, and now you’ve gone and broken your blade, too.

It wasn’t your best weapon, at least that counts for something. Your finest sword is your most prized possession, and lies in careful hiding back in your quarters. This was merely your practice weapon, one designed to be battered and beaten all in the means of furthering the skills of you and your men.

Still, it stings to see it lying on the dusty ground of the training yard, shiny metal fragments already beginning to cloud over with grime. You sigh, signaling to your partner that you’ll have to abandon the match for now, and carefully pick up the pieces. When you stand, cradling the shards of your sword like a child, you look up and see Caspian of all people staring at you from across the training yard. Evidently he’s arrived just to see your sword fail.

Wonderful timing as always from him. You have to marvel at how he does it. You half think Caspian carefully plans his excursions into the swordsman's arenas when he believes you to be least ready to see him. You meet his gaze for a moment longer, then turn, heading back towards the rows of equipment on the far side of the yard.

You murmur at least half a dozen curses as you go, running them over your tongue like a prayer. The broken pieces of your sword can be turned into the armorer in the hopes that something will become of them, but you highly doubt that. In the meantime, you’ll have to dig up the coin to buy yourself a new sword, and risk damaging your primary weapon in the meantime. How splendid.

A voice sounds from behind you, one that makes you grit your teeth despite the soothing intonations. “You know, if you’re stabbing our own men so hard your weapon shatters, I’m afraid to see what you’ll do to our enemies.”

You grimace to yourself, then turn around to face Caspian, expression resolute. “Fear not, my prince, your men will be spared from me today. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time to break swords when a battle arises.”

Caspian arches a brow, perhaps at the tone you direct towards his title. “If you speak with that much thrill over the thought of war, I’m beginning to fear that you may not be my best advisor regarding the maintenance of peace.” 

As if he’d ever listen to you long enough to consider you an advisor. The two of you snap at each other’s throats every time you get within shouting range. “Perhaps I just like a chance to fight.”

“I think I’ve noticed that,” Caspian murmurs, bemused.

It takes great strength to keep from glaring at him, strength that fails you by the second. “You’ll have to excuse me, I must go to the blacksmith for repairs.”

His face falls. “You won’t be continuing in the ring today? I had hoped to best you yet again.”

His lips quirk up as he says it, making the insult lose some of its barb, but it still makes your temper flare. “I’m afraid not. Blades are not as easily bought by soldiers as princes, I must see if I can salvage this one before going to the trouble of a purchase.”

Caspian seems half a second of self control from rolling his eyes. “There are more swords in the yard, L/N. Simply select another and we can go for a round or two.”

He gestures towards the training yard expectantly, and you feel the weight of your difference in stations come crashing down around you. Caspian will not stop asking until you fight him, that is his birthright. He does not know what it means to be disobeyed. And, as the captain of his guard, you cannot argue. This you know to be true, even if Caspian is unaware of just how he’s wielding his influence. There is nothing you can do to circumvent him.

You force your expression to go icily cold, devoid of any and all emotion. Even the anger, which was sparking through you so readily before, vanishes from your disposition. Caspian blinks in surprise at the sudden change, more so when you abruptly drop the pieces of your broken blade to the ground, where they send up a small storm of dust.

“Of course,” you say, even-syllabled, “how could I ever think to do anything else? Your word is my command, my prince.”

You pack as much loathing as possible into those syllables. Caspian flinches as if you’ve hit him, and then his confidence is gone, his eyes downcast. “If you don’t want to–” He begins in a whisper, but you’re already moving briskly towards the rows of extra blades.

“I most certainly want to,” you answer him, the borrowed blade seeming to cut into your hand despite the smooth leather grip, “you have asked, and that is all the motivation I should ever need.”

Caspian swallows hard, opens his mouth to say something, but you swing your blade at his head before he can manage it. This is utterly wrong behavior for a soldier towards a prince, but Caspian has never seemed to have a problem with your actions before, no matter how challenging. It’s as if both of your prides are so strong that they could overcome any class barrier set in your way.

Caspian barely parries your sword before it cuts into his head. Grunting with effort, he twists his weapon, forcing you to step back as he disengages, striking towards you in return. Seizing the opportunity, Caspian presses his advantage, taking a few quick steps and maneuvering the two of you further into the training yard and into the designated spaces for fighting.

