#“SHE'S NOT MEANT TO BE LIKE HER PAST SELF!” | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

animasola86 · 2 days ago

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LOST & FOUND 🫂 CH4

After agreeing to become their little girl, you are woken up by Mommy, who has special plans to ease you into your first day of your new life.

soft!Daddy!dom x Mommy!domme x little girl!reader

WARNINGS: F!Reader insert. Explicit sexual content. Mommy/Daddy kink. Dd/Md/lg dynamics. Pet names. Dom/sub undertones. Shared shower. Nudity. Vaginal fingering/assisted masturbation. “Self” care/makeover/waxing. Angst/humiliation. Hurt/comfort. (More notes under the cut!)

WORDS: 8k 🔷️ READ ON AO3

A/N: This chapter is a direct continuation of Chapter 2 and keeps focusing on Reader's new life as the Little Girl of Mommy and Daddy. All following chapters (unless stated otherwise) will follow the past-timeline and show how Reader ended up like she did in chapters 1 and 3. (For more info on Reader, check out the Notes in Chapter 1.) ❗ Please read THIS if you're confused about the tags I listed this under!

Chapter 3 🔷️ Chapter 4 🔷️ Chapter 5

Several months earlier

You woke up after that first night, completely knocked out and overwhelmed, to someone gently shaking you, lips pressing to your pillow-wrinkled cheek, a soft voice cooing for you to wake up. Mommy was there, and while your first instinct was to groan and turn back around and ask for five more minutes, not quite realizing where you were, she basically dragged you out of bed and into the bathroom.

While she certainly meant well, you felt very uncomfortable as she helped you out of the clothes you slept in and into the shower. You wanted to protest, against the fact that you were naked in front of a stranger, and also, didn't you just shower last night? With your mind still hazy with sleep, you wondered if rich people did it like this, showering every night and every morning, possibly several times a day? They definitely didn't have to worry about too much water consumption, apparently. But then the strangest thing happened: the woman you were supposed to call Mommy stripped down as well and stepped in after you, and your muddled mind was silenced immediately.

You were so surprised and more than taken aback by it that you just stood there, with your back to her, not even daring to take another look at her beautiful body. She was a bit taller than you and had all the right curves in all the right places, perfect skin, not a single hair anywhere on her body, except for her long black locks that she wore in a messy bun atop her head, and when she stepped behind you, her hands found your shoulders before she wrapped your unruly tresses around her fingers and brought them up in the same fashion, then slipped a hair tie over the mess to keep it in place.

Then she leaned past you (her perfect breasts pressing against your shoulder blades) and turned the shower on, and while you expected to be hit by either ice cold or scorching hot water, the temperature was perfect right away. That alone was a luxury you'd never experienced before. She angled the shower head to spray down below your chin to keep your head and hair dry.

You were still just standing there, baffled and embarrassed to be this close to such a gorgeous woman (though your main concern was how you felt like a literal child whose Mommy had to help them showering, but you figured that was part of her wanting to take care of you). As you woke up more and more, you became more and more aware and self-conscious of your neglected body. For months, self-care hadn't been an option for you, too much hassle, and for what? But now you wished you could have prepared yourself for this experience in some way, shaved maybe? Made yourself more presentable?

The question remained: what did this woman see in you to treat you like this?

Your anxiety spiked when you felt her soap-covered hands on your body, first on your arms, then she went straight to your breasts, cupping them, squeezing them lightly, rubbing the suds into your skin. You froze, holding your breath, clenching your hands into fists. It was such an intimate gesture, you weren't ready for it. A little sob escaped you, and you felt her pausing, before she leaned closer again, pressing her body against your backside.

“Are you okay, honey?” she asked directly into your ear, her velvety voice causing you to shiver deeply. “You gotta tell me if you don't like what I do, okay? This is for you. If you don't want it, I'll stop.”

You took a shuddering breath. “N-no,” you urged out. “I... I mean... it's okay... it's just... all so new...”

Her laugh echoed through the steam-filled room. “Never been touched by a woman before, sweet girl?”

“N-never had somebody... take care of me like this...” you whispered breathlessly, the thick air and her closeness making you dizzy.

You felt her lips on your cheek, the touch lingering as she spoke softly: “You better get used to this. We have so much love and care to give, you have no idea.”

It could have sounded like a threat, but you closed your eyes and nodded, leaning against her when she continued the gentle groping of your boobs. She chuckled again, bringing her lips down to your shoulder. Her hands moved lower eventually, rubbing over your stomach and down your hips, and you still couldn't move, you just endured (or silently enjoyed it?), but when you could feel her stepping around you, one of her hands slipping down your front while the other curved around your rear, you flinched badly.

Your feet squeaked on the tiled floor, and you almost lost your footing, but instead of getting away from her, she grabbed you a little harder, her hands on your waist, pulling you back, gently but firmly. Your chest was rising and falling faster, your heart nearly exploding behind your ribs. She shushed you, kissing along your neck as she returned her hands where she initially wanted to bring them.

“It's okay, sweetheart, let Mommy see, yes?” she cooed into your ear, and you stiffened, inhaling deeply and holding your breath as her hand brushed down your tense belly and directly between your legs.

You felt so embarrassed. You were not as spotless as she was, some would say natural, and while you let everything grow because you couldn't care about it anymore in the months of your slow downfall, you wished you could go back to not caring now. But you cared, you didn't want this woman to touch you in places nobody had touched in a very long time, yourself included, at least not this intimately.

You tried to squirm away, but she grabbed your ass in response, holding you in place. You let out a quiet yelp. “It's alright,” she said calmly, her lips back at your ear, the touch scorching hot. “I will not hurt you. I will not judge you. You are a beautiful girl, sweetheart, and nothing will ever hide that.” As she spoke, she started rubbing her fingers along your slit, a gentle touch, just a caress, every stroke of her hand accentuated by more soothing words. “You deserve to be loved, my sweet thing. Loved and touched and pampered. Do not be shy, do not be embarrassed. There's no need. You are beautiful. So beautiful...”

Her voice lulled you, made you relax into her ministrations, and as she finished her soothing pep talk, her fingers dipped between your labia, a little gasp escaped you, your lips parting, and before you knew it, she had caught it by pressing her mouth to yours, kissing you softly as she rubbed her fingertip slowly up and down until it prodded your entrance, and while her tongue pushed into your mouth, her digit pushed into your clenching cunt.

Your moan was swallowed by her own little inhale. Her other hand slid up your back until her palm was pressed to your neck, holding you steady as she continued to kiss and finger you, and all you could do was melt into her caresses, meeting her tongue with your own, gliding your lips against hers, even grinding your hips into her hand. Your head was spinning, breathless and overwhelmed as you were, and the more she touched you, the less vulnerable you felt.

The way she moved her fingers (she seemed to have added another one) inside you, slow and careful, pressing as deep as her knuckles allowed, fingernails scraping gently along your tight walls, it all felt very good very quickly. Your eyes fluttered shut, your breaths rasping out of you, new air barely able to reach your lungs as she kept plunging her tongue into your mouth. You felt like floating, surrounded by warm water and even warmer steam, pressed against a soft body, her hand closing around your nape, and all those touches sent more tingles down your spine, shivers and shudders, that all gathered low in your stomach, and lower, making your clit throb.

And it was when she suddenly pressed her thumb against that sensitive bundle of nerves that you yelped against her mouth, eyes flying open, a strange assortment of white and black spots dancing at the edge of your vision. Your legs trembled badly the more she rubbed at your clit, her fingers still plunging in and out, a little curl to them now, hitting different spots deep inside you. You stared at her, or tried to, she looked blurry, and you tried to blink your eyes back into focus, but instead a loud moan was ripped from your throat when she moved her fingers and her thumb in a clawing motion, pressing directly against your clit and g-spot.

You shook, your limbs twitching, and your hands found her waist for support as you gasped for air like a fish out of water, your eyes rolling back, your head reeling, and for a moment you felt as if you'd left your own body, floating away, without a care in the world...

You came back when she pulled her fingers out and kept caressing your sensitive labia, and every brush against your hood gave you another deep shudder. You clung to her, your forehead resting on her shoulder, your breaths labored and raw, your heart thundering in your chest. She rubbed your back with her free hand, soothing you with words you couldn't understand. The first that did make it through the cotton in your head, dug themselves deep into your soul:

“Good girl.”

A smile appeared on your trembling lips, the praise like an additional caress down your spine. You found yourself hugging the woman you barely knew and somehow trusted a lot more now, your arms snaking around her waist as you pressed yourself into her. She embraced you gently, holding you as the water sprayed against your shoulder. You felt her lips on your forehead, her exhale warm against your skin.

The rest of the shower was a blur. She kept washing you, rubbing her hands over your warm skin, and she even nudged you to touch her as well, which was yet another overwhelming experience as you weighed her big breasts in your small hands.

She continued to be gentle and patient with you, giving you time when you needed it, but also pushed you a little to get you out of your old habits. As embarrassing as it should have been, it was also refreshing and comforting to know that even if you might fall back into your dark hole whenever new and old doubts would resurface, Mommy was there to pull you back out.

By the time you were out of the shower and wrapped in a large, fluffy towel, a knock sounded on the door. You froze, but the other woman just huffed a sigh and walked to open it, still as naked as before, no shame whatsoever. Your eyes widened when you saw the tall man appearing in the door frame, his eyes first grazing the woman before they wandered to you. He smiled softly.

“Good morning,” Daddy said, his smile widening when he saw you blushing deeply, pulling the towel tighter around your body. He looked back at Mommy then, raising an eyebrow. “You beat me to it, huh?” he mused.

The woman laughed, nudging his bearded chin with her index finger. “Gotta be faster, old man,” she teased with a soft laugh.

You watched the two silently, frozen to the spot, acutely aware of just wearing a towel, your exposed skin warming up badly as your eyes wandered from Mommy's naked backside to Daddy's tall frame behind her. He wasn't wearing a suit today, but a tight shirt and formfitting sweatpants, and his hair was tousled, cheeks a little flushed. Had he been running? Probably, with a body like that –

“How are you feeling today, darling?” he addressed you, ripping you from your thoughts. Your face heated up even more.

“Really good,” you whispered shyly, chewing on your bottom lip as you met his gaze.

“I'm glad,” he replied, tilting his head slightly, his eyes crinkling.

“And she'll feel even better today. I'm taking her to the salon,” Mommy interrupted the moment by pressing a hand to Daddy's chest. “You can have her tomorrow.”

He sighed, bringing his gaze back to the woman in front of him. “Don't do anything she doesn't want to do, okay?” he told her quietly. “Don't scare her away on her first day...”

She laughed, turning back to you. Your heart skipped a beat. “Don't worry, we already established our bond, didn't we, honey?”

You lowered your eyes, your blush spreading all over your shoulders. “Yes, Mommy,” you whispered. It still felt a little weird to call her that, but seeing her reaction to it made up for the awkwardness. She mewled softly and turned around fully, extending her arms until she could pull you into a tight hug.

“My sweet girl,” she cooed, kissing your hairline. You leaned against her warm body, meeting Daddy's curious gaze over her shoulder.

“You'll be okay,” he told you with a gentle smile. “But remember: you can say no, we will not force you to do anything you don't feel comfortable with. Won't we?” he added pointedly, making Mommy turn her head to him. She gave him a smirk and a wink, and he sighed.

She let go of you then, taking a step back to him. “Go take your own shower now,” she told him, poking his chest. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her a little closer, eyeing her darkly.

“Don't tell me what to do,” he whispered.

“Make me,” she replied with a chuckle.

You watched them with growing curiosity, still wondering what kind of relationship these two actually had. For a moment they just stared at each other, before Mommy leaned up on her toes and pressed her full lips against his.

“Let us have our Girls Day, okay, papito?”

“Fine,” he said with an exhale, his other hand moving along her bare shoulders up to her nape before he grabbed the messy bun on top of her head and pulled her back a little. “But I mean it: I still want to recognize her later.”

Her turn to sigh. “Of course, don't worry,” she replied, putting her hand on his cheek, giving it a soft pat. “Unless she wants a complete makeover. This is about her,” she added, turning her head back to you. “Isn't it, sweet thing?”

You blushed when the attention was back on you.

“We'll do whatever makes you happy, okay, honey?”

“Okay,” you mouthed a little breathlessly. Your eyes wandered between the two adults (the longer you stood watching them, the smaller and younger you felt, no matter the fact that you were technically an adult yourself). You weren't used to all this attention, but it grew on you. It made you feel warm and seen (even if you'd prefer to wear more clothes while being looked at).

Daddy let go of Mommy then, taking a half-step into the bathroom. “Can I get a hug before I leave you in Mommy's care, sweetheart?” he asked quietly, extending a hand towards you.

Your body's immediate reaction was a sudden jerk, a clear indication that you wanted to sink into his strong arms and never emerge from them again, but your mind was still a little timid, and then there was Mommy, stepping between you and the tall man.

