#how to write in third person limited pov

[3hks]

A Quick(ish) Comprehensive Guide to Writing in Third Person Limited

When we write, one of the very first aspects we consider is the perspective of the story. Is it in first person? Second person? Third person? Third person point-of-view is arguably the most flexible perspective, but that also makes it difficult to fully grasp and harness.

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INTRODUCTION

Let's begin with the fundamental questions: what is third person and why do people use it?

> What is Third Person POV?

Third person POV is simply a narrative style in which the narrator has a broader view of all the characters and their thoughts. Unlike first person, which is seen through the eyes of one person, calling for the use of pronouns such as I, me, or my, third person uses pronouns such as he, she, or they to refer to everyone, including themselves. As the reader, we aren't meshed into the main character and viewing the story that way. Instead, we're moreso hovering from above and observing collective events, actions, and even thoughts.

There are three MAIN types of this perspective: third person omniscient, third person objective and third person limited.

Omniscient is where the narrator knows everything about the characters, events, and emotions, revealing many, if not all, of these aspects of the readers.

Objective is when the narrator focuses solely on the actions and behaviors of the characters, without providing insight to thoughts or emotions. It's an objective narration style.

Limited is where the narrator focuses on one character (which would likely be the protagonist) and centers the story around that character.

> Why Use Third Person?

To put it simply, third person can allow you to write more. You have access to multiple POVs and there is often less bias. In first person, the narrator is the character, which can cause warped views influenced by their bias.

However, for third person, the narrator is an external voice (oftentimes you), so while there can be some bias depending on the character you're hovering, there is significantly less.

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THE BASICS

In this post, I won't be talking too much about third person omniscient because it's more uncommon in writing. Instead, I will be talking about a popular variant of third person limited in which we use the POVs of multiple characters one at a time.

> Using the Correct Pronouns

In first person, we use the pronouns "I, me, my, we, etc." to describe the narrator. In second person, we use the pronouns "you, your, etc." to describe the protagonist. In third person, we use the pronouns "she, he, they, etc." to describe the protagonist.

Avoid using first or second person pronouns unless you're writing thoughts or dialogue.

> Making the POV Clear

Since we're using the perspectives of different characters (at different times), it's imperative to clarify who the perspective belongs to. You can do this simply by listing the POV before writing the part or by starting a new paragraph, which begins with a sentence starting in active voice by the focused character.

EXAMPLES

Lexi's POV: She was astounded when she realized that... V.S. Lexi was astounded when she realized that...

Both examples are in third person and evidently centered around Lexi.

> Be Consistent

Be consistent with pronouns; unless you're writing thoughts and/or dialogue, make sure you're always using third person pronouns to address everything. It's easy to let it slip, but it's important not to.

Ex:

WRONG: She stares at the mirror. My hair is kind of messy, so I grab the brush. CORRECT: She stares at the mirror. Her hair is kind of messy, so she grabs the brush.

Another thing to consider is keeping the type of third person POV consistent. If you're writing in third person limited, don't suddenly switch to omniscient. Granted, many readers may not be able to identify this kind of mistake, but it's good to practice consistency!

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GENERAL TIPS

Now, let's discuss some general ideas to keep in mind when writing in third person limited.

> Use Names

You might be thinking what? No duh I have to use names, but I'm being dead serious. In third person, you might find yourself writing out names of characters more often than when you might be using first person. This is because pronouns get confusing. If there are two girls talking, then which one is 'she'? Remember that your protagonist is also an outside character.

Use names, use different ways to identify people (the taller student, the younger employee, etc.), because even if you know who is who, the readers might not.

> Objectiveness

One of the pros of using third person to storytell is the objectiveness that it grants. First person comes with many biases, which can warp how the reader views the characters, actions, and events of the story.

However, in third person, you want your narrator to be as unbiased as possible. Be objective. Describe things as they are. Sure, sometimes a character's opinion might influence the story, but it shouldn't be too excessive.

> Be Descriptive

I'm sure I've said this only about one million times now, but third person POV is broad. You can talk about anyone, anything, and you can even explain events unrelated and outside of your protagonist's bubble, which you normally can't do in first person.

So be descriptive. You don't have to worry about how a specific may view something because we're in third person. There's so much more for you to describe, you just have to take advantage of it.

You can describe your protagonist's enemy with both distaste and detached neutrality; you can describe minute details of a tree without making your main character seem overdramatic--you just have to do it.

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ADDITIONAL TIPS

> When to Change Perspectives

In third person limited POV, it's common and often necessary to change the character the narrator hovers around. This is because only following the protagonist is, well, quite limited. So, when do we change which character we follow?

Show Events Outside of the Protagonist: If you have part of the cast (such as the antagonist) that's taking action outside of what the MC is aware of, and you want to show what's happening, this is a good time to switch perspectives! ----

Show Different Reactions to the Same Event: Let's say an intense incident just occurred that affected multiple people. Switching perspectives here can be quite useful because it allows you to show how different characters handle and view the same situation. This also helpful because it gives the reader deeper insight to the characters!

> Incorporating Character

I talked about this alone in a separate post, but I'll reiterate it again. Many people believe that third person POV is less interesting because there's "less personality" in its writing compared to first person.

This is mainly due to the standard objectivity that comes with third person, but it doesn't mean you can't include hints of character within your writing outside of dialogue and thoughts.

At the end of the day, it all comes down to word choice and a bit of sentence structure. Different words and phrases have different connotations, and though it seems like a very subtle detail to focus on, it does impact your writing.

Try to use vocabulary that fits the character you're hovering. Vocabulary that they might use.

If you're writing from the perspective of an angrier character, maybe you'll use cruder language during their section. If it's a more dramatic character, perhaps you'll use more theatrical language and flowy sentence structures mixed with choppy ones.

EX:

1. He felt stupidly annoyed at the man's assumptions. 2. He felt irritated at the man's assumptions. 3. He felt fed up with the man's assumptions.

Those three examples all have similar meanings and identical sentence structures. However, you'll notice that there are slightly different connotations per each sentence.

For number one, it sounds like the character is upset that he's so annoyed. This offers the idea that the character feels he shouldn't be as annoyed as he is, quietly hinting that he isn't the type to get ruffled easily or at least, not towards such assumptions.

For number two, the statement is very direct. The character is irritated. He might not be as displeased as number one or three, but he is still annoyed. However, the forwardness of the statement might suggest that he's a pretty straightforward guy who's expresses his emotions frankly.

Lastly, for number three, the character sounds more tired and possibly angry. He's done with the assumptions. It can be assumed that he's the type who's more likely to take action than the other two.

Now, these are really simple examples, but you can see that the word changes do slightly alter the meaning of the sentence and evoke separate emotions based on the character of the perspective's owner.

If the character uses the word "excessively" instead of "very," we might think that the character is more eloquent.

Yes, all of these descriptions technically belong to the narrator, but there's no linear way to write the narrator. In this case, they act like a mirror, reflecting the voice of the character.

CONCLUSION

We're at the end! This was a MUCH larger post than I expected to write, so kudos to anyone who's read more than 50% of this LOL.

All in all, third person POV isn't actually terribly difficult to get the hang of. You'll need some practice, as with anything, but you'll understand it better the more you work on it--with or without my help!

The biggest point is to make sure your pronouns are in check. Don't use "I, me, my or you, yours, you're" unless you're writing dialogue or thoughts!

Hope this has been helpful! Reach out to me for any questions; I'd love to answer them!

Happy writing~

3hks <3

[physalian]

How to make your writing sound less stiff

Just a few suggestions. You shouldn’t have to compromise your writing style and voice with any of these, and some situations and scenes might demand some stiff or jerky writing to better convey emotion and immersion. I am not the first to come up with these, just circulating them again.

1. Vary sentence structure.

This is an example paragraph. You might see this generated from AI. I can’t help but read this in a robotic voice. It’s very flat and undynamic. No matter what the words are, it will be boring. It’s boring because you don’t think in stiff sentences. Comedians don’t tell jokes in stiff sentences. We don’t tell campfire stories in stiff sentences. These often lack flow between points, too.

So funnily enough, I had to sit through 87k words of a “romance” written just like this. It was stiff, janky, and very unpoetic. Which is fine, the author didn’t tell me it was erotica. It just felt like an old lady narrator, like Old Rose from Titanic telling the audience decades after the fact instead of living it right in the moment. It was in first person pov, too, which just made it worse. To be able to write something so explicit and yet so un-titillating was a talent. Like, beginner fanfic smut writers at least do it with enthusiasm.

2. Vary dialogue tag placement

You got three options, pre-, mid-, and post-tags.

Leader said, “this is a pre-dialogue tag.”

“This,” Lancer said, “is a mid-dialogue tag.”

“This is a post-dialogue tag,” Heart said.

Pre and Post have about the same effect but mid-tags do a lot of heavy lifting.

They help break up long paragraphs of dialogue that are jank to look at

They give you pauses for ~dramatic effect~

They prompt you to provide some other action, introspection, or scene descriptor with the tag. *don't forget that if you're continuing the sentence as if the tag wasn't there, not to capitalize the first word after the tag. Capitalize if the tag breaks up two complete sentences, not if it interrupts a single sentence.

It also looks better along the lefthand margin when you don’t start every paragraph with either the same character name, the same pronouns, or the same “ as it reads more natural and organic.

3. When the scene demands, get dynamic

General rule of thumb is that action scenes demand quick exchanges, short paragraphs, and very lean descriptors. Action scenes are where you put your juicy verbs to use and cut as many adverbs as you can. But regardless of if you’re in first person, second person, or third person limited, you can let the mood of the narrator bleed out into their narration.

Like, in horror, you can use a lot of onomatopoeia.

Drip Drip Drip

Or let the narration become jerky and unfocused and less strict in punctuation and maybe even a couple run-on sentences as your character struggles to think or catch their breath and is getting very overwhelmed.

You can toss out some grammar rules, too and get more poetic.

Warm breath tickles the back of her neck. It rattles, a quiet, soggy, rasp. She shivers. If she doesn’t look, it’s not there. If she doesn’t look, it’s not there. Sweat beads at her temple. Her heart thunders in her chest. Ba-bump-ba-bump-ba-bump-ba- It moves on, leaving a void of cold behind. She uncurls her fists, fingers achy and palms stinging from her nails. It’s gone.

4. Remember to balance dialogue, monologue, introspection, action, and descriptors.

The amount of times I have been faced with giant blocks of dialogue with zero tags, zero emotions, just speech on a page like they’re notecards to be read on a stage is higher than I expected. Don’t forget that though you may know exactly how your dialogue sounds in your head, your readers don’t. They need dialogue tags to pick up on things like tone, specifically for sarcasm and sincerity, whether a character is joking or hurt or happy.

If you’ve written a block of text (usually exposition or backstory stuff) that’s longer than 50 words, figure out a way to trim it. No matter what, break it up into multiple sections and fill in those breaks with important narrative that reflects the narrator’s feelings on what they’re saying and whoever they’re speaking to’s reaction to the words being said. Otherwise it’s meaningless.

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Hope this helps anyone struggling! Now get writing.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Descriptive Sentences

Description - what an author uses to depict a character, setting, or scene in a way that creates an image in the reader’s mind.

It’s the way that authors bring characters to life and create imaginative settings.

Well-crafted descriptive writing draws readers into the story and provides essential details to propel the action forward.

Tips for Writing Descriptive Sentences

Cut out obvious descriptions. One of the most common traps that new writers fall into is using predictable words to describe something—for instance, writing a sentence like, “The blue sky was dotted with white, fluffy clouds.” For the most part, when someone hears the word “sky,” they’ll picture it blue, and when they picture clouds, they’ll picture them “white” and “fluffy.” Adjectives like these are unnecessary and can bog down your writing. Simply cut those descriptive words out of the sentence. “The sky was dotted with clouds” conjures the exact same image and is shorter and more focused.

Use surprising words. Once your sentences are free of any obvious descriptive details, you have the space to pepper in some more interesting words. Pushing your descriptions in new and surprising directions will help your sentences be memorable for readers. For instance, if you want to describe a rainy day, the easy way to describe it would be to mention “the stormy sky”—but something a little more unique could be “the angry sky” or “the boiling sky.” Brainstorm common adjectives and other describing words and use them in unique ways to keep your writing fresh and interesting.

Remember sensory details. A common adage for good descriptive writing is “show, don’t tell”—and sensory information is a great way to make that happen. Sprinkling in specific details that appeal to readers’ five senses (sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell) will bring your scenes to life and make them feel richer and more interesting.

Make use of figurative language. One of the most powerful literary devices that writers have is figurative language, which goes beyond literal definitions in order to describe things in a more interesting way. Comparisons like similes (using “like” or “as”) or metaphors (saying one thing is something else) can help paint instant pictures of your characters or settings; for instance, “His nose was a gnarled root growing out of his face” can pack a lot more punch than saying “His nose was twisted and misshapen.” Other types of figurative language include onomatopoeia, which uses words that sound like what they mean (e.g., “the pitter-patter of raindrops”), and hyperbole, which is a form of exaggeration (e.g., “he rang the doorbell a million times”).

Think about who is doing the describing. In most points of view, you’ll be writing from a character’s perspective—either using “I” and “me” in first-person or “they” and “them” in third-person. It may not seem obvious at first, but point of view is a descriptive element that can help you build a believable world for your story. To use POV properly, make sure that you’re thinking about your character’s perspective as you describe so that the description feels true to the way they would speak.

Be wary of over-description. To create effective descriptive writing, less is more. Try to limit yourself to one or two interesting details the first time you introduce a character or setting, and readers will fill in the rest. For instance, if you say “The cabin room was sparse except for the looming stuffed grizzly in the corner,” readers can fill in the details for themselves without you needing to describe the floorboards, the windows, the bedsheets, and what your character had for dinner last week. This will help readers remember each character or setting better than if you had an entire descriptive paragraph for each.

Read good examples of descriptive writing. If you start to feel stuck when trying to write vivid description, look up a few of your favorite books or short stories and see how other writers do it. Pay attention to what they do that you like—whether it’s only writing their description in simple sentence structure or making sure that the following sentences include strong action to counteract the description. Then, sit down and try to replicate their tactics in a simple writing activity to see where it takes you.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[theliteraryarchitect]

5 Reasons NOT to Use Multiple Point of View (and What to Do Instead)

I've been meaning to make this post for a long time. As a developmental editor, I see a LOT of manuscripts that use multiple point of view (where each scene or chapter is from the perspective of a different character), when they really should be using a classic single character POV. Over the years, I've come to the conclusion that writers see multiple POV as a solution to problems that really shouldn't be solved that way. Basically, they're using it for the wrong reasons. And when that happens, instead of making the story more awesome, multiple POV can actually weaken it.

Here are five of the most common reasons writers choose multiple POV (and why those reasons might be a problem). Don’t worry—I’ll also share what to do instead.

1. You Don’t Know What Your Story Is About

Sometimes, when writers aren’t 100% clear on their story’s main conflict, theme, or plot, they reach for multiple POV. It feels like a fix—after all, why focus on one perspective when you can try out a little of this and a little of that?

Here’s the thing: multiple POV actually requires you to be more clear about your story, not less. Readers will naturally look for a thread that ties all the perspectives together, and if that thread isn’t there, the story will feel scattered or aimless.

What to Do Instead: Take a step back. If you’re feeling unsure about what your story is really about, try some journaling or outlining. Ask yourself:

What’s the main conflict?

Who’s the central character?

Why am I telling this story?

Often, writers discover they actually have one protagonist, and a limited third or first-person perspective would work better. If you still feel like multiple POV is the right call, go for it! Just be sure to periodically revisit your outline to make sure the story hasn’t “gotten away” from you. (Multiple POV has a sneaky way of doing that.)

2. You Haven’t Developed Your Characters

Multiple POV doesn’t work unless each character is fully developed. Every POV character needs their own voice, journey, and reason for being in the story. If they can’t stand on their own, readers will notice.

What to Do Instead: Before assigning a POV, ask yourself:

Is this character compelling enough to hold the reader’s attention?

Do they add something essential to the story that no one else can?

If the answer is no, it might be better to stick with a single POV. Sometimes less is more.

3. You Can’t Decide on a POV Character

This one is common, especially in early drafts. You’re still figuring out your story, and it’s hard to choose whose perspective should take center stage.

What to Do Instead: Experiment! Write key scenes from different characters’ perspectives. Often, the strongest voice will make itself known as you go. And remember: just because you write a draft with multiple POV doesn’t mean you can’t narrow it down later.

4. You Need to Share Information Your POV Character Doesn’t Have

Ah, the classic "But how do I show this thing the protagonist doesn’t know?" dilemma. This is probably the most common reason I see writers reach for multiple POV. It’s tempting to throw in a chapter or two from another character’s perspective just to share that extra bit of information.

The problem? Those chapters often feel disconnected from the rest of the story. Every POV character needs to carry their weight, and dropping in a random narrator just for convenience can leave readers feeling unsatisfied.

What to Do Instead: There are other ways to get information across. Here are a few ideas:

Educated Guesses: Let your main character speculate. (“Iris kept tapping her pencil on the desk. Was she nervous about the meeting earlier?”)

Show, Don’t Tell: Use actions, dialogue, or other clues to reveal what another character might be thinking.

Bring in a New Element: Introduce a third character, a conflict, or even an object that reveals something important.

Overhearing or Spying: Yes, it’s a little cliché, but when used sparingly, it can work in a pinch.

5. You’re Looking for an Easy Way Out

Let’s be honest: multiple POV can feel like a catch-all solution to tough storytelling problems. Need to fix pacing? Add another POV! Can’t figure out how to make the ending work? Add another POV!

But here’s the truth: multiple POV is actually harder than other POVs. You’re not just developing one character—you’re developing several, and you have to tie all their perspectives into a cohesive whole.

What to Do Instead: Focus on nailing the story with a single POV first. Once you’re confident the core of the story is solid, you can decide if adding other perspectives will truly enhance it.