Words are clearly still clinging to his tongue, begging to be spoken aloud, but this is no longer a place for conversation. It takes everything in you to counter his attacks, to spot when he’s off balance and lunge with piercing precision towards every gap in Caspian’s defense. You may hate the dark-haired prince with every fiber of your being, but you cannot deny that he is skilled. He might be the only one here capable of providing a challenge to you. You might hate him even more for that, or worse, not at all.

Caspian feints to his left, then his right. You ignore both distractions and plunge your weapon straight towards his heart. Expecting your belligerence in regards to his ploys, Caspian parries the strike and returns it with one of his own. You move to take a quick sidestep, but the ground is slick beneath your feet with mud from yesterday’s rain and you stumble. It’s the slightest of missteps, but for someone at Caspian’s level, it is enough.

He lunges forward, and you feel the shadow of the stone wall on your back before he pushes you into it. The rock is cold against your back, driving the air from your lungs. You try to force your way towards the center of the yard again, but Caspian has his sword at your throat, and any movement would lead to you cutting your own neck.

Unwilling to yield quite yet, you stay silent. You and Caspian breathe in and out, the deep gasps for air first discordant and then slowly, steadily, joining in a shared rhythm.

Caspian speaks first, you know he’s been waiting for it. “You hate me.”

You scoff. “You hate me. This is not an exclusive feeling.”

He exhales harshly, exasperated. “Stop deflecting everything onto me. We could have been friends.”

You laugh, tilting your head back to give him a better chance to slit your throat. “You are a prince. I would never have been anything but nothing to you.”

Caspian’s eyes widen. He moves away from you unsteadily, first closer than he’s ever been, then gone, halfway across the yard in what feels like just a second. You let your eyes shudder closed, exhausted from the intensity of the fight but perhaps something more as well. When you open your lids, he is gone. He had just arrived, but he is nowhere to be seen now. That could be no one’s fault but yours. He is not your friend. But. He could be so, so much more. 

Three days later, a gift arrives in your quarters. You unwrap the cloth bindings to reveal a sword nestled within the folds. You can tell at once that it has been perfectly selected for you– the heft is just right for your level of strength, the grip matches your hands exactly, and the edges are razor sharp, ideal for those slashes towards the forearms you’ve been so fond of as of late.

It comes swathed in a rich purple cloth, the sort of color you’ve only ever seen decorating Caspian’s frame as he walks with his troops or speaks to his nobles. An angrier, more bitter part of you wants to reject the gift entirely, to toss it from your room like refuse or return it back to him at once. Still, it is a fine blade, and you know that were you to just pick it up, it would feel exactly right, an extension of your arm into shining metal.

So, the sword joins the rest of your collections, and the purple linen ends up tucked away in your desk, carefully folded into a neat square of color and creases. You cannot explain why you do either, not even to yourself. 

The next time you’re called out with your regiment to guard the prince and some foreign powers on a diplomatic mission, the sword is on your belt, your hand resting on its hilt. Caspian sees and something changes in his expression; a deepening of a smile, a pleased spark in his eyes. For some reason, you cannot hate him for being proud. Not today.

He finds you later, once the crowds have dispersed and he doesn’t have to be a prince, just a man. “What a fine sword that is,” he remarks pleasantly.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t. Don’t even.”

Caspian spreads his hands, the picture of innocence. “I have no idea what you could possibly be talking about.”

“You had better not,” you grumble.

He nods solemnly. “Of course. Just a random thought, however, it really is a nice blade. It must have been picked out by an exceedingly good swordsman. Perhaps even the best in the castle.”

You should be irritated with him for being so bothersome again. Instead, you find yourself fighting a smile. “It’s a shame, then, that the only swordsman here worth his salt is me.”

Caspian’s mouth drops comically. “That cannot be true.”

“It is,” you reply as casually as you can, “I come to you with only the best information, my prince. Only the best.”

He starts to respond, but something stops him, something that makes him smile quietly. Your stomach flips with the unsettling feeling of having missed out on a joke, but for once, you don’t entirely mind it. Instead, the two of you walk all the way back to the castle, and only when the diplomats arrive again must you be parted. It is not the worst use of your time.

Caspian finds you again two nights later. You’re on a shift guarding a section of the castle walls, which gives you an excellent view of the foreign powers riding away into the darkness. They’ve been here for days now, testing Caspian’s patience like no one else, not even you.

He joins you soon enough, exhaustedly leaning his arms up against the stone battlements. “I think I hate politics,” he murmurs into the night air.