“Get away, you're all gross and sweaty. I just cleaned her!” she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

He lowered his hand slowly, his eyes still on you. There was a darkness within them, a strange look that made your stomach twist in a weird way, warm and tense, like a throb, a clench, an itch. “I... I don't mind,” you heard yourself stammering. Before you knew it, you took a step forward, your bare feet padding on the tiles, and when his smile widened, you extended a hand to put it onto his big palm. At the same time as he pulled you closer, you heard Mommy sighing. She stepped away, and you hoped she wouldn't be too mad, but you couldn't resist him – and the urge growing inside your own body.

He wrapped his big arms around your shoulders, and you found yourself pressed to his chest. It was warm, his scent filling your nostrils, filling your head, a mixture of body wash and sweat, a masculine smell that made you dizzy, but in a good way. You carefully snaked your arms around his waist and held onto him, closing your eyes for a moment.

“My sweet girl,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “Have a good time today, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy,” you murmured into him.

He squeezed you a little more at that, his inhale loud and almost surprised. As he embraced you, you suddenly felt another presence behind you. Mommy's arms joined yours in encircling the tall man as she pressed herself into you. His arms loosened, leaving you, pulling her closer against your back. You gasped a little as they hugged you tightly, and you would have never expected to feel this comfortable in a Mommy-and-Daddy-sandwich.

It was certainly strange to go from nobody caring about you, to having these two people taking such an interest in you. And they weren't lying. They had a lot of love and care to give, you could feel it in the way they held you and spoke to you. And you'd only met them yesterday! How was this possible?

But you didn't want to question it, you just wanted to melt into their warmth and strength, enjoy the moment, neither look back nor ahead. It felt good. Good enough to bring tears into your eyes. A little sob escaped you, and you buried your face firmer into Daddy's chest. Mommy let go first, and before you knew it, Daddy's hands were on your shoulders, leaning you back a little.

Looking up, you realized your vision was blurry. As you tried to blink your eyes into focus, you felt his fingers wiping at your wet cheeks, a concerned look on his handsome face.

“I... I'm fine,” you murmured quickly, sniffling quietly. “These are... happy tears...”

His relieved exhale hit your forehead before he leaned in and pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth. Meeting his gaze, you couldn't help it, you turned your head a little bit and used his closeness to brush your lips fully against his. His hands held you still for a moment, the kiss, if you could call it that, a lingering press, before he leaned back with a deep sigh.

“Sorry, darling, today's Mommy's day,” he whispered, giving you a wink. “We can expand on this tomorrow, okay?” As his fingers curled around your ear, his thumb rubbed over your bottom lip. “Trust me, I can't wait...”

You gave him a shy smile, your face properly burning now. He eventually let go of you fully and stepped back. Mommy put her hands on your shoulders. “See you later, Daddy,” she cooed.

“Bye, ladies, have fun,” he said with a little wave, his eyes fixed on you.

“Bye, Daddy,” you whispered, watching how his eyes sparkled when he winked at you, before he turned around and left the room.

You were still buzzing, basically floating, so when Mommy told you to wash your face and brush your teeth and use the toilet, you did as she told you, ignoring how degrading this should have felt, being told to do the most basic things, things a person your age should be able to do on her own. But it also felt good, having someone push you to do so, and she didn't sound condescending or mocking, but caring and sweet now that you were alone again.

Once you were all ready for the day, you stood, still in your towel, in the middle of the room (your room) while she pulled out various clothes, watching you as she did so, assessing your build and size, and in the end she chose a pair of pink panties for you and a matching bra that was a little loose but she assured you to buy better fitting things for you soon. You wondered then who all those clothes belonged to, they looked too girly to have been hers, and the wide array of different sizes also made you curious.

She looked at you as she held a knee-length pink dress to your chest. “We bought these for our old subs,” she said nonchalantly as if reading your mind. “I told you we've been looking for the right girl for a while. And we tried, tested a few, but none of them would really fit our needs, you know? You, however,” she added, putting the dress down to place her hands on your shoulders as she looked down at you with a soft smile, “you are what we're looking for. I can already tell. You belong here, and soon we'll fill this closet with your own things, and only yours, okay?”

You stared at her, your throat tight. Knowing that other girls had spent their time in this room, with these people, with your Mommy and Daddy, made you feel strangely small and insignificant. Like one of many. And you wondered when they would realize that you might not fit their needs either so they could move to the next girl. But you still hoped beyond hope that what she said was true. “So... so you won't... send me away again?”

“Oh, sweet thing, of course not, unless you want to leave, but I really hope you'll stay with us. We can give you anything you need, and you'd make us so happy too!” She pulled you against her bare chest (she still hadn't bothered putting on any clothes and you really envied her confidence), her arms tight around your shoulders as you gingerly hugged her back, feeling the soft slope of her spine under your clammy palms.

She kissed your forehead and let go again, smiling down at you. You felt the need to reassure her. “I'll... stay, I want to stay,” you whispered, biting your lip as a little smile played around the corner of your mouth.

Her hands found your face. “I'm glad,” she breathed, her lips brushing against yours, and then she really kissed you, a hard press, a confident lick against the seam of your mouth before you indulged her and kissed her back, timidly moving your tongue and lips against hers. “You taste so sweet,” she muttered, sighing deeply as she moved her lips down your jaw to your neck, giving your pulse a little suck that made you flinch a little. “I can't wait to taste more of you...”

Her words sent another deep shudder down your spine that ultimately gathered right in your throbbing clit. You had no idea what it was about this woman, about this whole situation, but anything she did to you, any touch, any word, made you feel like you never felt before. It was all warm and cozy, but it could turn hot and overwhelming in the blink of an eye. You slipped from feeling comfortable to completely aroused, back and forth, and it should be weird, but it wasn't. It felt right.

Mommy gave you another press of her lips to your neck before she leaned away, letting go of you to pick up the pink dress. “Alright, let's get ready for our Girls Day, shall we?” she said happily, shoving the dress into your hands. “Get dressed, I'll do the same, and I'll meet you here soon, okay?”

“Yes, Mommy,” you whispered, enduring/savoring another tight hug and a squeal from her, before she did what she told you and left the room, as naked as she was, her hips swaying as she went.

Later, you sat next to her in the back of the car again. She had put on a dark blue blouse and wide-legged pants, the pointy tips of her high heels poking out from the wide hem as she crossed her legs and leaned back into her seat, her hand on your thigh as she smiled at you. You smiled back shyly, feeling rather small next to her, in your soft pink dress, your magenta tights and those white little sneakers she gave you.

You had never cared much about being girly or wearing bright colors before, but it felt okay when somebody else told you to do so. The way she looked at you, so proud and happy, made it all worth it, even if you didn't quite feel like yourself anymore. But that was the point of this, wasn't it? To get you out of your old habits and show you something new, a new side of yourself. It could only get better from here, right?

Well.

Before it got better, it got a lot worse when you found yourself in a small room with a woman telling you to strip for her. Mommy was there too, but the stranger made you feel very uncomfortable. You were in one of those beauty salons you'd never seen the inside of. The woman seemed nice enough, or rather passive more likely, because it was her job to groom and take care of other people and she probably saw many different kinds of women each day, but you couldn't shake the feeling of a deep-rooted shame as you pulled your dress over your head, exposing yourself, feeling vulnerable and embarrassed and very insecure to show this stranger your neglected body.

Mommy helped you, her eager hands pulling down your tights (and panties) in one swift move, and you gasped and squirmed, trying to cover yourself, but she shushed you quietly. “It's okay, no need to be shy. I'm right here, you can do this.” You inhaled sharply, trying to focus on her as you stepped out of your tights, watching her put your clothes onto a nearby chair before she snaked her hands around your torso and unclasped your bra, adding it to the pile.

“Sit down please,” the other woman told you. When you looked at her, you noticed her almost bored looking gaze, as if she indeed did this several times a day. Nevertheless, you didn't, never had done this before, and when you scooted up on the reclined chair covered in a soft towel, you felt close to tears.

Clamping your thighs together, you put your hands on your breasts (wondering why you had to expose them in the first place when this was about trimming your body hair), when you felt Mommy's hands on yours as she leaned over you from behind. “Relax, baby girl,” she told you, turning her head to kiss your cheek. “Just relax. Lean back, close your eyes, and let the nice lady do her job, okay?”

And you tried. She kept her hands on your chest to ground you, giving your boobs gentle squeezes whenever you flinched or winced or squirmed as the nice lady began working on you. She started on your legs, and while you thought she might shave them as you would have done, she waxed them, and it felt strange when she applied the warm wax, but even worse when she suddenly ripped the sheets she pressed down onto your leg away again, causing you to squeak and almost kick her in the face.

Mommy kept close to you, hugging you, soothing you, her fingers drawing distracting circles around your nipples. You turned your head to her, your face flushed, watching her soft smile, the twinkle in her eyes, and somehow you made it through the torture of having your legs waxed. But then you felt a nudge against your thigh.

Looking back to the woman, you noticed her adding something to the chair you were resting on. Some sort of stirrups, and you realized you'd have to spread your legs and put them on there, because she –

– was about to wax your sex next. Oh dear God.

A whimper escaped you, your thighs pressing even tighter together, and you looked back at Mommy, pleading with her. She shook her head and caressed your cheek. “It's okay, honey, it won't hurt for long.” But it will hurt, you wanted to tell her, your eyes widening. “You're a big girl, aren't you? You can take it.”

And somehow her well-meant words made you feel even worse. Shame flooded your entire body, your blush spreading down to your chest. Your legs were still burning and irritated, the skin tight, and to imagine the same procedure between your thighs? But being treated like a little girl in front of this stranger gave you a weird boost of confidence, reverse-psychology-style. Because you were not a little girl, you were a grown ass woman, you should be able to deal with this! Clenching your jaw, you inhaled deeply, looking up at the ceiling as you lifted your legs and put them into the contraptions of the chair.

You forced yourself to ignore the cold breeze against your pussy lips, the way the woman stepped closer, the way her gloved fingers applied the wax over the coarse hairs of your mound. Your own hands clamped down on the edge of the seat, your breaths labored as you waited for the inevitable pain to shoot through your body. But when it came, you still jerked, a scream escaping your tight throat that was quickly silenced as you felt Mommy's hands on your face, making you look at her.

You felt tears burning in your eyes, the throbbing pain between your legs only part of the sudden waterworks. Her gaze was stern and hard, and you couldn't look away. You kept chewing on your bottom lip, wondering if you'd disappointed her by being so squeamish about this. If she'd change her mind about you being the perfect one. As the first tear rolled down your cheek, her gaze softened, her thumb tracing the path it took to your jaw.

She leaned in then, pressing her lips against your forehead, while another jolt of pain ripped through you as more of your hair was pulled out. You flinched, but you also forced yourself not to scream again. You did bite your tongue and tasted blood, but you didn't want to show her how much you suffered. She had brought you here, probably spent quite a sum to give you this treatment (and you were in dire need of it too, even if you couldn't really handle the pain and shame it brought with it), and you knew you should be grateful. And you were, you would be, afterwards, when the pain was gone and your skin smooth again, but right now all you could do was cry quietly and endure.

You felt dizzy by the end of it, barely able to move your limbs. So you let the woman arrange you how she needed you, noticing that Mommy had shifted behind the chair, looking down at you, holding your hands above your head as your arms were being lifted, more wax came down and more pain throbbed through you, your armpits burning like they'd never done before. Through bleary eyes you watched her, squeezing her hands back, feeling lightheaded and disoriented.

And then it was over, finally. Someone pulled you off the chair and onto trembling legs, Mommy helped you get dressed again. Your skin was warm and tight, but as smooth as it had ever been. The shame of the procedure was just a little flame in the back of your mind now, somehow you felt too numb to care anymore.

Once you were in your tights and dress again, you were guided into another room, onto another chair, and while Mommy sat down on a stool next to you, grabbing your hand and holding it tightly, you felt a new pair of hands on your head, fingers loosening the messy bun on top before slipping through the wild strands. You inhaled deeply and leaned into the chair, letting them do their thing. It hurt when they brushed through the unruly mess that was your hair, it hurt when they plugged your eyebrows into shape, it hurt and stung and the shame flared up from time to time, but you tried to focus on Mommy and her beautiful face, as she watched you closely, never not paying attention to you.

That might have been the weirdest thing. The way she always watched you, so attentively. Nobody had ever looked at you like this, not even your own mother, who had always been busy with other things, your siblings, one of her husbands, her phone, the TV, anything else, while you tried to tell her about that drawing you made in preschool that day. You remember that you eventually gave up telling her anything, and the older you got, the more you distanced yourself from her, because it wasn't worth it anymore. She just didn't seem to care, and she did a very bad job at hiding it also.

But this woman, the one you met yesterday, looked at you with so much care in her pretty eyes, held your hand between hers, warm and gentle but firm, showing you she was there. She cared, she barely knew you, but she cared, and it brought another tear into your eye that you quickly wiped with your free hand, before giving her a brave smile as your head was jerked back a little again. And because she cared, you cared too, you wanted to show her that you were indeed a big girl, that this didn't hurt, that it wasn't uncomfortable, that you could endure.