In Summary

Multiple POV is a powerful tool, but it’s not a shortcut. It requires careful planning and strong execution. If you’re considering it, ask yourself:

Does every POV character bring something unique to the story?

Am I clear on the main conflict and theme?

Could this story be told just as well (or better) with a single POV?

Sometimes, the simplest route is the best one.

Hope this helps!

/ / / / / / / / / / /

@theliteraryarchitect is a writing advice blog run by me, Bucket Siler, a writer and developmental editor. For more writing help, download my Free Resource Library for Fiction Writers, join my email list, or check out my book The Complete Guide to Self-Editing for Fiction Writers.

[supersoakerfullofblood]

Point of View: the Biggest Thing You're Missing!

Point of view is one of the most important elements of narrative fiction, especially in our modern writing climate, but you rarely hear it seriously discussed unless you go to school for writing; rarely do help blogs or channels hit on it, and when they do, it's never as in-depth as it should be. This is my intro to POV: what you're probably missing out on right now and why it matters. There are three essential parts of POV that we'll discuss.

Person: This is the easiest part to understand and the part you probably know already. You can write in first person (I/me), second (You), and third person (He/she/they). You might hear people talk about how first person brings the reader closer to the central character, and third person keeps them further away, but this isn't true (and will be talked about in the third part of this post!) You can keep the reader at an intimate or alien distance to a character regardless of which person you write in. The only difference--and this is arguable--is that first person necessitates this intimacy where third person doesn't, but you still can create this intimacy in third person just as easily. In general, third person was the dominant (and really the only) tense until the late 19th century, and first person grew in popularity with the advent of modernism, and nowadays, many children's/YA/NA books are written in first person (though this of course doesn't mean you can't or shouldn't write those genres in the third person). Second person is the bastard child. Don't touch it, even if you think you're clever, for anything the length of a novel. Shorter experimental pieces can use it well, but for anything long, its sounds more like a gimmick than a genuine stylistic choice.

Viewpoint Character: This is a simple idea that's difficult in practice. Ask yourself who is telling your story. This is typically the main character, but it needn't be. Books like The Book Thief, The Great Gatsby, Rebecca, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and the Sherlock series are told from the perspective of a side character who isn't of chief importance to the narrative. Your viewpoint character is this side character, the character the reader is seeing the world through, so the main character has to be described through them. This isn't a super popular narrative choice because authors usually like to write from the perspective of their most interesting character, but if you think this choice could fit your story, go for it! You can also swap viewpoint characters throughout a story! A word of warning on that: only change your viewpoint character during a scene/chapter break. Switching mid-scene without alerting the reader (and even when you do alert the reader) will cause confusion. I guarantee it.

Means of Perception; or, the Camera: This part ties the first two together. If you've ever heard people talk about an omniscient, limited, etc. narrator, this is what they mean. This part also includes the level of intimacy the reader has with the viewpoint character: are we in their heads, reading their thoughts, or are we so far away that we can only see their actions? If your story is in a limited means of perception, you only have access to your character's head, eyes, and interpretations, where an omniscient narrator sees through all characters' heads at once. (This doesn't eliminate the viewpoint character--most of your writing will still be in that character's head, but you're allowed to reach into other characters' thoughts when needed. You could also be Virginia Woolf, who does fluidly move through everyone's perspectives without a solid viewpoint character, but I would advise against this unless you really are a master of the craft.) Older novels skew towards third person omniscient narration, where contemporary novels skew towards first person limited. You also have a spectrum of "distant" and "close." If omniscient and limited are a spectrum of where the camera can swivel to, distant and close is a spectrum of how much the camera can zoom in and out. Distant only has access to the physical realities of the world and can come off as cold, and close accesses your character's (or characters', if omniscient) thoughts. Notice how I said narration. Your means of perception dramatically effects how your story can be told! Here's a scene from one of my stories rewritten in third-person distant omniscient. The scene is a high school football game:

“Sometimes,” he said. “Not much anymore.” “It’s not better, then?” She shivered; the wind blew in. “A little.” His tone lifted. “I don’t know if it’ll ever be better, though.” She placed a hand on his arm, stuttered there, and slipped her arm around his waist. “Did it help to be on your own?” He raised an eyebrow. “You were there.” “Yes and no.” “And the guys, the leaders.” “Come on,” she heckled. “Okay, okay.” Carmen sighed. “Yeah, it helped. I don’t think—I don’t know—I’d be me if they’d fixed it all.” She grinned. “And who might you be?” “Oh, you know. Scared, lonely.” He fired them haphazardly, and a bout of laughter possessed him which Piper mirrored. “Impatient.” “And that’s a good thing?” “No.” He sat straight. “Gosh, no. But I don’t want to be like him, either.” He pointed to the field; Devon recovered a fumbled ball. “He’s never been hurt in his life.” She met his eyes, which he pulled away. “You don’t mean that," Piper said. “Maybe not. He’s too confident, though.” The cloth of Carmen's uniform caved and expanded under Piper's fingers.

With distant-omniscient, we only get the bare actions of the scene: the wind blows in, Piper shivers, the cloth rises and falls, Carmen points, etc. But you can tell there's some emotional and romantic tension in the scene, so let's highlight that with a first person limited close POV:

“Sometimes,” he said. “Not much anymore.” “It’s not better, then?” Frost spread up from her legs and filled her as if she were perforated rock, froze and expanded against herself so that any motion would disturb a world far greater than her, would drop needles through the mind’s fabric. A misplaced word would shatter her, shatter him. “A little.” His tone lifted. “I don’t know if it’ll ever be better, though.” She placed a hand on his arm, thought better, and slipped her arm around his waist. “Did it help to be on your own?” He raised an eyebrow. “You were there.” “Yes and no.” “And the guys, the leaders.” “Come on,” she heckled. “Okay, okay.” Carmen sighed. “Yeah, it helped. I don’t think—I don’t know—I’d be me if they’d fixed it all.” She grinned. “And who might you be?” “Oh, you know. Scared, lonely.” He fired them haphazardly, and a bout of laughter possessed him which Piper mirrored. “Impatient.” “And that’s a good thing?” “No.” He sat straight. “Gosh, no. But I don’t want to be like him, either.” He pointed to the field; Devon recovered a fumbled ball. “He’s never been hurt in his life.” “You don’t mean that.” She spoke like a jaded mother, spoke with some level of implied authority, and reminded herself again to stop. “Maybe not. He’s too confident, though.” Piper felt the cloth of his waist cave and expand under her fingers and thought: is this not confidence?

Here, we get into Piper's thoughts and physical sensations: how the frost rises up her, and how this sensation of cold is really her body expressing her nervous fears; how she "thought better" and put her arm around his waist; her thought "is this not confidence?"; and how she reminds herself not to talk like a mother. Since I was writing from the close, limited perspective of a nervous high schooler, I wrote like one. If I was writing from the same perspective but with a child or an older person, I would write like them. If you're writing from those perspectives in distant narration, however, you don't need to write with those tones but with the authorial tone of "the narrator."

This is a lot of info, so let's synthesize this into easy bullet points to remember.

Limited vs. Omniscient. Are you stuck to one character's perspective per scene or many?

Close vs. Distant. Can you read your characters' thoughts or only their external worlds? Remember: if you can read your character's thoughts, you also need to write like you are that character experiencing the story. If child, write like child; if teen, write like teen; etc.

Here's another way to look at it!

This is a confusing and complex topics, so if you have any questions, hit up my ask box, and I'll answer as best I can. The long and short of it is to understand which POV you're writing from and to ruthlessly stick to it. If you're writing in limited close, under no circumstances should you describe how a character other than your viewpoint character is feeling. Maintaining a solid POV is necessary to keeping the dream in the reader's head. Don't make them stumble by tripping up on POV!

[fixyourwritinghabits]

hello, hello! i have a question

I'm currently trying to write my first book, but I couldn't figure out a P.O.V (first person P.O.V (limited), first person P.O.V (omnipotent), third person P.O.V (limited), third person P.O.V (omnipotent), etc) to write it witg

can i please ask for a post that compares each P.O.V. and/or how to write them?

POV breaks down to:

First-person singular (aka limited) - The story is told in first person, from the perspective of the person experience the events of the story, with no insight on events happening elsewhere at the same time unless learning about them afterward. It can be in present tense or past tense, but often you'll see it in present tense. YA is often written in first person because the emotional perspective of the main character is often one of the most important aspects of the story.

First-person plural - The story is told in first person by a couple of characters, usually changing POV chapter by chapter. Often limited to two, maybe three characters at the most. This is done when you need that close character perspective, and their emotional journey is important. (Romance, for example, is another genre besides YA you'll see this a lot.)

Second-person - The story is told by a narrator addressing the reader as "you." Very rarely done, extremely difficult to pull off. See the second book in Tamsyn Muir's Locked Tomb series, Harrow the Ninth, for how this can be done.

Third-person limited - You are telling the story of the main character as if watching over their shoulder, sometimes relating their thoughts, but you are only focused on that one character's limited perspective. Widely used.

Third-person omniscient - You are telling the story of all the characters as if you are a god who can see what everyone is doing and thinking at any time. Popular if you've got a massive cast and a complicated plot, but this is surprisingly hard to do, because "head-jumping" is something you need to resist doing from paragraph to paragraph, as it's very easy to confuse the reader.

POV seems complicated, but it's a matter of asking yourself some questions to figure out the right angle to take.

Who is your audience and what do they want? Is your main character someone you want everyone to focus on or do you want your readers to have some distance to the character?

A hard-boiled detective novel, for example, may often use third-person limited, but keep the readers from peering into the detective thoughts (especially if he has a past to hide). Middle grade fiction, on the other hand, tends to split solidly between first-person/third-person limited, but rarely uses a plural POV. Too complicated for the readers.

You don't have to have a specific readership in mind, but if you're thinking of genres, its good to look at conventions. What is the dominating POV format used, and why does it work for that genre?

Is the character's emotional/inner journey extremely important to the narrative?

Both YA and Romance fiction tends to lean into first-person limited, but third-person limited is still useful in these genres too. However, if you're jumping from multiple characters, pulled away as if observing from afar, you'd likely be using third-person omniscient. The character's inner thoughts and journey can still be conveyed, but they are caught up in a much bigger tale.

Who's story is it?

The best way to determined POV is to figure out who your main character is, their importance to the external plot (destroy the ring, defeat the dragon, etc), and how important of their inner journey (resolving trauma, learning to change and grow, etc) is to that plot. YA uses a lot of first-person limited because the main plot is essential to what the characters realize about themselves. High fantasy often uses third-person omniscient because your main characters are often cogs in a bigger machine, pulled forward by events that aren't really about them.

And finally, sometimes you have to write a book and realize it's in the wrong POV. I've done that, it sucks, but the process of fixing it taught me a lot about how to pin down the right POV for the next book. Often, you can avoid this agony by writing a few chapters and taking some times to reflect on if the POV feels right for the story you're telling. It's all up to you on what to use!

[lullabies-blue]

Thomas Hewitt/ Reader

𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢, 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔦𝔱? 𝔑𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔫𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔞𝔯?

Written in third-person limited POV, focusing on Thomas. Content tags: Neurodivergence, Cannibalism, mentions of rape, Canon typical violence, self harm, Mommy issues, child abuse (mentioned), good vs. evil with nothing in between, religious trauma. Author notes: I honestly intended this to be short and to the point- but here we are. I read a lot of Thomas/Reader stories where Thomas is portrayed as neurotypical and I don't know why it bothers me so much- it's just fanfiction after all, but I wanted to write a short "love" story where Thomas is violent and scared and lonely. He's nonverbal, he's mentally disturbed but not 'slow'. His world is very black and white and full of violence, so that got me wondering- what would love look like for him? What would happen if this man, who has only ever known darkness, met someone who was nice to him? Fair warning, lots of rambling ahead. I also just want to say that I am Autistic and that influenced a lot of this story- from the way that I write, to how I portray characters, to certain interactions. So if anything seems weird to you, I apologize- my mind works in weird ways. If I need to clarify anything, just shoot me a message. I would love to talk about the writing process and why I included certain things. Important: This is about 15k words and NOT even half of it. I had to cut it into pieces, will update the rest in another post.

Thomas brings the axe above his head, his breath ragged as he swings it down and cuts the piece of firewood in half with a low grunt. He’s hot, even though it’s the middle of winter- the weather low even with the sun that hid behind the clouds- and his shirt is sticking to him uncomfortably, the sweat doing nothing to cool him down.

He lodges the axe into the tree stump, grabbing the two pieces of wood and throwing them in the wheelbarrow before he wipes his forehead with dirt covered hands. It was the last chore of the day, and he was tired and sore- a tightness in his shoulders that seemed to spread all the way down to lower back and made him want to get in bed. His mask is damp and tight against his face, the skin underneath irritated. He wants to go inside and change, the thought of taking a shower was frustrating but he knew that he needed one. He could smell himself- bitter with sweat and the slightly suffocating scent that seemed to stick to chickens now clinging to him from when he had cleaned out the chicken coop. His nails were lined with dirt- hands and arms caked in grime. It made him feel heavy and slow.

Uncle Hoyt would drag him to the back and hose him off if he saw him, and he hated that more than he hated cleaning himself off- the feeling of water on his skin something he had never got around to liking. He could handle other things- blood never seemed to churn his stomach, or when Momma or Uncle Hoyt used to ask him to go clean out the pig pen- back when they could afford to have pigs, they were empty now, the whole farm seemed to get emptier and emptier as the months passed- he hadn’t thought that shoveling pig shit into a bucket was all that bad. But he had trouble smelling sometimes, especially with the leather pressed so tight against the place his nose had once been.

He takes the handles of the wheelbarrow, filled with enough dried out wood for the weekend- maybe Monday, if the weather stayed where it was at- and began to haul it towards the house. Momma would need some in the kitchen, to boil water and heat the ovens for Supper when she got back from town. He’d have to check the fireplace on the main floor- sometimes even on the coldest days of winter that room stayed warm enough that if they were to turn on the fireplace it’d be too uncomfortable to sit in. He would wait until Uncle Monty asked for more- he didn’t like it when any of them made decisions for him, more so now that he was stuck in that wheelchair.

There were no fireplaces upstairs, just piles of blankets to layer and hope they did enough to keep them warm. Sometimes it would be enough for him, but there were nights that even with two or three of the ones Momma sewed together for him; he would still lay awake, teeth chattering from the cold. It’s why he hated the cold- he could manage the heat, but winter was unpredictable even in the deep south of Texas.

Uncle Monty is in the living room, asleep in his chair as the TV keeps playing, almost as loud as his snoring. He walks past him, noticing the almost empty fireplace. His footsteps are heavy and loud from the metal on his shoes as he carries an armful of wood into the kitchen. He sets it down on the dining table, right on the white plastic cloth momma had set out before she had left, dirt falls onto the floor and he makes a low, grumbling noise of frustration, hoping that she didn’t see it when she got home.

He had forgotten the plastic mat last time and gotten her favorite tablecloth dirty -the mud staining the light blue cotton forever. He didn’t see why it was such a big deal, Momma had once told him that life was messy, that’s how one knew that they were living it, but she had been so angry at him then- sending him out with the bucket and soap, shouting about the mud he had tracked inside their house. Supper had come late that night- Hoyt growing angry at him. He liked it when it was ready and waiting for him when he got home- shouting at momma that working men weren’t supposed to wait for food.

He had gotten into an argument with him that night- he didn’t like it when people were mean to momma. Uncle Hoyt had called him a bad name- making his blood boil.

He didn’t want that to happen again. He didn’t like how badly he had wanted to hurt Uncle Hoyt at that moment. Momma said that family fought all the time, but he had to be careful not to do anything that he would regret. Maybe he would regret it when his blood stained his clothes, but part of him wasn’t so sure. He liked him better when he was Uncle Charlie. Uncle Hoyt reminded him of the bad men.

He tries not to think about it anymore when he heads back outside to grab a few more pieces of wood for the living room. He didn’t like thinking back on the things that made him angry, sometimes he couldn’t come back from them, and he’d end up doing something bad.

By the time he’s pushing past the double front doors, Momma’s car is pulling into the dirt path off to the side of the house. It’s an old one- rusting from the heat of too many summers, but momma didn’t mind it.

 The car comes to a stop as he picks up another armful of wood and takes it inside.

Ever since Hoyt became Sheriff of the town, things had gotten better for them. There were never days where they went to bed hungry, the meat freezer down in the basement always seemed to have enough for them. If it ever ran low, a Hoyt always seemed to find a way to get it restocked. Momma had taken over the shop in town after the owner had passed away and Hoyt made sure that his son- one of the bad men- went right along with him. He had filled the bellies of those who still stayed in town, too hungry to care enough to question them. Sometimes she brought back what didn’t sell that day and they’d have themselves a little feast. There were days Uncle Hoyt brought a guest with him- always a woman-, other times he’d ask momma to bring his food up to his room- the muffled screaming drowned out by Monty’s TV show.

He liked to stay in the basement on those days. It was harder to hear the pleading and begging as Hoyt played too rough with them. He would always get stuck with getting rid of them afterwards and he was starting to dislike the chore.

By the time he finishes stacking the wood, Momma is calling out for him, the front door swinging open. He freezes- his shoulders squaring and his breath suddenly heavy as he looks up at the hall, hidden between a wall and the fireplace. There was someone with Momma. He could hear the footsteps- Momma walked with a purpose, heavy and loud like him. She said that she did it so God would hear her better, but he wasn’t so sure that God was with them anymore. The ones that came after her were lighter, nervous.

He didn’t like guests. Didn’t like that Momma and uncle Hoyt had developed a habit of taking in strays that would just end up in the basement with him later. They would scream when they saw him- call him those names that made the anger come. Some of them liked to hurt him, momma taking him to the bathroom afterwards and stitching him up.

“You’re going to love my Tommy. He’s a little bit shy but he’s got the sweetest heart.” Momma says and he hears the other person laugh. It’s a soft noise- gentle in a way that manages to make his heart race faster as he tries to crawl deeper into the tiny space. “He’s here around somewhere… but let’s get you set up in your room then you can come down and help me with supper, okay?”

