#cw toxic family

[bonefall]

what is the crow/night/breeze family dynamic like in this au? you've mentioned crowfeather being the one still emotional over leafpool so that would definitely affect breezepelt, but im curious of the wider scale of it. love this au btw!

I'm trying to infuse more nuance into all three of them like they're a cold brew tea.

HOLD UP THOUGH; let me be CLEAR!! I don't think Nightcloud has done anything wrong in canon (besides the rebellion which they forgor about anyway). I do not like how the narrative put a lot of blame on her in Po3/OotS/field guides when her greatest sin was... loving her child.

So in BB she is going to do bad things because we support women's wrongs <3

NIGHTCLOUD

I keep going back and forth on when she was born, if she was nabbed as a kit after the WindClan Massacre or if she was a young warrior during the BloodClan battle.

In either case, she is the sister of a cat named Tawnyfur, and their Mi is Hillrunner. They were born to Hillrunner's identical twin Downwind, but she was killed during TPB.

Hillrunner was incredibly traumatized by the horrors. She was obsessed with strength and phobic of ShadowClan for her entire life.

If you met Hillrunner, you'd think Nightcloud was a sweetheart in comparison (and she will be)

Tawnyfur was killed in the BloodClan battle.

Nightcloud hated Tallstar agreeing to trade with them, and she was easily recruited by Mudclaw based on her fury at Leo, Snapper, and Spagbol joining WindClan.

When they got to the Lake, Nightcloud joined Mudclaw's Rebellion. She spoke out against involving cats of other Clans in the cause, but fell in line quick.

The rebellion sabotauged a muirburn. The controlled burn became uncontrolled FAST.

I think she wanted to blame the cats like Hawkfrost for how far it went, but after the rain doused the flames and WindClan had to keep putting out smouldering peat fires, she realized it didn't look good to keep blaming others.

Plus how Mudclaw got smote. THAT put fear of StarClan into her

So it wasn't neccesarily out of regret that she apologized for her role and begged forgiveness, but a mix of guilt, fear, and genuine desire to fix the collateral damage.

I think she did take Crowfeather as a mate for reputation purposes, but she did also like him and want a mate. It wasn't an Honor Siring, for her it was more of an "arrangement" which she hoped would strengthen

She wanted to prove her loyalty, but also that she is a good and loving cat.

When Breezekit came around, she tried her hardest to be a good mom. She really didn't want to be like Hillrunner.

But she hadn't worked through anything else. Still had a distaste for Brushblaze, Snapstorm, and Cranberrysplash. Strongly valued strength and aggression. Only approved of Onestar when he pushed for violence and rejected the notion that you can trust cats of other Clans.

Breezepelt struggles with it for most of Po3, because he gets very close to the Three and considers them friends. But when the reveal drops, he believes she was right all along

I don't know how to preserve it yet but I do want Nightcloud to keep the housecat friend she makes in CT. Eventually.

Basically... she's dealing with a lot of anger of her own, not really knowing how to sort it, following along with what she was taught.

And Breeze inherits many of those problems.

CROWFEATHER

Significantly different from canon. Not aloof; dramatic

He's also a REALLY good cook. He was Mudclaw's apprentice and it shows.

I'm actually going to wrap him up in the rebellion. He endorsed Mudclaw's claim over Onestar-- and over the word of Brambleclaw.

But he snitched and fetched help on the night of the sabotauge.

After that and then Leafpool, he was also looking for a way to boost his reputation. Having kits was a way to do that, and he's a cat who was chosen by StarClan to go on a great journey, son of an old deputy and a new deputy, with an honor title, who ran to fetch help and thwart the assassination attempt.

He knows he is a bit controversial but also that he is undeniably a big shot. And he's not going to pretend like he's not proud of that. He's not even 5 and hasn't even had an apprentice but he's the most significant cat in WindClan

So when Breezekit comes along? He should be grateful. But he's not, he's a snot nosed little brat (child) who backtalks (child) to his own father (adult)

And he sure doesn't appreciate Nightcloud always trying to fight him. How dare she tell him how to be a Ba?

She won't let him BE involved in the way he wants, turning his kit against him, this is all her fault.

"If it wasn't for her, Breezepaw would know discipline!"

The whole world is out to get Crowfeather and anything bad that happens around him is someone else's fault.

So obviously the mateship falls apart fast.

He doesn't respect anything about Breezepelt, and blames all of his kid's problems on Nightcloud.

In a furious fight, he likes to compare Nightcloud to his other lovers. He says Feathertail, even if he IS talking secretly about Leafpool, because she is dead and can't confirm it, and it always hurts Nightcloud to be compared to an outsider.

This is an exhausting person to be around, and the boost in status and resulting ego makes him insufferable in contrast to the young warrior he was on the Sundrown Patrol.

After the Secret Reveal though, when Leafpool is stripped of her Cleric status and Crowfeather starts talking openly about his love, it is the LAST straw with Onestar. He rips his warrior name off and exiles him for a month-- begone CROW, NO SUFFIX. No you're not going back to CrowFOOT either. Not even an entire Dishonor Title. Just Crow.

He does start improving after that, but he needed a drastic punishment

BREEZEPELT

The kid was only born as a status symbol. Do you blame him for being a special kind of messed up?

He really cannot remember a time where his parents weren't fighting. Never liked it when Crowfeather did parental duties either. Kids are really sensitive to bad vibes.

Was, and still is, really close to his mom. But he always spent a lot of time with his buddies.

Harepaw, Kestrelpaw, Breezepaw, and Heatherpaw were the oldest apprentices in WindClan, the first ones born in the new territory. They all hung out together, except Kestrelpaw who was in Cleric training as soon as possible. Not even 6 moons.

When he's in a good environment, Breezepelt really shines. He isn't like Crowfeather says he is, he's actually fine at making friends and getting along.

When Crow or Night are around, he will often noticeably get more rude and xenophobic, eyes darting back at them like he's looking for approval. Night is always approving of this and giving light chuckles, Crow will engage in it too, but snap if he feels like Breeze embarassed him somehow.

When they go away it's like it drains out of him.