This was for your own good anyway (even if it felt like torture). She was trying to make you your own person again, bring you back into the world that had spat you out so ruthlessly.

Eventually, you relaxed into whatever was happening around you. Your eyes fluttered closed, your hand gave hers the occasional squeeze, and you just lay there, thinking about your new life, thinking back to the tall man waiting his turn back home (your home... what a twist), and you wondered how he would spend the day with you. Would he do Dad-things with you? Take you to some sports event? Watch TV with you? Go fishing, maybe? You realized you had no idea what a father would even do with his kid, because neither your biological father nor any of your various step-fathers had ever shown any interest in you.

Then again, maybe you shouldn't focus on the Dad-things, but the Daddy-things. Because quite frankly, you didn't want this man to be your father, you wanted him to be there for you, hold you and kiss you, be something more to you, you wanted to sit on his lap again, lean against him, feel his warmth and strength, and his hands all over you...

A little gasp escaped you as you felt your core clenching around nothing, a little throb, then a little drip into your underwear. It had been a long while since you were attracted to anyone in any way, and somehow, after just a few moments with that man you knew practically nothing about, you felt your heart beating faster just thinking about him. But when you opened your eyes, coming back from your mind to notice the woman still holding your hand, you realized it wasn't just him.

You also liked her, the way she touched you, kissed you, how confident she was, how she made you feel both small and comfortable at the same time. You had never questioned your sexuality, never really considered yourself one or the other or anything else for that matter (you had a boyfriend in high school, and girlfriends you'd play around with, but it was never as intense and eye-opening as whatever you were experiencing right now).

It was all new and exciting, and knowing you had the attention of a beautiful woman and a handsome man was just mind-boggling to you. It felt like a dream, and not even the throbbing pain still coursing through your body seemed to be able to wake you up from it.

At the end of it all, you sat in the car again, next to Mommy, who still held your hand. After getting a new haircut (only a little trim), she'd taken you to the nail salon, and together you chose a subtle pink for your nails. They remained short and natural, but it felt so much better knowing they added to the overall transformation of your once neglected body. You did feel like a new person, a new girl, a young woman, ready to begin a new chapter of her life.

The trunk of the car was full of bags, filled with dresses and skirts, blouses and shirts, sweaters and cardigans, socks and tights and a variety of shoes, all of it girly, elegant, but also comfortable and chic, a whole closet full of things that only fit you. Buying underwear was another ordeal with Mommy, but in the end she found you beautiful pieces, ranging from cute and modest to really extravagant and barely covering anything.

And you felt good seeing yourself in them, confident despite all those areas you didn't particularly like – because apparently there was underwear that didn't have to be too loose or too tight, like the ones you'd bought before, the cheap ones. These new ones hugged your body like a second skin, accentuated the good parts and hid the bad ones, making you feel so much better about yourself.

During your shopping trip, Mommy bought you lunch and later a milkshake, walking with her hand around yours. While she did most of the talking, small talk mostly that you appreciated very much, you felt more and more at ease with her. Yesterday she'd been a stranger, and now, she was your Mommy, someone who took care of you, who laughed with you, who made you feel comfortable.

When the car returned to the mansion, the adventures of the day weighed you down more than you thought. You were tired, still a little sore from the waxing, but overall you were happier than you'd been in ages. Mommy helped you out of the car and pulled you towards the entrance door, while the driver started carrying all those bags into the house. In the kitchen, you were met by a delicious smell, and a large frame that made your heart beat faster.

“You've returned,” Daddy greeted you (looking so incredibly handsome in a white button-up with the sleeves rolled up over his strong forearms), putting down a dish towel before he approached you. Mommy let go of your hand and gave you a gentle nudge that you didn't really need, because in the next second you had fallen against the tall man's chest, your arms tight around his waist. “Aww, did you miss Daddy, baby girl?” he cooed, embracing you just as tightly.

You mumbled your confirmation against him, closing your eyes as you just leaned into him, no longer wondering why it felt so easy to be this close to these people. It just felt right. The way they looked at you, treated you, paid attention to you, all the trouble they went through for you. It was special, and you embraced it by embracing them, knowing how easy it was to please them with just a few words and a few simple displays of affection.

Eventually, he leaned you back by holding your shoulders, his eyes wandering over your flushed face and your bouncy new hair. His fingers stroked along your tresses, twirling the ends playfully. “Looks really good on you,” he told you, and you smiled shyly. “You're even more beautiful now, sweet girl,” he added quietly as he bent down to press his lips against your cheek.

You squirmed away with a soft giggle when he nuzzled your jaw, his hands roaming down your body to tease at your ribs. You fell into a full-on laughing fit when he continued tickling you, digging his fingers into your sides, while his teeth grazed along your pulse, your own hands grasping helplessly at his forearms.

“What a sweet sound,” he breathed against you before he stopped and grabbed your waist, lifting you effortlessly until his arms rested just beneath your rear, holding you up. You put your hands on his shoulders, looking down at him with your cheeks aflame and tears burning in your eyes, still smiling at him. “My sweet little pumpkin.”

You scrunched your nose at the nickname, making him grin even wider at you.

“Can I call you pumpkin, sweet girl?” he asked quietly, shifting you on his arms.

You considered it, wondering how he even got to calling you that, but then couldn't find a reason for him not to call you so. It did sound rather nice. “You can call me anything you want, Daddy,” you whispered breathlessly, your heart beating even faster.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, biting your lip. He turned you both around then and sat you down on the counter, leaning on his arms as he caged you in. His face was inches away from yours, his hot breath ghosting your lips. You watched him with growing anticipation, that tension in your stomach intensifying with every rapid heartbeat. He leaned closer, his nose brushing against yours, his eyes boring into your own, so intense, so hungry, and he tilted his head, your lips parted in preparation –

“So what's for dinner?” cut Mommy's voice through your special moment.

Daddy closed his eyes and leaned back slowly, exhaling loudly. You watched him, still holding your breath, your hands curled tight around the edge of the counter, your knees pressed together so hard your legs were trembling. He brushed his hands over your thighs, fingers teasing between them only for a second before he was gone, stepping away to the other side of the kitchen island, while Mommy took his place in front of you.

You saw them exchanging a long gaze, something dark glinting in Mommy's eyes. Her hands found your knees, and without looking at you, she forced them apart with a strength you hadn't expected from her. Gasping softly, you stared at her, and when her hands disappeared under the skirt of your dress, you stiffened. She looked back at you then, her eyes as intense as Daddy's had been.

“Girls Day isn't over yet, sweetheart,” she whispered, tilting her head before she leaned closer, brushing her full lips against yours. Her fingers moved around your rear before they slipped under the waistband of your tights. Your heart skipped several beats as she started pulling them down, and you squirmed on the counter, struggling between allowing her the motion and fighting it.

“You should give her a break,” sounded Daddy's voice from behind her, and when you looked past her as she lowered her head with a deep sigh, you saw concern and something else in his dark eyes.

“Don't tell me what to do,” Mommy whispered quietly, slowly turning around enough to look at him. Her hands were still halfway down your tights, her body wedged between your spread legs.

He stared at her, narrowing his eyes. “It's her first day, babe,” he said, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

She gritted her teeth, looking away until her suddenly cold eyes found yours. Your breath hitched in your throat. “But Mommy's hungry,” she muttered, licking her upper lip. You swallowed thickly, watching the exchange with bated breath, not quite understanding what was going on.

“Have dinner then,” he replied from behind her. “Greta made ravioli.”

Slowly, she slipped her hands from inside your tights and grabbed the waistband, shifting you back into them with a jerk. You gasped softly, scooting back on the counter. Then she gripped your chin and made you look at her. “Fine,” she said quietly. “Let's have dinner. I'll have you for dessert then, hm, sweet cheeks?”

She pulled you closer to her and smashed her lips against yours, inhaling deeply before leaning back again, letting go of you abruptly and stepping away, her heels clicking over the hardwood floor. And you sat there, on the counter, with your lips parted and trembling, confusion washing over you as you followed her with wide eyes.

Daddy extended a hand to you and, once you grabbed it hesitantly, helped you off the counter. Still holding your hand, he bent down to whisper softly: “Don't mind her, she gets cranky when she's hungry.” He winked at you then, squeezing your fingers.

You blinked up at him in even bigger confusion, but eventually you let it slide and let him pull you through the kitchen and into the dining room.

“By the way, I haven't asked before, so I told our chef to make something vegan. Do you eat meat, pumpkin? Do you have any allergies?” Daddy asked quietly as he pulled out a chair and motioned you to sit down.

“I, uh, I do, eat meat, I mean. And no allergies I know of,” you replied with a stammer, your legs still shaking a little.

“Good, that's perfect,” he mused and walked around you, sitting down at the head of the long table, while Mommy sat across from you, studying her nails.

Between you was a large plate covered by one of those fancy metal hoods, and when Daddy lifted it, a heavenly smell distracted you from the strange tension around you. There were three different types of handmade ravioli, big ones, not those tiny ones you'd eat straight out of the can, they looked so fancy and professional and delicious of all things, and when you listened to his explanation of which was which, you couldn't decide which one to choose, so you took one of each, earning you a little laugh from Daddy.

“That's a good appetite,” he praised, taking one for himself before he held out the prongs to Mommy. She turned her head to him, her eyes narrowed, and when she closed her fingers around his, you could see her knuckles blanching.

“Shopping makes hungry, you know?” she said pointedly, snatching the prongs out of his grip to put two ravioli onto her own plate.

He just sighed and lifted his fork. “Well, dig in, and again, welcome to your new home, pumpkin,” he added with a nod towards you.

You smiled shyly, nodding back. “Thank you,” you mumbled timidly, before you inhaled deeply, looking over the table to Mommy who seemed to poke at her food with quite the disinterest. “Really, thank you for everything, Mommy,” you said a little louder. “I had a great time today.”

She looked up then, her hard gaze softening immediately. Her hand reached across the table to brush against yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Me too, cariño,” she whispered, a small smile grazing her lips.

Seeing her relax again made your heart beat a little faster.

“Aren't you two the sweetest,” Daddy mused, his fork halfway up to his mouth. “Eat up now before it gets cold.”

Mommy pulled her hand away and focused back on her plate, ignoring Daddy's comment. You looked at him, feeling your cheeks burning up when he gave you another wink, before you turned back to your food as well.

Your mind was reeling from all the impressions of this single day. It was still something of a blur, a dreamlike experience, and occasionally a few doubts would poke through the cotton in your head, making you wonder when you'd wake up again. But you didn't. It seemed real enough. A real dinner, with real food, and real people. People who watched you, who offered you more, who reached out to scrape sauce off your cheek.

It had been twenty-four hours, and yet it felt as if you'd known these people way longer. The way they cared for you made it all so much easier. It was a dream, but a dream come true. And somehow you knew that there was a lot more on the horizon.

Chapter 3 🔷️ Chapter 4 🔷️ Chapter 5

End notes: Probably should have mentioned it earlier, but the whole waxing/makeover scene is only to show how Reader's depression made it impossible for her to take care of herself, it's not to shame anyone choosing to have body hair, because that is of course a choice. Please do not take offense in Mommy's ideals, she just wants to make Reader feel pretty in her own, slightly controlling way (that could be considered a bit dubcon if you squint, but really, Reader just isn't in a state of mind where she knows what she wants yet, so this is all some good-natured nudging).

Thank you for reading! New chapter every Saturday!

Up next: You are back in Daddy's arms, and he has his own special plans for you...

MASTERLIST 🔷️ AO3 🔷️ ORIGINAL WORKS

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crackedpumpkin · 3 days ago

Text

All Too Human (04)

taglist: @chennqingg @theblindhag @elysiuansstuff @professionalrodent @mikadough @jenniferontheblock @blackparacosm @goth-detectives365 @crystalbeetle888 @filiswingman @beescomet

a/n: if anyone would like to be removed or added to the taglist, do let me know!

| 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 | 𝗻𝗲𝘅𝘁 |

You can’t remember the last time you said ‘I love you’ to your parents. Their faces are blurry in your dream, stuck in a time when you’d stormed out of the house after a heated argument about your future.

The whole idea that blood is thicker than water has always made no sense to you. Just because they made you doesn't mean they know what's best for you.

It's like watching an old movie, an out-of-body experience as you see your past self storm out the door with a packed suitcase and bag, plane tickets to another country already purchased and transportation arranged .

The door slams shut behind your past self. You silently watch the tears roll down her cheeks before gripping the handle of her luggage with a newfound intensity. Mom always said that you inherited your temper from your dad, but you never really understood what she meant until now.

Defiance and fear swirl within her gaze, each footstep away from the front door growing heavier.

Shards of grief that you’ve pushed down a long time ago begin to resurface, slicing your heart and leaving raw, open wounds in their wake. The scene shifts to a later memory — when you’d first got lost in a country after leaving your home, crying alone at a bus stop.