You chuckle, the quiet sound abnormally loud in the darkness. It should make you self conscious, and it does, but not as much as it would for anyone else. The hot prick of awareness in your stomach is both doubly strong and doubly weak because you are next to Caspian; why, you cannot explain, but it is true.

“You are a prince,” you point out, “politics was always something you would have to do.”

Caspian groans. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it. That’s why I always envied you, you know. You got to carry the banner and fight the battles without any political conniving.”

You stare at him in shock. “That cannot be true. No future king could ever want to be a mere soldier.”

He laughs derisively. “As if you’ve ever been a mere soldier. Not to me,” he adds on afterthought, and you’re not sure that it was even meant for your ears, “no, not to me.”

You shake your head slowly. “But I thought you hated me. All this time, you’ve merely wanted to join me in fighting without a care?”

Caspian’s brow furrows. “Hate you? No, no. I never hated you. I never could hate you.”

He straightens up, slowly walking over to you. There is no one else on the castle wall to see you, no one below. Even still, your eyes feel like more than enough of an audience to find some reason to stop this before the pounding in your heart blocks out your ability to breathe properly.

“My prince,” you say, a warning. It doesn’t make him flinch like it used to, a blow grown familiar, worn down to the weight of a feather instead of that of a blade.

Caspian sighs, the listless air leaving him and vanishing just as quickly on the wind. “Don’t tell me you haven’t wanted this. That you’ve never thought about it.”

“I couldn’t,” you whisper, and something in you cracks in half when his face falls, “but you could.”

Caspian’s eyes dart cautiously up to you again. “Are you sure?”

Neither of you have to specify what he means for you to know. “Yes,” you breathe.

You did not anticipate this night to end with you kissing the crown prince of Narnia. That being said, you would not want to have it any other way. There may be foreign dignitaries out there plotting the end of his reign, or political turmoils present to claim most of his time, but tonight, Caspian is yours and yours alone. It makes you smile into him. It makes everything that much better.

narnia tag list: empty for now!

I am having THOUGHTS ABOUT MANY THINGS!!!

-------------------------------------------

Imagine being bitten in a Zombie Apocalypse.

Imagine your body rotting, but your brain remains intact.

Imagine hoping that a Survivor will notice that you’re not like the mindless ones, but hoping they’ll kill you at the same time.

Imagine finding someone you knew before— a friend, a partner, a family member. Imagine them hesitating to kill you.

Imagine them noticing that you’re still there, in pain and in agony beneath your own rotting corpse— because the virus may have gotten your body and fried your instincts, but your mind and your memories are still there.

Imagine being unable to control yourself for *months*.

Imagine, through sheer determination, you bend the virus to your will so you don’t hurt the one you love.

You can’t control yourself around strangers, but you can do it for them.

Imagine forcing the virus to turn its hunger towards raw animal meat instead of humans. Imagine forcing it to crave the skin of the infected more than the flesh of the living.

Imagine injuries healing but healing so quickly that they usually heal wrong— broken knee? You limp forever now, it healed before they could reset it. Breaking it again to fix it would only make it worse.

Imagine not feeling any pain, very little temperature, and only certain amounts of pressure. Imagine trying to act like you’re in pain if you get an injury, but it’s been months since you’ve felt actual pain and you’re not sure if you’re convincing.

Imagine that other Zombies, who survive off base instincts going into overdrive with the Virus, having a predator-prey response towards you. Imagine them *knowing*, instinctively, that you’re different— that you’re *dangerous*.

Imagine being an Undead repellent without even knowing what you’re doing to scare them off— being the Unaware Apex Predator.

Imagine humans being just as afraid before they shrug it off.

Imagine the other Survivors declare you the Babysitter— since other Undead avoid you you’re the best person to keep the kids safe. Imagine a lot of the younger ones growing up never seeing a zombie (other than you— but they don’t know that) because the other Undead are afraid— the viruses controlling them are *afraid*.

Imagine not rotting as much as other Zombies. In the correct lighting and hiding injuries with strategic layers of clothes, you could pass as human (don’t look at the eyes and the way they’re foggy and the way they glow with the Undead ‘Life’)

Imagine relearning to speak, with fragmented, broken words. Your companion helps and encourages you, but you’ll always speak in slow, fractured sentences.

Imagine your partner/friend/family member dressing you in a way to hide your undead status, and sneaking you into their survivors camp. ‘Why can’t you speak right?’ They ask, ‘Severe Injury’ says your companion.