His worst choices in BB always go back to him being pretty desperate for approval, snapping between idealizing people or thinking they're the absolute worst.

So yeah. It's a screwey little dynamic. They hate Crowf, Crowf hates them, the arrangement was massively based on status, Breezekit was always in an unstable environment from the get-go, Nightcloud did contribute to Breezepelt's mindset especially post-reveal.

[problema-fic-prompts]

Character A is a musical prodigy despite only being a teenager, and has an amazing career ahead of them. Even if their family had impossibly high standards and has been cruel to them.

Character B is a music tutor who’s taken an interest in A that turns into obsession.

As B helps them further their career, they groom A to be their lover and stay by their side. Forcing them away from their toxic family. I like thinking about this set in like a Victorian setting but I think any time period works great

[gemini-forest]

I remember a while back in a call someone asked me if Leo likes his in laws.

No he fucking hates them. Jayden's mom specifically

Like it took a while for Jayden's parents and siblings to turn around and not be bigoted thanks to their cook aunt. They did grow from that.

However after their mother met Leo shes been passive aggressive towards him since day one. Jsyden has called her out for Leo publicly and privately but gotten to the point of being passive aggressive.

If ya want to see Leo be his most petty let me know

[l1wolf2588]

Why does it bother me to be accused of something I know I didn't do? Dunno but here we are feeling like the trash someone said we were.

[forget-me-not-automaton]

It’s so funny how I’ve learned to hinge my entire self on such a terrible family. Every media I like and every opinion I have is thickly filtered through “what would dad think if I showed him this or told him about it? What about my brother and sister?” Even though all 3 are simply indifferent most of the time, while still managing to hurt my feelings constantly with their own outdated views. I constantly try to come up with ways I could fix them or make them better, trying to figure out how to work them into good people, even though I know I can’t do that. I don’t want my opinions to be controlled by people who I hardly see anymore. I just want to be free.

[jackriverart]

Sometimes I wish I could just tell my sibling that our mom is abusing them too but they don't even want to know about the ways she abused me, and also they need to come to that conclusion by themself.

[lavendermin]

collar of thorns | blade

blade x reader, fem reader, bodyguard au

wc | 5.1k

genre | hurt and (a tiny bit of) comfort, nsfw, minors do not interact

warnings | implied toxic family dynamics, unhealthy dependency, brief previous torture mention, panic attacks, trauma, blood and brief violence, nudity, blade uses a shower head to get you off (if there’s a term for this lmk I’m drawing a blank rn)

note | mwah thank you to the bestest @nashusglasses for beta reading this 💗 this was supposed to be at most 2k but well… here we are ^^; love blade’s quiet but gentle girldad vibe with the stellaron hunters so this is a loose interpretation of that in a bodyguard au. very self indulgent with a sprinkle of comfort and mostly exploring their dynamics of an evolving relationship

His calculated actions are a conversation—one you have learned to follow, though not without a learning curve. Even in silence there’s more he tells you with a glance alone than words ever could.

It’s experience that Blade has accumulated as your bodyguard for quite a few years. No stranger to your mannerisms and higher quality of life coming from a family with powerful connections and flaunted status.

He knows you well, in his opinion. Head held high but a frail little thing weak in the knees from utter fear and paranoia. Pitiful, he thinks. Like a field mouse braving the jaws of a beast.

Despite being the black sheep of a renowned family, you’re no less a target as a vessel of valuable knowledge— information that some would go to great lengths to gain. No cost is too great, risk and reward leading many astray. Ultimately, it pulls you closer to unraveling. Time and time again.

—

There is protest— displeasure from attendants that arrive on behalf of the main family estate. You aren’t meant to be seen like this— bedridden and flawed and vulnerable.

The instruction was to wait. Wait until you have healed and could properly make yourself presentable. To save your family face, above all else.

But it’s your house, your rules.

The attendant continues to talk your ear off about why this is egregious and why the meeting should be postponed until months later when you’ve healed. It’s what the family ordered.

They might as well have ordered you dead, too. In your current state you’re no different than a deer in an open meadow, a thousand triggers waiting to be pulled.

“No.” Your gaze is blank as you side-eye the attendant by your bedside. “I want him to see— see exactly what my father signed him up for. If he is to be my guard, then he has to be able to handle all aspects of my life. What good is he to me if the unsightly is just that and nothing more?”

The attendant opens their mouth to oppose, but is interrupted by a knock on your room’s door as another attendant exchanges a hushed message. Upon their departure a tall figure is allowed inside— dark, silent.

Heavy is the atmosphere as he stands before you with an air that you can’t quite read. Blade, his name that was briefly provided by your father’s informant days prior.

“The family extends its gratitude for your gracious courtesy to meet with me on such short notice. Things haven’t been going as smoothly as my father would like. And that man does not trust me whatsoever to keep my mouth shut if the worst should happen.” You mutter something bitterly that Blade chooses not to dwell on. Sleepless paranoia has taken quite the toll on you. The dark circles under your eyes are quite unbecoming, though he doesn’t comment on it.

It’s none of his business— not until you tell him it is. Your word now commands him from the second he stepped into the room.

Blade sits across from you in a leather chair, unreadable with a rather guarded posture. His employer’s daughter— his task— is both what he expects and doesn’t expect.

There is a fear that keeps you alive and a defeat that splits your soul. A cacophony of unrest, a cocktail for an isolated soul.

“As you can see, he’s sorely mistaken,” you snort, dry and humorless. The days worth of agony are neatly dressed in gauze and fresh bandages, well on their way to become a blur of many such incidents to come. A recent incident— torture for information, he can only assume. “Regardless, my life is in your hands now.”

Blade nods, a simple acknowledgement. How easily he accepts to be by your side until your final breath.

“More than your duty,” you continue, “you are my trusted companion. My only companion.”

___

There’s little intel Blade could gather on attempts at your life, but that matters less to him from the second he’s hired. Those attempts would not prove successful, at whatever cost. They would only diminish further the longer he was your guard.

Duty-bound and distanced, he does not bother asking further about your past, and neither do you. You know he wouldn’t answer, and you’ve tried.

