#what's a little child abuse among friends | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marcyvamp1re-blog · 2 months ago

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SILLY LITTLE BAT

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-Hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ In the shadowed halls of Wayne Manor, a girl lost among the darkness seeks the connection she never had. Her mother, a kleptomaniac with a broken heart, vanished, leaving only echoes of empty promises. Surrounded by a family that never sees her, her pain turns into a deafening silence. The void left by her past traps her in a limbo of solitude and sorrow.

One dark night, seeking her own way, she became what she once despised. Now, like the albino bat rejected by its own flock, she flies alone in the twilight. Her pale skin glows in the dark, but her heart still yearns for the warmth of a home she never came to know.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Suicide, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation

Chapter Guide! Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is—so there might be some grammar or spelling mistakes here and there. This is the first part of a story I’m writing for a friend (Isabel, I love you, you brat), and also an experiment to see what it’s like to write on Tumblr. Please support me! :"((

Nobody is coming to save you

Get up.

Your mother was not a good woman, and that was an undeniable fact, heavy as the shadow that covers Gotham City at nightfall. She was a creature of the underworld, one among the specters that wandered under the yoke of crime, walking among dangerous names like Selina Kyle or Harleen Quinzel, yet always remaining in the background, never reaching their fame or infamy.

She was nothing more than a kleptomaniac and a mythomaniac, doomed to live by cunning and deceit. She took advantage of the men who crossed her path, from the lowest criminals, like The Penguin, to the most powerful man in the city: Bruce Wayne.

You never called him Dad. To you, he was always Bruce, and on the rare occasions you addressed him, you did so with distant formality, "Mr. Wayne." Richard, your adoptive brother, found in him a father figure, while to you, he was just another shadow in the mansion, that huge, cold house you arrived at after your mother’s death.

You remember how, time and again, you tried to warn your mother to stop stealing, to stop lying, that those dark paths would inevitably lead her to Arkham Asylum, surrounded by all the lunatics you feared so much, or even worse: to death. But she always responded with a playful smile, stroking your head with her delicate hands, adorned with stolen jewelry and crude tattoos. "Those are just fantasies of an eight-year-old girl," she would say sweetly, while her ring-laden fingers assured you that you needn’t worry, "I will always come back for you," she promised, "because you are the only thing more valuable than any diamond I’ve ever held."

But the cruel truth was that was the last time you saw her. That night she left, and she never returned. It was then that the last vestiges of innocence faded with her absence. From that moment on, you ceased to be a child.

And that was one of the few things you understood with absolute clarity. There were no more empty promises, no more caresses tinged with lies. All that remained was the silence of a life fading away, like a stolen jewel that never returns to its rightful owner.

The only thing you knew after calling the police when your mother didn’t show up after two days was that they found her corpse in a back alley far from Gotham, showing signs of having been beaten and bruised by some underground gang.

Commissioner Gordon searched the entire house for illicit substances and signs of debts to mobsters, but he only ended up finding documents, stolen jewelry, and letters from your mother that were never sent, and most importantly, DNA evidence implicating that the city’s millionaire was your biological father.

From then on, your life was stained with eternal gray, that muted shade that erased all traces of light or shadow. There was no more white or black, only a silent fog that, day by day, enveloped you and dragged you into a madness that seemed inevitable. Gotham itself seemed more alive than the place you called home, although "home" was never the right word.

You didn’t love any of the Wayne family members. Bruce, your biological father, never listened to you. To him, you were always just another shadow, a ghost in the vast mansion that he prioritized over his other children, his "true" heirs. There was always something more important, something more urgent, and your presence faded among the cold walls and the echo of his hurried footsteps. With each passing day, you became more invisible to him, as if your very existence were a mistake he preferred to ignore.

Richard, the perfect brother, was kind on some occasions. He spoke to you courteously, but when you needed him, when you asked him to attend one of your performances, there was always an excuse, something that kept him away, as if your passion and accomplishments were insignificant details in his heroic life.

Jason, on the other hand, despised you from the start. He saw you as an intruder, a child of gold—but not of that pure and valuable gold, but of a dirty and false one, which he always mocked with disdain. And although you never cared for him, when he died, silent tears rolled down your face. It wasn’t out of love, but out of respect for what he represented, for the brutal reality of his fall.

Tim, in contrast, was the most indifferent. To him, you were a nobody, so irrelevant that you weren’t even worth a glance. Spending time with his friends or being the Robin of the moment mattered more than you did. You lived on his periphery, in a limbo where neither your name nor your face seemed to exist.

Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara… at least they treated you with politeness, but you knew they didn’t really remember who you were. They saw you, smiled at you out of obligation, but deep down you knew they had no idea of your name, your story, your struggle to be more than a shadow in that world.

The worst of all was Damian, your younger half-brother. When he arrived at the mansion, Alfred introduced him to you with that serene formality he always had, and you, driven by an almost desperate impulse, tried to reach out to him. You wanted to offer him the support and affection of an older sister, that warmth you would have longed for in his situation. But all you received in return was a cold response: a katana piercing your abdomen. I wish I could say it was just a metaphor, but no, that wound was as real as the blade that cut your skin.

You would have liked to think that the pain was symbolic, that Damian had only rejected your affection with harsh words or his usual arrogance. But no, it was much more than that. The only thing you received in exchange for your attempt at fraternal love was a stab, a scar you still carry not only on your body but also in your soul. Because in that brutal gesture, you understood that the blood that united you also separated you, sharper than any weapon. And that was how you tried to connect.

You strived to stand out, to learn, to shine in your own ambitions, wishing that your success would be enough to earn you a place, a bit of affection. But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Your talent crashed against indifference, your achievements faded into the air, as if they had no weight in the lives of others.

The only light, the only beacon in that storm of gray, was Alfred. The only one who smiled at you with genuine tenderness, the only one you truly loved. To you, he was the real father, the one who was always there, expecting nothing in return, offering you a silent but firm love. You did call him father, and his presence was the only thing that kept your sanity, the only thing preventing the gray from consuming you completely.

But even that love, so genuine and deep, was not enough to fill the void that your own family left you. And in that void, you continue to float, trapped between the girl you were and the woman you are trying to be, searching for a place you can truly call home.

Y/n's small room, though modest, had always been her refuge. The walls were adorned with unfinished sketches, trophies from various activities, and some paintings she had completed with dedication, showcasing her passion for both manual and performing arts.

The dawn light filtered softly through the curtains, bathing the space in golden tones, giving it a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the rest of Wayne Manor.

On the desk, a small cake rested on a plate, simple yet made with love. Beside it, Alfred, with his usual understated elegance, watched Y/n with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. He, the only one who seemed to remember her birthday, offered her a delicate professional drawing set, wrapped in smooth, elegant paper.

"Happy birthday, Miss," Alfred said with a gentle smile, although his eyes reflected a sadness that was hard to conceal. "I know how much you love art, so I thought this would be helpful for your new projects."

Y/n took the gift in her hands with a genuine smile. It had been so hard for her to find moments of joy lately, but Alfred's gesture filled her with a warmth in her chest that she hadn't experienced in a long time. She placed the gift into one of the many brown boxes she had prepared for her upcoming move.

"Thank you, Alfred. It's perfect," she said, examining the set carefully, as if each detail were a reminder of the affection he held for her. "It will help me a lot... although, well," she sighed, as if searching for the right words. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." Alfred raised an eyebrow, attentive, as she continued, glancing at the small space that had been her home within the vast mansion.

"Today... today is not just my birthday. It's the day I leave here." Her voice was firm, yet there was a sense of liberation in it, as if this were a long-awaited step. "I am finally no longer a Wayne. I go back to being a L/n."

Silence filled the room for a moment, heavy and dense. Alfred clasped his hands, striving to maintain his composure.

"Miss, I can't help but feel a certain unease hearing this. Are you sure this is what you want? This house, though empty in many ways, has always been your home..."

"Home?" Y/n looked at him with a mix of sadness and determination. "This house has never been my home, Alfred. Not like it was for Dick, nor even for Bruce. I have always been a stranger here, the daughter of a woman who never fit into this world, the bastard child. My mother taught me to find my own path, to not cling to what doesn’t belong to me... and being here, being called Wayne, has never belonged to me." Alfred sighed softly, turning his gaze toward the window. He knew there was truth in her words, but that didn’t lessen the pain of her leaving. "I know it’s hard to understand," Y/n continued, "but for the first time in a long time, I feel happy, Alfred. I’ve graduated, college is just around the corner, and I want to start anew. I want to find what truly makes me, me... not what others expect of me."

The old butler remained silent for a few moments, nodding slowly. He knew he couldn't retain her, that it was not his place to interfere in the young woman's dreams. But still, he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his heart at the thought of the house being even emptier without her. "I just wish you find what you’re looking for, Miss. And if you ever need a place to return to... this door will always be open for you."