Another laugh, his heart racing uncomfortably in his chest. He didn’t want Momma to find him, he was already so tired.

“Of course,” the stranger says, and she- the thought of a woman in the house irritates him- doesn’t talk like Momma or Hoyt or Monty. Her voice is quiet, it doesn’t drawl out. He’s heard it before- she must be from out of town. “I would love to!”

For a moment, he feels bad for the woman as he hears them go up the stairs. He always feels bad for them at first. Momma said that his heart was too kind. Hoyt called him a pansy boy, in need of toughening up. He doesn’t know why he feels bad, the guests were never good people- he’d always come to learn that, but it never seems to do anything to make the twitch of guilt go away from his heart. The steps grow quieter the farther up they go- until he hears Momma’s muffled voice and then her footsteps coming back down.

She spots him, curled into himself in that tiny, dark space and she sucks her teeth, shaking her head. “Thomas Hewitt, what in the lords name are you doing there?”

He feels embarrassed all of a sudden, getting caught like this. He makes a low noise in his chest, pointing to the firewood.

“Come on and get on out of there if you’re done then, we’ve got company.” She comes down the rest of the steps and makes her way towards him. When she holds out her hand he takes it, a comfort that has his heart slowing down.

 “I need you to go and grab the rest of her stuff from the car- poor girl don’t got no power in her home.” She says with a shake of her head as she pulls and helps him to his feet. “She’ll be staying with us until her electricity gets put back up.”

He shakes his head, this time the noise he makes is in protest, a deep groan of anger. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want her in his house.

Momma frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now listen here Thomas, not everyone is as lucky as we are. Sometimes we have to help those in need.”

He wants to believe her- Momma wasn’t one for lying, after all- but this isn’t anything new. He knew how this would end; with the woman in their bellies and her screams in his head, keeping him awake at night. She would make a mistake and then she’d end up in the basement, begging for her life.

It was like Momma had set her up to fail, like a game that promised a prize that would never come, and Thomas didn’t want to play. Not this time. He shakes his head again, his way of telling her no.

Momma and Uncle Hoyt have a lot in common, no matter how sweet and gentle Momma tried to be, her anger was almost as bad as his. He doesn’t like it when she gets angry at him- everyone was always angry at him- and he can see it in her eyes, making him bend his chin against his chest as he let out a whine, glancing down at the ground. She never hit him, but she would ignore him and that hurt a lot more.

“Then you go on upstairs and tell the poor girl that she’s got to leave. I won’t be the one to break the bad news.” Momma huffs, stomping over to the kitchen. “Tell her you would rather see her freeze than offer a small kindness.”

There it is, that harshness in her voice that makes him tremble, his heart picking up its pace until he feels like he can’t breathe. He shakes his head again, digging his fingers into his arm. He didn’t want to have anything to do with the woman. Didn’t want to be forced to deal with her later but if this is what Momma wanted, then he would do it. He would make her happy.

He lets out another noise, smaller this time and turns towards the door. Part of him is angry- angry that he wasn’t allowed to be angry without being punished. Angry that sometimes it seemed like he wasn’t allowed to have a say when it came to things. He felt as if momma sometimes liked to hurt him on purpose- pushing and pushing until he snapped.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he feels the guilt settle in his stomach, hot and suffocating. Momma wasn’t like the bad people. She wouldn’t hurt him. Sometimes he just made her so angry- he knew that. He knew that he was difficult and stubborn and sometimes she got tired of dealing with him.

It wouldn’t be long before the woman disappeared anyways- Hoyt will see her at supper and he’d take her upstairs. The screaming will start, and everyone will act like they couldn’t hear it; Momma would knit, and Monty would turn the volume on the TV up until it was too much. He’d end up sleeping in the basement again, picking at his skin until it was raw and bleeding- the crying twisting his stomach and threatening to swallow him whole.

He just had to wait until then. He would be good until then.

The trunk of the car was left open for him, and he finds the woman’s things waiting for him. It’s not much- a simple backpack, filled with so many things that it ballooned uncomfortably. He grabs it, grunting at the fact that it was heavier than he thought, and slams the trunk close. The car shakes and squeaks at his aggression as he carries the bag inside. He doesn’t like the fact that he’s touching the stranger’s things.

He’s dirty- his fingers staining the bag- but he’s also dirty inside. Rotten from the anger, the bad he’s done. The bad he was going to do. He can feel himself soiling the items inside- turning them just as dirty as him as he walks into the kitchen and sets the bag down on the floor. Momma had taken the firewood he had left and put away the mat. He could feel the warmth of the fire even from where he stood across the oven- filling the room with the scent of smoke. He grunts, wanting Momma to turn around and see that he had done what she asked. He wanted her to smile at him- to ease the way his heart still hammered in frustration.

She turns, but the softness in her eyes isn’t directed at him- she barely looks at him and his heart sinks further down into his stomach, tension building in the back of his neck. He can hear her footsteps now- the creaking of the staircase as she came downstairs. He’s standing in front of a wall, the staircase on the other side. For now, he was hidden- but it wouldn’t be long until she stepped into the kitchen, and he couldn’t hide anymore.

“We’re in here dear,” Momma calls out to her. “Tommy here’s got your bag for you.”

He sees her for the first time out of the corner of his eye- spotting her before she spots him, her eyes on Momma. She’s short- shorter than momma by a bit, and clean and well dressed. Her sweater is thick and colorful, the cuffs of her sleeves neatly folded against her wrists. Something there catches the soft yellow light of the kitchen- a thin golden bracelet halfway hidden beneath the fabric. Her jeans look like they’ve been around for a long time- a different shade of fabric stitched into one of the knees. Her boots are old and worn out, reminding him of his own.

He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like this feeling that runs through him as he inspects her.

“I really like your house!” she says- voice light and full of excitement that made his mood worsen. “Its-” whatever she was about to say dies in her throat as she turns her head to the left and spots him for the first time.

He doesn’t let her look at his face- turning his head to the side as he folds into himself, chin against chest. He doesn’t like this- doesn’t like that she stares at him without saying anything. He can feel her eyes on him- inspecting him- an animal on display. His chest rises and falls painfully, his breathing hard and loud in the silence. He can feel his hands twitch- his thumb nail grazing along the length of his finger.

“This is my son,” Momma’s voice is tight as she talks. “Tommy this here is our guest. Don’t you want to say hello?”

He shakes his head, his hands trembling. Something wet lands inside the sink and he startles. He hears Momma suck her teeth and he can see her in his mind- shaking her head like she does whenever he does something she doesn’t like.

He doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like that Momma is getting mad at him, that the woman still stands there, watching him tremble in fear. He could already hear it- her laughing as she called him an idiot. They always called him something. They always laughed at him.

“It’s okay,” her voice shakes a bit as she breaks the silence, and she coughs and clears her voice. “I, um, I’m a little shy myself so I know how hard it can be sometimes.” She speaks slowly, her voice almost a low whisper. She tells him her name. Tells him that it’s nice to meet him.

He doesn’t say anything- not that he can, he’s never spoken a single word- but he nods his head, his eyes quickly glancing over at her. She’s still looking at him and his heart almost beats through his ribs. He expects her to be looking at him like they always look at him- filled with disgust and hatred, looking for any excuse to leave, to get as far away as possible from him- but he doesn’t find that in her face.

He finds her mouth twisted downwards and her eyebrows pushed together just a tiny little bit, her eyes gentle and wide. She looked at him as if he was a dog out by the side of the road on a hot summer afternoon refusing help and she had been chasing him with a bowl of water.

She looks at him like there was nothing scary about him. Like he was a man, dirty from a long day at work and not a freak- poor and disfigured- a monster. He had never seen that look from anyone who didn’t live in this house, and it scared him. It terrified him that someone would decide to look at him like that.

But as soon as he met her eyes she looked away, towards Momma- a smile in her voice.

“What are we making for dinner?” she asks, stepping farther into the kitchen and pushing her sleeves up towards her elbows- ready for whatever Momma tells her to do.

The tension disappears just like that, Momma laughing lightly as she places her hand on the woman’s back and pulls her close. “You’re such a darling, helping me out like this. How about you start getting out the pots and pans? They’re over there by the pantry.” She pointed to the cupboards by the fridge and the woman nodded and went straight towards them.

With her back to them- Momma turned and looked at him finally. He could still feel his heart hammering away at his chest, but this was more manageable. He was still waiting for the names to come, for the screaming and the disgust to appear in her eyes. Sometimes when Momma was around people hid it a bit better, but he knew that it wouldn’t be long until they couldn’t hide it anymore.

He expects Momma to still be mad at him- blue eyes dark with anger- but instead she sighs and puts her hand on his shoulder, a silent apology that has his muscles relaxing. The woman pays them no mind- bending down to inspect the cupboard down there.

“Go on and take her bag up to her room and get yourself cleaned up, okay?” She tugs on the collar of his shirt before fixing his hair out of his face. It’s damp from his sweat, but she doesn’t flinch. “She’s a good girl- try to handle her with care, alright?” Her voice is a low whisper- something the woman wasn’t supposed to hear. It unsettles him as he nods along with Momma- not quite understanding what she meant. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to nod along with her or shake his head, but Momma doesn't wait for an answer, patting him on the cheek before she turns her head and calls out to the woman.

“Honey, Tommy is going to take your bag up to your room- is that alright?”

The woman rises from the ground, two pots neatly stacked in each other in her hands. “Yes,” she says softly- her eyes meeting his. “Thank you, Tommy.”

She smiles at him shyly and his heart begins to hammer against his ribs again. He feels his skin begin to burn- his flesh raw and exposed to her. Even underneath his mask he can feel himself heating up as he looks away, scrambling to grab the bag.

He needed to get away from her- from Momma and her words that he couldn’t understand. He felt like he couldn’t breathe with her here. He stumbles up the steps- feet so heavy against the wood that he swears he can feel the house tremble underneath him.

Momma gave her the room across his- the empty one where she liked to keep the extra bed sheets and towels. But it’s cleaner now as he turns the knob and goes inside, the curtains pulled open to let in the bit of light that still shone from outside- the sun close to setting. The piles of blankets that were on the bed are gone- the sheets neatly tucked into the space between the mattress and the boxspring. There’s a jacket thrown on top- red and faded, the cuffs ripped up on one arm.

He sits the bag right next to it- on the floor, wiping his hands on his jeans. It topples over and he lets out a grunt- fixing it so it sat upright again. He decided that he would stay up here until Momma called him for supper. He wouldn’t go down to the basement while the woman was here- he was worried that she would be stupid enough to follow him down there. That would be the end of her. Blood and flesh and sinew torn from her bones for them to feast on.

He’s careful when he’s leaving the room- closing the door gently so that it doesn’t slam before he hurries off into his own- locking the door behind himself.

Here it’s dark, his windows covered in greased up newspapers. He didn’t like it when it got too bright- when the sun shone through and reminded him of the mess around him. His room is small and cramped and full of things that he had hauled up from the furnace room so that he wasn’t stuck going up and down all the time. Uncle Monty said that he sounded like a ‘goddamned bulldozer,’ stomping around the house when he was trying to sleep. So, it was better this way- even though sometimes he got irritated that there were too many things. But it meant not being bothersome, so he tried not to mind much.

He checks the door again- making sure that he had really locked it, pulling and twisting at the doorknob just to be safe. He knew that no one would come up here and go into his room- Monty was stuck on the first floor, Momma was with the girl in the kitchen preparing supper and Uncle Hoyt wasn’t home yet. But he was always a little paranoid, just the tiniest bit afraid that someone would knock down his door and see everything about him that he had tried so hard to hide. Not even Momma was allowed in here. This was his- the only place where he could hide from everyone, where he didn’t have to worry about anyone disturbing him.

He takes his mask off and it’s not quite the relief he was expecting- the leather inside has gone stiff, his face raw and tender and aching from all the sweat and dirt that had managed to get in. He can feel it as he runs his fingers across his face, a cut on the corner of his lips that wasn’t there last time. It blends into the sores and scarred tissue already there, his skin long ruined. It shouldn’t bother him- but as he opens his mouth and feels the skin stretch and crack, a drop of blood welling up and rolling down his chin- he gets upset, grunting in frustration. He had wanted to clean the mask and add some petroleum to try and soften it up so it wouldn’t bite at his skin anymore- pinching and scratching and making the pain worse. It would have been something to do, something to keep him busy and distracted until he had to face the inevitable, but now it was something that he no longer wanted to do. Why would he? What would it change?

It was never this bad- but ever since his nose began to fall away, it only ever seemed to get worse- no matter what he did or how hard he pleaded for it to just stop and go away- nothing ever changed. There was no one there to listen to his pleas.

With a low groan of frustration, he tears his hand from his face, wiping the blood on the front of his shirt. He hates himself. Hates everything about himself. Momma liked to say that the bad people were liars, that people who were hurting only ever knew how to hurt others- but he knew that wasn’t true. He was a monster. He saw it, looking back at him in the mirror- wild and ugly and evil, everything that he did not want to be. He hated taking his mask off- hated knowing that the man that existed underneath it was the same man that he was trying to escape from.

Coming here was a mistake. He should have stayed downstairs, should have gone out back to the barn- there he would have found something, anything, to do.

He takes a breath like Momma showed him, trying to push the anger away- down, down, down, until he couldn’t feel it slithering through his veins and pounding in the back of his head. He just had to focus on something else-he liked it when he had chores, things to do that kept him busy and away from the bad thoughts. He takes another deep breath through his mouth- dirt and salt on his lips as he picks up the mask and tries to clean it off on his clothing. It does nothing but lift the dust off into the air as he places it on his face, tightening it too much across his head, leather digging into tender skin. He would take a bath, change his clothes, then sit in bed and wait. Uncle Hoyt would come an hour after the sun disappeared and then he would have to go downstairs. He didn’t want to go downstairs.

He didn’t want to feel the bad feelings anymore. The fear, the anger. The woman would look at him and his throat would tighten, and his heart would beat painfully. He hadn’t liked that feeling- trapped in his own skin, unable to get away. Yet at the same time, he wanted her to look at him. No one ever looked at him.

He could still feel her eyes- soft and warm on his skin, simultaneously calming and worsening his anger. He was half embarrassed- covered in dirt and sweat stains, his clothing old and faded- Did she think that he was disgusting? He was always messy in everything that he did- always having to teach himself how to do things. Filth had never been a stranger. Had never bothered him. But he finds himself wanting to wash the grime and sweat from himself- even if he was just going to put the same clothes back on.

His stomach growls, empty and needy as he unlocks the door and roughly pushes it open- he finds the woman outside of it.

The door swings open, the gust of wind pushing her hair around as the door barely manages to miss her. She’s looking up at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open- her arms up by her chest. It scares him, seeing her there and he makes a messy, garbled noise of surprise.

“Sorry!” she speaks fast, her words all pushed together. “I was just trying to find the bathroom!”

He feels his heart beating in his throat, muscles tense and solid as he stares down at her. She’s so much shorter than he thought- he could reach out and crush her throat in his hand and it wouldn’t take much force to do so. He’s almost tempted to, his fingers twitching at his sides. Momma would get mad at him when he dragged her body downstairs- but she would forget eventually.

“I’m in your way- I,” she takes a step back, her eyes finally releasing his. “I’m sorry, I’m just-”

He grunts. Low and short- his way of telling her to stop talking. Nothing she says is making any sense to him and the sound of her voice makes his heart hammer at his chest. Thunderous and loud and painful. It scares him how easily she does that to him. Such a small thing like her, carelessly walking into a house where God was nowhere to be found without a single ounce of caution. He could take her to his room, and no one would hear her scream. He could scare her more than she scared him.

She squirms in the silence like a rat stuck in a trap. She tugs at her sleeve, at her collar- his breathing loud as he watches her- watches her chest rise and fall with every breath, her eyes on the space between them.

 Another grunt and she startles backwards, looking up at him. This time, when her eyes meet his own, he doesn’t cower even though his body tenses and he can already feel her pulse beneath his hand.

 His body is stiff as he steps out of his room and moves out of the way of the door- he has to turn his back to her and for a split-second, panic runs cold and fast through his veins as he remembers the woman who had stabbed him. The door slams close as he turns around quickly, eyes wide and wild as he looks down at her hands.

He expects to see a knife pointed at him- the scar on his shoulder aching from the memory of being sliced apart, the pain still there even after all the months that have passed since. He hadn’t done anything to deserve that pain- the woman and her friends had attacked first, had tried to hurt his family. Uncle Hoyt had told him, so had Momma with tears in her eyes and blood splatters on her dress. They were bad people who wanted to do bad things to them, and it was his responsibility to protect them- to keep them safe. It hadn’t mattered that his hands shook so hard with fear, and he could taste vomit at the back of his throat, vile and burning, he had to protect them. They were all that he had. He couldn’t- wouldn’t- lose them.

He was panting as he searched the woman and finds nothing in her hands, her eyes widening as she takes another step away from him.

 Was she scared?

Did she finally see it? The evil that radiated off of him that others seemed to see- always scared of getting too close to him- He was a disease on this town. A burden. Did he finally scare her?

Would she scream?

Was she going to hurt him- just like everyone else? Drive a knife into his flesh- a pain that would only last for so long before it faded into a memory that he refused to think of. A pain that wouldn’t be so bad compared to the shame that churned his stomach whenever a stranger screamed when they saw him.

He waited- teeth clamped together as he stared her down in the heavy silence.

He watched as her lips part, lower lip trembling slightly. If she screamed, he would hurt her before she could hurt him. If she screamed, she would be nothing but a pile of bones, tossed into the fire by the time the sun rose tomorrow.

Scream, he thought, fingers twitching at his sides. Scream already and let this end already.