As a victim of circumstance, you are hard to blame.

Casual conversation is one-sided—a condition you’ve grown accustomed to. The microscopic changes of expression he allows are often response enough for you to carry conversation. You’ve long since stopped thinking too hard about it. No use breaking your heart over minor inconveniences like a petulant, rich brat.

In fact, not once have you heard him speak in your presence. Doesn’t need to, you think.

It’s easier to think that perhaps he holds resentment or dislikes his duty of protecting you. The lack of verbal conversation is often key to that. But Blade is very good at what he does—skilled in the art of reading people with a glance. His gentle gestures despite a blank, forlorn expression speak to the heart. Your heart.

It’s easy— liking him.

“There’s a restaurant that was highly recommended to me. Word of mouth from one of the Iris Family members during last month’s meeting,” you start casually. Sleep is just freshly rubbed from your eyes that morning.

Blade doesn’t respond, as expected, his hands steadily occupied with brushing your hair. Always gentle. More patient than you who yanks at any knots that form. You prefer it when he does it, liking the feeling of little jolts of electricity down your spine at the intimate action. It calms your nerves, he’s noted.

So, he indulges you.

There’s hesitance in your fidgeting hands as you peek at him through the vanity mirror from under your lashes. It easily betrays the stern facade you try to enact. You try your luck anyway. “It looked promising and would be a nice change of pace. I would like to try it out.”

Silence. His hand stills and his gaze is rather cold as he meets your eye. The air in the room shifts, a thick tension that’s palpable. You don’t even flinch.

“Bad idea, I take it. Well, I have an errand in the area regardless— the Oak Family contacted us not long ago and I’m being issued as the initial contact for a new business discussion. It would be an ideal use of our time if we can still pick up some food to bring back afterward.”

His hands resume their brushing, burning-red gaze now a dulled crimson as he focuses on not pulling your hair. A better idea, you take it, as he seems to relent to your veiled suggestion with a quiet sigh. The only clear sign you’ve learned means you won him over.

Blade knows well that you look for little ways to get some wiggle room of normalcy. You’ve never gotten used to this caged-bird life, bound to fear what lies beyond the golden enclosure of silk and honey. Perhaps he pities your cries, like birdsong that longs for a life that doesn’t suffocate you— a life that doesn’t hinge on every day and every interaction being a gamble.

If there is even a fraction of an illusion of that for you, he will turn a blind eye and let you lie to yourself. A moment is enough to soothe your aching heart.

Later in the day you depart for the city. A distraught feeling sits in the pit of your belly. An omen brought by a spike in anxiety that you force out of mind as Blade opens the passenger door for you.

It’s a silent ride across several towns to the location indicated. There’s doubt that gnaws at the back of your mind. Something didn’t seem right with the person that contacted you with the location details for this conference between families. You’ve become much too aware that you’re viewed as an expendable pawn of the family.

But, you’re sure Robin will be there. And a familiar face is just what you need for this to be less of a drag.

Blade seems to sense your hesitance. Wordlessly, he turns on the radio. You worry too much, he seems to criticize with the action. It helps all the same.

But… your spirits seem lighter, more optimistic. A moment of normalcy as you tune out and look out the window at passing city lights and a sun slowly tucking away behind never ending buildings. You’re a person, then.

Even if only briefly.

____

They say a common phenomenon occurs that allows you to register one small, redundant detail when in a state of sudden shock. And you remember it then, clear as day.

7:59 PM.

The time on your cracked phone screen just inches away from you.

The smell of iron and the sound of your heart pounding in your ears. None of it registered quick enough before Blade yanked you harshly out of the way.

And yelling. Muffled and harsh.

Your body is cold with fear, frozen stiff in place. It’s a feeling you haven’t felt since you were a child.

You struggle to get back onto your feet, cowering back toward the alley wall. It gets harder to breathe as panic sets in when your eyes spot Blade clutching his side.

The situation deteriorates further, every passing second a blur of struggle and dark figures. It feels like every emotion is going to burst out of you in a scream. It’s an out-of-body experience, as if you’re watching your own body act on its own trying to put itself between Blade and the attackers.

“Don’t,” he commands—harsher still with urgency. “Stop.”

You freeze at the foreign sound of his voice. There’s no time to process it as crimson seeps through the fresh wound on his side.

You keep hearing his muffled voice tell you to run, run away. Through the pounding in your ears of adrenaline and fear you realize that’s your voice. Hoarse and frantically yelling, pleading for him to run away— you’re hurt, don’t fight anymore.

The rest is a blur as Blade drags you out of the alley, through crowds of nightlife and shoves you into the car. There’s no way of knowing if the pursuit was hot on your tails. It’s a risk Blade could not afford in his current state.

Your mind is numb with fear during the entire process. Every jolt from the roads he speeds through shoots pain through his body— a bloody manifestation of his inadequacy. He hisses and clutches his side, forced to drive with one hand. The sound tears you from your daze for a moment but forces you to experience the present.

There’s red on your hands, your clothes. The smell of iron is putrid as you desperately try to control your breathing. Bile is at your throat and you choke back a sob, like a pitiful kicked dog. You can’t afford to freak out right now and make things worse.

It’s disjointed how your body reacts compared to your mind. You’ve been through worse. You know that. This comfortable life laying low with your bodyguard has spoiled you. He has spoiled you. Your heart is merely a soft pearl now, layers of disjointed affections received and perceived through his tenderness. The base instinct overwrites everything else— all logic, all experience.

This is not normal, it reasons. This shouldn’t be normal.

You want desperately to silence the mind.

The car comes to a slow stop after miles of non-stop driving, and you’re painfully aware of the trembling in your hands. Though you try to hide them by folding them onto your lap, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

Blade’s hand, calloused and marred with drying red, is steady as it closes over your fist. It commands your attention and the lump at your throat threatens to rip a sob from you.

It’s alright now, his piercing red eyes tell you. There’s a tenderness that comes through while his thumb rubs your knuckles to ease your anxiety. He lets his head fall back onto the headrest, a bitter chuckle filling the rigid silence.