Imagine having the strength and speed and feral hatred of an Infected, with the calculated rage and cruelty of the Living.

Imagine relearning how to *live* in this new body that you try to hide.

Imagine being the last Undead, hiding in plain sight as Society rebuilds.

Maybe you start to live in a little house in the woods with your companion. Maybe a cure is found and you can finally reveal what you are, get help and relearn to live as a human being once more.

Or maybe you’re killed by another survivor in front of your companion. Forced to watch them try to save you, but you accepted your death when you were bitten— you’re past your due.

Maybe your companion is killed in front of you for bringing you into the camp, and the last dredges of your humanity— that you have fought so hard to hold onto— dies with them.

Maybe you’re captured, scientists and doctors ripping your body apart to find out what makes you *different*. You can’t feel pain, but you can feel it happening. ‘You’re undead’ they say, ‘You don’t need anesthesia.’

Or maybe…you’re worshipped. The Virus took everyone in its path— but you endured it. Your body rotted but your mind stayed clear. Surely you must be divine?

Or maybe you’re just cursed. Maybe you’re never found. Maybe your companion doesn’t hesitate long enough to see…and in the end, you end up just like all the other Infected— with a bullet in your head.

Sebastian Michaelis x Female!Maid!Reader: College

Summary: At least he can give you one hell of a goodbye before they leave.

Rating/Tags: M (overt sexual references; Phantomhive Manor; major time skip from canon; college-bound!Ciel; Ciel without quotation marks; Sebastian & Ciel; Sebastian & Ciel & Reader; historical inaccuracies; not canon compliant)

Challenge: “160 Collective Drabbles” challenge by BobaPop on Lunaescence Archives.

Notes: I haven’t read Black Butler since 2012, and I haven’t watched the anime, period. However, because I have a friend that keeps up with the series from time to time, I am aware of some plot insanity that makes this scenario completely impossible. C’est la vie. 

Tag List: @imaginesfire​

College

A hollow sort of hush lay over the enormous house and all its grounds that hot August afternoon. The sun beat down on vacant flowerbeds and through the window panes into empty rooms. If any of the home’s usually raucous staff was there to see, none of them moved, none of them spoke. Their tasks were done, and what else was left but to wait for the inevitable? Wait they must. Being shouted at over their apathy was not much different than being shouted at for their enthusiasm.

Keep reading

Excerpt from a horror short story/novella I keep toying with, called "The Mountain".

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When we measure all the things that went into making your being on this world, you can know very well that how you have been shaped and how you have been made to live is not your fault.

Yet, it is embarrassing.

And any assignation of fault, whether yours or others, never changes the effects of you on those around you.

You want to go. So badly. You just want to go.

Still, you know.

It is not your intention to die on the Mountain. You must reach that one particular spot.

…And you are hungry. Energy flagging, movements slowing, having run all day.

In your search for food, your sense of smell discovers even more hunger.

In a battered tent lit by a dim electric lantern, you find a dirty child: bruised, sleeping, and smelling of weakness.

Well...

Now, whatever you find, you will share.

You force as much quickness as you can from your limbs, looking for sustenance.

You try to at least seek it out where the faces will be fresh and full-fleshed: the insides of the houses decorated, comfortable, and quiet.

To take from those who can spare.

It isn’t too hard to find.

The proverbial pie on the window-sill stands literal: steaming in the cool night breeze; smelling profusely of nuts, berries, butter, spices, and honey.

You are nothing, and have nothing to offer, but you try anyway.

On the sill, you place a woven round of grass, feathers, and seed beads about the size of your palm, with a pretty seashell at center… handmade last Summer, which was the last time you saw The Sea.

You quietly chant at the corners and seams of the house: wishing it well and whole and loved – though, you are no witch, and understand that wishes do nothing, and that bothers you and makes you feel silly for even bothering....

…But you do not matter. The child, to which you return, does.

You put a nearby cloth over her mouth, and wake the child.

“Shhhhh.”, Your finger over your bizarre lips.

She is frightened, but nods.

You step back, and break the pie in half, pushing one half towards her.

“This was stolen.”, you tell her quietly. “After you eat it, you must leave. Or else they will think you did this.”

…She thinks you a fever dream.

But she eats with desperation as you quickly leave; and you know that, once she has gained strength from this food, lucidity will find her, and she will know you were real.