“You’re scared of me, aren’t you?” she whispers and her voice trembles even as she keeps talking. “I can tell- you’re looking at me like I just pulled out a gun on you or something.” She lifts her hands towards him and moves them back and forth, as if she was showing him that he had nothing to worry about. “But my hands are empty-”

She lifts her hands, palms facing him, and wiggles her fingers. “If it makes you feel better, apart from a kitchen knife I don’t think I’ve ever held a weapon.” She smiles oddly at him- as if she wasn’t sure how to do so, her eyes still wide and unblinking. As if she was worried that he would lunge at her at any second.

He doesn’t like how his body seems to let go of its worries and fears so fast, his shoulders drooping and his heartbeat slowing down until it’s no longer pounding against his ears as the ringing slowly starts to disappear. He unclenches his teeth, the pain still lingering in his jaw and neck, and suddenly, he’s no longer thinking of hurting the woman- of how easy he would have snapped her neck. He still could, part of him even ached and begged for him to do it. To get it over with.

But he doesn’t listen to that part of him that never truly seemed to go away- always begging for blood, for a voice that would finally be heard. He’s staring at her hands instead, focusing on the tips of her fingers that are flushed pink. He notices the birthmark on her left middle finger- a tiny dot right underneath the crease of her knuckle. He notices all the tiny little lines that make up her palms and the way her thumb trembles lightly.

He did not like her.

He did not like the way something as simple as her hands was enough to draw his attention- his eyes seeking out the tiny little patterns between her fingers. He did not like how her voice could soothe him so easily when he wanted nothing but to crush her- to take her, to taste her flesh on his tongue and her blood on his lips.

He did not like how she called out to him as he just stared at her- stared through her, voice gentle with his name. It wasn’t the same as when Momma said it though. This felt like a spell, a bad omen- Satan’s own voice whispering temptation in his ear. Sweet and gentle and unfamiliar.

She made him feel the same way he had felt that one night he had snuck upstairs to watch Uncle Hoyt and his new friend. He had pushed the door open just enough so that he could see but still stay hidden from the light. He hadn’t made a single noise as he watched Hoyt undo his pants and pull the woman’s legs apart. He hadn’t been able to see much from his hiding place, but what he heard had sent a shock of electricity through his body- blood boiling with need as he listened to the crying and the begging and the sound of something slick being hit over and over again. His stomach churned the same it had that night- tight and hot and restless for something that he could not give it.

He lets out a whine- deep and guttural and full of frustration. Go away, he wants to yell at her. Go away before you ruin everything.

“Tommy…?” she asks again, not understanding his plea.

He whines again and it takes him a second to realize that he’s scratching at his arm- digging his fingers into the old scars there and agitating the skin. It hurts. But that pain is familiar and calming and helps him focus on something other than the panic rising in his throat.

She was messing it all up.

 It’s supposed to just be the four of them- Momma, Hoyt, Monty and him. It’s always been just the four of them. There wasn’t enough space here for her. She was too much of a change to get used to- too loud, too much. Even if he went and hid in the basement until Momma got tired of her, he knew that he would still be able to feel her through the walls, a choking weight in the air that would only poison him until he forgot what it was like to be ignored and cautious even in his own home. He’d be able to hear her- hear her laugh, her steps, the tiny little noises she would come to make the more time went on. She would fill this house with her until she soaked the walls and filled in the foundation. Until everyone forgot that she had a stranger at one point- a spontaneous good dead in all the bad they dealt in.

And even then- what would stop Hoyt from taking her to the room where almost all of the women ended up in? From the emptiness of their bellies that might make them remember that she wasn’t one of them- that she was the answer to their starvation?

He's sinking his nails in harder- the thin skin underneath breaks and he itches at the spot as if there was something alive and buzzing under the flesh. He doesn’t feel the pain as the blood begins to gather underneath his dirty nails. He can see it, even in the dim light- but he can’t feel it. Can’t stop. He digs and digs and digs, hoping for the thoughts to stop- for the voices to stop telling him that he had to kill her. That if he didn’t, he had to make sure that she never left- that this house swallowed her whole and kept her from running, from leaving them. Leaving him. If she tried to run, he could keep her in the furnace room; could tie her up and warn her that if she wasn’t good, she wouldn’t be able to stay.

He could be good to her. He would learn if he had to, would ask Momma to teach him to be gentle and kind. He would not make her angry, would not make her cry or scare her away as long as she listened to him. As long as she stayed with him.

He’s lost, stuck in the farthest corner of his mind, in a future that would stop existing if he simply reached out and touched her. All he had to do was cover her face with his hand, she would be too surprised to fight him off when he pressed her against the wall and kept her there-the weight of him against her back. He could already feel her as she squirmed against him- her body unable to stand still as her lungs began to burn. He could already feel her warmth through his clothes, feel the way his heart would race as she sank her fingers into his skin, drawing blood from fear and desperation. His fear would seep into her flesh, make her lash out more. Her pain would become his and they would be inseparable in that moment.

 It’s when he feels her- fingers cold and desperate as she prods and pulls at his arms, forcing them apart that he returns to reality- to the dimly lit hall, the heat of the fireplace already seeping through the cracks in the foundation. He can feel the way her arms tremble, her fingertips burning holes into his skin.

The woman’s eyes are wild when he looks at her, all wet and round- something in them, in the way she looks at him, makes his heart fill with lead- knocking against his ribs painfully.

“It’s okay!” she says, her voice panicked as she keeps repeating it over and over again, almost as if she’s trying to convince herself- or maybe she thinks that if she says it enough times it’d become true.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” she repeats, her eyes on his as she pulls his arms towards her. “We just have to get this cleaned up and it’ll be okay.”

He doesn’t budge when she tries to pull him towards the staircase- instead, he watches as she stumbles over her own feet, her hands sliding down his arms.

“We need to get this clean,” she’s pleading now, tugging at him to get him to move. “It’s going to get infected if we don’t and there’s no doctor in town anymore-” the more she talks, the more hysterical she begins to sound, her voice growing higher. “I don’t know where the bathroom is, but we can go down to the kitchen, Luda M-”

He doesn’t let her finish, easily pulling his uninjured arm free from her. He didn’t want Momma to know. To see the mess that he made of himself. She would yell at him if he was lucky- tell him that he was sick in the head, hurting himself like a damn fool again.  But he knew that Momma wouldn’t be kind like that- she would take one look at him, dripping blood on the floor and she would blame the woman for his pain.

He could already hear her yelling, the shrill sound bouncing through his head. Momma wouldn’t care to listen, to see anything other than what she wanted. Momma was like that- kind and sweet and quiet until someone was stupid enough to go after the family. He was like her in a way, protective of them all. He liked to think that he got it from her- that he couldn’t possibly be bad when Momma’s blood ran through him, sweet and caring.

He couldn’t let Momma find out. Not now- not when he had decided that the woman standing in front of him was worth more to him alive than chopped up into pieces that would fit into the deep freezer.

 With a grunt that shuts the woman up from her rambling, he grabs her arm. She’s soft and small under his touch- her sweater itching at his palm as he begins to pull her deeper into the hallway, into the darkness. Away from Momma. Away from a future he wanted no part in.

“No, Tommy we have to go downstairs. I don’t know what to do.” Her voice is shaky as she takes a couple steps forward before planting her feet and refusing to keep going. “Your mom might me better at this than me, please.” She pleads even as she begins to walk again when he refuses to stop.

He tries to tell her that Momma couldn’t find out. That if she did then he wouldn’t be able to protect her- to keep her safe. Momma would tell him to get rid of her and he always did what Momma wanted, even if sometimes he didn’t want to.

He loves Momma. Loves her more than Uncle Hoyt or Monty. He loves her more than anything or anyone- even himself. He could suffer through any pain as long as Momma was with him- as long as she was happy with him.

He tries to tell her that he knows exactly what he’s doing, but all his words come out as a garbled mess of a groan, the muscles in his throat too weak to form any actual words. It frustrates him- hearing himself talk in a way that no one would ever understand.

He lets out a low howl, that frustration growing when she stops walking again. He has to be careful not to hurt her- he didn’t want to accidentally pull her arm too hard if she was going to make this a habit. He just needed to get her to the bathroom. She had to wash off the blood on her hands before she went back downstairs. He could take care of his injuries himself- Momma had taught him how to clean and bandage cuts and bruises. Though he wasn’t concerned with the open wound dripping blood down his arm.

Right now, he needed to get the woman to understand that Momma couldn’t find out about this. That if she went down those steps, stained with his blood, then there was nothing he could do to keep Momma from lashing out. Facing her, he points to himself- finger beating against his chest twice before he points at her.

He’s watching her- his eyes on her as she watches him repeat the action two more times. Her face is flushed, her eyebrows pushed together, and he begins to worry that she’s not understanding him, that now that he’s let go of her, she was going to be stupid and try to push him back towards the stairs.

Letting out a small whimper, he grabs at her wrist. She’s pliant under his touch- her skin cool and soft. Touching her reminds him of the Cattle fences that were used back when the Slaughterhouse had been open. He had touched one by accident, not fully understanding why they had so many warnings signs- and just like back then, something hot and quick ran through him. Back then, the muscles in his fingers and arms had tensed and burned, taking away all his strength. But touching her, feeling the way his scarred thumb slid against the thin skin on her wrist- felt like a shockwave of warmth had run through him- intense and disorienting and addictive.

It scared him, but he didn’t let go of her even though his brain was yelling at him to stop touching her. He couldn’t. He had to keep her safe. Slowly, he began to raise her hand towards him, his mouth opening as he made a noise from the bottom of his throat.

He looked at her face as he pressed the back of her hand against his chest. She was already staring at him, her lips twisted into a frown. He couldn’t look into her eyes for too long, something in him ached when he did, so he kept his eyes on her mouth as he tapped her hand against his chest. That same warmth that was spreading through his arm poisoned his chest. He could feel it in his throat, in the depth of his belly- It knocked around in his head until he was dizzy.

For a moment, with her hand on him and his eyes still glued to her lips, he forgets about the bad people who called him all those bad words. He forgets all of the evil that he’s done, all the screams that haunt him, all the blood that he can never wash off.

He finds the confidence to raise his eyes to her own and part of him is scared that in them he would find disgust at having to touch something like him. A smaller, quieter, part wonders if she feels it too- the electricity that flows out of her and through him. He wants her to tell him that she feels him in her- that he’s also warm and electric through her veins. He wants her to tell him that a real monster wouldn’t feel the way he did- that if he really was a monster, the softness in her eyes wouldn’t be affecting him so much.

Dropping his eyes, he taps his chest with her hand twice before pointing it towards him. He does it one more time before he lets go of her. He expects her to pull her hand away, but instead she lets it linger on his shirt, the dirt and stains not bothering her. He wonders if she can feel the way his heart knocks against his ribs.

“You want me to follow you?” her voice cracks a bit as she takes her hand away.

He nods, grunting as he motions to a door off to the side behind him before he lifts his bloodied arm and runs his hand over the scratches- they’ve stopped bleeding already, his arm a mess of blood stains and dirt. Pointing behind here, towards the staircase he shakes his head, bringing his hand back towards his arm and covering the mess he made.

She doesn’t say anything as she tries to piece everything together- her face twisting into itself as she thinks. He repeats the movement, groaning when he points at the staircase and once more when he covers the cuts. ‘Not safe,’ he tries to tell her, ‘Take care of it here.’

Realization makes her eyes brighten, her features smoothing out. “You don’t want Luda Mae to find out?”

It’s not exactly what he was trying to say but he lets it be, seeing as it was close enough. She could have thought that he wanted her to go down and grab Momma- and he was worried that with how small she was she would take off running before he could stop her. In trying to help she would run straight into her end.

The thought made his stomach drop- a sudden chill rocking through him.

“Tommy- I don’t know if I can do anything about that…” she pauses, and he watches as she reaches for him, taking his arm in both of her hands. Her touch burns him again, and this time he can’t stop the small whine of delight from escaping his lips. Her mouth twists down as she inspects his arm- and he tenses, waiting for her to start yelling at him, for the bad names to come. But they don’t- she stays silent, her eyes glued to his arm.

The damage isn’t bad- compared to the collection of scars that line both of his arms, this was nothing. He had scratched a small hole in his forearm- breaking the skin and tearing apart the bit of muscle and fat there. He was lucky that he hadn’t hit anything vital- that he had stopped when he did.

When he was younger, he had taken to cutting- tearing flesh from his body and slicing himself open as a punishment for his mistakes, for his bad thoughts. He had done a good job of keeping it from Momma until the night he had cut too deep, and the blood wouldn’t stop. He had ran to her, howling in fear- bloody arm pressed against his chest. She had made Uncle Monty hold him down while she stitched him together, only a glass of whiskey to keep the pain away. She had yelled at him the entire time-first with tears in her eyes then when they had dried up and she had finished sewing his skin together- she had taken the belt and beaten him raw. When she got tired of beating him, she had told him that this was all Satan’s fault- that she had no choice but to beat the devil out of him. God was gonna soothe his pain, his fears, his anguish. He would see, Momma liked to say. She had kissed him on the forehead, and he swore he had seen the devil on her shoulder, laughing at him.

The pain hadn’t convinced him to stop- he simply learned how to hide it better, how to keep things clean, how to stitch himself together on those nights that he fantasized about finding peace in death. He learned where to cut and how deep to dig- and eventually, Momma made herself forget it ever happened at all. Sometimes, he thought that she was afraid of God- of making him angry, of him turning his back on her. It’s why he didn’t tell her that every once in a while, he could feel the devil itself pumping through his veins. Taunting him.

The woman gently turns his arm, and he pulls himself from the memories, watching as her fingers caress his skin. She’s too trusting- doesn’t she see the danger that she’s in? How easily he could overpower her? This was a Godless house, no matter what Momma and Hoyt thought- he knew the truth. He knew that they were all rotten, inside and out. She would be ruined by them all if she stayed. He would ruin her with his sins-but his guilt wasn’t strong enough to stop his desires.

“It looks a lot worse than it is, doesn’t it?” she asks him, but he doesn’t answer- too busy watching the way she touches him- her touch making his breath deepen.

He likes the way she doesn’t mind that his blood is on her hands- twisted into the tiny cracks of her bracelet. She’s careful and slow as she traces the tip of her index finger above the crater he had created in his flesh. He’s almost tempted to push her hand down- to feel her flesh against the inside of his own, to have her hurt him before he could hurt her- but she moves her hand away before he can make up his mind.

“Okay…” she sighs, not letting go of him. “Show me what to do.”

He grunts in satisfaction, the weight of Momma finding out and the woman being punished lifting from his shoulders. Slowly, he turns the arm she cradled in her hands so that he was grabbing her instead- his hand swallowing hers.

He tries not to think about it too much as he tugs gently and finds no resistance in her steps. He almost smiles- lip twitching against the leather on his face as he leads her to the bathroom. Inside him, the devil starts to dance in glee.

The room is cold as he pushes open the door and pulls her inside before he follows. He can feel the cold seep into his thin shirt, see it with every exhale when he turns on the light and shuts the door, dropping the woman’s hand. She shivers and he wants to know if it’s from the cold or the fact that he’s no longer touching her.

The light flickers and dies for a couple seconds, leaving them in darkness before it turns back on- low and yellow like all the others in the house. It makes the woman’s skin look sickly- washing her out as she blinks and tries to get used to the light.

“We have to clean it,” she’s already walking around him, towards the sink. It’s a small one, too low for him to reach without having to bend his knees uncomfortably. Maybe that’s why she pauses mid-sentence- was she trying to picture him, hunched over as he scrubbed the dirt and blood and sweat from his arms?

The thought of her thinking about him- caring about him- splits him in two, a feeling that he’s never experienced before.

“Where are the towels?” she asks, turning around to face him. “If we lay some down on the floor it should keep the mess down a bit, right?”

He doesn’t tell her that it’s not a good idea- that a pile of soaking towels would raise questions that need to stay buried instead. So, he shakes his head, already closing the small distance between them.

The bathroom is small- all of them are. The tiles on the walls are a faded green color, some of them cracked- some of them are separated by mold- the caulk so old and weathered by age and neglect. He hopes that she doesn’t see them- his blood warming in embarrassment as he tells himself that he would fix them later, before she realized that this house was falling apart right under their feet.

The toilet and sink and the bathtub are old- not quite as stained, but still the same faded shade as the tiles that surrounded them. Under the harsh yellow light, it all looked a mess. At least it wasn’t like Hoyt’s bathroom- with too many colors and carpet all over the floors that trapped the smell of tobacco and sweat and soap, the steam that seemed to linger and stick to the walls doing nothing to lessen the stench.

He’s careful as he walks around her- suddenly aware of just how close they were. In here, with the door closed, being near to her seemed almost intimate in a way that he could not quite grasp.

He was used to being alone with people- usually they were screaming and begging, or already half-dead, delirious and confused from the pain and the blood loss. He was used to them thrashing and running and fighting back- hitting him with their fists, kicking him, throwing whatever they managed to get ahold of. They would always scare him when they did that- the pain eventually making him mad until he lashed out and hurt them on purpose.

They didn’t seem to understand that he didn’t want to make them suffer- that he was being kind- taking their lives quickly so that they didn’t have to be so afraid.

He was used to the screaming, the name calling- no matter how scared or afraid he got, he always knew how it would end.

With the woman, he had touched her- she had touched him- without screaming, without her begging or flinching or trying to run away. Out in the hall there had been enough space for him if he needed to get away, but here it was just the two of them- existing in a space that no one else seemed to belong in.

It terrified him just as much as it thrilled him. It made him feel the same way as when he had to chased down someone that had slipped out of his hold- but this time his mind wasn’t telling him to kill. This time, as he stood besides the woman, her eyes on him as he turned on the faucet and waited for the water to warm, something inside of him was telling him to chase her down in a completely different way- to keep her at his side.

Even if he had to chain her and train her- he did not want her to leave. He would not let her leave.

He remembers when he had first started at the Slaughterhouse, when he had been put to work with the cows- separating the babies from the mothers as soon as they were born. He would take them- carefully scooping them up in his arms, a child at the time, not knowing better, not knowing what it was that he was doing- and carry them to another part of the barn where he would drop them into cages so small that even he couldn’t fit inside.