Your voice trembles, breathy as it breaks with the urge to cry. “They could have killed you.”

Blade exhales through his nose, eyes still closed as he processes your distress.

“I’m expendable. You must live.” His tone is even, detached. It lacks the usual twinge of warmth and care. It’s as if he’s reading something scripted instead— attempting to avoid overstepping.

“You’re being dishonest with me. That’s not what you want to say. I–”

Your mouth presses into a thin line, his hand squeezing yours.

“I know my father sent them.” There isn’t even hurt in your voice, but a steady bitterness begins to burn at the hearth of your soul. It was high time they deemed you more of a liability than an actual member of the family. You shake your head, and with a deep breath you steady your nerves as best as you can. “That matters less right now. Let's get you cleaned up.”

Staying the night at a hotel much too far from home is less than ideal, but you’re aware Blade won’t risk walking right into another ambush that may be waiting at your doorstep. Best not to compromise the situation further.

Despite the tremble of your lip, your hands are steady and efficient as they work to help clean his wounds. You jolt as your phone vibrates with an incoming call, apologizing as you excuse yourself to the balcony. Blade quietly finishes dressing the cleaned wound on his side. He listens intently as you speak with an Oak Family member on the phone, quickly and quietly.

“No, no. We are safe now. Please keep alert. My contact sent you all available surveillance footage of the area shortly after we departed. We can discuss this further once I look into it. On behalf of,” you pause, a strain on your voice before you compose yourself, “on behalf of the family I apologize for the inconvenience. Thank you, Robin.”

Blade watches you intently from the side. There’s a facade of calm you’re trying desperately to keep up. Perhaps it’s the ‘fight or flight’ that’s still keeping you whole right now. For now, he keeps a close watch over you, every microexpression, every fidget.

There’s hesitance as his left palm rests on the bed. It doesn’t escape your detection as you close the sliding door.

“Give me your hand.” A beat and he relents, red gaze as intense as ever as he watches you kneel before him in silence. “You’re hurt here, too.”

He grunts as if inconvenienced, but lets you do as you please. Indulges you— always does.

With a patient crimson gaze, he observes you. Your heart has never felt so vulnerable than right now.

“It’s not perfect, and I’m no doctor, but…” You pause to look over your work.

Despite trembling hands and less-than-elegant bandaging, you gently bring his knuckles to your lips and press a kiss to each one. A childish gesture he didn’t see you as the type to do. That surely in your naive heart you believe a kiss will make it better— despite the blood and bruises.

And Blade— doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you.

How selfishly he lets your heart devour him.

He gives a silent thanks and moves to sit away from you, making home on the couch with a wince as he adjusts to lay down. The lights are off now, save for your bedside lamp.

Even in the warmth of the lamplight, the feeling of being cold and isolated persists. Alone at the edge of the bed. You want to be selfish and order him to sleep on a proper bed— near you for your peace of mind.

Sleep, he tells you wordlessly with a glance. It’s been a long day.

You worry your lip all the same, seated at the edge of your bedside. Unmoving, tense— your mind reels, replaying the same thing over and over.

7:59 PM.

When the weapon just grazed over his heart and instead hit his side. When the smell of iron, cursed with beautiful crimson, nauseated you.

In the dark, your eyes adjust and watch as Blade’s breathing slows with sleep. It’s not normal— his breathing. The wrappings will only do so much while the pain persists. But by morning, the scar will be there, as if it had always been there. You don’t dare ask the details of why.

He’s spoiled you, surely. A comfortable life in his hands has made you soft. And you know this to be true, otherwise this attempt at your life would be nothing but another occurrence you hardly bat an eye to.

The gentleness he grants you unravels you faster.

No matter how close Blade is, you’re always alone. Even so, you choose to stay within his shadow. It’s warm— always warm.

And you crave him. Crave him in ways you should not entertain.

You don’t sleep much that night. The attempts on your life are few in recent years, but even more rare is successful bloodshed. The more dire incidents leave your nerves fried, a heavy pounding in your chest as adrenaline leaves your body tense and sleepless. Even with Blade’s watchful gaze keeping you safe, knowing he’s been injured by your carelessness only leaves you waking with a strangled gasp from guilt-ridden nightmares every hour.

The room is foreign as you try to adjust your sight to the dark bathed in a sliver of moonlight from a crack in the hotel room’s curtains.

This bed is not yours, this room is not yours. It’s not home, and this isn’t normal. The target is hot on your back— always under someone’s watchful eye. Never able to take a full breath without gasping and clawing at the anxiety closing its hands around your throat.

Your throat feels tight the more you think. In the dark, faces seem to morph into the details on the ceiling— mocking and shifting. All you can do is think in circles, worry your lips raw.

When you look over, you can just barely make out Blade’s dark figure laid on the sofa across from you. The bandages wrapped on his torso are salt in the wound as the guilt claws at your throat once more. Tears sting your eyes as the stress of it all finally reaches a breaking point.

The clock reads midnight as you tiptoe to the bathroom.

The bathwater is just short of scalding when you step in. The feeling doesn’t even phase you, a welcome sensation as the steam surrounds you. Its temperature is a welcoming hug melting your stresses away little by little as you work your fingers into your tense shoulders. A sniffle here and there, shaky breaths accompanied by the sweet melodies of tears breaking the water’s surface.

For a while, you sit idly, watching water from the leaky faucet drip. With each drop, the echoing sound clears your mind and centers you.

Deep breath, hold it. Exhale. Repeat.

The door to the bathroom clicks open, heavy footsteps trailing in.

“I already knew you were awake, but I wish you would rest,” you mutter into your knees as you shrink into yourself.

He sits at the edge of the tub. Formality is left at the door, for your sake. You have nothing to hide from him, anyway. The flesh is nothing to hide, and you’re more ashamed to let his eyes gaze upon the want in your soul. Ugly and wretched.

“You care for me,” is all Blade says in the quiet echo of the bathroom. “Don’t.”

The silence that follows seeps into the water that is no longer warm. Your body sinks lower into the tub until your nose is just above the water. Heat sears the tips of your ears.