Y/n stepped closer to him, gently hugging him, something she had rarely done. "Thank you, Alfred," she whispered against his shoulder. "You will always be my family, but I need this. I need to discover who I am outside of this last name."

The old butler felt the lump in his throat as he tightened the embrace a little longer before letting her go. He knew that deep down, she was doing the right thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less to see her leave.

"Alfred, can you call the movers? I’ll be leaving tonight," Y/n said as she closed the last box with trembling hands, her gaze lost in the empty corners of the room she once considered her refuge. The butler, ever serene, nodded with his unwavering calmness.

"Don't worry, Miss, I assure you they will be here on time." His voice was soft, almost an echo of the ancient walls of the mansion, as if he himself were part of that structure that had seen so many comings and goings, so many lives broken and healed in silence.

Alfred turned halfway to leave, but Y/n's voice stopped him, broken yet sweet, like a melody at sunset. "Alfred..."

The man turned slowly, his eyes filled with paternal warmth, though always contained behind a formal gesture. "Yes, Miss?" he replied, with that tranquility that had always brought Y/n peace in her worst moments.

She took a breath, feeling how the words she had kept for so long fought to come out, to break the shell she had built since childhood. "I’ve never told you, but... thank you. Thank you for being the father I never had, for being there when no one else was."

For a moment, the silence in the room was heavier than all the accumulated boxes, deeper than any word. Alfred, who had been a witness to so many confessions and secrets in that house, stood still, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed. "Miss," he murmured, his voice slightly choked, "it was an honor and a privilege to take care of you. If I ever gave you anything close to what you deserved, then my life has had true purpose."

Y/n smiled sadly, nodding slowly. "You did, Alfred. You did. And for that, I will always carry you with me, even if I leave here."

The butler slightly bowed his head in respect, swallowing any emotion that might betray his composure. "Wherever you go, you will always have a home here, Miss."

"I know," she said, though in her heart, she knew she wouldn’t return.

And as Alfred left the room to make the call, Y/n let out a long sigh, as if with it, she were leaving behind a part of herself, a part she could no longer carry with her.

Life in Gotham is like constantly walking on the edge of a razor blade. The city never sleeps, always alert, always dangerous, and for someone with the Wayne surname, the risks multiply. It has been a year since you left the mansion, trying to erase any ties that bound you to that life, desperately wishing the name would fade into the echo of the dirty streets and crumbling buildings. But it's not that easy. The name Wayne remains an indelible mark that the media and the people of Gotham refuse to let fade. The forgotten child, the silent accident of billionaire Bruce Wayne. And although you try to live as if you don’t exist under that shadow, the weight of the legacy haunts you.

You left with little, barely enough money to rent a small apartment in one of the worst corners of the city. You share the space with a friend, a plant-loving girl who has filled every nook of the place with leaves and pots, as if trying to make green defy the constant darkness of Gotham. You get along well with her; her love for nature is almost an antithesis to the chaos of the city, and she has taught you that even in the hardest concrete, something can bloom. She always accompanied you on the coldest, loneliest nights, giving you a warmth that, although ethereal, was very welcome. But still, life is not easy. You barely survive, spending the little you have on cheap food and paying the rent. There are days when the cold seeps through the poorly sealed windows, and you wonder if it was really better to be in the mansion instead of this little trench. However, you prefer this rough freedom to the soulless luxury of Wayne Manor.

Freedom, however, comes at a price. It wasn't enough to distance yourself, to change your life, or even to always carry a knife for defense. Gotham does not forget. People recognize you in the shadows, whisper your name, and approach you, sometimes with curiosity and other times with disdain. You have been beaten more than once. Some just for being a Wayne, others because they think they can extort you, even though they have no idea you can barely get by. The scars on your body bear witness to those beatings, but you refuse to give up. You get up every morning, despite the pain, and continue on your way. You don’t need Batman. You don’t need Bruce. You learned long ago that he wouldn't come to save you.

That night, like so many others, you were heading to the subway for your night shift, with the hood of your coat covering your face, trying to go unnoticed. The sound of the tracks echoed in your ears, a constant reminder of the city's hustle. You had gotten used to walking fast, avoiding eye contact, as if each step was a small battle won against the city. But this time, something was different.

"So it was true, the little Wayne girl is roaming the city... how lovely." The raspy, mocking voice rang out beside you, cutting through the heavy air of the train station. The man speaking wore a suit that, at first glance, seemed elegant, but there was something about his extreme thinness, his skin clinging to his bones and his disheveled hair, that made him look more like a specter of Gotham than a distinguished figure. A ghost from the shadows that had stalked you since you set foot on the streets.