She will move onwards, for sure. To a new life, you hope. A safe one.

But you choose a path through the dark, and make messy tracks along it: heading well away from her, in the direction of nothing; hoping that it will help divert any searches away from her…

You push yourself until you find a deep little nook within the rocks where you can dine.

...The eating is sweet.

Still oven-warm, the golden-browned textures are flaky and crunchy and juicy and soft.

The ingredients so fresh that your senses taste the grains in the pie crust, the rain and the minerals of this mountain in the berries, the flowers of the mountain in the honey, the woody resin of the trees of this mountain in the nuts, the grass of the mountain in the milk in the butter….

The sweetness of the honey and raw sugars perfectly balanced by some subtle undercurrent of savory herb you never knew, and the acidity of lemon and citrus juices.

A king could not have demanded a better feast.

The hot meal awakens your thirst.

You remember the cream in the jug on the counter just beyond the sill, next to a cooled pitcher of fresh-brewed tea, but are embarrassed at the idea of going back to take from either without absolute necessity.

You instead follow your senses, and quench your thirst in a nearby fresh-water stream; stopping to watch it flow, and to clean your hands and nails, and to splash the clear mountain water over your face and neck…

Walking a little further, you find a little corner to rest in: a clearing, a ledge, on a level apart from and above the mountain pathways.

You sit, and lean your back against a large, aged walnut tree…

As you rest, you sing.

It isn't a lovely voice.

It's a lot like the places on the mountain where the humans do not go.

There is only the vaguest sense of time, though the rhythm is sure as it waxes and wanes; chaotic with shifting bright and shadow.

Vibrant where it is abundant. Hopeless where it droughts.

Something in it is keening: but because you are the one singing it -- you who are not human, and yet, who do not belong wholly to nature -- the keening is not wild nor freed enough to make it Live.

Your loneliness and frustration give it a sadness that nature does not know, and half-ruins the sounds…

It is a song not meant to be heard, so you don't care.

Pouring yourself heedlessly into it, knowing well that these are some of the last sounds you will make.

…Yet, ears find it.

The ears, set beneath smooth waves of curled dark-brown hair, belong to the full house to which they were walking home: carrying tired hands that smell of fire and coal and clay.

The sound of his approach makes you to stop immediately.

You get to your feet, and crane your neck to see, cautiously observing his search…comfortable that you are adequately hidden in the night….

But, in fact, you remain curious too long, forgetting both who you are and your aim and your need to stay unseen -- so, when he finds the vague pathway up towards the sounds he heard, you are taken completely aback, and panic.

The chipped off facing of stone from which this ledge split long ago is ten feet taller than the twenty that you can jump: too sheer and smooth to climb.

You try and force your way through brambles on the other side of the ledge, thinking to jump down…but further in, the tangles and the thorns make a wall far too dense to pass.

With a quiet curse, you scramble back out: your rough, sparsely-furred hide covered in welts, scratches, and cuts.

You could climb the huge nearby tree, but there are no leaves to conceal you: its branches gone early to Autumn's sleep.

…You can see him clearly now, but he has not yet rounded the turn past the boulders leading up, that he can see you.

"Hello? Anyone there?", he calls, searching the shadows in an already dark night.

"Hello!", you manage in your best phone voice, making one last attempt to avoid an encounter, "I am just here resting for a moment. I am fine, only a woman traveling. It's okay. I am leaving now, so you should go."

The click of his phone light is almost comical.

Like a spotlight turned on a housemate who has snuck downstairs for 4am ice cream…

He is utterly frozen.

…

You stand there awkwardly.

It occurs to you to try to assume a casual posture that you saw in a magazine once, but you're pretty sure you don't nail it.

Your large dark eyes might soothe, were one of them not ringed and threaded through by wires.

"What. The. Fuck!!"

"I mean no harm.", you raise your arms with huge open hands straight above you. You tilt your head – forgetting that it adds to your strangeness, rather than softens it, as it might in another human being.

“What the fuck are you!!!?”

…

The temper climbs in your throat.

You are so so tired of this reaction…but…with quick, cold calculation of who he is, who you are, what this world is, what he is used to…

Can you blame him?

You are not normal.

So, as usual, you carefully catch the tail of your temper, yanking it back like an aggressive pet dog in front of new neighbors: with a sheepish smile.