The pounding of your heart is deafening, louder still as his presence engulfs your senses.

You feel foolish and naive and your bones are tired of being within your flesh. Bound to carry a fool like you through every mistake.

The sound of water draining doesn’t faze you. He’s decided this is less healing than you wallowing in self-pity. It won’t do you any good. Believing him is easier when you’d rather not think.

You sit up and keep your gaze glued to the surface of the water. Not unable to meet his gaze— refusing to— as his words weigh heavy on your heart.

You would rather he squeeze your heart— drink it dry of the lifeblood that keeps it pumping. Maybe this isn’t love. Or isn’t what you need.

But you will yourself to not care. Have to.

Blade taps your shoulder, urging you to stand before you catch a cold the longer you stay in the lukewarm water. He sighs quietly when you shake your head petulantly.

You finally speak— a quiet, frail thing as your voice trembles ever so slightly. “You’re wrong. It’s more.”

The water sloshes and spills over the sides as you turn your body around. Your eyes meet full, crimson moons, and your heart remains strangely steady. Uncertainty claws at your nerves until they fray like ribbons.

The draining water weighs in the forefront of your mind like an hourglass waiting for your next move. And with each second his eyes crumble your resolve, seeing through you— peering into the soul of a frail little thing like you. He waits patiently for your next gamble.

You lean up, lips pressing against his. A forlorn warmth.

Not pushed away, not stopped. Blade indulges you. Always does.

A wordless answer.

“You don’t like it, but I love you,” you mutter against his lips when you pull away. “That won’t change easily.”

“I never said I don’t like it.”

You can’t meet his eyes when your fingers silently trace the bandage wrappings around his bare torso.

“It eats me alive to see you get hurt. I know it’s your job, but… I can still be a fool in love. Can’t I?”

When you chase his lips again, your body shivers. It’s difficult to tell if that comes as a result from the harsh, cold porcelain of the empty tub or his teeth sinking into your lip.

The water is running again when Blade pushes you away, your eyes unfocused and glassy. He makes your heart ache. You have yet to decide if it’s in a good way or a bad way.

“Is it pity?” you ask quietly. “The reason you kissed back?” There’s distress and hurt in your voice as Blade falls into routine, moving you about like a doll to finish what you inevitably will not.

No response. For once, you can’t read him.

Blade works silently as he runs hot water over your body with that delicate gentleness that has your heart yearning and longing for him to be forced into what you need. You swallow the greed— the selfishness— and tear out the vitals of that ugly beast before you go mad if he leaves.

Your back is to him as he uses the shower head to get the last remaining suds out of your hair. It pulls your focus for a moment, the feeling pleasant and distracting. Methods he already knows to soothe your tumultuous mind.

The water runs and he turns you around. The bandages around his torso are damp by now, your lingering gaze focusing on them as he finishes rinsing you in silence. The myriad of scars adorning his arms and torso bring a heavy feeling to your chest. You will the vile feeling away and focus on his fingers gently lathering up your hair. Keeping you sat makes the task more difficult— you know this. But the attention makes your heart lighter all the same.

Selfish. The thought brands itself on your back like a hot iron.

The water runs and runs along your thigh with a light pressure as he abandons the shower head and tilts your face up to finally look at him. His gaze is intense— worried in the way he searches your crestfallen expression. You’re sure you look pathetic like this, disappointment on your face.

But he kisses you.

Blade leans down and kisses you. Of his own volition, now, and it's soft and warm. So warm it singes the edges of the isolation that consumes you. And for a moment, salvation is what you feel.

“You’re stubborn,” he says, his breath warm as it fans your face. “I enjoy it. That’s my answer.”

You can’t help the pout on your lips. It pulls a hum of amusement from him.

“Enjoying the demise of my heart. You’re cruel.”

Your words have no bite. A ghost of a smile graces his lips and it brings a rush of emotion to your already starving heart.

Because you don’t know it, but he craves you. Fondly but desperately.

Where your family has thrown you to the side, he will hold you close. A greed of his own he has to battle— keep focused so it won’t consume him. So he won’t devour you whole.

A shiver runs through your body as he coaxes you back into the tub, and you think for a moment he’s back to keeping you at an arm’s length again. The cold of the porcelain is harsh on your back. You retain some shame, at least, and you go to cover your chest. It’s the feeling of being a lamb before the slaughter, pristine and loved.

“Sit still,” Blade commands, voice smooth and an octave lower as his arm pushes one of your legs apart to prop on the edge of the tub.

It's a welcome initiative that makes your face warm with a sudden meekness. You’re exposed and surely getting slick by the second with arousal dripping down your inner thigh. Spread and completely bare.

Your chest rises and falls at a quickening pace and you whimper in anticipation. Blade watches you almost curiously, as if he’s never heard these pathetic little sounds from your lips. There’s little that hasn’t been shared between you two with his intimate work as your bodyguard. His presence has been by your side nearly twenty four hours a day every day for the past few years. Still, this is a new low he is taking on with you.

Indulging you. Like he always does.

This is an inevitable shift in your relationship— one that has long since strayed from a purely professional stance. It never suited you both, at least that’s what you like to think.

His gaze like blood is trained onto your expression— every shift, every change, every wince. He wants to see them all, sear them into his memory like tomorrow isn’t promised.

Your body jolts and an obscene moan you can't manage to hold back bubbles up your throat as he holds the shower head just over your slick cunt. The water runs with a constant pressure that feels odd and overwhelmingly good. But your moans are much too loud, much too desperate. With a click, the flow changes and he rips a sharp gasp out of you as he aims the water at your throbbing clit.

Your body is thrashing, squirming against the porcelain but you don’t have it in you to tell him to stop. You don’t want him to stop. But this feeling is not him, and you want to be selfish and have him take all that remains. To have him take and take and fill and put you back together after he breaks you into irreplaceable pieces.

The squeeze of his hand on the tender flesh of your plush thigh is enough to have you panting and writhing. The feeling is isolated, the mere touch hot on your skin— scalding, even. His large hand sinks easily into the soft skin there, and you wish his touch alone would leave marks in his wake. To remind you that he’s still here, and you’ll both be alright.