They would cry and shake, unable to stand, unable to realize what lay ahead of them. He would feed them scraps he had stolen from the feeding center- oats or barley or even handfuls of grass from outside- shoving his hand through and letting them eat from his hand. They would calm down, even though they could not stand fully- their heads hunched over and pressed against the metal. He would show them that even if they weren’t going to live long- even if the world around them didn’t seem to care for them- they weren’t alone.

She did not have to be caged like them- though if he had to, he would keep her locked up if it meant keeping her beside him. Down in the basement where no one would hear her- where no one would disturb them, he would get her to see that he was a kind man, that he only wanted what was best for her.

She was already so much like the calves from back then- stupid and small and too trusting of him. It wouldn’t be hard to break her, to convince her that it was all her fault- that there was nothing left for her outside this home.

When the water heats up- steam rising and filling his lungs- he runs his fingers under the stream. Dirt and blood stain the sink, the hot water turning his fingers pink. It hurts, but not enough for him to stop. He rubs his hands together, the water turning pink as it drains. He can feel her eyes on him as he scrubs the grains of dirt from his skin.

For some reason, it embarrasses him- having her watch him do something so mundane and ordinary. He almost swore that he could feel the warmth from her eyes on his skin- hotter than the water. It makes the simple task suddenly seem foolish, makes him feel as if this was the first time he was doing it and he wasn’t sure if it was right or wrong.

With a grunt he tries to push the thoughts from his mind- cupping his hand and filling it with water before he splashes it onto his arm, onto the wound he had given himself. It makes a mess- water splashing onto his rolled sleeve and onto the floor, the sink too small to prevent the mess.

“Can I?” she says- and she’s suddenly closer than he had thought, her body pressed against his side. He can feel her through his shirt, through the thick fabric of her sweater. He swears that he can feel the softness of her body, the beating of her heart, the blood rushing through her veins on his very skin. It makes his heart leap into his throat- the sudden touch making him want to push her head into the glass of the medicine cabinet or pull her closer- he wasn’t sure which one he wanted to do most.

He stands still, body tense as she reaches for him, grabbing his arm and lifting it closer. She must have found the linen closet- an old, red washcloth in her other hand which she places underneath the running water. She hisses, pulling her hand away and opens the cold water.

“Doesn’t that hurt you?” she asks- and there’s no anger in her voice, no underlying judgement that has him tensing up, muscles rippling with dread that he had done something wrong. Momma liked to talk to him like that sometimes. She liked to ask questions that made him feel bad, that made him regret coming to her- guilty that he had bothered her. Hurt that she saw him as something bothersome.

He shakes his head, his way of telling her that no, it wasn’t hurting him. If he had a voice, he would tell her that his skin is so damaged that he could barely feel it, that some days he even preferred it- he liked the way his skin turned red and pulsed in a way that was almost comfortable, soothing.

“This will feel much better,” she holds her fingers under the water, and once it’s at a comfortable temperature she lets it run over the washcloth. “Tell me if I’m hurting you, okay?”

He nods sharply and she smiles at him- the corners of her mouth lifting. He expects her to rub the wound directly, desperate to clean it off before infection sets in. Instead, to his surprise, she wipes around the length of it- scrubbing gently at the blood matting the hair on his arm. The hand holding his arm is gentle, her fingers sinking into his soft flesh and holding him still.

He watches her- watches the concentration on her face that has her eyebrows knitted together as she wipes and rinses, repeating those two motions over and over and over again until his skin is cleaner- until the dirt is gone and there’s nothing left to hide the many sins he carried on his skin.

She pauses- and he can almost read her mind at that moment. He can see it in the tension in her wrist, feel it in the way her fingers tremble just a fraction of a second before they dig a little deeper into his arm. The feeling of her nails scratching at him isn’t painful, but it startles him just the same as if it were- a warmth growing in his chest that travels down to his belly and pools there- filling him with a different sort of sin.

He expects her to say something about the hundreds of tiny little cuts and bruises that she’s unearthed- he can feel it hang heavy in the air- his lips tingling from anticipation. From the worry that she would open her mouth and ruin it all.

It would either be disgust or pity- and he wanted neither. The scars were his to carry- his own punishment for his terrible deeds. Uncle Hoyt always cringed and acted like he didn’t see them- even though his mouth and face twisted as if he had eaten something sour. The pity always came from Momma- her hands on his as she prayed to God to take away whatever burdens he seemed to be carrying around in his heart. She wouldn’t touch them- maybe out of fear, or anger, or maybe just like Uncle Hoyt, she was disgusted as well- scared that if she touched the scars, they would somehow ruin her as well.

The corners of the woman’s mouth are still twisted down when she glances up at him- her eyes too dark to read. He wonders what he looks like in her eyes- what is it that she sees in him that no one else seems to see?

He waits for her to talk- to break the tense silence that’s choking him- but she doesn’t say a word, dropping her eyes as she picks up the bar of soap that’s been there for months. It almost slips out of her hand, and she lets go of him completely- his arm frozen in place, his body already missing hers. The tension disappears, as if nothing had ever happened, as if it had never been there to begin with. It rolls from the points of pressure that she had left behind on his flesh and up his arms. It moves in his veins, thick and syrupy- coating all of him in a feeling that’s doesn’t sit right.

Maybe he did want her to speak- to pity him after all. But the moment is gone, and he doesn’t have a voice to bring it back- to tell her what he was feeling, so he lets the discomfort drown him just a bit as he watches her act like nothing wrong had happened.

She rubs the bar between her hands, underneath the stream of water and his heart sinks at the thought of her cleaning all traces of him from her skin- he wanted to coat her in all that he was- his scent, his hatred, the bitter taste in his mouth that never seemed to go away- he wanted her to have it all, to carry him even if they were apart for a split second. An extension of him- equally as fearsome.

“Come here,” she motions for him to bring his arm towards her hands, letting the bar fall into the sink. Her hands are covered in soap as she takes his arm in between them- gently scrubbing from his wrist to the inside of his elbow, where his rolled-up sleeve sat. At first, she doesn’t touch the wound- and he can feel the hesitation in her fingers as she scrubs at his arm, circling around it. She scrubs at his skin, at the spaces between his fingers, taking his hand in her own and gently massaging it.

It's the first time anyone has done something like that to him- and while he can’t understand why she was being so thorough when it would have been easier to just hand him the soap and let him do it, he has no intention of stopping her.

He simply watches and enjoys- his mouth twisted into the closest thing of a smile that he could manage underneath his mask.

“Tell me if I hurt you, okay?” she says quietly, and it takes him a second to understand her words, his mind lost even to himself- her fingers lightly press against the cut as she speaks, drawing him back into reality. He tenses as she begins to clean it out, rubbing soapy water into it. It doesn’t hurt- not with how light and slow she moves her hand, her finger dipping into the hole he had scratched open. He expects it to hurt or sting or startle him- but pain doesn’t come. Instead, he groans in delight- enjoying the way her finger seems to be tearing into him, stretching his skin open. It’s like she’s making space for herself inside of him- forcing herself into the parts of him that held him together, sinew and muscle and blood- now poisoned with whatever sickness the woman had inflicted in his heart.

“Sorry!” she says quickly, pulling her hand away from him. The once white bubbles between her fingers are now a soft shade of pink, mixed with his blood. It all disappears down the drain as she rinses her hand, drying them on the front of her jeans.

He grows frustrated at the fact that there’s no way to tell her that she hadn’t hurt him- that he wanted her to do it again. That the pain she caused him was almost addictive- sweeter than the whiskey Uncle Monty sometimes let him have whenever he was in a good enough mood to share.

The woman motions for him to rinse his arm, already cupping her hands together under the faucet and letting the cool water pool between her hands. He angles his arm awkwardly into the sink and she lets the water trickle from between her fingers over his arm slowly. He watches as she repeats the motion, rinsing his arm- it’s so trivial and boring, yet he’s in awe as she takes care of him.

Without a second thought, the woman is already devoting herself to the mundanity of life with him. He could see it as she turns the water off and tells him to wait- as if he would leave her side, as if he could do something so absolutely stupid- subjecting himself to an agony he had no intention of experiencing firsthand.

He hears the closet door open behind him, making him turn around and look at the woman as she rummages through old fitted blankets, washcloths and towels until she finds what she needs. With one hand pressed against the pile of folded towels she pulls one free, tossing it over her arm. “I don’t know how long this has been here for-” as she talks, she moves onto her toes, stretching her arm out as she reaches for something on one of the top shelves.

He almost moves to help her, his body already swaying in place, eager to move, to make himself useful to the woman. But he spends too long trying to decide- her hand closing around whatever it was that she had seen earlier. She lets out a small noise of delight as she drops down to the balls of her feet, and it wracks through him, sending a shiver of warmth up his spine that spreads across his chest- tightening the muscles in his lower belly.

“Expired medicine and antibiotics are better than nothing, right?” She asks as he turns and faces him- lips curved up into a smile and he almost finds himself mimicking it- the corners of his lips twitching. He catches himself, hot embarrassment forcing his eyes to drop from her face- down to the small plastic medicine bin in her hands. It did not matter that he had his mask to hide behind, the way she looked at him made him feel as if she could somehow see through it- his face exposed for whatever ridicule and insults she would eventually throw at him.

 There are bottles of pills stacked on top of one another- the type that Momma used to give him when he was feverish. It would take his sickness as well as his hunger- leaving him too heavy to do anything but lay in bed until the heat of his body burned through the drug. There are other things as well- gauze and bandages, silver packages of pills he couldn’t identify, the label worn off a long time ago- a bottle of Vaseline, faded from the years sits next to a glass jar of Vapor-Rub. Looking at it, he swears that he can smell it even with how far away from the jar he was- even though his nose hasn’t worked properly for months, he feels the ghost of it wrinkle as he cringes from the offensive smell his mind reminds him of.

Momma used to slather him with it when he had first started working at the Slaughterhouse. He hadn’t been used to the smell of it back then and every day he went back had been miserable. The scent of death and blood and shit had soured his stomach until he had gone and thrown up the oatmeal Momma had made for breakfast all over his worktable. All over the slab of meat he had been told to break down. He can still remember the taste of animal blood on his tongue after he had wiped his mouth- forgetting that his hands and arms and chest had been covered in chunks of offal. His boss had called him every bad word under the sun-some were words that he had never heard before, now fully engrained in his mind, tearing at his heart once Monty had told him what they meant.

When he had gone home that night, after scrubbing his station clean- the blood mixing with his waste underneath his nails, in the strands of his hair and in between the cracks of his boots, Momma had slapped him. She had been waiting for him on the porch, her face twisted down in anger, the blue of her eyes dark and cold behind her glasses.

She had called him a great big idiot- uncaring of how dirty he had been, of how hard he had silently prayed to God for the day to hurry up and end so that he could leave and go home. At one point, when the bell for Lunch had rung and he was forced to stay and catch up to everyone else- his boss throwing what Momma had packed for him in the garbage before spitting on it with a laugh- he had wanted to die, his chest burning every single time he brought the cleaver down. He had wanted to die right then and there- to stop existing all together. To be nothing but the air around him- free from the bad people, from the stares, from feeling like all that he did was somehow inherently wrong. No matter if it was an accident or not, no one ever seemed to care enough to listen to him.

Momma had gotten a call from the Slaughterhouse- telling her that because of his careless mistake he would have to be let go. Momma had told him, as she dragged him to the hose out back, that she had begged and begged and begged for them to give him a second chance. They couldn’t lose his income, not with Uncle Monty getting less hours at his job and the Government cutting Uncle Hoyt’s veteran checks so suddenly. They were barely making ends meet as it was- this would ruin them.

She had yelled and shouted, spraying him with cold water until he was a shivering mess, the blood no longer crusted over on his skin. He could feel the cold water pooling in his boots, making his socks stick to his toes. It hadn’t even mattered to him then, his heart hammering away at his chest at the thought of never having to go back. Of not having to wake up so early to walk all the way to the other side of town in a place that he hated.

He didn’t even mind when Momma had beat him, welts forming on his wet skin from the belt she kept exclusively for punishments. The pain was nothing in comparison to when Momma had told him that she had made sure that he had kept his job.

They were going to cut his pay, a little every check, until he paid off the cost of the half cow he had puked all over. But he still had a job, he was still able to help the family out- wasn’t that good? Momma asked him, smiling at him like she hadn’t just beat him tired.

 Momma warned him that he couldn’t mess this up again. That there were no more chances after this- sending him up to his room with no dinner, his stomach already empty and rubbing against itself.

The morning after, when she had woken him up- his body sore from all the walking that he had done and the bruises forming on his back and legs- Momma had twisted open the jar of Vapor-rub for the first time, filling his room with the slightly sweet- minty smell.

She had bought it last night, right before the shop closed- with the bit of lose change she had managed to scrap together. It’s gonna help you from making another mistake she said right before she shoved a finger full of it into his nose. It was thick, and cold, burning the inside of his nose as he moaned in pain, trying to push Momma away before she shoved more into the other nostril. She had smacked his hand away, telling him that this was for his own good. That this was only until he got used to it.

He had moaned as tears began to form, shaking his head- trying to empty his nose, the burning crawling up into his head and making his eyes water painfully. Every inhale he took through his mouth burned its way to his lungs. Momma only slapped him again- telling him that this was his fault. That he had to do this for the family.

“You’re so selfish Thomas!” she shouted at him, holding his jaw and shoving another finger into his empty nostril. “There’s no room for useless boys in this house, do you understand?”

He couldn’t remember anything after that. His memories about that day lost to the pain he had put himself through. He remembers bits and pieces- the hunger. The burning. The anger.

He always seemed to remember the anger. Flashing through him- hot and cold, boiling his blood.

Something outside of his thoughts rattle and he’s once more standing in the bathroom, a man three times the size of the child that he had once been. Beside him, the woman had set the medicine bin on top of the toilet tank and was rummaging through it- the source of the noise that had brought him back.

He’s tense, the muscles in his neck thick and tight. He doesn’t like how he seemed to live more in his memories- constantly remembering all the things that he just wanted to forget. He didn’t want to remember, to be reminded of the pain he carried.

The woman glances at him, holding a small yellow squeeze tube and a roll of self-adhesive medical tape in one hand. Their eyes meet and she smiles at him, even though he can feel the way his face is twisted down into a scowl- his eyebrows heavy over his eyes.

He doesn’t mean to glare at her- to make her smile falter slightly as her eyes widen just a fraction. He could almost see himself in her eyes and he doesn’t like the him that he imagines. Large and imposing- a thing that only knows how to hurt, how to cause fear. He waits for the woman to realize her mistake- to realize that she was trapped in a small room with a monster.

“Give me your arm?” she asks him, holding out her right hand. “Let’s get you all wrapped up, okay?” her smile is still small, and he can see the wariness in her eyes, but when he places his arm in her hand she doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t rush him- wanting to get this over with.

She pulls him towards her instead, slender fingers wrapping around his forearm as much as possible. She tugs, and he moves- lightweight in her hold.

He’s aware of the muscles in his face- of how, even if he’s partially hidden behind his mask, his face sits. He makes himself relax- something that comes easy with the warmth of her hand on his body, easing the tension that he still carried from his memories. Her touch burned into him, filled him until he swore that he could feel her in his blood- pumping through his heart.

Her eyes don’t leave his as she pulls him closer, and motions with her head for him to sit down on the toilet. “It’ll be easier, that way you don’t have to keep your arm in the air.” She explains, shuffling out of the way to make space for him.

Underneath his weight, the toilet squeaks and shifts as he does as told, awkwardly sitting down. She’s taller than him like this, his head at the same level with her chest, making him have to tilt his head back just a bit to meet her eyes.

Her smile had grown in the time he had looked away- and he can’t help the heat that spreads across his face, his ears growing hot. Could she feel it? The warmth that she caused him? The uneasiness thrumming through him that had the tips of his fingers aching to touch her? To hold her like she held him?

“Can you hold this?” she asks, already dropping something into his expecting hand. It had been resting on his lap, calloused covered palm open and waiting- a beggar’s pose. The ointment and tape weren’t what he had been waiting for, but he takes them, closing his thick fingers around them.

What he didn’t expect was for her to lean over him with a mumbled “sorry”, her hand falling onto his shoulder as she reached for something behind him- inside of the medicine bin.

He doesn’t know what to do- his body freezing underneath hers as her neck grazes his mask covered face. It doesn’t last long- maybe a fraction of a second before she’s pulling away and dropping the hand from his shoulder, but it was enough.

Enough for him to inhale the light scent of her- woodsy and sweet and nutty- just the smallest hint of sweat underneath that. It reminded him of the baked goods Momma used to make for him on his birthday when he was small. It was comforting in the same way that it twisted his stomach with the pain of remembering something that used to make him so happy, something that had been taken from him so abruptly once Momma decided that he was too big to celebrate his birthday. Too old to be cared for.

The woman had been so close that he swore that he could almost hear the blood pounding through her veins. He had almost been tempted to turn his head and feel its pulse with his lips. To scratch her skin with his mask- the scent of her tainting it the same way it has already ruined his senses.

He could picture it- his teeth sinking into the warm and thin flesh she had so stupidly given him access to. It was almost scary- the way his mouth began to water at the thought of her blood on his tongue, raw flesh between his teeth. He wanted to fill his belly with it- to make her a part of him in a way that no one could take from him.

Would she taste as sweet as she smelled?

He swallowed down saliva, clearing the bad thoughts from his mind- scared that if he kept focusing on them, he would do something that he didn’t really want to do.  Something that he wouldn’t be able to take back, no matter how hard he begged and prayed and tried to undo.

He didn’t want to hurt her right now. No matter how hard his mind was telling him to do it- replaying all of the times that he could have done so. Showing him all of the ways that he still could.