If it weren't for his gaunt appearance and unsettling aura, you might have mistaken him for one of your father's employees. "I'm not a Wayne anymore," you said disdainfully, your voice sharp like the edge of a dagger refusing to be touched. "If you want money, I don’t have any. And Mr. Wayne wouldn’t give a cent for me either."

Your gaze drifted to the station clock. 8 minutes until the train that would take you away from this corner of Gotham, far from the shadows and faces that always seemed to recognize you.

The man let out a dry, raspy laugh that sent chills down your spine. "I don’t want your money, pretty girl," he replied, moving closer, invading your space with the same familiarity that Gotham’s filth slipped into every corner. "You’re worth more than that." You felt his calloused, scarred hand rest on your hip, with a pressure that was neither violent nor friendly. The contact filled you with disgust.

7 minutes.

You clenched your fist, your jaw tight as you struggled to maintain your composure. "I don’t want sex either, idiot," you spat, your words loaded with contained fury. Your hand subtly slid toward your bag, where your knife lay, waiting to be used.

6 minutes.

The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he let out a low, mocking laugh. "And I don’t want that either, little girl," he murmured, his cold, deep blue eyes scrutinizing you as if they could read every dark corner of your soul. "I want something more from you."

5 minutes.

"What do you want then?" you asked, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even as the ice of fear began to creep down your spine. Your eyes scrutinized him, searching his gaze for any hint of his true intentions, but all you saw was darkness.

4 minutes.

He let out a long, chilling laugh, tightening his grip on your hip. "Do you know what I want, Y/n?"

3 minutes.

His voice dropped, as if his words were a cursed secret the wind refused to carry away. "I want you."

2 minutes.

The world seemed to stop. You knew there was no time to run. There was no time to pull out the knife or to scream. It was as if the clock itself had conspired against you, reducing those last minutes to mere seconds.

1 minute.

The blow was sharp, a flash of excruciating pain at the back of your head. The cold metal of the station, the hum of the city, everything faded abruptly. The last thought that crossed your mind, before the world vanished into darkness, was that this time, you didn’t expect Batman to save you. It wasn’t a mere thief or a street threat that was taking you.

Gotham, with all its cruelty, always had new ways to remind you that there is no escape.

That night, when the Gotham subway stopped at the station, there was no one to pick up.

The mansion felt emptier than ever, like a deserted and cold labyrinth, where each hallway seemed to stretch into an infinite tunnel, devouring the light.

The silence was overwhelming, an oppression that enveloped every corner, as if even the ancient walls had run out of words. It was so heavy that the few who remained in the mansion couldn’t help but move uncomfortably, trying to fill that void with something, anything.

Bruce Wayne walked through those same hallways with a strange feeling, as if something was missing, though he didn’t know what. An unease, a persistent discomfort that he couldn’t shake off.

He had been like this for months, with that absence haunting his mind, a gap he couldn't identify. And then, suddenly, like a gust of icy wind, the truth struck him.

You.

His daughter.

His little daughter.

How long had it been since he last saw you? When was the last time he heard your laughter, the one that always seemed too sarcastic, too filled with resentment? He stopped abruptly, frowning. Why couldn’t he remember you? He couldn’t bring to mind a clear image of your face, not even how you used to look at him... why? How could he have forgotten you like that?

Damn.

It was as if time had stopped. It had been a year, maybe more, since he had really thought about you. He felt a pang of guilt pierce his chest, a heavy, silent guilt that dragged him into the abyss of his own negligence. Not knowing what else to do, he began to check the rooms, one after another.

Each door he opened was another blow to his conscience. Where was your room? The more he searched, the more confused he felt. The mansion was enormous, but how could he have forgotten where you slept? How was it possible that he didn’t know where you lived in the house where both of you grew up? Had you been here all this time?

Each door he opened was identical to the last, as if all the rooms had fused into one.

None showed a trace of you.

None seemed to have a hint of your presence. Didn’t you decorate your room? He thought frantically, didn’t you even mark it as yours? Panic began to take hold of him. Anxiety wrapped around him like a fist tightening on his chest. Were you still living in the mansion? Or had you left without saying a word, like a shadow fading at dawn? But... no, you hadn’t mentioned anything. You hadn’t said you were leaving. Or had you? And if you had, why didn’t he remember? How could he have ignored you for so long that now he didn’t even know if you were still under the same roof?

“Ah!” he exclaimed in a whisper, unable to contain the dread he felt.