The coiling feeling builds and builds, your walls clenching around nothing as your clit is assaulted by the constant stream of pressure. A whimper of frustration escapes your lips as your hips try to buck up to chase the feeling— begging for relief. He doesn’t spare you from cruelty, not when your expressions are a wonder to behold. You can’t even scream as an orgasm rips through you so suddenly, mouth agape as you twist and arch under his watchful gaze.

An expression twisted and contorted by bliss— Blade drinks up all your sounds and the sight of you undone. You squirm against his hold on your thigh as the feeling starts to toe into overstimulation. It’s too much of a good thing and you don’t know whether to beg him to stop or keep chasing the feeling of the coil tightly winding again.

The tears that adorn your lashes blur your peripheral, but you’re sure you see a wolfish grin on Blade’s expression.

Just short of coming undone again, he denies you a second completion. The stream of water slowly drips to a stop and you lay there catching your breath. Frustration sits in the pit of your belly as exhaustion finally settles on your limbs, eyelids heavy. For a moment you feel his lips on your temple— a brief, chaste gesture.

It’s silent as you get ready to sleep once more. By now it’s almost two in the morning, your tired body protesting the hour. But the air is no longer suffocating, and a lightness remains in your heart once more. The maw of the beast still looms over you but for now, the beating of two hearts quells your worries until morning.

His steps halt as you pull him along toward the bed.

“Sleep here,” you beg quietly. “It’ll be better for your wounds.”

Blade closes his eyes, forcing himself to disregard the want in your eyes. When you tug gently again he gives in, allowing you to do as you please. Just like always.

He cannot pleasure you how he wants, not tonight. You wouldn’t allow it with his wounds. All the same he relents when you urge him to sleep in a proper bed— to lay with you.

In the stillness of the dark, his hand searches for yours. You wonder for a moment if his fear of losing you rivals your own. For the sake of your heart, you’ll have to assume that much.

He fits easily into the crook of your neck and allows his lips to press tenderly where your shoulder meets your neck. The flesh dissolves under his tongue. You are left bare, a soul so desperately longing to be unsealed and seen and filled.

And he sees you. Blade fills you— with yearning and a wretched possessiveness unbecoming of you. But he fills you, nonetheless.

[pain-is-my-game]

One of the worst realizations that I have ever made is realizing that all I ever wanted was to be loved by my parents. I never would've turned out like this if they just loved me unconditionally.

[nmolesofadrenaline]

[bioluminesced]

Turning in circles,

been caught in a stasis

I want you to take me

apart from the inside

Right to the end

[wickjump]

ok seriously though whoever the hell that anon is like seriously stop. i did not think? i had to say this?? but maybe don’t bring up my sexual trauma in my inbox and use that to psychoanalyze me??? because of the genre i write???? i promise you the skeleton does not care. i promise you this so hard. nobody is being traumatized or offended by this. especially not the character. i promise you cross is not offended or hurt or upset and neither is jakei. i am writing horror because it is a genre i enjoy. you have no need to pry into my personal life to ‘figure me out’ and convince me to stop writing in a very popular genre because it is weird to you or makes you uncomfortable. what makes me uncomfortable is when you try to insert yourself and act holier than thou. you are not better than me because you view the very popular genre i like as morally wrong you’re just a dick

[majorstumbles]

WHO TF DOES IT LIKE MISHA COLLINS

LOOK AT HIM

LOOK AT HIS FACE, THE EYES, THE E X P R E S S I O N

Man, just

The way he still manages to maintain an expression of religious devotion to a flawed and broken ’deity’ while suffering for and at the hand of that ‘deity’ will forever amaze me. Obsessive Devotion Castiel, save me. The way he still believes in this new god he’s found even after he’s been pushed away time and time again because he believes Dean Winchester is good and will do what he thinks is best after God his Father abandoned him.

And the way Dean needs him back.

[flock-of-cassowaries]

Posted a text version of this earlier in the week, but figured I would make an image version, since it is well known that the best way to work through your childhood trauma is not therapy, but rather, computer-based arts and crafts.

[hajihiko]

I interpret Kaz's relationship with his dad a little differently from that one convo. He says something like 'he knew better than anyone that we didn't have the money' and I took that as his dad wanted him to go and have fun like a normal kid and not worry about the money. Of course, I don't justify physical discipline and it is abuse, even if the parent is well intentioned. I think that Kaz does love his dad and they're relationship might be more complicated. But you know that's just one of the many things he needs to work out in therapy.

(Again this is just my interpretation and I'm not saying yours is wrong. I do love the art.)

Just gonna use this as a little jumping point to talk about this bc why not, warnings for obviously sensitive topics

I dont think you're wrong, I actually probably agree, but one thing;

It's not uncommon for public perception to weigh more than actual actions or intent. In the example given, I see it like so; yeah, Souda sr. wanted his son to go on a field trip that they couldn't really afford. Yeah, Kaz wanted to help the household by not going on the trip and saving the money. Both have good intent here. It's not about that, though, because in Souda sr.'s eyes, refusing to go on the trip is like admitting that they're poor, which is like saying the father can't provide for his family, which is like public humiliation- in his eyes. In a fit of rage (and insecurity, if it's something that's already weighing on his mind, as these things often go) the assumption isnt that his son was trying to help, just that he did something that makes the father look bad. Which is a bigger trigger than most things, often, for patriarchal authority figures.

And it not an excuse for physical harm, no, nothing is. Probably, Souda sr. knows that, and didn't mean to snap- doesnt think he committed an act of child abuse- but he's been under a lot of stress, and his son was talking back, and, well.

I think they do usually get along alright, and Souda sr. does his best to provide for himself and his son and keep their relationship good, and Kazuichi is genuinely grateful for everything his dad's done for him? But in the end, it's another person Kazuichi trusted teaching him the lesson that people will let him down and hurt him, in some way at some point. If your parent whom you trust has made you genuinely afraid of them, it's hard to come back from it, and someone as anxious and emotionally sensitive as Kazuichi will hold onto that forever, probably, even as he might internalized some of it as his own fault.