He feels ashamed of his thoughts, of the temptation that he was barely keeping at bay- and finds himself unable to look at the woman as she rips open a piece of plastic, tossing it in the garbage can between the toilet and the sink. He keeps his eyes on the space between his legs, on her beat-up boots as she stands in front of him- sweet and unaware of what a horrible person he truly was. Of all that he was struggling to not do to her.

“Do you think Luda Mae is getting suspicious?”

The question startles him, reminding him of the world outside of the bathroom, outside of the woman in front of him.

“She’s probably thinking I ran away; don’t you think?” the woman’s laugh is small, feathery light. He doesn’t know how to answer- not knowing how long they had been up here. There was a possibility that Momma had grown suspicious, or maybe she thought that he had snapped and taken care of her in the only way that he knew how.

Vaguely, he shakes his head. Whether it’s to disagree with her or to tell her that he wasn’t sure- he let’s her decide on which one he’s trying to communicate. If Momma had been concerned, she would have come upstairs to check on her already, so he wasn’t too worried. He shrugs, and her laughter fills his ears again.

“Right. If you’re not worried, then I won’t be either. I just don’t want her to think that I’ve been a horrible guest- running off in the middle of helping her with dinner.”

He shakes his head again and this time its to reassure her that Momma wouldn’t think that. At least he hoped that she wouldn’t. The thought of Momma angry at the woman made his chest burn uncomfortably. An ache that slithered in the tight spaces between his ribs- hot and uneasy in its slickness.

“Well, what’s done is done, lets just get your arm bandaged. I might need your help facing her again.” The woman likes to talk with a smile, he’s noticed. It was as if her mouth had no other way to rest- the corners turned up towards the heavens, towards her eyes that liked to seek him out- unafraid of what she saw, of what others liked to look away from.

He wondered if she was joking- if she was just talking in order to fill the silence. He knew people who did that- people like Hoyt and his old boss at the Slaughterhouse, who had to keep their mouths moving or they would stop existing all together. He liked to think that if he had a voice, he would be like that too- not quite as annoying, but loud enough that people were forced to look at him, to listen to what he had to say.

He would tell the woman that he would keep her safe. That he wanted to go down with her and show Momma that she had done nothing wrong. That if anyone was to blame, it was him. It was his fault that she had stayed away for so long. He would hide her away from Momma’s anger- keep her tucked behind him- safe.

If he was being honest, he wasn’t sure that he wanted her to leave just yet. They could stay here a little longer- everything behind that door non-existent. He could make believe that Momma was still at work, busy with too many customers- outsiders who were just passing by, headed for more than the meat hooks in the basement of this house. That for a bit his uncle’s Monty and Hoyt didn’t exist. That the world was just for him and her.

That would be enough for him. He was almost tempted to ask God- to check and see if he was still paying attention to him after all that he had done.

The woman moves from in front of him and takes a seat on the edge of the tub, her knees rubbing against the outside of his thigh as she grabs his arm and places it on her lap. He can feel the buckle of her belt against his knuckles- his arm suddenly a solid weight as he feels the warmth that radiates from the space between her thighs.

 It crawls along his skin- up to his shoulder and through the space in his chest. It reminds him of the times that he’s stayed in one spot for too long, his limbs falling asleep. Though there was no uncomfortable pain this time- Instead it felt like a million little bugs were crawling around inside of him- a buzzing under his skin that he was unused to, but not disgusted by. It was something that maybe he could get used to.

It settles in his belly- thick and heavy and hot, stirring awake thoughts that felt too uncomfortable to focus on. Shamefully, he raises his eyes from the woman’s lap, trying to think of something other than the way her jeans clung to her thighs or how close his fingers were to the space between her legs- somehow hotter than the rest of her, the back of his hand burning pleasantly. He wanted to keep it there- to soak all of himself in her warmth until he knew nothing more.

He pushes the indecent thoughts from his mind, suddenly growing paranoid that the woman would find out what he was thinking about her. He didn’t want her to think that he was disgusting. Rotten just like Uncle Hoyt, who was obsessed with playing with their food.

“Is this uncomfortable for you, Tommy?” maybe it was because the silence had gone on for too long, but the woman whispers her question- her voice only for him, distracting him slightly as she reaches for the things she had given him, plucking them from his hand before he even had a chance to register the movement- her hand too fast that he barely feels the way her fingers skim his palm.

She’s already twisted open the bottle of ointment by the time he shakes his head- the cap balancing on the edge of her knee. With a hum she nods- her eyes focused on her own hands even though he wants her to look at him again. He wanted her to ask him more questions- her voice tender and sweet whenever she spoke to him. He wanted her to distract him for his thoughts that liked to pull him away from her- and right now he wanted to stay right here, to not miss a single moment.

The ointment is cold against his skin- the woman squeezing a light amount right above the wound. He can feel it cleansing away all of his wickedness- her finger swiping at it until it’s in the deepest layer of his flesh, leaving nothing behind but an oily residue that coated her thumb. Without a pause she sticks a piece of gauze on top- taping it up until the gauze is well hidden under flesh colored medical tape.

He had found it in the pocket of one of the first of Uncle Hoyt’s guests- setting it aside for Momma along all of the jewelry he had collected. Maybe it was for a reason that he had second guessed his decision to throw it away. Maybe that had been a sign from above that you were on your way- that God hadn’t abandoned them after all.

The woman is gentle as she pats the covered wound and leans back a bit to meet his expectant eyes. What does she see in them- in him- that makes her look at him so sweetly?

“You’re all set. How’s it feeling? It’s not too tight, is it?”

[yandere-daydreams]

Do you have any tips for being like, less straight to point when writing? I feel whenever I write I’m being super descriptive and taking my time talking about stuff and then I read it back ands it like

“The sky was a cool blue. I like when the sky is blue”

Like I was reading one of your fics and thought “damn, this bitch like the Tolkien of yandere fanfiction, writing the most beautifully paragraphs known to mankind for gojo”

You won’t gotta tell me I know that you do commissions and stuff so that’s like, your income lmao

wait this is actually something i think about on the reg,,, you really have to come at with the assumption that, if you're writing in first or third person limited, your readers will know to assume that whatever's being said is automatically from your pov character's perspective and therefore aligns with their mentality. that frees you up to get really creative with adjectives and physical descriptions that inform the audience about the character's feelings (i.e. "the sky was a cheerful and idyllic blue" for a character who lies sunny days or "the sky was an agitating and eye-bleeding blue" for a character who doesn't). alternatively, you could also link new stimulus to the physical reaction it causes in the character, for example "the sky was blue. i found myself smiling absentmindedly as i went about my day." the latter is pretty easy to overuse, but also leaves a stronger impression with readers.

it's also very important to be very, very mindful with how you're pacing the distribution of information, too. i personally try to limit myself to one new piece of information per paragraph, just to give my readers time to adjust to a character's eyes being blue before letting them know that his mom is also super dead, but in general, just don't feel the need to get all of your exposition off your chest as soon as it's brought up. intrigue is hot, and the deliberate with-holding of clarification makes it hotter. plus, if it can't be shown by the events of the story and doesn't come up in a character's natural monologue/dialogue, there's a good chance it wasn't that important to begin with. there's no need to talk about how dead a character's mom is at all if he's going to her funeral, like, three pages later.

tldr; use more adjectives and don't tell your readers shit. they'll figure it out on their own if they know what's good for them.

[handweavers]

YOU’RE WRITING A NOVEL????? Can I hear about it.

it's pseudo-historical fiction set in a made up version of 1880s-1920s eurasia examining the development of imperialism in this era + industrialization + the rise of communism. this is done primarily through the lens of a boy who was born a literal bear and violently forced into the role of a human prince of one of the imperial powers as part of the colonization of his homeland, is woefully mistreated by everyone and used as a pawn and so he becomes a class traitor (positive) and joins the revolution in his homeland and then marries this world's version of lenin who is a mongolian woman who can form soul bonds with animals & merge consciousness with them 🫶🏼 its both an examination of these various historical-material forces and a love story

they are lifelong friends and her story weaves in and out of his until finally coming together as they transition from being revolutionaries to building a socialist state, and i'm exploring how as they fall in love and their senses of self tangle and merge the limited third person pov expands to include her awareness. in this version of the world my "lenin" (she is not literally lenin, i'm taking inspiration from several historical figures for her, but her role in the history of this world is effectively that of lenin) lives far longer than 1924

the main regions/locations of focus are the eurasian steppe, russian empire, and third republic france / french empire, with late qing china/warlord era roc and much of the balkans and north africa as peripheries - albeit fantasy equivalents of all of the above as i'm taking liberties with some things lol. but i have been doing a lot of historical research on all of the above and having a great time with it. in this version of the world the first socialist state is not in russia but elsewhere in the steppe, and so i'm examining the material conditions that could have caused that to happen and forming the world around that + playing with the political economies of these made up countries

some things i'm exploring through the main characters' personal narratives issues like gender and sexuality, class struggle and the role of the state in revolution and what is required not only to start a communist revolution but to maintain it against counter-revolutionary forces, the collapse of monarchism and how the world reached the crisis of imperialism that was ww1, anti-communist nationalism in the early 20th century, childhood abuse and the manufactured powerlessness of childhood as an allegory for being an imperialized subject, imperial and class collaboration vs resistance, and a bunch of other things. it spans 40 years of their lives so there's a lot to cover and many 'periods' of their lives

the world is heavily set in reality with only minor fantastical elements that fly under the radar, like the main character having been born a bear is not really the point of the story but exists to aid the themes. in this world the fact that sometimes animals can turn into humans and humans can share consciousness with other forms of life exists very much in the background. a lot of the story is focused on character development and the personal relationships between characters, set while all of the above is happening. balancing all of this and writing it in a way that the entire thing doesn't feel like a fever dream or a textbook is my ongoing struggle that i am sincerely enjoying

[wangxianficfinder]

In the mood for...

Nov 28th

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1. Hi, thank you for all that you do!! I'm itmf wangxian fics where LWJ is going through qi deviation and WWX is angsting about how to save him. Any timeline, AU, whatever. @thegertie

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2. itmf some meddling juniors! wangxian main couple please, rather getting together but will read established, modern au or canon era, all good :)

🔒 The Absolutely True Story of the Yiling Patriarch: A Manifesto in Many Parts by aubreyli (T, 19k, WangXian, In-Universe RPF, Romance Novel, LJY’s sense of justice, OYZZ’s sense of romance, Featuring a surprise appearance by WWX’s oft-absent sense of shame, Look the ducklings just want their sort-of dads to be happy okay?, And it’s not like WWX or LWJ are doing a good job of ensuring their own happiness, LJY rejects canon reality and substitutes his own, highly relatable actually, Post-Canon Fix-It, primarily drama-canon with cameos from novel-canon, The Absolutely True Story of the Yiling Patriarch: A Manifesto in Many Parts by aubreyli [Podfic] by Rhea314 (Rhea))

A Dramatic Reading by pupeez4eva (Not Rated, 5k, WangXian, Humor, Post-Canon, Public Confessions, oblivious wangxian, The Juniors accidentally write Wangxian fanfiction on a cursed scroll, Everyone suffers the consquences, Getting Together)

not unspectacular things by taizi (T, 14k, WangXian, The Parent Trap Fusion, Unconventional Families, Adopted Children, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, the kids are alright, Families of Choice, Modern AU, Meddling Kids, Unreliable Narrator, Good Sibling JC, Protective NHS, One Big Happy Family, POV Third Person Limited)

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3. hello! recently read a couple fics where wwx turns into a kid (specifically around the time he was on the streets) and others have to look after him for a while, would anyone have more recommendations? i read be the first to see the spring and one other i can’t remember but i’d love any recs

❤️ grow by cafecliche (T, 14k, WangXian, Age Regression/De-Aging, Character Study, Post-Canon, [Podfic] Grow by jellyfishfire)

home is where we are by halfdemonvash (T, 17k, wangxian, JC & WWX, Twin Prides of Yúnmèng are Bad at Communicating, JC & WWX Reconciliation, but only somewhat because these these things take time, Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst and Feels, Hijinks & Shenanigans, accidental baby acquisition but it’s actually your older brother, references to wwx’s past being homeless, and also his past food insecurity, rated T for jiang cheng’s language, and light sexual content in the beginning, Post-Canon, Yúnmèng Siblings Feels, Junior Trio Shenanigans)

found your writing on my wall by howodd5ever (T, 25k, WangXian, Accidental Baby Acquisition, De-aged WWX, Post-Canon, Getting Together, jl makes an appearance, lsz best boy, Referenced Child Neglect, discussion of parental loss, child food insecurity, Case Fic, Kind Of, Nightmares)

Rewritten by yamadori (Katsumi27) (G, 6k, WangXian, Age Regression/De-Aging, Emotional Hurt/Comfort)

sugar stains by lanjingyeet (T, 18k, WangXian, Kid Fic, (kind of), General Shenanigans, Spirits, questionable parenting, junior trio on babysitting duty, Age Regression/De-Aging, Child WWX)

Glimpses Of The Past by A_simple_Cookie, GoschateWabn (G, 52k, WangXian, WIP, Age Regression/De-Aging, Good Sibling JC, YLLZ WWX, Young WWX, Childhood Memories, Fluff and Angst, Twin Prides of Yunmeng Feels, Twin Prides of Yunmeng Dynamics, LWJ Has a Yiling Laozu Kink, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Humor, Family Bonding, Post-Canon, WWX Needs a Hug, Gremlin WWX, Hijinks & Shenanigans, beware WWX shenanigans inside) WWX regresses to all different ages in turn, so childhood, Cloud Recesses, Sunshot, YLLZ etc

💖🔒Silver & Gold by beeswaxing (E, 162k, wangxian, post-canon, fix-it, fluff & angst, hurt/comfort, de-aging, established relationship, non-sexual intimacy, cuddling & snuggling, BAMF WWX, horny teenagers, underage kissing)

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4. Hi! Thank you for all that you do. For ITMF I would like to know if someone has recommendations for fics with Nie Mingjue discovering his brother intelligence or more people realizing how smart Huaisang or his part in the whole plan against JGY. Thank you again. @anime-trash-parody

while covered in mud by merthurlin (T, 12k, NHS & WWX, NHS & NMJ, NHS & Wen remnants, mentioned wangxian, canon divergence, fix-it, NHS goes farming and Hates It)

This Time Around by KouriArashi (T, 83k, JGY & NHS, NHS & WWX, JGY & WWX, Time Travel Fix-It, Kid Fic, Families of Choice, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Politics, Class Issues, Past Child Abuse, Moral Ambiguity, Everybody Lives, Eventual Happy Ending)

A Future Family In A Broken Past by Hauntcats (T, 121k, wangxian, WWX & Wen Remnants, Jiang Family & WWX, WQ/MM, JYL/NHS, LXC/NMJ, Not Jiāng Family Friendly, Not Cultivation World Friendly, WWX Needs a Hug, Family Dynamics, What is a good family?, Fear of emotions does not excuse abuse, Not Jiang Clan Friendly, Angst with a Happy Ending, Time Travel fix-it, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon Divergence, LXC needs a hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Not YZY Friendly)

🔒 the thread may stretch or tangle but it will never break by RoseThorne (E, 102k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Soulmates, Self-Esteem Issues, Fix-It, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, PTSD, Handfasting, Panic Attacks, Getting Together, First Time, Aftercare, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, /Referenced Torture, Scars, Chronic Pain, Golden Core Reveal, First Time, Switching, sex-related injury, LWJ Stays at the Burial Mounds, LSZ is a Wèi, Good Sibling JC, Dissociation, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, Disability, Scheming NHS, Disabled Character, Somnophilia) doesn’t involve the plot against jgy

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5. Itmf more like Ready for Blood On The Ground by mondengel. Just Lan Wanji not having the patience for everyone’s shit after his Wei Ying’s death and either saying or doing something about it. Please please please @queenkittykat336

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6. itmf a fic where wwx only remembers lwj as the dorky shy kid but when they meet again after awhile he realises lwj grew up hot

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7. A) are there any fics where wwx is a mafia boss and lwj is his trophy wife (or partner whatever) and doesn't take shit from anyone? I also don't mind if it's the other way around (like lwj is the mafia boss)

B) fics with loads loads loads of angst I wanna cry

7A)

You & Me Baby, We’ll Eclipse The Sun Series by 2501987 (M/E, 130k, WangXian, XiCheng, MIND THE TAGS, Modern AU, Mafia, Murder husbands, Torture, Possessive Behavior, Blood and Violence, Older JC, Younger WWX, Hurt/Comfort, Dark) The mafia boss is LWJ, not WWX, but the ask did say that was okay, so....

Take Some Advice Paesano by FeelsForBreakfast (M, 8k, WangXian, Mob, Mafia AU - Clown Version, Humor, Mistaken Identity, Modern, Getting Together, op listened to mambo italiano 30 times while writing this, precious moments for the oral fixation girlies, Podfic Available) A delightful fic in lwj's pov where musician!lwj gets kidnapped as a birthday present for mob boss!wwx. Technically lwj isn't a trophy wife yet but he plans to remedy that asap

7B)

voicemail mementos by waywardwriter (T, 3k, WangXian, Major Character Death, Modern, Getting Together, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Closure) I'm someone who takes a LOT to make cry and I was sobbing by the end of this

to the act of making noise by words-writ-in-starlight (WordsWritInStarlight) (G, 19k, LSZ & LWJ, LSZ & WWX, WangXian, Grief/Mourning, Father-Son Relationship, inquiry, LSZ is the best of boys and I will not hear debate, Music, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, [Podfic] to the act of making noise by Ceewelsh, flamingwell, kisahawklin, Rionaa) and for extra tissue warning, check out the podfic version with music

this storm that should not be by TheDameJudiWench (G, 6k, WangXian, Hurt/Comfort, Drowning, Family Dynamics) which is short but packs a punch

总有一天; a place to hide (can’t find one near) by yiqie (E, 76k, WangXian, Modern AU, Pianist, Getting Together, Mental Health Issues, Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Thoughts, Depression, Hospitals, Overdosing, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Additional Warnings In Author’s Note) but please mind the tags on this one.