During this moment, a pickpocket had taken your phone, your lifeline. Everything was gone: personal info, bank cards, even your one contact back home. You watch your past self wipe her eyes and wander to a nearby phone booth.

She picks up the receiver, fumbles for a coin, and dials by muscle memory. The rings echo across the line until, finally, a familiar voice breaks through.

“Hello?”

A strangled sob escapes from your lips as you watch your past self, silent and staring blankly at the phone pressed to her ear. You’re the one sinking to the floor, as if the weight of it all has finally buckled your knees, tears streaming down as if a dam has burst. "Mom," you whisper hoarsely, feeling the words break free, “Mom, it’s me.”

It’s been so long since you last heard her voice, almost long enough to have forgotten its warmth. But that same warmth brings about a chill, knowing that she can’t hear you.

Pain blooms in your knees as they scrape against the ground, but the blood goes unnoticed. “Mom, I miss you. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I want to come home.” Your words tumble out in broken fragments, your chest heaving, breaths shallow between each shaky sentence. "I’m sorry I let you down, I’m sorry I left. I miss Dad. I miss home.”

Your past self remains motionless, a shadow oblivious of your pleas. But here, reliving it, you feel the words ripple through your body, pulling raw grief and regret to the surface. The ache has never left; it’s only buried itself deeper.

“Hello? Must be a spam call,” you hear her mumble to someone else before a click in the line signals that she’s hung up. Your past self remains there, tears forming in the corners of her eyes but her pride refusing to let them flow.

Then, the scene shifts once more.

You’re in San Francisco now, a brand new apartment a friend of yours had let you stay in. She’d been gracious enough to lower the rent, though it’s still pretty expensive given that you’re only working part time in a bar and at the community pool.

Picking yourself off the ground, you wipe away the tear streaks on your face through the sniffles. Feeling your breathing calm somewhat, you watch on as your past self lays on the floor with a smile, blissfully unaware of the future that awaits her.

Then the world spins.

Inhaling sharply as your eyes snap open, you’re met with the worried faces of Bilbo, Fili, and Kili hunched over you. Your body jerks up with a choked cough, water spilling from your mouth and into the water below.

Throat burning and eyes watery, you assess the situation. The riverbank, with no orcs in sight. Just as relief hits you, so does the pain with full force. A soundless gasp pushes past your lips as your fingers clench into fists.

You’re almost afraid to look.

However, you force yourself to angle your head down, and your gaze falls on the arrowhead still lodged deep in your thigh. The metal tip glints darkly, surrounded by a ring of torn fabric and smeared blood.

Crimson trickles from the wound, pooling around the shaft and soaking into your clothes, each heartbeat sending another wave of fresh blood spilling over your skin. The area throbs, a pulsing agony that radiates up your leg, making it difficult to keep from crying out.

Your breath catches, eyes darting to Kili, who grips your shoulder firmly, his face drawn tight with worry. “It’ll be alright,” he says, though his voice wavers just slightly, betraying his own anxiety. His hand hovers near the arrow, uncertain, clearly torn between wanting to help and knowing that removing it now could make things worse.

Bilbo’s face pales as he watches the blood seep steadily from your leg, and Fili clenches his jaw, casting nervous glances between the wound and his brother. The pain sharpens, and a tremor runs through you as the realisation sinks in. You’re hurt, badly. Moving seems impossible, yet the urge to press on gnaws at you.

“We must leave now.” Bilbo’s worried eyes turn into a glare that’s aimed at Thorin from the announcement he makes.

“Thorin, she’s injured!” He protests, stepping forward in a protective stance. “She can barely move, and you’re here in one piece thanks to her!”

Your lips part in a murmur. “That’s sweet.” The hobbit remains firm in his posture, the leader of the group relenting.

Kili gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his gaze steady. “I’ll carry you if I must,” he murmurs, a quiet resolve in his voice.

“Two minutes. Bind the wound and prepare to leave in two minutes.” Bilbo’s shoulders relax, moving to stand near you. He’s too kind for his own good, and that bull-headed dwarf Thorin could learn a thing or two from him. What a bastard, truly.

Maybe he’s a Taurus.

But as much as you want to cry like a baby and just writhe in pain, you can’t die now.

“I need a knife,” the plea barely makes it past your lips, Bilbo fumbling around briefly before handing you his own blade. Unsheathing it, you muster all the strength in your body to cut through the fabric, revealing bare skin that’s been torn open.

Blackened veins spider around the wound’s edges. Poison, you realise with dread. “Stay still lass,” Balin pushes past the brothers to the forefront, grabbing the closest arm and pulling it to you. Unfortunately, it happens to belong to Fili, who officially becomes your stress ball replacement.

“I’ve got you,” he says, bracing himself as Balin’s steady hands close around the arrow’s shaft. Balin glances from the arrowhead to your teary eyes, muttering, “On the count of three. One—”

He yanks the arrowhead out in one swift motion. A pained scream rips from your chest, and your face buries into Fili’s arm as the agony sears through you, leaving you breathless. The arrow clatters to the ground, stained in crimson, and blood flows freely from the puncture in your thigh.

Your breath comes in shallow, shuddering gasps, and for a few moments, you simply let yourself cry. Each sob rakes through your body, as though it might somehow release the pain.

When you finally manage to draw in a shaky breath, the metallic taste of blood taints your tongue. Forcing down a swallow, you squeeze your eyes shut one last time before mentally putting on your big girl pants.

Patching up the wound before it bleeds any more comes first, but your frantic gaze finds no bandages or supplies around you, nothing even close to resembling gauze. Once again, you’re left with the bitter reminder that you’re in another world with none of the resources you’d grown so used to.

Desperation sharpens as you glance back and forth from Balin’s empty hands to Bilbo’s wince. The river washed away anything you might have used, and the rest of the group definitely lacked anything to do with medical supplies.

Swallowing the bile rising in your throat, you look down at your soaked tunic. It’s waterlogged and bloodstained, but it’s all you have. With a grim determination, you slip your arms out of it, leaving you bare with only a bound cloth around your chest, shivering slightly in the cool air.

As you pull off your soaked tunic, the dwarves go silent, their gazes averted — mostly. Fili’s eyes linger a little too long, clearly caught between worry and curiosity at seeing you in just your undergarb.

But before he can get too distracted, a firm nudge from Kili snaps him out of it, his brother throwing him a hard, narrow-eyed glare. The unspoken signal is clear, and with an apologetic cough, Fili looks away, his cheeks turning the slightest shade darker.

Meanwhile, Kili’s focus remains locked on your face, searching for any sign of your discomfort beyond the pain before you hear a loud thwack, Balin having smacked the side of his head and forcing him to turn his back as well.

Amusement darts through you in the haze of pain for a mere moment, catching the reddened tips of his ears. With no other option, you set to work, cutting the tunic into strips and winding each piece tightly around your leg.

Unfortunately, most of your strength is spent. Your left arm falls down, numb beyond belief. Everything in you is screaming to not ask for help, to not be a burden any more than you already are. But without someone to assist in bounding your leg, you’d bleed out and die.

“Kili.” The dwarf in question turns, eyes widening when he sees the helpless look in your eyes. “Please,” you croak, gesturing to the remaining material barely clinging to the skin of your thigh.

He’s instantly by your side, his hands getting to work as he binds up your leg using the same method you’d taught to him back in the dungeons. Gritted teeth don't hold back the sharp inhales at each jolt of pain he can feel.

In an attempt to distract yourself, you cast your gaze up to the clear blue sky. It helps somewhat, blinking away the involuntary tears that form. Once his movements cease, you look back down and meet his eyes briefly.

A flicker of admiration sits in his irises, mingled with worry and guilt. Your breath hitches for a split second before you both look away. “It’s done,” he announces with a shake of his head. He glances around at the company, scanning each dwarf quickly as you tug whatever’s left of your tunic back on.

There’s no spare fabric left from the packs, and most of their clothes are just as worn and torn from the escape. Watching him pause and his jaw tense as he makes a decision, you’re caught off guard when he reaches for his own tunic.

Without hesitation, Kili slips his knife from his belt and cuts a length of cloth from its bottom. The tear leaves his shirt a bit shorter than usual, but he hardly notices. “Hold on now,” he murmurs gently, inching closer to you.

The makeshift covering he’s prepared in his hands is soft, but sturdy enough to offer a thin layer to protect your modesty. "Like you said,” his voice warm but still teasing, “we should still take care of ourselves when injured.”

Your voice dies in your throat as he leans down, wrapping the cut fabric around the exposed skin between the bottom of your now torn tunic (or makeshift crop top, you silently dub), and the top of your pants.

His fingers work deftly but carefully, tightening the bandage with an ease that belies the tension in his jaw as he tries not to look too closely at the scrape and blood pooling around your thigh.

You’re pretty sure your brain’s short-circuited now, forgetting how to breathe when his gaze meets yours once more. The ground doesn’t even feel solid under your fingertips at this point, heart turning to mush.

His gaze should be illegal, you decide. He should be in jail for the things he’s doing to my stomach right now.

The other dwarves, sensing Kili’s dedication, glance over now and then but quickly return to their tasks or their stances, giving you both the privacy the moment demands. Fili keeps his head turned but can’t resist casting a sideways look every so often, protective but still wary of intruding.

Kili pulls the bandage securely once more, his hands warm and steady. He finally lets go, resting one hand lightly against your knee for a moment as he steadies himself, catching his breath. “It should hold,” he says, his voice soft but resolute, and you can sense the relief mingled with pride beneath his words.

The pain subsides slightly with the firm bandaging, and for a moment, there’s a shared silence between you, broken only by your own slightly laboured breathing.

“You were—” Kili begins, then hesitates, a trace of his earlier admiration still in his gaze. “You held yourself well. I doubt many could do as much.”

His praise stirs something in you, though the discomfort of vulnerability lingers just beneath the surface. You’re exhausted, but his words somehow give you strength, grounding you through the pain and fatigue.

You manage a faint smile, nodding to him in silent gratitude, watching as he rises and moves back, though his eyes linger on you just a moment longer than usual. Fili coughs loudly to shatter the moment, trying his very best to ignore whatever just happened.

Don’t blame him at all, because what the fuck was that all about?

You blink. Get a grip. You’re not actually supposed to feel this way. He’s just a character. Just focus on surviving, that’s all you have to do now until you can go home.

Your fingers press against the makeshift bandage, testing it, and though the pain has dulled somewhat, each movement sends a sharp reminder throbbing through your thigh. You grit your teeth, willing yourself to focus. The pain is almost grounding, in a twisted way; keeping you alert, reminding you that you’re still here. Still needed. You won’t let it slow you down.

“I think I’ll be alright now. Why don’t we-”

The sound of a branch being split open makes the breath hitch in your throat, interrupted when you spot a man standing on a jagged rock above everyone else. His shoulder-length hair is tied back into a scraggly half-up style, an arrow notched onto his bow in expert manner.

The arrow pierced through the branch in Dwalin’s hand makes everyone else hesitate. His figure seemed familiar. Where do you know him from? Your fingertips brush against the edges of another memory partially shrouded by exhaustion, a name rings clear in your mind.

Bard. The fisherman? Or ferryman of Lake-town. Again, the details remain frustratingly out of reach, scraggly bits and pieces floating around in your head like an unsolved puzzle waiting to be pieced together. One thing’s for sure though, he’s one of the good guys.

Before you can tell the others what you know, another arrow slices through the air, knocking away a rock that Kili instinctively picked up.

“Do it again, and you’re dead.”

Okay, so maybe you might be wrong.

Fuck it, only one way to find out.

“You’re Bard, aren’t you?” you ask, voice strained as you struggle to remain composed through the dull throb of pain in your thigh. His head tilts in mild confusion when he spots you among the band of dwarves. “Of Laketown. The… guy.” You manage a faint smile, but the lingering ache distracts you from delivering anything close to poise.

Bard’s expression hardens, narrowing his eyes as he lowers his bow, though his stance remains guarded. There’s a flicker of surprise in his gaze, perhaps at the way the dwarves seem to fall into step behind you. “And what does it matter to you?”

The question lingers as you struggle to get up from the rock, pushing past the ache in your thigh. Bofur, quick to notice, moves to your side, offering a steadying hand, which you accept gratefully. Together, you hobble forward, keeping Bard in your sights.

Oin’s sceptical voice cuts in from behind. “Ye know this lad?”

“Not personally, no.” You shake your head, trying to inject some nonchalance. “But if we need to get into Laketown, he’s our best chance. We’re just some… merchants.” You direct your words at Bard, keeping your tone light despite knowing the cover is flimsy at best.

Bard’s eyes narrow further, clearly unconvinced. “Merchants.” The flatness of his voice draws a tired nod from you.

By now, he’s drifting toward a small boat nearby after deeming you a non-threat, and you press on, following with uneven steps, each one jarring your leg. Kili’s worried gaze catches yours, and he inches closer, hands poised to help if you stumble. You look away, avoiding his concern. There’s no point overanalyzing whatever tension lies between you two. At least, not now.