You blurt out something meant to be funny, attempting to allay his concerns; adding, “It would take a while to explain, but if you really want to know—”,

As usual, nothing you can say helps.

Stumbling backwards in fear, his feet tangling in the brush, he falls, head landing on stone.

…You kind of want to cry.

But, with sharp self-reminstration, you force yourself back to task.

You know, from experience, that no help comes, when you cry.

You must manage this yourself.

Blinking your eyes clear, with cold calculation, you take a deep breath and try to focus on the man's current status:

Alive? Or dead?

And to what degree?…

You carefully crouch over him, leaning slightly forward; watching carefully, sifting the air with your nostrils, ears twitching and listening closely.

He's breathing.

Unconscious; and, you note with relief, that the wound looks not too bad.

Thus reassured, your eyes cannot help but gaze: sliding along their freckled skin, as it clings comfortably and sure to their human hands, their human arms, their human neck.

Such luxury.

Just for a moment, you dream.

Your hand reaches out, towards theirs, so slowly.

Delicate and careful as you can.

Yet, the closer you get, the more heat pulses in your veins, your arteries, your capillaries, emitting that yellow-orange glow: beginning to smoke even before the touch.

You bite your lip, like a prayer. Desperate to ignore your realities.

But even passed out, their skin twitches, sensing the danger of fire.

A small, strangled sound escapes your throat: the horrific, intrusive thought of their hand blistering and burning beneath yours makes you STOP…

…You know better.

Yanking back your hand, you stretch smoothly from your crouch, standing straight, staring down, face a mask. A switch flipped.

…You can't even touch him to help him.

You settle for what you can do.

You pile leaves upon him, to insulate him from the gathering autumn mist and cold; and lope back to the house where the pie-maker's voice is raised, seeking.

You bang on the side of the house, rattle the nearby shed, and run before they can see -- but not quick enough that they can't glimpse the movement of branches in your wake, and note the direction in which you sprint -- towards the fallen one, with their fallen phone light still shining -- and so the woman grabs her garden rake and follows.

From a tree thick with stubborn red leaves, you watch the matron find and attend to their younger cousin.

…You watch knowing that they will be helped, and that that is good.

Watching, with a warm feeling, the tender care that the matron provides...

Understanding, also, that these humans will always help in ways that you cannot.

Because, to do that, you have to have hands that do not burn.

And you have to know how to help.

To know what it is to be human.

And you know that you don't know…

This is the third knowing that you won't need anymore; and the letting go of it lightens you so much, you suddenly feel you might float into the sky.

And you want to…

But this isn't the place to float away.

You don't intend to die on the Mountain.

You MUST reach the top.

run.exe

resenting your sibling

You care for your sibling, their health and happiness. But you also resent them for getting everything on silver platter without any effort. They just have to pass while even your more than 90% is not enough. You save and beg and plead for smallest of things, and they get luxuries handed to them. Why do you have to live with so many expectations and demands and still be not enough. While with them there is no expectation, requests not demands and still you are compared to them. They steal, they disrespect, they beat someone up- but all the parents say is this our child after all we can’t throw him aside. But you make slightest of mistake and suddenly you are the biggest criminal,  not mature enough, not good enough. 

So many times remembering this brings tears in your eyes, there is lump in your throat and your breath is hitched. But you have to keep going, keep smiling and keep compromising. 

I wonder if this is how Jiang Cheng felt, if this is how Alec Lightwood felt. If this is how Loki felt. 

sometimes  love wins, but other times resentment. The bitterness, jealousy and resentment coiling in your gut tainting the warmth left. You wish for the love to win, for forgiveness to heal, for acceptance to triumph. 

Here’s to another wish. Here’s to hope. 

i used to hate 2nd person pov fics but now that im writing my projection fic in this pov im falling in love w it

Writing Tips Pt. 11 - Points of View

So tense involves whether a story is narrated in the past, present, or future relative to events. But what about the POV, or point of view? I've seen a lot of confusion about this, especially among novice writers, so I'll try to clarify what they are.

Imagine you're standing in a crowded space, having a conversation with your reader. You're telling them a story, making you the narrator.

If you are the main character of the story, that is First Person POV. You will use "I/me" pronouns.

If your reader is the main character, that is Second Person POV. You will use "you" pronouns.

If one of the other people around you is the main character (not you and not your reader), that is Third Person POV. You will use "he/she/it/they" pronouns.

So the POV is relative to who the main character is.