New Perspective series by mrcformoso (T, 35k, WangXian, LSZ & LWJ, WN & WWX, LSZ & WWX, LJY/LSZ, Major Character Death, Angst, Hopeful Ending, Fatherhood, Regrets, Flashbacks, POV LWJ, LWJ-centric, Canonical Character Death - WWX, Pining LWJ, LWJ Has Feelings, LWJ Needs a Hug, Character Development, Dead WWX, LWJ deals with the death of his love, And learns to be a father along the way, Introspection, Feelings, LWJ is Bad at Feelings, Character Study, Regretful LWJ, Breaking Toxic Cycles, Canon Compliant, LWJ in Seclusion, Post-LWJ in Seclusion, Child LSZ, Canon Divergence, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, LWJ regaining WWX's Trust, Golden Core Reveal, Good Kid LSZ, Post-Time Skip, Love Confessions, Requited Love, Trust Issues, WWX Has a Fear of Dogs, WWX Has No Golden Core, Light Jealousy, Fierce Corpse WN, Protective LWJ, Post-Canon WWX Has Chronic Pain, WWX Has Issues, WWX has Phantom Pain, WWX was Malnourished, Sad LWJ, POV WWX., WWX is always cold, Migraines, Suicidal WWX, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, mirror therapy, Good Friend NHS, Crying, WWX's body is normal but he still feels as if it isnt, Made up Nie Clan lore, POV LSZ, Found Family, Toxic Elders, Growing Up, The Lan Juniors, LSZ's parents suffered, And so he starts a revolution, Bringing about change, LWJ Adopts LSZ, WWX is LSZ's Parent, LSZ is a polite menace, Hanguang-jun raised an army of Lan rebels and we're here for it, Good Uncle WN)

Window of the Waking Mind by mrcformoso (M, 8k, wangxian, LSZ & WWX, JC & WWX, Graphic depictions of violence, Major Character Death, Heavy Angst with a Happy Ending, Sad with a Happy Ending, Post-Canon, Torture, Golden Core Transfer, WWX Has Self-Esteem Issues, Hurt WWX, WWX Needs a Hug, WWX Needs a Break, Flashbacks, Curses, Night Hunts, Suicide, Starvation, Canonical Child Abuse, Canonical Character Death, Cannibalism, Although it was forced by the situation to survive, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, lots of comfort, Soft LQR, Learning To Communicate, Zidian Spiritual Tool, JC Tries, Reaction)

When the Words Stop Coming by mrcformoso (T, 7k, WangXian, Canon Compliant, POV WWX, POV LWJ, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Pre-Sunshot Campaign, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, Canonical Character Death, Love Confessions, Rejection, LWJ is a Panicked Gay, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Trauma, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, WWX confesses early on, But canon still happens, LWJ starts confessing after, but the tables have turned, Angst with a Happy Ending, LWJ rejects WWX, Then gets rejected by WWX after, “Get Lost”, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian)

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8. Speaking of zombie apocalypse that ive seem from the last ficfinder, do you know any apocalyptic setting fanfic where wwx dies because he's bitten?

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9. Hi, for Itmf are there any story where wwx brags about being really experienced in relationships only for being totally outmatched by lwj?

Wei Laoshi, Poonslayer by FeelsForBreakfast (E, 6k, WangXian, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, POV LWJ, straight boy wwx, Loss of Virginity, Getting Together)

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10. Itmf fics where the juniors find out how WWX looked before he died. Thanks so much!

Is Your Old Body Considered a Halloween Costume? by The_peregrine_falcon (G, 3k, WangXian, WWX's original body, Junior quartet makes an appearance, LQR's blood pressure is going up, LWJ is chief cultivator, Fluff, Canon Compliant, Post-Canon)

little a-ying by byeollie (Not Rated, 16k, WangXian, Curses, Age Regression/De-Aging, Fluff, Babysitting, everyone has to look after a mischievous wwx, lqr has a heart, Established Relationship, Junior Trio Dynamics, Unreliable Narrator, Family Feels, Found Family, Kinda, yunmeng bros reconciliation, Post-Canon, Mild Hurt/Comfort)

Transcend by covalentbonds (not rated, 7k, WIP, WangXian, Post-Canon, Fluff and Humor, Smut, YLLZ WWX is prettiest fight me)

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11. Hello! Thank you for the last itmf. A) This time I'm in the mood for preferably longer fics (50k and above) that focus on either one of these characters: Nie Mingjue, Nie Huaisang, Jiang Cheng, Lan Xichen.

I would like to see if there are any fics that focus on their character development and/or their romantic lives. It can be them with another character from mdzs or even an OC character. Just no Reader and Y/N please.

B) And fics that have Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan as the main couple.

Thank you so much for all your recommendations and have a nice day! @broodyelii

11A)

you made a rebel of a careful man by bluecottontail (VOlympianlove), VOlympianlove (T, 64k, NieLan, WangXian, past XiYao, Grocery Store, Meet-Cute, Romance, fast burn, Single Parents, Dating, Fluff and Angst, Domestic Fluff, Self Confidence Issues, Love at First Sight, Modern AU, Marriage Proposal)

Flourish by cicisears (M, 130k, Xuansang, WangXian, QingLi,XiYao, NieLan, YaoSu, NSFW, ish, dicks are mentioned, as in dick sucking, Friends to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Closeted Character, closeted guy didn't know he was closeted, Angst and Fluff!, Found Family, Homophobia, Casual bed sharing, until it's not casual, Sexy times implied, Parent Death, Super Minor Character Death, College Life, Pining)

Thin Ice by Nie_Miso (E, 66k, WIP, WangXian, College/University, Football | Soccer Captain NMJ, Dual POV, Cheerleading Captain LXC, Wangxian progression, Rivals to Lovers, Slow Burn, Locker Room, bisexual awakening, Light Dom/sub, light question mark, Background WangXian)

only love can hurt like this by bluecottontail (VOlympianlove), VOlympianlove (T, 53k, NieLan, WangXian, XuanLi, XiYao, Crazy Rich Asians Fusion, Inspired by Crazy Rich Asians, Modern AU, Singapore, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Cheating, negative xiyao relationship)

🔒The Gold Lotus by The Bathhouse (Cleoptrix) (E, 61k, ChengSang, XiYao, ChengYao, JueNing, Wedding Planner, Modern AU, Fluff and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Bickering, Misunderstandings, miscommunications, POV Alternating, Chengyao is not endgame, Nonbinary NHS, Asexual NMJ, Morally Grey NHS, Morally-Grey LXC, speaking of, Cheating, but not really, JC Has Anxiety, JC Has a Panic Attack, JC has a Therapist, JC Gets a Hug, Slut Shaming, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Guilt, Platonic Sex, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink, Massage, Affirmation as Punishment, Everyone is verse except for JC, bottom JC, Power Play, Light Dom/sub, Overstimulation, Edgeplay, Biting, Kink Discovery, Foot Fetish, Body Worship, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Face-Fucking, Cock Warming)

Unique in All the World by The_Storybooker (M, 58k, ChengSang, background XiYao, Modern AU, Aromantic NHS, Asexual JC, Consent, Relationship Negotiation, Compatibility, Friends to Lovers)

Flowers Over Boys by morichrome (T, 55k, XiCheng, Background WangXian, Background XuanLi)

🔒Audience of One by WinterDreams (T, 181k, XiCheng, WangXian, Implied MingYao, Modern AU, Celebrities, Inspired by 10 Things I Hate About You (1999), Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Singer LXC, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Swearing, Slow Burn, Family Feels, Family Bonding, childhood crushes, past emotional abuse, Post-Betrayal, Venerated Triad Feels, Yunmeng Duo Feels, Nightmares, Fluff and Angst, hand holding, Babysitter Ā-Qìng, Domestic Fluff, SongXiao mentioned relationship, Soft XiCheng, Eventual Happy Ending)

The Needle and the Nail by littledust (E, 119k, ChengQing, WQ Lives, Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Memory Loss, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Angst with a Happy Ending, Golden Core Reveal, First Time, Explicit Rating Earned 14 Chapters In Because Slow Burn)

11B)

Cloud 9 by Chokolateaddictz (E, 4k, XuanLi, Modern AU, Office Romance, Fluff, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Till it resolves, Other MDZS characters make appearances, Original Characters, The intricate politics of Old Family Money, Best boy JGY)

Aftermath by KouriArashi (T, 57k, XuanLi, WangXian, XiYao, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Everybody Lives, Romance, Developing Relationship, Family, Sibling Bonding, Light Angst, Politics, Attempted Sexual Assault, some murder on occasion)

~*~

12. Hi! This is for ITMF. I want to read a "WWX falls first" Fic. To be honest, i dont know if i want to read "WWX falls first" Or " Mean LWJ" Fic. But considering the " Mean LWJ" Fic that i read mostly a "WWX falls first" Fic, i think i want a combination of that? Thanks! @idontknowwhattowriteforusername

Honesty is the Best Policy (Except if You’re an Asshole)by piecrust (E, 22k, WangXian, Porn with Feelings, College/University)

🔒As It Should Be by kuro (M, 36k, WangXian, Slow Burn, Arranged Marriage, Fluff and Angst, Miscommunication, Dubious Consent, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Siblings, Running Away, from your problems, as adults do, Eventual Fluff, Background Relationships)

How You Would Let Me Have You by longleggedgit (E, 15k, WangXian, XiQing, Arranged Marriage, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, First Time, The LXC/WQ is a "mutual beards" situation just FTR)

the river and the sea by sasamelons (T, 7k, WangXian, Soulmates, Arranged Marriage, Misunderstandings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Falling In Love, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Mutual Pining)

When the Words Stop Coming by mrcformoso (T, 7k, WangXian, Canon Compliant, POV WWX, POV LWJ, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Pre-Sunshot Campaign, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, Canonical Character Death, Love Confessions, Rejection, LWJ is a Panicked Gay, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Trauma, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, WWX confesses early on, But canon still happens, LWJ starts confessing after, but the tables have turned, Angst with a Happy Ending, LWJ rejects WWX, Then gets rejected by WWX after, “Get Lost”, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian) link in #7B

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13. Hello

Any fics that have Wen Ruohan and Wei Wuxian interacting. Preferably antagonistically/wrh underestimating wwx becuase of his status.

🔒Pendulum by ShippersList (M, 69k, wangxian, graphic depicitions of violence, rape/non-con, underage, A/B/O, Canon Divergence, Non-Traditional A/B/O Dynamics, Alpha LWJ, Omega WWX, Misunderstandings, Canon-Typical Violence, Spies & Secret Agents, Fake Character Death, Slow Burn, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, BAMF WWX, Attempted Sexual Assault, Canonical Character Death, Mutual Pining, Good JGY, Introspection, Self-Sacrificing WWX, Love Confessions, Protective LWJ, past child sexual abuse)

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14. A) Itmf: please rec me books set in end of the world/ apocalypse/ zombie (or infection) au. I read one zombie au recently and it was so damn good. Left me hungry for more. Anything above 60k is good.

B) Are there any longer than 50k fics where yzy isn't abusive/bad and is a normal parent without being ooc? I don't want it to be the focus, but a part of the fic? @constellation-dks

14A)

❤️ A Corpse Called By Name by jaemyun (Not rated, 64k, WangXian, Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Horror, Zombie WWX, Eventual Happy Ending, yunmeng trio, Eventual WangXian, WWX is dad material even in death, Humor, YLLZ but make him dead, A Corpse Called By Name by jaemyun [Podfic] by Miss Appellation (Lizeth)) Amazing story with Zombie Wei Ying, one of my favorites! Around 64k

Apocalypse AU Series by Anonymous (Not rated, 211k, WangXian, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Zombie Apocalypse, Mpreg, Heavy Angst, Dialogue Heavy, Childbirth, Background Relationships, Canon character deaths, Minor Character Death, Canon Compliant, Family Drama, Post-Apocalypse, Gun Violence, POV WWX, Minor HuaLian, Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Thoughts, Established WangXian, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Past Sexual Assault, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Parenthood, Married HuaLian, Everyone Has Issues, PTSD, Near Death Experiences, Memory Loss, Natural Disasters, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Protective LWJ, Suicide, Violence, Rebuilding, Recovery, Family Fluff, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, Baby LSZ, Engagement) zombie apocalypse, rather dark and explicit themes, angst especially for Wei Ying. Includes Xie Lian and Hua Cheng for company, people being at their worst and a bit of scheming Guangyao. Beware of warnings, but really interesting

When the Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation takes a week off by galaxy_in_your_eyes (T, 20k, WangXian, Modern Cultivation, Canon Divergence, Everyone Lives, only those that deserve it, kind of fix-it, Zombie Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Attempt at Humor, POV Alternating, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Brief Mentions of Cannibalism, Zombies, We don’t see the Zombie Apocalypse, It happens behind closed doors, WWX in quarantine, Wangxian being Wangxian, Mentions of Smut, Established Relationship, Courtesy Names, local necromancer gets sick with the flu) Not REALLY the full on end-of-the-world Zombie apocalypse + shorter than the requester asked, but an amazing read with Wei Ying being sick and appreciated for veing the smartest person in the room

Android!LWJ by Winglesss (E, 22k, WangXian, Android LWJ, mechanic WWX, Burial Mounds, Temporary Mute Character, Mute LWJ, temporary disabled character, Disabled LWJ, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt LWJ, Mutual Pining, Falling In Love, Modern, Science Fiction, Robot/Human Relationships, Robots & Androids, Post-Apocalypse, Post-War, Scientist WWX, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Explicit Sexual Content, Anal Fingering, Multiple Orgasms, Forced Orgasm, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs) Another pretty cute but also shorter Android Lan Zhan au in a post-apocalypse setting, with smutty stuff in the second part

🔒 Long Road Home by ValiantBarnes (Cimila) (M, 58k, LSZ & WWX, SL & LSZ, SL/WWX, Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Gore, Demonic Cultivation, Found Family, Falling In Love, Sign Language, Minor Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Developing Relationship, Modern Cultivation, Body Horror, Trauma, Healing, Road Trips) note, this is WWX raising A-Yuan during the zombie outbreak and then WWX/Song Lan, no characters appear

Darkness Before the Dawn by Selenay (E, 64k, wangxian, Zombie Apocalypse, Modern With Magic, Necromancer WWX, Reunions, toddler A-Yuan, There Was Only One Bed, There are zombies but not graphically horrific zombies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Find a home in the middle of an apocalpyse) Wangxian zombie outbreak story with full cast of characters

The Edge of Night by Hobbsy3 (M, 277k, WangXian, XuanLi, Modern AU, Zombie Apocalypse, Yúnmèng Siblings Dynamics, Accidental Baby Acquisition During a Zombie Apocalypse, Junior Quartet, (except they’re all babies), Angst with a Happy Ending, Minor Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Ensemble Cast, Worst Zombie Fighting Team Ever, Found Family)

🔒 when the sun goes out by travelingneuritis (E, 176k, WangXian, Modern Cultivation, tech cultivation, Necromancy, Angst with a Happy Ending, insecurity around adoption, Dad!WWX, dad!lwj, Grief/Mourning, Mistaken Identity, Mood Whiplash, Body Swap, sex tears!, Falling In Love, Consensual Somnophilia, apocalypse (localized), Smut, unrealistic sexual stamina, Flashbacks, Time Skips, Illustrations)

14B)

❤️ And Time Is But a Paper Moon by sami (M, 138k, WangXian, XiChengQing, Time Travel, Fix-It, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Healing, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, BAMF WWX, BAMF JC, BAMF LWJ, BAMF JYL, Getting Together)

So Dear A Loss by Comfect (T, 89k, FengYuan, WangXian, Good Parent JFN, Good Parent YZY, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, No Fall of Lotus Pier, No Golden Core Transfer, Communication, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Fluff, Everyone Lives/Nobody dies)

🔒the thing with feathers by RoseThorne (G, 43k, WangXian, Time Travel, Hurt/Comfort, Memory loss, Arranged marriage, Good Parent YZY, Good uncle LQR, Angst, Butterfly effect) I'd also recommend the thing with feathers although it falls slightly short of 50k at 43,231 words.

~*~

15. Please gimme more fics like dispersing clouds!!!

🔒 in the shadow of moonlit flowers by Reverie (cl410) (T, 56k, wangxian, LXC/NMJ, Cloud Recesses, LWJ & NHS Friendship, Developing Relationship, POV LWJ, Minor Injuries, Autistic LWJ, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, aka the Madam Yu warning, Genius WWX, Light Angst And Hurt/Comfort, WWX Protection Squad, Gusu Lan Sect, Slow Burn, Protective LWJ, LWJ-centric) the element of Dispersing Clouds featuring supportive Lans (and bad Jiangs)

🧡 Stunted, Starving Juvenility by TomatenMark (E, 887k, WangXian, WIP, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Getting Together, Supportive LQR, Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Supportive LXC, Canon Divergence, Inventor WWX, Possessive LWJ, Cultivation Sect Politics, Pre-Sunshot Campaign, Fluff and Smut, Burning of the Cloud Recesses, Fall of Lotus Pier, Angst, Sunshot Campaign, Not JFM Friendly, split into parts, Part 1 complete, Part 2 complete, Original Character(s)) the element of Dispersing Clouds featuring supportive Lans (and bad Jiangs)

We Meet at the Thousandth Step by Admiranda, Rynne (T, 316k, WangXian, CSSR/WCZ, Canon Divergence, No Sunshot Campaign, CSSR & WCZ Live, Rogue Cultivator WWX, Different First Meeting, Night Hunts, Genius WWX, Inventor WWX, Plot, Romance, Drama, Fluff, Strangers to married, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Everyone Lives, Developing Relationship, Minor Violence, Case Fic, Mystery, Flirting, WWX’s Canon-Typical Flower Flirting, Arson, There Was Only One Bed, Getting Together, First Kiss, Meeting the Parents, Resolved Sexual Tension, Resolved Romantic Tension, WWX Is a Good Big Brother, New Relationship Bliss, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Blood and Injury, Yiling siblings, Married WangXian, Honeymoon, Wangxian’s Baby Fever) The element of Wei Ying & Lan Zhan going on adventures to help others. I too would love to find more fics that have the magical combination of elements that make Dispersing Clouds such a uniquely excellent story but these are the closest examples that come to mind.