Balin steps forward, taking over with his usual warmth. “Aye, and I’ll wager you’ve hungry mouths of your own to feed?” As he speaks, Bofur helps you settle onto a nearby rock, and you give him a grateful smile, shifting your attention back to Bard.

Bard’s stance relaxes slightly, a touch of softness entering his expression at the mention of his family. Balin notices and pushes a bit further. “How many bairns?”

Bard sighs, pride slipping into his voice. “A boy and two girls.”

“Aye, and your wife’s a beauty, I’ll wager?” Balin continues, keeping his tone gentle, disarming.

Before Bard can respond, you blurt, “Oh no, she’s dead, actually.”

The bluntness drops like a stone into the conversation, the air growing heavy as all eyes snap to you. The dwarves freeze mid-reaction, their expressions ranging from horror to disbelief. Balin looks like he might choke on his own words, while Bard’s gaze sharpens, settling on you.

Well, shit.

You bite your lip, heat rushing to your face as you realize the weight of what you’ve just said. The ache in your thigh is messing with your focus, your usual filter unraveling with every throbbing pulse. Now your mouth is just running wild, practically begging to land you in trouble.

Bard doesn’t flinch, though his eyes narrow slightly, studying you with unnerving precision. “I suppose you’ve seen many a dead body, then?”

The question hits harder than you expect. His gaze dips to your bandaged thigh and the faint bloodstains on your clothes, a flicker of understanding sparking behind his eyes. You can’t tell if it’s pity or suspicion, and frankly, you’re not sure which would be worse.

You shake your head, feeling the rawness of his words cut through the haze. “Just my grandfathers and grandmother,” you say quietly, the vulnerability slipping through your usual guard with a hint of shame that clouds your words.

A beat passes, and Bard’s expression shifts slightly, perhaps a mix of understanding and solemnity. “Were you there when it happened?”

You shake your head again, guilt seeping into your cheeks in the form of a heated flush.

He nods slightly, turning back to his barrels. “Then you are blessed.”

There’s no malice in his tone, just the hard edge of someone who’s weathered his own losses. For a moment, you’re caught off guard by the strange gratitude his words evoke, though defensiveness lingers in your chest. You hadn’t expected him to care.

Kili’s sudden voice breaks the silence. “Please.” He takes a step forward, glancing at you before focusing on Bard. “She’s injured. She needs medicine, and we have none. You may choose not to help us, but surely you wouldn’t forsake your own kind.”

For a moment, Bard says nothing, watching Kili with a sharp, assessing look. But as the silence stretches, he finally steps into his boat, shuffling through his belongings.

A flash of doubt crosses Kili’s face, but before he can speak again, a heavy fabric lands on your head. Startled, you grab it, realising it’s a cloak. “Put it on,” Bard mutters, his voice firm. “Your tattered clothing will draw unwanted eyes.”

Relief flickers in Kili’s expression as Bard helps you into the boat — a quiet, unspoken agreement in his actions. As you settle in, you clutch the cloak around your shoulders, watching Bard closely.

Before he pushes off, you reach out and catch his sleeve, surprising even yourself. “My companions. I won’t leave without them.”

He raises an eyebrow, his expression cautious. “And what makes you so sure that it will matter to me?”

His question lingers, a subtle warning in his tone. You steel yourself, masking the tremor in your voice. “Because you don’t leave people in need. We’ll pay you — double, in fact,” you add, feeling Thorin bristle behind you. Balin gives him a firm look, urging him to stay silent.

Relief washes over you in waves when Bard pauses, assessing the state of the dwarves, and the desperation in your eyes. “Triple, and you will do exactly as I say.”

Balin seizes the opportunity by the neck, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. “Seems like we have a deal.”

— — — — — —

“So what really brings you here?” It’s difficult to answer the sudden question that Bard springs forth, fiddling with the edges of your cloak as you lean against Balin. There’s a certain familiarity in his demeanour, one that resembles that of your own father.

Hesitating, you look to Balin for approval. He nods.

“I can only speak for myself.” The words come out slower than you intend, as though admitting them makes the whole ordeal more real. “Thranduil…let's just say he didn't take well to me pointing out that he's… a few brain cells short of a functioning idiot. So he locked me up for it.” You manage a weak smile, shrugging as if you’ve come to terms with the absurdity of it all. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I just want to go home.”

You’ve lost track of the number of times you’ve made that wish, both out loud and to yourself. Maybe if I do it two hundred more times, there might be a pot of gold by the end of this rainbow, you think wryly.

Wow. I’m actually going insane, aren’t I?

“Did you run away?” Bard’s follow-up question catches you off guard. There’s a gentle curiosity in his gaze, as though he’s seen this kind of longing before.

It’s difficult to answer without seeming like an absolute lunatic seeking asylum at the mention of other worlds, so you just nod, offering a half-smile. “Guess you could say that.”

Bard chuckles lightly, a sound warmer than you expected. “I’d bet you were a handful to your own parents.”

You manage a small laugh, feeling a flicker of warmth in spite of yourself. “They might’ve mentioned that… once or twice.”

At that, Bilbo, who’s been listening in with a quiet attentiveness, speaks up with a thoughtful look. “Leaving home is no easy thing,” he says, his voice soft. “I did the same, not so long ago. Not quite running away, but… close enough.” His eyes meet yours, sympathetic and knowing. “Sometimes, what starts as a reckless idea can lead you exactly where you’re meant to be.”

You arch a brow. “Even when it means getting thrown in prison?”

Bard raises an amused brow at Bilbo, half-smiling. “This hobbit here has an odd way of putting things.”

Bilbo clears his throat, a little embarrassed but smiling anyway. “Let’s just say it doesn’t always turn out so badly.” He shifts closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “And… between us, I think Thranduil might be due for a few more words from you. For his own good, of course.”

Bard chuckles, shaking his head. “Let’s hope he doesn’t put a bounty on your heads by the time you reach Laketown.”

For a moment, the tension eases. You drift along in the heavy mist, watching the shifting shapes of stone structures emerge on either side. There’s a chill in the air that seeps through your cloak, though you find a strange comfort in the silence shared between the three of you.

Even the pain in your leg has lowered to a dull throbbing, but you know better than to simply move it. Your fingers itch for the familiarity of your phone once more, wanting nothing more than to go to a hospital and get proper medication and treatment.

But when in Rome, do as the Romans do, you suppose.

The boat rocks gently, and you glance at Bard. His hands work the tiller with practised ease, his gaze steady, navigating the inky water as though the mist doesn’t faze him at all. His silhouette is calm, almost statuesque against the ghostly outline of ancient archways rising from the lake’s surface, relics of a world much older than you can fathom.

You lean back, letting the mist curl around you, but your gaze drifts to Kili. He’s watching the ancient stone structures slip by, the flickering light from the lantern near him casting shifting shadows over his face, softening his usual sharp, playful edges.

You can still feel the tension from earlier. His hands steady against your skin, the warmth of his gaze in that unguarded moment. It’s enough to make your chest tighten all over again.

A part of you aches to reach out to him, but another part, one you can’t ignore, wonders if it’s really a good idea. You’re already more involved with him than you wanted to be, and each shared glance, each touch, seems to draw you deeper.

Oh. Oh god no.

It dawns on you with mortification, your heart sinking in your chest. You are not about to get into a situationship with him, not with your literal life at stake. You shake your head slightly, as if to clear the thought, focusing instead on the mist-laden waters and the steady, quiet pain that reverberates in your leg that anchors you to reality.

Thorin approaches, his impatient voice cutting through the silence.

“What are you trying to do? Drown us?”

Bard doesn’t even flinch, his expression calm as he turns to Thorin. “I was born and bred on these waters, Master Dwarf,” he replies smoothly. “If I wanted to drown you, I would not do it here.”

The dwarves exchange glances, and you hear Dwalin mutter darkly to the others, “I’ve had enough of this lippy lakeman. I say we drop him over the side and be done wi’ it.”

You bite back a grin at Dwalin’s suggestion, sharing an amused glance with Bilbo. Unable to hold back an exasperated roll of your eyes, he stifles a chuckle of amusement from your blunt honesty.

“We do not have to like him. We simply have to pay him ... come on now lads, turn out your pockets.” Balin instructs calmly, as if he’s used to the unfriendly attitude the rest have. You frown slightly.

“You could at least say thank you to him.”

“Of course. After you apologise for speaking about his dead wife, perhaps?” The harshness of Thorin’s reply sends a jolt of embarrassment through you, a heated flush creeping up your neck and into your cheeks.

Bard’s indifferent voice drifts over, his eyes focused on the waters ahead but still within earshot of the conversation. “She is injured and by my estimate, lost quite an amount of blood. I did not think that you would treat your companion with such unkindness, especially when she insisted on not leaving you behind.”

Kili glances between you and his uncle, conflict in his eyes. The warmth in your cheeks fade, reality sinking in as you realise that Bard has come to your defence. “I’m sorry about earlier,” you say softly, head slightly bowed in apology. “I really didn’t mean to blurt it out like that.”

“I am not worried about your bluntness, but I am curious as to how you came to know of this.”

Bard’s question lingers in the air, his voice calm but probing. You hesitate, eyes darting to the dark waters slipping by as you fumble for an explanation. “I…” you start, but the words dissolve on your tongue, weighed down by the impossibility of explaining the truth.

Everyone’s watching. Bard with mild, detached curiosity, Balin with a hint of concern, and Kili with something softer, almost protective. Thorin’s gaze, however, is more impatient for answers.

So much for thinking that he’s chill with you joining the group.

Unable to meet their eyes, you swallow, finally settling on a response, however insufficient it feels. “I can’t tell you,” you murmur, barely above a whisper. Your hands knot together in your lap, a shield against the expectant silence.

Thorin’s jaw tightens, but his expression doesn’t turn openly hostile. “You’re a mystery to us, it seems,” he says slowly, the suspicion in his voice tempered by caution. “But you've proven helpful thus far. I'll grant you that.”

But Bard’s expression softens, though his eyes remain sharp. “Everyone has secrets, Master Dwarf. Especially in times like these.” His gaze returns to you, a hint of understanding in his eyes. “I won't ask you to share anything that you're not ready to answer.”

Kili shifts beside you, his hand hovering near your arm before he quickly pulls it back, as if unsure. “She’s done more than enough,” he mutters under his breath, almost defensively.

You glance at him, surprised by the support, though it only makes the tightness in your chest more acute. His eyes hold a warmth that cuts through the tension, silently assuring you that he trusts you, even if the others don’t.

Balin clears his throat, ever the diplomat. “Aye, let’s leave things as they are. We’ve a long journey yet, and nothing to gain by second-guessing those beside us.”

Bard returns his attention to the tiller, the boat cutting through the mist as silence settles back over the group. Thorin finally looks away, though his stance remains tense, as if he’s reserving judgement until he can be certain of your intentions.

In the stillness, you sense Kili’s gaze drift back to you, his expression softened, though he quickly looks away when he catches your eye. For now, his silent support is enough.

It’s a while later before you wake up from having dozed off, finding yourself on Kili’s shoulder. Blinking away the sleep in your eyes, your hands find the edge of the boat’s seat, pushing yourself to sit upright.

His gaze is warm and slightly teasing, but there’s a flicker of something else too—a hint of hurt that surprises you. “Looks like you needed the rest.” The smile in his voice doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You give him a sheepish look. "I didn’t mean to doze off on you."

"Don’t worry about it," he replies, but there’s a hesitation, like he’s holding back. "You’re injured after all. Just let me know if you need it again."

There’s a small pause as you glance at him, feeling the familiar pull to let your guard down, to simply enjoy the warmth and kindness he offers so freely. But it’s not mine to take, you remind yourself, an unease settling in your stomach. Kili belongs with someone like Tauriel — someone from his world, with his bravery and his spirit.

Yet, here he is, looking at you with that softness in his eyes.

"Why are you always so… nice to me, Kili?" you murmur, hating how vulnerable the words sound but unable to stop yourself. "You barely know me, and you don’t… you shouldn’t have to go out of your way like this."

Kili looks at you, brows knitting in gentle confusion. "Because I want to." He pauses, voice lowering. "And you’re not as alone as you think, even if you feel that way. I can see it."

His words settle around you like a blanket, both warming and suffocating. A pang of guilt tugs at you as you look away, biting your lip. This isn’t supposed to happen. Not with him. But the thought of putting distance between you, of brushing off his kindness, hurts more than you expected.

"Well," you manage, forcing a playful smile as you steady your breathing, "maybe you’re just terrible at making new friends."

Kili chuckles softly, but there’s a question in his eyes. "Maybe. Or maybe I just see something good when it’s right in front of me." He hesitates, searching your face as though waiting for you to let him in. "Are you sure you’re alright?"

You feel your heart race at the sincerity in his question, the way he sees right through your defences. But the closer he gets, the more you realise that pushing him away now might hurt him, especially since he doesn’t understand why. "It’s nothing," you lie, hearing how hollow the words sound.