Obviously, not every first person POV is going to be literally about you. But they will be told as if you, the narrator, are the one experiencing events. The main thing to remember with such stories is that your viewpoint character needs to be interesting or likeable enough to keep the reader's attention. No one is going to want to read an entire story with a flat, boring, or extremely unlikable viewpoint character. It's also easy to get enmired in the character's thoughts a little too much and forget to tell the story.

Of the three POVs, second person is probably the trickiest to write well, and is not normally encountered in fiction, but it isn't completely unheard of. Classic Choose Your Own Adventure books are written in second person to facilitate the conceit that the reader is the one experiencing the story, the main character. The Monster at the End of This Book, The Book With No Pictures, and other similar books for children that have interactive elements also work well, with the narrator or narrating character talking to the reader throughout the story. Self-help books and other articles will frequently use second person POV as well, as does fanfiction that puts the reader in the main character's shoes in order to ship them with a character.

Now, you may have heard of limited and omniscient POVs, specifically for third person. I've heard different ideas of what each of these mean, or how to use them, with a lot of misconceptions, so let's try to clear that up.

Third person limited POV is limited to one character's thoughts and feelings at a time. Think of it as riding in that person's head. You can hear their thoughts, know their feelings, but you don't know what's going on inside any other character's head. You learn what the main character learns, but if someone else is keeping secrets from them, you won't know those secrets. Limited POV is good for drama because it's easier to keep the reader from knowing things they shouldn't. This POV still allows you to use a character's "voice" in the narration, as with first person POV, just with third person pronouns.

Emily scrubbed the dishes with increasing vigor, glaring daggers at John over in the dining room the whole time. It's like he doesn't even care that I'm angry, she thought, dropping another handful of forks into the drain tray with a rattle. Staying out all night, not a word about where he's been or what he's been up to. And who needs that many shipping boxes anyway? Her thoughts spiraled away from her.

With this POV, you can stick with one viewpoint character for an entire work, or you can change as often as needed for the purposes of your story, but it's best to keep such changes at scene and chapter breaks to avoid confusing your readers.

Third person omniscient POV is aware of all characters' thoughts and feelings as needed. Omniscient means "all-knowing." The narrator of this story might tell us what a few characters are feeling, or inform us of a bit of backstory for a newly-introduced character without necessarily riding inside that character's head. Many older works of fiction were written in this style. This is arguably the simplest POV to write, and yet also the easiest to mismanage.

Many authors make the mistake of trying to write third person omniscient by constantly changing which character's head we're in. This is called head-hopping, and can cause literary whiplash for your readers as you keep bouncing around from one character to the next. One way to avoid this pitfall is to avoid getting so deeply into any character's head that you're writing out their actual thoughts. Create more distance between the narrator and the characters.

Emily scrubbed the dishes with increasing vigor, glaring daggers at John over in the dining room the whole time. Her thoughts jumbled about as she mused over where he might have been the night before, where he might have been every night for the past three weeks, and what all those shipping boxes that arrived every day might contain, unaware that John had been meticulously planning a surprise party for her—one that was about to go horribly awry, all thanks to assumptions and lack of communication.

In this example, you can see where I distanced myself from Emily's direct thoughts, so that it wouldn't be as jarring when I also shared John's side of things, along with a little narrative foreknowledge that neither of our characters could conceivably know at this point in time. I am by no means an expert in third person omniscient—I prefer limited for my writing—so I highly recommend checking out guides online for better examples on how to do it right.

One last thing: as with tense, it's important to be consistent, but that doesn't mean you absolutely must stick to one POV for your entire story. Perhaps you want to switch characters periodically, but you want one character's chapters to be in first person POV. Perhaps you want to include letters written between two characters as interlude chapters and thus need to switch to second person. Perhaps one person is literally a deity and thus has a more omniscient viewpoint in their scenes. This is fine, but be consistent within the guidelines you have set for your story. If Emily's scenes are written third person limited, don't switch to first person for one scene.

Interrupted (1415 words) by StitchingSorcerer Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Gale/Tav (Baldur's Gate), Gale (Baldur's Gate)/Reader Characters: Gale (Baldur's Gate), Tav (Baldur's Gate), Original Female Character(s) Additional Tags: POV Second Person, Free Use, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Cunnilingus, a bit of, Praise Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot Summary:

Gale interrupts you while you're reading your book

That's it! That's the fic! Just a short smutty little reader fic!