Frustration consumed him from within. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily, and the echo of his voice faded into the empty walls. He tried to remember something, anything about you, about the last time they spoke, about how you were... but everything was blurry, as if his mind was betraying him, hiding you behind an impenetrable fog.

How could he have forgotten so much?

He brought his hands to his head, trying to calm himself, but only felt more confusion, more desperation. The mansion, which had once been his home, now felt like a strange and foreign place.

Had you been the one who made it feel like home? The question echoed in his mind, but he had no answer. Just more questions. More uncertainties. Finally, he let his arms fall, exhausted. He had checked almost all the rooms and had found not a trace of you. Not a clue. Not a sign that you had been there. And at that moment, something dark and painful began to settle in his heart.

Had you ever really been there?

Then something caught his attention as he passed by the cleaning room. In a dusty corner, next to a forgotten bag, something was protruding. Something small, old, and faded. He bent down and pulled it from the dirty clothes. It was a stuffed animal, or what was left of one. The faded black of its suit left no doubt. It was a figure of Batman, but worn down by time, battered to the point of looking forgotten.

Bruce's eyes were fixed on the small piece of fabric hanging from the doll's neck. A tag.

Your name.

Your name, handwritten, in ink that was already fading.

Bruce felt a lump in his throat, a mix of guilt and rage. How could he have forgotten something so important?

He clutched the doll tightly, as if doing so would return a piece of you to him, but instead of comfort, he only felt more emptiness. Where were you? He ran to Alfred, who looked at him with a mix of concern and pity.

"Alfred..." Bruce said, his voice breaking. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"

The butler, with his always serene face, seemed to age suddenly. A long silence settled between them, as if time was fading away. "Mr. Bruce, I didn’t mean to..." Alfred lowered his gaze. "I didn’t want to burden you with that truth, but... it’s time you know."

Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. Truth? What truth?

"She left almost a year ago. She didn’t say where. She just... she took all her belongings, though they weren’t many, and left. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. That you and the other family members had too many things to worry about."

Bruce took a step back, as if the words had physically struck him. Did she have enough age to leave? A burden? Never, not for a second, did he think that of you, of his little daughter who, even though she wasn’t wanted, he embraced under his wing just like Damian.

You were never a burden.

...or were you?

No, he refused to acknowledge it; he just... he hadn’t spent time with you because Gotham needed him!

But when you needed him, where was Batman?

Where was Bruce Wayne when his only biological daughter needed him?

"Alfred, do you know anything about Y/n?" the hero asked, worry clear on his face.

Alfred didn’t look at him; he only stared into nothingness. "...I haven’t heard anything about her for two months...

And honestly... I'm starting to think...

that she might be lost to us forever..."

A/N — This is definitely apart from being my first official Tumblr post, it is also my first DC post and especially the first from the Lord of the Night xD

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

Isabel, I dedicate this to you, my love. Eat more to be well, you fucking anorexic, don't suck.

take a bath!

inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

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meanbossart · 5 months ago

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Okay but I would love to hear your thoughts on the other spawn

Twirling my hair shifty-eyeing to the side OKAAAYYYYY WELL IF YOU INSIST 🛀

(This is a continuation of this post where I go into some detail about my thoughts on Dalyria, Violet, and Leon ((or "Leonard" as I apparently dubbed him as by mistake))

Let me start with the one I love the most after my sweet well-meaning-child-murdering-doctor Dalyria: Pale Petras.

First of all, just look at this fucking guy. What a goober.

I pretty explicitly go off-canon when it comes to my theories about Petras. According to him, he has been with Cazador for a hundred years - I find that very, very difficult to believe. Whether I would scrap that line entirely or just tack it as hyperbole is irrelevant - though he does seem to have a knack for the dramatics, or at least he tries to.

Petras immediately strikes me as a newcomer in the group. He's the most lively out of the spawn we chat with and seems to still retain what is a pretty strong, bold personality. He's antagonizing towards Astarion and pretty much sides with Cazador up until his life is on the line - and, most interestingly to me, his immediate reaction after being freed if you instruct them to lead the spawn into the Underdark seems to be one of fear and reluctance, unlike Dalyria who almost immediately takes the responsibility upon herself and seems warm towards Astarion and the player for what they've done.

Abusive relationships don't start abusive. If you've ever been friends with someone who's hooked up with a known serial abuser, chances are that you have had to sit through their attempts at justifying their behavior as foretold by previous partners - "oh, they just weren't a good match", "they both enabled abuse towards each other", "his ex was just crazy, man." This honeymoon period can last anywhere from a few weeks, to several years - until said friend inevitably finds themselves in the exact same cycle that said ex escaped from.