Kili watches you for a moment, his gaze lingering, as though he can sense the struggle within you. He doesn’t press you further, but his voice is softer when he speaks again. "You know, you don’t have to pretend with me. If you ever need to… talk, I’m here."

Your heart tugs painfully, and you fight the urge to reach for his hand. "Thank you, Kili," you murmur, forcing a smile that barely reaches your eyes. "I’ll keep that in mind."

He nods, his expression kind but uncertain, as though he’s trying to decipher the wall you’ve put up between you. But before he can say anything more, you turn away, pretending to be interested in the dark shapes of trees drifting by. You tell yourself that distance is for the best, that keeping him at arm’s length will prevent the hurt that’s bound to come. But dread pools in the depths of your soul, inching closer with each betrayed flutter of your heart.

A few clearing of throats and shuffling of feet draw your attention, spotting an uneasy look on Balin’s face as he counts the coins in his hands. He glances up at the dwarves around him, before turning to their leader. “There’s a wee problem ... we’re ten coins short.”

Without thinking, you instinctively reach into the cloak Bard had lent you, rummaging through the inner pockets. Your fingers graze something cold and rough, and you pull out two coins, which must have been left there by Bard himself.

With a soft hiss of pain, you manage to push yourself to your feet. Bilbo, ever attentive, quickly moves to steady you, helping you shift closer to the group. “I don’t have much, but this is all I could find.”

Balin accepts the coins with a grateful nod, his eyes softening. You silently hope Bard won’t notice that his own money has ended up among the dwarves’ funds.

But as you settle back, trying not to aggravate your injury further, the atmosphere shifts. Gloin is grumbling about the expense of this venture, but the rest of the company has fallen silent, their eyes transfixed on something in the distance. You turn, following their gaze… and the sight stops you cold.

There, looming far ahead, is the Lonely Mountain. Its peak cleaves through the morning mist, jagged yet majestic, as the first light of dawn spills over the horizon. The dwarves fall silent, captivated, reverent, their gazes fixed on their distant homeland.

You stare, awestruck yourself. For all the marvels you've encountered in your own travels, like the serene slopes of Mount Fuji, and the magnificence of the Colosseum…none of it compares. The mountain is more than a landmark; it’s a vision woven from longing and memory, a piece of lost history carved into stone and sky.

But then, like a crack through still glass, the memory hits.

So came the hot dragon breath from the north, about dusk, over the Lake... Smaug came hurtling from the North, licking the mountain-sides with flame, beating his great wings with a noise like a roaring wind... Then he settled over the town, slowly turning up the heat with fire and wrath.

A wave of nausea swells in your stomach, and you press your lips together, forcing back a gag. The image in your mind is too vivid. The flames licking at Laketown, the choking smoke, the screams. You close your eyes, clutching the edge of the boat as if grounding yourself could push the memories away.

Really? Right now? Talk about bad timing-

Beside you, Gloin silently presses a leather purse into Thorin’s hand, his voice thick and reverent. “Take it... take all of it.”

Thorin’s eyes stay fixed on the mountain, unreadable, but you sense the significance of their silence, each dwarf carrying the burden of years and losses. You breathe deeply, willing the nausea to subside, focusing on the chilled air and the steady rhythm of the boat snaking through the waters.

As you manage to steady yourself, a soft nudge from Bilbo catches your attention. His brow furrows, eyes flickering with concern as he glances between you and Bard, who’s steering with an intent gaze on the dwarves’ silent devotion. Bilbo opens his mouth to speak, but before he can voice his question, Bard interrupts, his voice firm.

“The money, quick - give it to me.” he commands, drawing you all back to the task at hand.

Maybe it’s the sight of his homeland that spurs forth the sudden distrust in Thorin’s voice, his hands gripping into fists at Bard’s urgency. “We’ll pay you when we get our provisions and not before.”

“If you value your freedom, you will do as I say. There are guards ahead.”

Turning at the loud shout that travels across the water, the memory from moments earlier fades away at the sight of a town looming out of the thinning fog. Every building and path is made of wood, the dimmed lanterns revealing dark shapes of crooked buildings and the golden glows of torchlight.

“In the barrels, if you value your lives.”

Muttered complaints and glares directed toward him go ignored. Making a move to stand up, you’re stopped by Thorin who places a heavy hand on your arm. “You will stay here. I will not have another dying before we reclaim our homeland.”

Too exhausted to argue and too numb to disagree, you sit back down. “Have you at least thought of a better disguise than a merchant?” Bard questions, sarcasm laced through his gaze. “If I were you, I’d go with mercenary.” His eyes drift down to your injury once more. “It’d explain that, at the very least.”

His advice rings true, and you nod your head in response. “Mercenary it is.”

He gestures to the back of the cloak, a silent instruction for you to flip up the hood. The material rests atop your head, shadowing your face to the dwarves in barrels behind you.

As his boat nears the town, you take in row upon row of crooked, thatched houses that balance on slumping piles. A long wooden bridge is the only connection with the shoreline a distance away.

So this is Lake-Town.

A small fleet of early morning fishermen, pulling nets in from small boats, eye your hooded figure on Bard’s boat as he passes. The boat comes to a slow stop, and you watch as he moves a few boats down with practised ease.

He stops, exchanging a nod with a couple of fishermen in a hushed conversation.

A couple of guards patrol nearby, and you hold your breath in anticipation, praying they wouldn’t notice you. Luckily, they get distracted by a noise to their right, veering sharply away from the boats and into the town.

“What’s he doing?” Dwalin’s baffled question elicits dissatisfied mumbles from the rest.

“He’s talking to a couple of fishermen,” you say, just loud enough for them to hear. Your fingers twine together in your lap, a form of prayer for steadiness. “They’re pointing at us now, and shaking hands.”

“What?!” Thorin’s outrage is prominent, Dwalin chiming in.

“He’s selling us out!”

“No, you guys!” You hiss, frustration creeping into your voice. “He’s bribing them. You all have trust issues, I swear.”

A sharp, audible inhale cuts through the rising tension, and you glance over at Bilbo. His eyes are wide, his expression unreadable at first, until they flicker to Bard. A glint of distrust forms in his gaze, sharp and fleeting when he sees him gesturing towards the barrels. For a moment, that look in Bilbo’s eyes feels like a betrayal…like you’ve been doubted, like something you thought was understood has been called into question.

You flinch, the hurt stark and unexpected, but just as quickly, you shake it off. It shouldn't matter. After all, it's nothing but words on a page, written by a stranger, long before any of this started. But even so, the sting lingers for a moment longer than you’d like.

The fishermen hand Bard baskets of freshly caught fish, and he makes his way back to the boat without spilling any. The parkour skills this guy displayed is enough for you to grow a newfound appreciation for him, a sense of awe in your eyes. Even at your best, you’d probably have tripped over and fallen face first into the murky waters.

Not probably. Definitely.

He reaches the boat and approaches the barrels, pausing when he sees you stand up with difficulty and reaching out your hands for one. He ponders for a moment before deciding that time is of the essence, and pours half a basket of fish over Dwalin’s barrel before handing you the remaining.

As you approach Kili’s barrel, the dwarf looks up at you, glancing from the basket to your sympathetic smile in mild panic. As he accepts his fate with a small sigh, you proceed to pour the rest of the fish on top of him.

You and Bard work quickly, the fishermen handing him more fish as needed. You manage to cover Balin, Oin, and Bombur who gives you a reassuring nod, though the disdain at the extreme smuggling is clear in his gaze.

“Now, you will have to be quiet. Let me handle the talking.” You sit back down, the sudden movement sending another shock of pain through you. Biting back yet another groan, you take slow, deep breaths.

His demeanour becomes watchful, shoulders tense as he steers the boat towards a canal that leads into the heart of Lake-town. Audible dwarvish grumbling from the barrels makes Bard kick at one with his foot, the boat nearing the bridge.

“Quiet - we’re approaching the toll-gate.”

A heavy iron gate blocks the canal entrance, reminding you of the pictures of mediaeval drawbridges you’d walked past in museums. A voice calls out in the gloom.

“Halt! Goods inspection, pull alongside! Papers, please!” A voice cuts through the fog as the boat drifts closer to the checkpoint. Your heart skips a beat as the lantern light sweeps over the boat, and the guard peers in. He squints for a moment, then recognition flashes across his face. “Oh, it’s you, Bard.”

The guard lifts his lantern a bit higher, casting a wary glance at your figure, cloaked and keeping to the shadows. Your grip on the fabric tightens as you try to shrink further into yourself, hoping to blend in, but the movement only draws more attention.

If you can’t see them, they can’t see you, right?

Bard nods in easy familiarity. “Morning, Percy.” He hands over a paper (maybe their version of a passport?) and you try to keep your breathing steady as Percy studies it. The guard’s eyes flicker back to you, brow furrowing with obvious curiosity. He hesitates, and your pulse quickens.

Is he going to say something?

“Anything to declare?” Percy’s gaze lands squarely on you, and you stiffen, forcing yourself not to shrink further or look away. Every instinct screams to turn and bolt, but you keep still, willing yourself invisible.

“Nothing — except that I’m cold and tired and ready for home.” Bard’s smooth answer cuts in, calm and final. The hint seems to work; Percy shrugs, his curiosity satisfied, and stamps the paper with a grin. “You and me both. There we are... all in order.”

Just as you feel the relief starting to settle in, your shoulders dropping, the paper is intercepted mid-air by a pale hand, snatched with a suddenness that makes you involuntarily flinch.

“Not so fast!”

A short man holds the document up to inspect it, his long fingers curling possessively around the edges. His small, narrowed eyes sweep over Bard and then land squarely on you.

“Consignment of empty barrels from the Woodland Realm…” he drawls, his gaze now shifting to the barrels stacked with fish. As he pauses, his lips curl in a sly smirk. “Only… they’re not empty, are they, Bard?”

Out of the corner of your eye, one of the barrels shifts ever so slightly — the one you recall Kili had climbed into. Even through the wood, you can sense the simmering frustration of the dwarves, each second in this tense exchange testing their patience.

“And who might this be?” he sneers, looking back at you.

“She’s no one of importance,” Bard replies quickly, his tone tight.

The man’s smirk broadens. “I can’t just let strangers slip past without proper inspection, can I? Pull back your hood.” His voice drips with false charm and a hint of malice, his smile stretching to reveal teeth yellowed by age and neglect.

You glance at Bard, who gives a brief nod. Reluctantly, you lower your hood, revealing your face and hair, messy from the journey. Realisation dawns on you, a name flickering in your mind: Alfrid, the gross coward from Lake-town.

Alfrid’s brows shoot up, and he steps closer, leaning in with a sickly grin that tries (and fails) to pass as charm. The look he gives you is laden with oily interest, each lingering second making your skin crawl.

Bard steps forward, his voice calm but edged with tension. “She’s with me — a mercenary from the southern lands,” he explains, keeping his tone firm and steady. “Hired to help navigate some of the more dangerous roads. Not that it’s any business of yours.”

Alfrid’s oily grin doesn’t falter, his gaze now shifting between you and Bard, calculating and clearly unconvinced. “A mercenary, is it?” he repeats, his tone mockingly sceptical. “Quite the unusual ally for a bargeman. Seems you’ve found yourself a rather… unique guard.”

You lock eyes with him, fighting to keep your face neutral, even as your heart pounds against your ribs. His gaze feels like a rotting weight, heavy and invasive, each moment dragging on longer than the last. "I go where the coin does," you say, your voice steady despite the unease coiling in your stomach. "Bard's needs matched my skills."

Alfrid’s brows arch as his grin turns sickeningly sweet. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of… skills.” His tone is drenched in insinuation, and your stomach tightens with revulsion. From behind him, Bard’s fists clench, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he barely restrains himself.

That motherfucking BITCH-

Stomach tightening, you hold your ground, forcing yourself to meet Alfrid’s gaze without flinching. You can practically hear the dwarves behind you, the muffled, contained fury rolling off them like a tide, and just as you tense, one of the barrels shifts behind Alfrid with an audible creak. A low, strained groan follows. You instinctively stiffen, placing the voice immediately.

Kili. It has to be. You can almost feel the seething anger radiating from the barrel he’s packed in. If it weren’t for the tight walls of the barrels and the risk of giving their position away, you know they’d be out by now.

Alfrid doesn’t seem to notice — yet. He shifts slightly, distracted by the movement. His eyes flicker back to the barrels, a flash of suspicion crossing his face. "If we’re not done here," you say, forcing the words through your clenched teeth, "do know that I bill by my time. And unless you plan to pay on his behalf," you gesture with a dismissive wave to Bard, "I suggest you stop wasting it."

Alfrid’s eyes narrow, and for a brief moment, it seems like he might back off. Then his gaze slides back to you, lingering on your face with something more predatory. He tilts his head ever so slightly, and a low chuckle escapes his throat, like a rat sniffing around for something it can devour. "I do wonder, mercenary," he drawls, his voice sweet and mocking, "how much you're really worth... in coin, or otherwise."