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16. Looking for genderfluid wwx or just wwx whose not afraid to wear a skirt/free every now and again

🔒 how to make your dad fall in love with your high school teacher in five steps; the complete and bulletproof guide by ravenditefairylights (T, 90k, wangxian, modern, coffee shop au, nonbinary LSZ, hurt/comfort, trauma, past abuse, past domestic violence, healing, hurt WWX, found family, hospitalization, therapy, single parent WWX, pining, teacher LWJ, unreliable narrator, chronic pain, queer platonic relationship, genderfluid WWX, autistic LWJ, fluff & angst)

emergent properties by luckymarrow (E, 8k, WangXian, Modern AU, Family Fluff, Trans Male Character, Trans LWJ, Queer Families, Queer Youth, Adoption, Baby LSZ, Teen MXY, Crossdressing, but not as a kink, gender expression, Dilf4Dilf Wangxian, Penis In Vagina Sex, Blow Jobs, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, gender euphoria, Cunnilingus)

Cute Femboy Gets ~HUGE SURPRISE!!!~ by ScarlettStorm (E, 32k, WangXian, Modern, onlyfans au, Porn, like in the writing and as a plot point, sex worker WWX, Adhd WWX, autistic LWJ, Fashionista LWJ, Nonbinary NHS, genderfluid WWX, Feminization, (absolutely not forced and in fact very desired feminization), Date Night, Fluff and Smut, Established Relationship, Gender Exploration, they're just disgustingly in love, and they gotta fuck about it)

The Other Woman by baxia (G, 4k, MM & WWX, MM/WQ, WangXian, Modern, College/University, Misunderstandings, MM thinks LWJ is cheating, Not Cheating, Genderfluid WWX, MM & WWX friendship, POV MM)

Concrete Spaces by manaika (G, 34k, JC & WWX & JYL, WangXian, JYL/JZX, JC & JL, JC & LSZ, Family Dynamics, Family Bonding, JC's avuncular powers, WWX is LSZ's Parent, LWJ is LSZ’s Parent, Everyone Is Gay, No Straights Within The Premises Of This Fic, Genderfluid WWX, ace/aro JC, trans JZX, self-expression, identity and presentation, LGBTQ Themes, JC Is Judging You)

i’ll be your girl by plonk (E, 30k, WangXian, Modern AU, Modern with Magic, PWP, Idiots to Lovers)

dark and delicate by darkredloveknot (enheduane) (E, 6k, WangXian, Modern with Magic, Witch WWX, Witch Curses, Love Potion/Spell, (not performed by wwx), Masturbation, Getting Together, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Knots But Not The Kind You Think, Knot Lore, Come Swallowing, Blood Magic, This is actually very soft, Horny LWJ, First Kiss)

~*~

17. Hello, I'm in a mood for fics that explore the relationship between a-Yuan and the Wens ^^

keeping score by hauntedotamatone (T, 6k, LSZ & WWX, Background WangXian, the opposite of reconciliation, Protective WWX, Duelling, Grief/Mourning, not for jc fans, Swordfighting, Resentment, LSZ centric, No JC & WWX Reconciliation)

❤️ nevermore, nevermore by agloeian (T, 120k, LSZ & everyone, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Time Travel Fix-It, Not Everyone Dies, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Eventual Happy Ending, Angst, Suicide Attempt, Implied Sexual Content, Canon-Typical Violence, discussions of mental health, Spanish Translation, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian)

🔒 The Moon Reflected Upon Two Springs by Rubberduckieassassin (M, 2k, Post-Canon, Fierce Corpse WN, WN-centric, Farmer WN, WN Needs a Hug, Gusu Lan Juniors Dynamics, Good Kid LSZ, Good Kid LJY, Wen Remnants Mentioned, Burial Mounds Settlement Days Mentioned, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Five Stages of Grief, Melancholy, Building A Home, Family Feels, WN is learning how to 'live’ again)

body and soul by TooSel (E, 41k, wangxian, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Marriage Proposal, Everyone Lives AU, Cultivation Sect Politics, Yílíng Wèi Sect AU, Adoption, Smut, Friends to Lovers, Angst with a Happy Ending)

~*~

If you didn’t get an answer to your ask here, don’t forget to make use of @mdzs-kinkmeme and MDZS KINK MEME on Dreamwidth. Authors actually do use them for ideas. You may get what you order!***Your prompt doesn’t have to be kink! Fluff, crack, whatever - it’s all good!***

[enlightenedfeline]

Writing an emotionally numb character:

There's a lot to take into consideration when writing a character like this, but I'll narrow it down to what I think is most important!

Who's perspective are they normally in? Is this a side character in your story? The protagonist? The antagonist? What importance do they have?

Are they in first person?

Emotional numbness is something that can be easily observed by people who know you, it can become a trait they use to describe you, basically you don't need high emotional intelligence to come to the conclusion that someone you know is generally emotionless.

Perspective doesn't matter in knowing whether or not a character is emotionally numb, it matters in how you introduce it and express it.

Here are the do's and dont's of each perspective:

First person: dont: have the character aware that they are emotionally numb, it is generally not a trait one would notice about themselves if it's unintentional. do: show the reader that this character generally suppresses or doesn't feel their emotions through internal dialouge.

This seems a bit contradictory, right? Because how do you make a character unaware of a trait, while also making it obvious to your reader?

Don't put all the weight on your own shoulders, your readers analytical abilities matter too, and if it's too obvious from this perspective it'll make it seem like your character knows they're emotionally numb, which would paint them as manipulative and calculated.

Pause. If that is what you want, look out for more advice posts in the future, because this one won't be helpful.

Now continue. We all have small habits and thought processes that are unhealthy that we're not aware of, it would be difficult to recognize them yourself. Thankfully, you don't have to in this situation, you're writing a character, you are aware of all their little thought patterns, that's how you show your reader their emotional numbness.

In how they avoid emotions, or don't treat their own struggles like they're worth mentioning, this is a habit we can all recognize as wrong when we read it, and that's the easiest way for you as the writer to express emotional numbness.

Third person limited (and second person): If it's from the emotionally numb character's pov, follow the advice above, if it's from another character's pov then, Dont: give the character unlimited knowledge of the emotionally numb character's past and what makes them this way. Do: gradually have them learn more about the emotionally numb character, and follow their thought process as they connect their past with why they behave the way they do.

Third person omniscient: DONT: info dump right off the bat. do: gradually reveal details about the character.

As you've probably noticed, the advice for both third person povs is essentially the same. Third person is probably the easiest pov where you can introduce emotional numbness, however, it's also the easiest pov to fall into an info dumping session about said character.

Emotionally numb characters give you so much room for angst, use it!

Make your emotionally numb character a mystery to your reader, make them disliked by other characters, make it affect their relationships, then give your reader hints and scraps as to why they behave the way they do, let them figure it out!

Give your reader the tools and let them build the house, make the emotional numbness a mystery to the character and to most characters they interact with.

The second thing to explore about emotional numbness is the why of it all.

While it may be your first instinct to give them a life altering event that caused it - and while that's not bad - you can consider other paths and approaches!

Emotional numbness is a trauma response, to what exactly is up to you.

Maybe their emotions are treated as a burden, so they begin to see them as a burden, so they begin to suppress them until they reach a point where they can't stop doing it.

Maybe it was a mentally scarring event that made them too emotional, and when no one around them could handle it, they started suppressing everything.

The word suppress is being used a lot, that's because it's the core of emotional numbness. No matter what we try to tell ourselves, we feel emotions, so to be emotionally numb does not mean to be emotionless, it means to suppress emotions.

And if you want your emotionally numb character to be realistic, make them breakdown when they can't suppress it anymore.

The most realistic thing you can have your emotionally numb character do is breakdown into a supernova of emotions, because no one can hold it in all the time.

They can breakdown in the arms of a loved one, or in a public setting, or maybe even in front of the person they despise most. Get creative, get angsty, or get fluffy!

Emotional numbness can make or break your character, they can either be a stereotype or something never before seen, make them your own, and remember to make them human.

Maybe some of this advice will help, maybe it won't, either way, I hope this feline has enlightened you!

[writers-potion]

Let's Talk About POV for Dark Fiction.

Deep POV

Deep POV is like real life - we only know the perspective of one person. These POVs have the effect of drawing the reader in so deep that they forget they're only reading words on the page.

You can write a "deep POV" in first, third or even second person, as long as the narrative is concentrated (and limited) to the mind and emotions of a character.

For most dark, horror-like stories, deep POV is the best choice.

However, there are some drawbacks:

You won't be able to describe important events that happen outside of the POV character's sight - you'll have to use phone calls, television news, or telepathy.

You cannot directly show what the MC looks like unless you have their friend comment on it.

When the POV character dies, the story is over.

To convey what other characters feel, you need to rely on dialogue and body language.

Here are some tricks to engage the readers:

Don't state that the character saw/heard/thought/felt something. Just describe what the experience is like.

Show how the weather and the temperature affect the POV character.

Shows how emotion affects the POV character's body.

Show how emotion affects the POV character's body - especially fear in all its forms (anxiety, terror, panic, shock, etc.)

Serial POV

Alternatively, you can use more than on character's POV, one after the other. Short stories would use this less often, but if your story is long and your MC dies in the middle, you'd want to use this format.

Serial POV doesn't give the same intense experience, but the flexibility in the narrative is well worth it.

Omniscient POV

This is where you would drop into a character's head for one paragraph, then jump into another.

To make this work, stay in one character's head for a short time, but avoid making mid-para POV switches. Insert at least one POV neutral sentence before you enter the next character's head.

Other POV Styles to consider!

Cinematic POV: This is like a video camera - it sees everything, but only from the outside, not inside anyone's head.

Fly-On-The-Wall POV: Here, the POV is a person but somehow not involved in the action and has no stake in the outcome.

Detached POV: This is a dry, factual reporting style, such as a newspaper article or official report. Horror stories narrated in this manner can be chilling to read.

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[writingquestionsanswered]

I see many people talking about how head-hopping can be bad but there's a thing I still don't understand about omniscient narrators:

Is it bad to write the actions of two or three characters in a single scene or should the external actions be limited to one character too? (Example: Mary grabs the sword and throws it at door as John runs to catch the floating head of Liza before it gets on the way.) If so, is there a a good/better way to depict multiple characters doing different stuff in a fast scene?

Head Hopping vs Omniscient Narrators

Okay... a couple of things...

First, the example you gave isn't "head hopping" because it's all observational. A single POV character can be observing those things taking place. You don't have to be in Mary's head, John's head, or Liza's head in order to know that they're doing those things.

If, instead, the example was: "Mary grabs the sword and throws it at the door, inwardly cringing as she narrowly avoids skewering John. Really fearing for his life now, John considers his next best move and runs to catch Liza's floating head before it gets in the way." That requires us to be in both Mary's head (because we know she inwardly cringes) and John's head (because we know he's afraid without any visual cue indicating fear, and because we know he considers his best move). This wouldn't be a problem if you're using an omniscient narrator. It would only be a problem if either Mary, John, or some other character was the POV character.

Second, "head hopping" isn't a problem with an omniscient narrator. The point of an omniscient narrator is they can be in all places at all times, including inside every character's heart and mind.

Head hopping is only a problem if you're writing your story (or any part of it) in first-person or third-person limited, both of which mean that the story (or that part of the story) is being told specifically from that character's POV, meaning the reader can't know anything they don't know.

That said, let's say this is Mary's POV chapter or the whole story is being told from Mary's POV. It would be fine for us to know she inwardly cringes because we're inside her head. But because we're inside her head, we can't know that John is afraid unless Mary observes some external cues (facial expressions, body language) that John is afraid or he says he's afraid out loud. We also can't know that John is considering his next move unless he says so out loud, because we can only be in Mary's head, not John's head. I hope that helps!

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[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Filter Words

Filter Words - extra words that put distance between readers and a character’s experience.

They are usually explanatory words that remove a reader from the action by describing a character’s thought process or action in an explanatory way.

Example: In the sentence “I hear the engine rumbling,” you could eliminate the filter words “I hear” and simply write, “The engine rumbles.”

Filter words pop up in both third-person and first-person narratives, and they take away the potency and immediacy that first-person narration affords an author.

Eliminating filter words can help you show instead of telling.

How to Eliminate Filter Words From Your Writing

There are a variety of techniques to help you avoid using filter words that place distance between your first-person narrator and the reader. Here are a few tips for identifying filter words and omitting them from your work:

Keep your sentences tight. A good rule of thumb to follow is to avoid extraneous words that don’t alter your character’s point. Filter words are oftentimes redundant and unnecessary explanations of your character’s thought process and actions. Trust that your readers will be able to keep up with your character without the inclusion of these extra words.

Use the active voice. Writers consider passive voice bad practice because it makes writing less active and dynamic. Passive voice also often forces you to include filter words that separate your character from the reader.

Look for verbs following ‘I.’ Oftentimes filter words will follow the word ‘I’ in lines written in your character’s voice—“I hear,” “I feel,” etc. If you’re writing from the perspective of a viewpoint character, keep an eye out for verbs immediately following the word ‘I.’

Put yourself in the character’s shoes. One of the strengths of first-person narration is that it places a reader directly into a character’s mindset giving them access to that character’s thoughts. Beyond necessary exposition and backstory, cut down on the extra information you communicate to your readers in your character’s first-person voice. You’d be surprised how much a reader will be able to pick up without you explicitly stating it.

Why Avoid Filter Words?

If you’re taking a stab at first-person writing, you’ll notice that your writing has more drive and immediacy when you edit it down to its most essential parts.

Filter words aren’t just something to be aware of when dealing with narration in pieces of fiction.

Filter words can creep into any sort of writing, including non-fiction.

There are instances when filter words might be necessary, and including a few won’t spoil your whole piece, but moving towards more economic prose and dynamic first-person narration will generally improve your writing.

First-person narratives like To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Moby Dick by Herman Melville use the first-person perspective to align the reader’s experience with a character’s.

These writers limit their filler words when writing in first-person point of view in order to place the reader directly into the character’s shoes and limit the distance between the reader and POV character.

An Example of Filter Words in Writing

There is no definitive list of filter words for writers to consult because what makes a word a filter word varies entirely based on context. Here’s a sample passage from a first-person story that has some common filter words included:

I realized that the older boy was toying with me. I watched as he overturned my backpack. I stared helplessly as a box filled with colored pencils, post-it notes, and bookmarks clattered onto the floor. A creased paperback of Jane Eyre and a Sherlock Holmes collection tumbled out after them. I thought I saw a sneer creep across his lips and watched as he narrowed his eyes on the new calculator I held in my hands.

Here is the same passage with the filter words omitted:

The older boy was toying with me. He overturned my backpack, and a box filled with colored pencils, post-it notes and bookmarks clattered onto the floor. A creased paperback of Jane Eyre and a Sherlock Holmes collection tumbled out after them. A sneer crept across his lips and he narrowed his eyes on the new calculator in my hands.

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[sciderman]

really curious about Peter and Wade's kinks and whether or not they reflect your own? Or when you're writing for them and do kinks and fetishes, is it purely from a writer's POV if that makes sense?

fun question! i think i've touched upon it before here that - wade wilson has a library of kinks that i, personally, am very unhappy about. but couldn't take them away from him - i can't chip away parts of the characters that I don't like - that's kind of counter to my whole angle of writing them, i think - that they're kept intact with all their morally dubious and unattractive quirks.

i think there are things that wade and peter do that i think are deeply unattractive, but - i know that the whole point about the way i write them is that they have parts of themselves that are unattractive, or strange - and they're able to sort of embrace or accept that in each other - or - at least, it's fodder for them to make fun of each other. which is something they both enjoy.

wade has a piss kink and i hate that. of course - i don't write about it. i couldn't write about it. but i acknowledge that it's there. someone else can write about it - if that's what they're into. i think there are always going to be things i have no desire to write about, but that doesn't mean wade or peter aren't guilty of it - it's just that i have my limits as an author.

I have written some ridiculous things. mostly because they're funny, and i see the potential to have fun with them. i think it's hilarious that wade would use glue as lube. but it also reveals this clingy side of him, that he likes to joke around and pretend isn't there. so it's less about personal kinks and more about what i'd find fun or interesting to write - something that reveals a certain angle to the characters and would be a lot of fun to come up with dialogue for.

i wrote suck it, not really because i'm into that sort of thing, but because it seems so ridiculous and unsexy in my head, and i kind of wanted to explore what the reality of it might be and what kind of internal crisis peter would have. and, by god, it was so fun to write. and i think some people thought it was hot, too. two points for me! it's always funny - that sometimes, i'll write something that i'm certain is the most unsexy sentence ever - but it turns out to be very sexy to someone else. this whole fic is a case study in that. i think it's weird, and i wrote it to be weird, but that doesn't mean it can't still be sexy - and - i kind of hope it will be. in a weird sort of way. if not - at least, entertaining. at least it's a weird, intimate moment where you get to be inside the strange thought process behind it. and there will be readers on both sides of the fence - some who think it's strange and unappealing, and some who got into it. i'm the funny third party, who wrote the thing for shiggles.

i don't really get a kick out of writing sex that isn't honest about how awkward or silly it might be. there has to be an embarrassing angle to it - and that often means stepping out of my comfort zone and embracing the absurdity. i don't really think deeply about what it says about me and my interests,- more that it's what i find interesting to write - and the reason i find it interesting to write is more about the characters perspectives rather than the acts themselves, you know?

i think having fun, and joking around, and getting embarrassed and being frank about things are my favourite things about intimacy. i'm a take-it-as-it-comes-and-have-a-good-laugh sort of person in that way - and i think that comes across in whatever i write, i guess!