That's Petras. Petras is fresh meat. He's compliant. He's gullible. As a human in a world where you're surrounded by races that live up to several hundreds of years, he's attributed power to longevity - he loves being a spawn. He loves knowing that he will never lose his youthful looks and that his newly-acquired "curse" makes him desirable in it's own, odd way. He thinks this gig is easy - go out, get laid, get fed, rinse and repeat. Sure, sometimes there's a misunderstanding and he gets his joints broken or nails ripped out, but whatever! They grow back! To a vampire with powers of regeneration, dismemberment and scalping might as well be equivalent to ten belt-smacks to the backside just like his father used to give him as a child. Plus, it's never really his fault - If Master knew the truth, he would never set his goons on him at all!

And Oh, he adores Cazador. Not as a friend, a lover, or even a family member - but an aspiration. He sincerely believes that through hard work and resilience he can one day also have his status and fortune. And it shouldn't even be hard to stand out among this angsty little crew - what are they so bent out of shape about, anyway If they spent less time moping and more time working, maybe they wouldn't have such a tough time. Especially -

Astarion.

While it is likely incidental, I find it very ironic that Petras was put in Astarion's early-access outfit. And much less accidental than that: his mannerism and word-choice are a blatant imitation of Astarion's behavior. The flair, the flirting, the flattering and the abrasiveness; I've heard it theorized that this must be how all of the spawn act - I disagree. Petras is the only one we see exhibit that type of demeanor. I think he actively models himself after Astarion because as thick as he might be, he did catch onto the fact that his master has a particular interest in the white-haired elf.

And, of course, Petras hates Astarion for it. He sees him as someone who could have had it all, but gave up on it in favor of being bitter, angry, and naively wistful over his lost life. He has the looks, he has the charm, he had his master's favor, they go out and Petras watches men and women alike swoon over him and laugh at his shitty jokes, to then return home with a long-faced, bratty little shit-head of a toddler-man who would never even understand what the paralyzing loom of mortality is like in the first place - an ungrateful, nepotistic bastard whose had it all handed over to him by daddy, who was loved and fed and given a well-paid job fresh off his teens - but now he has to put a little work in. Now he has to do things that he might find unpleasant. And all he fucking does is whine about it.

Astarion is the personification of everything Petras ever wanted to be before being turned into a spawn, and he accidentally wears it on his sleeve day in and day out. I have no doubt that Astarion is blatantly aware of that fact and it makes his skin crawl - but Dalyria tells him that Petras is too young. Too new. Cut him some slack.

And frankly, I don't think he's evil, either. He strikes me as naive and star-striken. I don't know how long he's been with the Szarrs for, but certainly the light in his eyes would eventually fade over time and he would have had all the zest beaten out of him, same as the others. But, for now - he just doesn't know his own luck.

Admittedly, I have much less to say about Yousen and Aurelia. We don't hear as much as a word out of Yousen, but I've chosen to read the silence of and about his character as indicative that, maybe, he was able to hold onto his sanity and honor the best out of all of them. He had to do what he had to do to survive, but he did it while attempting to withhold any standards allowed to him for his own peace of mind - I like to imagine he had a lot of sincere empathy for all of the spawn, and, while they were never close, him and Astarion exchanged sincere words about their situation a few times during their stay at the palace; just enough to remind the elf that he wasn't alone, but never so much that Yousen would intrude into his space, or add strain to his already fragile state of mind.

And Aurelia... She strikes me as so young and already so beaten. I'd wager that what was once a sweet tiefling girl is now a terrified animal who does absolutely whatever she can to avoid pain and punishment - the snitch of the group, the reluctant ass-kisser, the one who desperately clings to any relief in whatever form it may come - be her master's approval or the shoulder of a sibling she has damned to the kennel more than once out of fear for her own life. Everybody has been hurt, betrayed, and irritated by her - but she's just so god damn pitiful that they can't push her away forever. While she would live, I believe she would have the hardest time adapting to freedom after Violet - just completely dependent on others and burdened by what she's had to do.