You fight the urge to shudder at the way his gaze slides over you, not just seeing you, but almost stripping you with his eyes. The stifling atmosphere feels too thick, the air pressing down on your chest, but you force yourself to breathe through it.

Behind him, the faintest creak from the barrels sends a warning shot through your body. You glance quickly at Bard, and for the first time, you notice the barely contained rage in his eyes.

You’ve handled creeps like Alfrid before, more than your fair share of them back home after years of living alone. "It’s not like you could afford it," you scoff, leaning back with deliberate indifference, inspecting your nails like this is just another boring encounter.

But the pain that flares in your thigh sends a sharp sting through your senses, a cold sweat prickling the back of your neck. You swallow it down, giving nothing else away. “Now, are we done here?”

Playitcoolplayitcoolplayitcool-

Bard steps forward, his voice colder than before, and you can feel the weight of his presence rise behind you. "Yes, are we done here?" His words drip with authority, and as he towers over Alfrid, it's clear the situation is reaching its breaking point.

Alfrid sneers, reluctant to let you both go without one final jab. He glances from you to Bard, but the impatient tap of your knuckles against the boat makes him pause. He hesitates just long enough to dig in one last time. "Ever the people's champion, eh, Bard? ‘Protector of the common folk.’ You may have their favour now, but it won’t last. The Master has his eye on you. You would do well to remember — we know where you live."

As the gates open, Bard steps back onto the boat, pushing off. “It’s a small town, Alfrid,” he calls out, a tremor of anger in his voice, “everyone knows where everyone lives.” As the boat drifts away, you slide the hood back on in an attempt to block out the lingering stare before the gate closes behind you.

Bard navigates through the canals, drifting past alleyways filled with scattered scraps of food and animals fighting over the remaining. “Don’t pay him any mind.” You look up at Bard, who glances down briefly in an assuring manner. “He has no courage to try anything, especially around me.”

“I’ll do my best,” you reply, throat dry while you try to mentally shake off the remnants of slimy creepiness from the earlier interaction. Besides, if Alfrid pulled anything, you’d kick his balls with your good leg, or punch it if needed.

The villagers you pass by throw suspicious glances, but they immediately return to their tasks when they see who you’re with. It’s like you’re with a police officer during a parade, his assured gait warding off any threats.

So this is what main character plot armour is really like.

One of the barrels shifts again, drawing the attention of a stall owner nearby. Leaning down slightly, you use your good leg to kick its side, a pained grunt belonging to Dori making your eyes widen. “It’s not yet time,” you whisper with a sheepish smile.

“So, how does a child of Men end up in the company of dwarves? I imagine you’ve gone through the ordeal getting out of the Woodland Realm together, but loyalty being developed so quickly is almost unusual.”

His observational skills are parallel to none. A part of you hesitates, yet you decide to speak. “They’re my best bet at surviving,” you say truthfully, “sure, some are a little rough around the edges, but they’re not as bad as you think they are. They helped me, after all. Could’ve left me behind.” Your voice drops to a whisper, mild happiness tinging your words, “but they didn’t.”

The dreariness of Lake-town is hard to ignore. It’s not quite as you expected. You'd read about this place before — of its waters, its sturdy wooden bridges — but now that you’re here, it’s more of a cold, grey, intersecting web of buildings than the majestic town you had pictured.

Bard glances at you, sensing your momentary distraction. “Something on your mind?” he asks, his voice softer now, though still carrying that knowing weight.

You can’t help it. The words slip out before you realise what you’re saying. “It’s just… nothing like I pictured it. It sounded... grander, like a beacon of hope or something.” You laugh softly, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I was expecting bright lights and clean streets, maybe a place where hope is still something you can believe in.” You quickly recover, forcing a smirk. “Guess that’s the romantic in me.”

Bard raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press, though his silence speaks volumes. You regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth, hoping you haven’t revealed too much, but the damage is done.

“What did you expect?” Bard asks after a beat, his curiosity piqued. “To be honest, I’ve never thought much about how others see this place. For me, it’s just… home.” He watches you carefully, his expression unreadable, though there’s a subtle softness behind his gaze.

You hesitate, then shrug, choosing to be as guarded as possible. “I guess I thought it would be more... full of life. Like the people here were all bound together by something. But instead, it feels like everyone’s just going through the motions.”

Bard’s eyes flicker for a moment, but he says nothing, merely nodding in understanding. “Here we are,” he says, his voice breaking through your thoughts, though you barely hear him as you take in the surroundings.

The more you see, the more industrial this part of the town looks. The wooden walkways, so prevalent in the main part of Lake-town, are replaced by grimy planks and decrepit platforms, making the whole area feel more like a forgotten factory district than a place of life. The smell in the air shifts too, thick with the scent of metal, oil, and the faintest tang of decay.

It’s an eerily similar vibe to the industrial areas back home.

I guess architecture transcends worlds, you think, almost disbelievingly. The reality of Lake-town seems like a far cry from the idea you once had, but seeing how the people who live here adapted to survive, it’s a sobering thought that grounds you to this reality.

Bard’s eyes flick to you again, though this time, there’s a quiet understanding. It’s almost like he’s aware of the thoughts swirling behind your expression, but he doesn’t press, letting the weight of the moment settle between you.

The boat slows as it reaches a series of docks. There are no shops here, no people idly wandering. Just empty spaces, and the faint echo of villagers from the village marketplace. You glance back at him, but his face is unreadable. This is just another place to him, just another part of his harsh life.

RIP Bard, you would’ve loved skyscrapers and electricity.

Once the boat stops, Bard uses his foot to tip the barrels over.

Fish and indignant dwarves spill onto the deck. A singular dock worker watching on is amazed at the sight, as Bilbo and the dwarves extract fish from all parts of their clothing. Bard presses a silver coin into the dock worker’s palm.

“You didn’t see them. They were never here. The fish you can have for nothing.”

He is so fucking cool.

Casting a brief glance back at you, he deems your injury as non-critical. “Follow me,” He orders, helping you stand up and acting as your support. Before he can make another move however, a young boy runs toward the group.

“Da!” Bard’s steps slow to a halt, eyeing his son with concern. “Our house,” he says through rapid pants as he catches his breath, “it’s being watched.”

The panic in his voice is enough to make you snicker, and the look of confusion his son gives you when you giggle only makes it worse. Bard peers down at you, like he’s just realised he’s helped an idiot.

You know this scene. You’ve read it a hundred times, and it was hilarious back then, but now that you’re actually standing here, all you can feel is a deep, almost painful pity for the poor dwarves.

You turn to the group behind you, and Bilbo — bless his oblivious little heart — blinks innocently. You open your mouth, barely able to hold back another laugh.

“You guys are really not gonna like this.”

— — — — — —

The stairs creak beneath your weight, each step a battle as you grip the wooden railing like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Every breath is laboured, but you push forward, determined to make it to the top without looking completely out of breath. No way you’re letting Bard see you struggle. Not when you’ve already made a fool of yourself enough today.

“Do they even have elevators in this place?” you mutter under your breath, trying to take your mind off the ridiculous number of steps. (10. There were 10 steps.) Whoever decided to make up the standard route to any house in this town needed a serious reality check.

Finally, you reach the door, entering it quickly before Bard shuts and bolts it behind you. The sound of his children’s voices follows, lilting and full of that chaotic energy only kids have. You’d almost forgotten what it felt like to hear that kind of noise in a home, what with being in prison and all.

At least you could check that off your bucket list and Bingo for this year.

A small girl runs up to him, her face scrunching in a mix of impatience and joy. “Da! Where have you been?” she repeats, a hint of a pout tugging at her lips.

“Father! There you are,” another girl, much taller than the first, says, letting out a long breath as if she’s been holding it in forever.

And for a second, it strikes you—a simple, quiet moment of what could almost be normal.

“Sigrid, Tilda,” Bard introduces them to you, pausing to add your name like it’s something to be remembered. You barely keep a straight face—like you really need an introduction right now. You already feel like you’ve been here for a decade, getting your life threatened, nearly dying in a few places. One more person wouldn’t make much of a difference at this point.

Bard’s gaze flickers toward the window, his usual caution coming through, then turns back to his son, his voice low and steady. “Get them inside.” Bain who’d been introduced to you along the way nods, rushing down the stairs.

Sigrid’s concerned eyes fixate on the fresh patch of blood leaking through your bandage. You hadn’t realised it had started bleeding again. “I’ll get you some water,” she says brightly before hurrying off to what you guess is the kitchen.

Tilda guides you to a seat you all but collapse into, a weariness in your body that threatens to drag you back down into the depths of unconsciousness.

“Thank you.” Taking a moment to finally breathe, your adrenaline decides to take a rain check at the exact moment the scent hits. You smell them before you can see them, the all too familiar smell of ammonia and worse, drifting through the house.

And then — just as you're about to choke on your own laughter — Dwalin appears in the doorway. You don't even need to look up to know exactly who it is, the smell's that distinct. You can only imagine what their expressions look like.

Just then, you glance up and see Bilbo, still hovering at the back of the room. He points at you with a raised finger about to say something — only for him to pause. His mouth opens, then closes. A long sigh escapes him. “Yeah, I’m done with this…” he mutters under his breath, his shoulders slumping. You watch, struggling to hide the smile tugging at your lips.

He’s completely defeated. You almost feel bad for him, but the humour of it all? You really wish you could film this and get it on video.

“Well,” you manage, feigning innocence, “it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who stinks around here.”

The reaction is instant: a few groans, a couple of muttered “I-can’t-believe-this” comments, and you can’t help but laugh despite the ache in your leg. You look up at the dwarves' faces — tired, exasperated — and in that moment, you know they can't even be mad at you.

After all, you did help in their escape and get shot while doing so.

Fatigue comes in waves, eyelids starting to drift shut when it occurs to you that you’re probably still bleeding out. Still, you manage a tired wink at the group before one last exhale has you fully passed out on Bard’s chair.

#Kili x female reader #kili x female reader #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit #kili x you #kili x y/n #kili durin #kili x reader

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idontcare4urmom · 7 hours ago

Text

˘ ͙ᵕ˘͈ “LACY,OH LACY”┊͙ ˘͈ᵕ˘͈

when being a bit too much of a secretive and insecure person lead to your best friend getting what you always wanted since kid,matt sturniolo

•*⁀➷ angst,cursing,mentions of insecurities and self doubt,traumas,mentions of crying,envy,jealousy,etc. (inspired by the song «lacy» by olivia rodrigo ✧*)

!! first language is not english ¡¡ (masterlist,taglist)

———————————ღ————————————

you’ve always been secretive, quiet,never sharing your personal information or preferences with no one. not because you wanted to be, but because the world never felt like it had space for you. your words, your wants, your feelings—they have always seemed like things to be swallowed, locked away. you never speak much.you never ask for too much.

you are the kind of person who lingers in the background, watching rather than stepping forward,observing in silence. it started young—this creeping sense that you were never quite enough. maybe it was the way people overlooked you in conversations, the way your parents never quite celebrated your achievements the way they did for your siblings, the way people always seemed to forget your name until they needed something from you.

you watched girls who were louder, who took up space without apologizing for it. girls who could make a room bend toward them, who didn’t hesitate before speaking, who didn’t second-guess their worth. you watched them and wondered what it felt like to wake up in a body that didn’t feel like something to be ashamed of, to exist without the weight of self-doubt pressing into your ribs.

and yet, deep in the marrow of your bones, you have always wanted him,matt.he is the boy who was once completely attached with you, but now only existing in the deep past,leaving you only with the heavy weight of vividly memories.

he was there in the soft haze of your childhood, in summers spent running through golden fields, in winters where you watched the snow settle in his dark hair, his laughter curling into the air like smoke. he was the first person who ever made you feel something close to special. the first to hold your wrist when you almost tripped, the first to call your name like it actually meant something.

but he was also the first thing she took from you.

your best friend. the girl who never needed to ask for things because the world placed them at her feet. the girl who shined so brightly, so effortlessly, that people mistook her glow for their own warmth. you love her —because how could you not? but love unfortunately does not erase envy,even though you really wish it did.

you compared your face to hers—the shape of her lips, the curve of her nose, the way her eyes caught the light just right. you compared your voice to hers, how easily she spoke, how people listened to her without her needing to beg for their attention. you compared your body, your laughter, your very existence, and every time you did, you came up short.

it all happened quietly and maybe way too fast.you saw the way he would start looking at her all the time, and the part of you that is still a child—still hopeful, still stupid—pretended not to notice. you watched as his laughter becomes softer whenever she would be near, as his hands would find her waist, as she would lean into him like she has a right to.

then one evening,sitting almost peacefully on the hardwood floor of your balcony,she told you that she decided to test out committing a relationship with him—she said it all so simply,so calmly, sickeningly unaware that it shatters you in the most silent way possible.

you forced yourself to remember that she loved you. that you were not an afterthought to her, not something lesser. but love does not make comparison disappear. and comparison was something you carried with you like a second skin,

and now—you try not to see the way he touches her. you try not to hear the way he says her name. you try not to remember what it was like when he still looked at you like you were something to be seen. but trying means nothing when the universe has a cruel sense of humor, placing them in your path at every turn.

she tells you stories about him, as best friends do. how he surprises her with coffee in the mornings. how he texts her goodnight with little inside jokes that make her giggle. how he kissed her in the rain like something out of a dream,

you only could listen,not realizing that you were slowly becoming an echo of your older self,the one who wished to be heard by anyone.

then it also comes the worst part—the guilt.the shame of it,curling around you like a suffocating fog.you weren’t supposed to ache for the person your best friend chose, and he had chosen her.

yet you couldn’t resist your thoughts,wondering what it would be if things were switched,different.if he ever would glance at you again as if you were something sacred,if you were the one someone had reached for instead of just passing by.