It's a lot more complicated than just "bad father, sad son" (but again, not excusable, you don't hit your kids period). It's father and son who love each other and might be the only family they both have, but they clash horribly on occasion, make up (or don't talk about it at all), things die down, stay good for a while, then there's another clash- so it goes, even if the bad times are only occasional. The biggest Thing about these kind of relationships, to me, is that it's so easy to fall into a routine and let things stagnate, and before you know it, it's just How Things Are and it's easier to just deal than start rocking the boat.

[tijuanabiblestudies]

2, 5, 9, 15?

What does your issues with communication look like?

OKAY SO: two characters i hugely identify with on this front are Wesley Wyndam-Price and Eric "Cat" Chant, because both of them Have Trouble Telling People Things, even when the Things in question are very important and/or easily expressed in very few words. shit is just hard a lot of the time. although, i will say it gets easier when i'm hypomanic, but also, i tend to go in the opposite direction in such circumstances and overwhelm people with Too Many Words, or worry that i am doing so (anxiety is omnipresent and constant. i really should start taking the new med for the fully allowed thrice a day and see how that grabs me.)

What is your safe food if any?

not to be a super basic tmnt-loving '90s kid, but: pizza. especially if i am particularly in a bad way and feeling picky (i am actually a super adventurous eater in general), a regular-ass plain-cheese pizza just really hits the spot now and then. (just call me kevin mcallister--actually, do not even get me started on Buzz and his feigned puking and general demeanor, or i will fully trigger myself and die.)

also chicken tendies and fries. just recently found out there's a Raising Cain's near me, and i really wanna go.

What is your story of how you got diagnosed?

oh christ on a stick, this could get REALLY long and genuinely triggering if i'm not careful. ok deep breath here we go

my mother tried to diagnose me (with ASD/"""aspergers""" [welcome to ass burger, home of the ass burger, can i take your order] and also other stuff) throughout my late childhood and adolescence and early adulthood (she was an elementary school teacher, so....that's a whole fuckin Thing.) mind you, she did not go as far as to try and get me an official diagnosis or an IEP or anything like that. actual, concrete Help? for her "gifted" d**ghter? perish the thought.

and then, too--and i remember this vividly--my first introduction to the very concept of autism was the book Kristy and the Secret of Susan by Ann M. Martin. i went through Babysitter's Club books like popcorn for a big chunk of my childhood (in a very Hello Fellow Girls, I Would Like To Relate And Connect With You sort of way) and i have long since forgotten most of them, but two have stuck in my memory. one is a Jesse book i wished i remembered the title of--i remember the plot was a "don't bully teachers" aesop overall, but also it was really funny? like, i have to wonder if the ghostwriter had a comedic background, because it genuinely made me lol at multiple points when i was 11 (jesse's age) and in retrospect it feels very Saved by the Bell. (there was a lot of "Dolly One" and "Dolly Two," the teachers who both looked exactly like Dolly Parton. i didn't even know who Dolly Parton was at that age, and that shit was still funny.) (note to self: BSC reread podcast, at some point, maybe?)

and then Secret of Susan stuck with me in the absolute opposite direction. it painted The Autism as something huge and mysterious and frighting--not wholly inaccurate, but also very similar in tone to that fucking Autism $peaks commercial i still haven't forgiven Alfonso Cuarón for (even though Y tu mamá también and his A Little Princess movie remain formative favorites). there was also a standalone Ann M. Martin book i've also forgotten the title of, which was about a boy with an autistic younger brother, also taking much of that same tone. i recall it resonating with me on the topic of anxiety, but in retrospect....ew ew ew ew ew. (there was much talk of the younger brother "embarrassing" the older one by like, trying to eat gravel and wetting himself and such. fuck you for that one, Ann.)

so that was my first exposure. while i did catch occasional flashes of knowledge after that (e.g. a milquetoste both-sidesy article about A$ in a to-be-recycled newspaper that caught my eye, so i read the whole thing real fast on the screened-in porch like an underpaid and underfed fast food worker pounding a gogurt in the walk-in fridge which has no security cameras) (tell me you're hyperlexic without telling me you're hyperlexic), the time for self-diagnosis did not roll around until i was in my early twenties and had just successfully dumped the Shitty Ex. funny how self-discovery tends to follow such things. anyway.

at this point i must give a direct tip of the hat to @exteenpopstar a.k.a. Meda. i had a mutual, Raya, who was somewhat further along in the self-diagnosis process--i remember seeing a post from her (them? him? none of the above? i have no idea anymore, sadly) that was like, "if stimming and putting One Direction in your ears is what it takes to get this assignment done, you have full permission to do so," and being like "ooh i love that word 'stimming'; i wonder what it means."

'twas Raya who put me in touch with Meda, who at that point was a mutual-in-law whom i was aware of via their Star Trek fandom activity (literally my first Tumblr fandom, all the way back in 2010-ish when i migrated over from Livejournal). 'twas Meda who gave me the valuable advice (paraphrased) "learn about autism from autistic people, not the Medical Literature" and linked me to a great selection of helpful blog posts--some Mel Baggs, some Julia Bascom, and also the Loud Hands Project video, which both introduced me to "King of Everything" (fucking great song) and also kickstarted me on the Road to Autistic Joy in a very real way. my copy of the Loud Hands Anthology (to which Meda wrote the afterword; i hope i'm not revealing too much by saying that) (meda, just say the word if anything here bothers you and i will take it out) sits upon my bookshelf to this day. (not the only bookshelf in the apartment, but the one that is Mine.)

so yeah. i did get an official dx eventually, which was a whole fuckin pain-in-the-ass Thing, but i cannot stress enough how much of an afterthought it was in the grand scheme of things. the self-diagnosis was the important part, and...you know what, i normally don't say this sort of thing, but i'm really feeling like the dynamite five-foot-six autistic jewish bitch i am, so why not: if you, person reading this, are "anti self-dx"--if you think it takes an expensive-ass piece of paper to be considered """valid""" as an Autistic person--unfollow me, block me, and go fuck yourself at your earliest convience, please and thank you.