#ask #the spawn #pale petras #bg3 spoilers

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chantiying · 7 months ago

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Message from your inner child

Before to start, sorry for any mistakes or grammar error. English is not my first language. How to choose? Think of something you liked when you were a child (a game, a toy, a smell, a candy, your favorite stuffed animal) and try to remember you as a kid, take a deep breath and when you're ready, you and your inner child choose the image that drawn to you. Remember tarot is not set on stone and you can change your path whenever you want. This is for entertainment purposes. This reading is general so if it doesn't resonate with you just let it go

: ¨·.·¨ :

` ·. 🦋

╱|、

(˚ˎ 。7

|、˜〵

じしˍ,)ノ

TW. Direct or indirect mention of abuse, bulling, violence, familial violence, broken family among others.

Ok, let's go!!!

PILE 1

Hello my friend :) Do you remember how disastrous our childhood was? Do you remember that there were some people who hurt us? Remember when we were pushed aside from parties? Do you remember when we found out that sometimes the "love" of a couple is not two but three? Remember when we found out what infidelity meant? Come, here and close your eyes for a moment, because I want to tell you a secret but I don't want you to see me are you ready? Yes? Ok: the infidelity of our parents marked me

I know since then we don't know what it means to love or how to make a relationship work. I know it's a lot harder for you than it was for me. I know sometimes you wonder if you're loving too little or too much, I know you're scared of being harmed like mom and dad did. Do you still feel that strange feeling of isolating all noise with music or the TV on while we sit on the floor of the room begging for it all to end? I do love you, my friend :) I know it seems a little difficult, I know it seems a little hard to say and hear, I know you may not believe it because they made you doubt what it means to love someone, but, I'll let you in on another secret: I don't feel alone anymore. I've learned that sometimes we have to leave where the water overflows to build a better castle. I learned to be smarter and not to argue when it's not necessary, to stop talking where no one listens, to live with myself and with you.

Please, I know it's not easy, but I want you to start again, on your own, I want you to leave everything behind, to let the dragons (they are not bad I already talked to them and they said they are on our side) I want you to let them destroy what hurts us, and to start building your own fortress. I want to be your first beautiful relationship. I want that you love me because I love you and I will always love you. Please love me, okay? Let's be you and me (km little you, hehe) against everyone. I want to be your partner in crime and have us laugh together. I promise you that after that, we're going to smile more and forget what they did to us.

You also have to eat well, did you hear me? Oh and don't tell anyone, but, I'm craving our favorite sweet treat from when we were little, can you eat it for us?

I'm always with you, don't forget me, I'm you but in little. Oh, something else, let's pretend it's your birthday, yei ! let's be happy for today and close your eyes again and make a wish

Francis Forever Mitski, Innocent Taylor Swift. Grey, Purple, Blue. Leaves & Streets. Orange juice?, Music, Cartoons, Headphones, Magic Wand. Mulan (I'll Make a Man Out of You)

🧸🎂🎈🍫 🧸🪄🎈🍫

PILE 2

Hey!!! What's up, buddy? I am very happy, I feel that I have arrived where I needed to be, I feel that the sun has finally risen, I feel that all the changes I had to go through have now paid off. The knowledge, the peace, the beliefs, everything I needed to cultivate is bearing fruit. See? I even speak as someone cultured and intellectual 😸. At first I didn't notice it, I was incredulous, but then I started thinking and thinking and thinking, and I realized that the change started in the interior. I know, you don't have to tell me, it sounds very cheesy, it sounds silly, but, I must admit, even if it's a little embarrassing, that sometimes dreaming and being cheesy is kind of fun SO DON'T MAKE FUN OF ME 😾😹. Ok, let's be serious, mate. We went through a time where we didn't believe in anything and we didn't even know if we should believe but I kept doing it. I kept looking until I got to where I needed to and BOOM it all made sense. Our lives are going to get better, we're better now, we're brave, we're smart, we're strong, we're cool !! We still have to keep learning, we still have a long way to go, but I learned that learning is also fun. DON'T GIVE UP, OK? Ok. I know it's hard to grow, but we've always wanted this, we've never bowed down, we've never given up, we've always looked forward and we'll continue to do so

Keep in your heart the ones who help you and give you happy moments, then let's continue writing our story

No matter how many steps forward you take, whether it's one or two or a thousand, I'll always be there proud of where you've taken us and what an amazing person you've made us. I only ask you to never forget where you come from and where you are going, don't forget to be grateful, don't play with anyone's heart or time, that's not good 😾. I want you to appreciate the time and I want that, when you think that the world is against you, or that everything is going wrong, you can change it. Don't worry, I don't want you to blame yourself for everything, but I also don't want you to always blame it on others. I know sometimes it's hard, keep trying again and again, even if you're scared don't don't victimize yourself because heroes don't do that, and you and I have the prettiest cape, we have the cutest glitter and we have the best superhero story just for us, and don't be afraid, because superheroes can do anything and if we can't our superhero friends will help us 😼

Let's be great, let's be epic!