———————————ღ————————————

one evening, after too much pretending, you slip away from a party neither of them noticed you at and find yourself by the lake. the moon hangs low, it’s reflection fractured in the water, and you feel like something unraveling,

you swore your heart skipped a few beats when you heard a familiar soothing voice behind you,the one who would send tingles in your body and make you all warm,him.

you don’t remember when exactly you fell for him, it wasn’t sudden, not some grand realization that struck you like lightning. it was slow, torturing, like the tide pulling in, so gradual that by the time you noticed, you were already drowning.

he had a way of making the world feel lighter. he could turn anything into a joke, could tease you without it ever feeling cruel. and you loved that about him. loved the way he never treated you like you were fragile, like you were someone to be handled with careful hands. he made you feel real, solid, like you weren’t just floating through life unseen

but that of course,didn’t last long—cause when she stepped into the light,he followed right behind.

“are you okay?” his voice was practically dripping with kindness and softness,and it only made you feel like you were some sort of a pity,

you honestly didn’t know how you were even supposed to respond to him,the lump in your tight throat suddenly roping like a knot,desiring to basically let your emotions wash over and to cry your heart out.

instead you hollow a smile in the corner of your lips— explaining that you needed some air, and he hesitantly lingered his gaze on you,causing your stomach to flutter pathetically,

“you can go back,i will be there soon” you whispered out,afraid that if your voice was a tiny level louder it would betray your hidden tone of sadness.

he could sense you were yearning for some alone time,so he only nodded,eventually walking and disappearing in the shadows so he can step back inside,where she is waiting for him—like you always have been secretly,even though it wasn’t enough,and the truth is that it will never be.

———————————-ღ———————————-

ev’ note: colliding olivia with the sturniolo’s cause why the fuck not?😛 by the way i don’t know if it’s painfully obvious that this is my first angst,i hope it doesn’t suck but i can already picture it flopping hard🥹

love youu<3

taglist: @wiidfi0wer33 @chrislova @cutiepaiquill @zainabthescientist @jetaimevous @toysizee @chratts-left-ball @savvyratatouille @bellassturniolo @justexisting12 @mattsbrowser

#evelyn’s posts.ೃ࿐#sturniolo triplets #my works #matt sturniolo #sturniolo fandom #matthew sturniolo #angst #fic writing #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #the sturniolo triplets #sturniolo #idk how to tag this #matt x reader #the sturniolos #make me famous

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tubbytarchia · 3 days ago

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Ngl I kinda hate it when you talk about lizzie cause you always talk about this version of her and the fandom that's so utterly foreign to me as a lizzie fan, it always feels like a damned if you do damned if you don't scenario where she isn't allowed to interact with men and ignoring all the depth of her character in order to overanalyze specific events or headcanons in a vacuum and then saying it's ignoring her character and misogyny, as well as ignoring the irl misogyny that shapes the cc's choices for their c's. Big sister and protector is a title she bestowed upon herself and it should neither be dismissed as "just that one time " (because so much of everyone else's characterization is based on things that were "that one time" and it is also something both her and jimmy choose to quite fondly call back to) nor incongruent with her character at someone who loves a good "i meant to do that" and self-agrandizing herself. It feels more like you have to ignore several years worth of both hers and jimmy's story and characterization and also the more problematic realities of the situation (such as it being lizzies second season, while it had been jimmy's 5th season of an incredbly prominent ongoing plot point, and that lizzie's external interactions of note were, outside of our power and for various reasons, primarily with men, among other things) to boil the whole situation down to its most barest of bones of "people make lizzies death about jimmy". Which I find an untrue twisting of the actual concept most of the time but acknowledge it is sometimes simplified to, and there are aspects of misogyny in lizzie's portrayal, but you frame it in a way as if the concept itself is inherently misogynistic and purely a fandom issue. The fact is that no matter who it was, the first first death that wasnt jimmy was always going to be a bit about jimmy, there is no avoiding it and no seasonal plot that was going to overcome that fact, and lizzie is a good friend whos become his sister who explicitely had a plot about wanting and failing to protect him, who had a significant interaction with him not long prior where he killed her accidentally, and died while specifically targetting a man who was both jimmys tormenter and joels rival whom she randomly selected to be her target, and died due to a tripping failure which has already been previously interpretted in the past as being tied to fate, and the in game reactions being cpnfusion, happy/shocked jimmy managed to not be out first, and swearing to avenge her death. You'd be hard pressed to believe these things wouldn't be still true and play out the same if she was a different gender, and most of them would still happen even if she was an entirely different player. Nevermind the copious different interpretations that fall within the framing of it as a seablings moment, from wanting to give an accidental death more meaning and connecting dots (because thats most of what fandom does with an ad libbed story like the life series to begin with), to simply enjoying the poetic irony of both seablings being the first out, lizzie showing her true cringfail colours now that shes returned to the series, to tying it into the fact that yes she didn't do it onl purpose, but she absolutely would tell people and even herself that she did just to retain her dignity in the same way a cat who missed a toy stops chasing it and starts grooming themselves like they never meant to go after it in the first place.

And also, like, you ARE a Jimmy person also, so I'm not surprised you primarily interacted with stuff that involved Jimmy. As a Lizzie fan I saw plenty that was to do primarily with Lizzie, and yeah there was a significant amount that involved Jimmy. I didn't see any one of the people who complained about that fact actually go on to make works without Jimmy. I did see other Lizzie fans before and after making such works, and the works that did involve Jimmy being works with deapth and love for their specific relationship, stories, and personalities. I saw plenty of people who hadn't watched Lizzie at all suddenly become interested and retroactively watch her series, and of course the works the made before doing so weren't centred on her, because they were coming from different povs and didn't know as much, and their works after became more in-depth and come out the gate swinging during wild life where she stole the spotlight for much of the season.

I don't know as much about Pearl and Gem's fandoms. But I do know that Pearl is frequently treated as a wet cat and a little crazy, but also she loves playing particular characters like postwoman and cleaning lady that specifically utilize their responsibility to enact chaos through malicious compliance. And Gem takes open pride at being smarter and less ridiculous than everyone else even while actively doing the same things as them, she loves going "youre crazy!... I'm in." And she's pulled a "stupid boys" move several times. Which is to say, whether you consider it a product of misogyny or not, it is an aspect of their characters, they don't live in a cultural vacuum and by the nature of the series where they are only partly roleplaying and each character exists within the framework of their cc's biases, you cannot just analyze their actions like its a typical narrative with a single author you can point to and say they poorly write women. And you cannot blame fandom when these aspects of their character are represented, and while some do do so to the exclusion of the rest, 5am Pearl is the only life series plushie for a reason. Nevermind the difficulties of analyzing what people an fandom think of characters based off of the popularity of certain art and umbrella narrative concepts from fanwork posted excitedly in the moment without going to each individual and asking them what their full thoughts are on a character assuming they have the ability to articulate their opinions and thoughts properly. I'm sure those people who complained about Lizzie's death being tied to Jimmy had a LOT of thoughts about Lizzie, but as I said none of them actually bore fruit in the form of fanworks. Most people do not have time or ability to convey complex ideas, what you see at any given time when searching through fanart and short text posts in particular are the most resonant, dramatic, small thoughts and moments that touched something in someone enpugh to inspire.

That is to say, as a Lizzie fan, one of the reasons I love her is the exact trits that lead to her choosing to become Jimmy's big sister in empires 1 in the way that she does. Her paper thin often facade of respectability and dignity, her failures despite it, her talent for mixing drama and comedy, her ability make up stories that often agrandize herself, her instant chemistry with most anyone, her ditziness and distractedness, her ability confidently declare facts even when theyre completely false, her ability to tie coincidences together into a coherent story. And absolutely all these things are also relevant to why I and others find framing her secret life death in a seablings light to be compelling. Personally, for me, I love that her death connects her to others when her time in secret life was so lonely. It can be bother angsty and, because these games don't end at the persons death, comforting and sweet. And I don't know anyone who was compelled by the potential character connection who wasn't also compelled and even directly spurred on by her as an individual. To boil it down to "she died for a man's story" is both untrue and removing it from its context, the especially when half the context is 2 narratives Lizzie herself crafted for herself and the result was something she herself enjoed enough to play into to craft a 3rd narrative in the next series.

Anyways... I know this won't change your mind. I don't expect it to. I'm just so tired of shallow takes and people who aren't even Lizzie fans talking about Lizzie's narrative through the context of the small snippet of what they see from other non-Lizzie fans based off immediate gut reactions that often stifle the way people talk about the women in this series to ironically complain about how people talk about women in this series. The feminist analysis in this fandom feels so... shallow. Like it begins and ends with the bechdel test as applied to more conventional works of fiction. Big sister bad, women interact primarily with men bad, people see women as responsible because misogyny. No further depth or context despite the endless paragraphs dedicated to these ideas, especially once theyre disseminated out to use against other fans to tell them theyre creating fanworks wrong.

Because of how politely this is written, it took me a few rereads and external evaluation, but I recognize that you're criticizing me for the things I criticize. All your ask really boils down to, is defending fandom practises that I criticize because I disagree with them. Like that of making Lizzie out to be a one-note character. You make good points, you speak the truth. The fandom IS like this. And that's why I criticize it. Because I don't like it. You're absolutely right that you haven't changed my mind

People are allowed to have their fun, I do not police people. I do not maintag my opinions 90% of the time. I'm allowed to voice my disagreements. You pointed out that a lot of fandom goers just don't care to dwell deeper into characters, that's fine. But I do

I think it says something when you have to make Lizzie's character about a relationship that was canon in ESMP1 and bears little to no actual presence elsewhere like the Life series. I don't care whether people headcanon her and Jimmy as siblings even in traffic, the issue is that she gets little to no characterization outside of that in SL, a series in which their only notable interaction was Jimmy killing her. Lizzie deserves an identity outside of "choosing to be Jimmy's sister". (She'd also gone out of her way to try and kill Scott because of Joel, it wasn't random.) And this type of treatment is detrimental to Jimmy too. Just as the misogyny in the fandom is always detrimental to the men also. Quoting one of my evaluation friends: "They aren't inherently wrong, you cant detach the men from the story and have it be the same but also to take an already interesting moment and story beat and just start piling unnecessary 'sibling' stuff onto it kind of ruins the drama and tragedy of the death itself"

Of course women can have meaningful connections with the men. It's not bad or misogynistic. I talk about Pearl and Scott's dynamic constantly and have never seen nor received a complaint about Pearl's character being made to be all about a man. Think about the relevance between those two vs Jimmy and Lizzie in the Life series

I talk about Lizzie frequently because I like and care about her character. I'm not saying that the people I disagree with don't. Clearly you care a lot too. The sentiment that people are just creating based on something that left a big enough impact on them to inspire, eg Lizzie's SL death, is very fair, but I can still disagree with it. I mourn that more people don't take that newfound interest to indulge in Lizzie's POV more, and that because of people's tendency to absorb characterization from the fandom to feed back into itself, that's all a lot of them know and care to learn about ("Lizzie taking a bullet for Jimmy" and all) and how so many characters (not just the women) in my opinion end up being absurdly one-note in their analysis and opinion pieces for being players in a death game (+ the practise of often shunning people who dare touch upon anything less desirable or popular in their analysis like abuse)

If it were a guy in Lizzie's shoes, characterized the same way that I disagree with - I would still disagree with it

I've explained it before but no, it's not misogynistic to credit the women for their successes, to point out when they're smart or protective. I see it as misogynistic when women exclusively are being accredited to successes that are not exclusive to them constantly to label them as the leaders of their groups, labelling them motherly or big sisterly solely because they're thought to be better than their male counterparts, viewing all the women as the best players specifically, etc

Lizzie's death was always going to be tied to Jimmy, yes, by the fandom, and I just don't like that personally. I don't want to resign myself to something because it "was going to happen anyway". I don't want to resign myself to approving of what little Lizzie gets in the way of the fandom because it's better than getting nothing. I shouldn't have to settle for more canary analogies than actual Lizzie centric content that barely exists. And I mean actual Lizzie centric content, I haven't seen any uptick of it that you speak of. That's all any of this really comes down to. You and I might both be avid fans of Lizzie's character but we're gonna have to disagree

#blabber

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