(there's loads more i could say about the self-dx process, but this is too long already.)

ok last question here we go

How did your development look like growing up? Did you have developmental delays?

What would you like as if you were your favorite animal? i apologize; i don't mean to be a dick about language (another tip of the hat to Mel Baggs, may hir memory be a blessing, for the infinitely useful phrase "language dickery") but Homestar Runner Dot Com is very much a part of my DNA at this point, and delayed echolalia is a helluva drug. ("🎶walkin round the mall with a Sterrance costume / that you made for your kiiiiiid / thinkofallthetimeandhardworkyouputintothat Sterrance costume / and they don't really know what it iiiiiiiis / andyourkiddoesn'tcareonewayortheotherrrrrr / because they're OOOOOOONNNNNNNE!!!!!🎶")

sorrynotsorry for Gettin Sillay, and i feel the need to inform y'all that i typed that whole thing from memory. anyways.

a factor which complicated my situation is that i pretty much taught myself to read starting in very early toddlerhood. my mom loves to tell the story of how she was reading me Dr. Seuss's ABC when i was maybe a year and change old (my conscious memories kicked in when i was 2, and i don't remember this, so it was probably before that) and i pointed to the P page and exclaimed "PEE!" completely unprompted. hilarious in hindsight, tbh.

from there, it was the fast track to hyperlexia city. i started out basically memorizing very repetitive books--i remember one about a yellow dog and a yellow ball or some shit, and then Have You Seen My Cat? by Eric Carle (the Very Hungry Caterpillar guy) which i remember annoying a whole carful of people with by "reading" it over and over. (basically it goes "have you seen my cat? this is not my cat" with various pictues of cats for like twenty pages, until the narrator finds their cat. a simple storyline, but evocative nonetheless).

and from there it was stacks of easy reader books that i went through like a wood chipper, and by the time i got to kindergarten i was like "why the fuck can't y'all read yet?" i have historically been super bad at being patient with peers (and older people) who know less than i do, and that applied to the very foundations of literacy ("do you HAVE to read that book out loud?" "yes" "can't you just, like, read it silently inside your head?" "no"). i have worked hard at being better about that as an adult, because it's a whole MTG deck's worth of dick moves, and fuck knows i don't know everything.

which brings me to what i feel is the area of my main developmental delay: socialization. it's hard to tell how much of this is l'autism and how much is trauma (ain't that just the way), but--okay, i'm switching to bullet points, because i really need to take my time and some deep breaths (and a cuppertea, and a feeding of the cats, and a bathroom break, as it turns out) as i finally, finally come to the end of this post:

my family was not "strict" in any traditional sense

however, there were a lot of unspoken rules which i got yelled at for breaking

and also an unspoken but (in retrospect) very clear hierarchy with me at the bottom, maybe under out geriatric calico cat even

(Echo. i miss her. she was the first cat who taught me how to cat, and i never appreciated her enough as a smart-dumb kid, and her very name is Significant to me now for autism reasons)

and then there was the whole thing of me being my brother's favorite punching bag and my parents utterly failing to intervene WHICH I AM NOT GETTING INTO RIGHT NOW, we are tiptoeing AROUND the triggers, thank you

and my mom ran a daycare out of our house prior to working at a legit daycare before going back to college for her teaching certificate when i was like 10

(i freaked out and cried when she told me, because i had major separation anxiety, and i was under the impression that going back to college meant she had to move away from home and go live in a dorm)

and so there was ostensibly no shortage of kids my age for me to play with, but also they were frequently assholes and bitches to me

("assholism" and "bitchcraft" being two separate-but-overlapping and largely gender-neutral categories of behavior in my mental framework, but that's a whole 'nother post)

one particular memory stands out:

my mom frequently whipped up large amounts of kraft mac n cheese as any easy lunch for all the children, as one does

and i just straight-up Could Not Stand the smell of the stuff

(i hated spaghetti-o's too. entirely too sweet for my palate, even when i was babby)

and being Very Young, i was incapable of keeping this to myself

and so. just for shits and giggles. the other kids.

decided to crowd me into a corner

and breathe

their

kraftmacncheese-scented breath

directly

into my face

and i am infinitely less of a picky eater than i was then

but i still

cannot stand

the smell of literally any kind of boxed mac and cheese

(yes, even that kind. even that one, too. even your favorite which you swear up and down is your favorite. cook that shit far away from me)

(and do not even think about trying to feed any of it to me, unless you want it redirected to YOUR face in projectile fashion)

the end

ok, one last memory to end on, just because this one is actually funny to me:

daycare kids are playing tee-ball (baby baseball for babies). Baby Wheeler is like, "y'all have fun, imma sit here on the steps and read."

Some Bitch™️: "but you must PRACTICE the tee-ball!!!!"

Baby Wheeler: "for why?"

Some Bitch™️: "for the Start of the all-important Season!!!"

Baby Wheeler: "i do not intend to participate"

Some Bitch™️: "but thou must!!!!!!"

Baby Wheeler: "no???????"

Some Bitch™️: "no srsly you gotta. they're gonna make you"

Baby Wheeler: ........

Baby Wheeler: *bursts into tears*

Baby Wheeler: *runs inside house*

Baby Wheeler: "MOOOOMMMMM😭😭😭"

Baby Wheeler's Mother: "...?"

Baby Wheeler: "you're not 😭 gonna make me 😭 play TEE-BALL 😭😭😭, are you???? 😭"

Baby Wheeler's Mother: "...........no????"

Baby Wheeler: ".....oh! okay ☺️"

Baby Wheeler: *cheerfully returns to his book*

so you can see, my mother was not completely terrible on all fronts. she was controlling in other ways (and also i viewed her as the Safe Parent whilst my dad was a Big Scary Dog of a guy, so that's a whole thing) but at least she never tried to force me to play sports or have kids.

additionally, it's a very good "i've always been a sissy boy" story, while also being my very first act of resistance to the pervasive and deeply toxic de facto religion that is Sports in America, and i've been this way every since. OKAY POST OVER 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