Disney, A lot of changes or currently changing something, Happiness, Beach, Comics, Sun, Summer, Ice cream, Watch, Hats, Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride, Hannah Montana, Vacation, Pop en español (Pop in Spanish), Extrovert, Mischievous, Spider man? Funny, Tangled (the movie)

🦸, 👨‍🚀, 🐱, 🚀

PILE 3

There are two of us, we are yourself and I, and it has always been like this ☺️, do you feel confused? Because I do, a little bit, you won't get mad if I tell you, right? You'll understand, right? I feel like everything is going so fast, I feel like I can't stop, I feel like I want to rest, I feel like when I wanted the geography or math hour to end and go out for recess to get some fresh air. why is everything going so fast? I want to understand what's going on, I want to, I really want to, but I can't. Do you no longer feel distrustful? Do you believe in other people yet? Because I don't do it yet 🥺, do we have friends yet? Or are we still alone? Are they still hurting us? Are we still unsafe? I don't want to be like that anymore, I promise you, (crying?) I want to have a lot of friends, I want to be loved, I want to play, I want to have fun, but I can't believe in others, do you? I don't want to be alone, I know I said it was you and me, and I still believe it, it's you and me against the world, but I also want us to be more against the world. I want someone to turn on the light and hold my hand, would you? I want you to hug me, talk to me, I feel like you're mad at me, at the little you from a few years ago, did I do something wrong? Do you think it was my fault that we were treated like this? Do you think it was my fault that we were disappointed? I'm a little annoyed with you too, not gonna lie. you know what? I was a kid but you have everything to change what happened to us, you pretend that it doesn't hurt anymore and that's a lie! you're still upset and scared, listen, it's ENOUGH! Do something for us. At least I'm angry but I want us to change this, I want us to be happy. I want us to be together and happy, I want us to be one, I want you to remember me, but not only the bad but the good as well, remember what we like, remember the watercolors, the music we liked, remember the sun, the window, remember the yard, remember the stories that mom/dad used to tell us. Remember Mom/Dad. Remember the puddles after the rain. Please, I'm not asking you to want to be a child again to do everything differently, I'm asking you to connect with me so that our creativity flies, so that you know where to go, so that you can start something new.

The magic is in us, accept us, what you don't want to let out, is what makes us most beautiful

You will get what you want, but don't want everything, don't be ambitious. Don't forget us, don't forget you, never forget yourself.

Sadness, Grudge, Sobbing, Poverty (both spiritual and economic), Pranks, Bullying, Grass, Secret place, 8 years? Cold, Scams, Rain, Mirror, Emojis. Monsters, inc. As a child, Madeline The Person. J's lullaby (darling I'd wait for you), Delaney bailey. All I want, Kodaline. Rises the moon, Liana Flores

ꗃ🗝₊˚⊹♡ 𓉞 . ⸙͎｡˚⋆ 𓋼

Hi guys! Sorry for the late update. To be honest I struggle being consistent in what I do, but I'm trying (no, I'm really trying) to be more consistent.

Today, is children's day in my country, so I decided to do this spread for you all, because I consider that connecting and embracing our inner child is one of the most healing things we can do. So happy Children's Day !!

Alic (Chanty) 🪽

#tarot #tarot reading #tarot asks #tarot cards #tarot tumblr #tarotblr #pick a card #tarot and astrology #tarotcommunity #pick one #pick a picture

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smolandweirdwriter · 2 months ago

Note

The bad kids are all best friends, but some of them don't have many canonical scenes together, and I think Adaine and Gorgug are the least seen with each other among the rare duos. But those two are pretty emotionally smart, so I think they'd realize that and decided to hang out

Got any ideas about shenanigans they might perform together?

adaine canonically loves gorgug's parents for their kindness to everyone, which especially shines through in how much they care for their son. throughout her freshman year, adaine would most often crash at gorgug's place. it was marginally closer to get to, and safer, at least compared to strongtower. the little folk are peaceful.

the first time Adaine was at Gorgug's house with all the others, Wilma and Digby noticed how formal, and then perplexed, and then saddened she was in the span of meeting them. when they overheard her say things like "wow your parents are so sweet!" and "I love your parents!" they weren't just proud or happy. at least, not only that. soon after they were a little concerned, especially with how eager she seemed about it. as though they were unconventional in their kindness. they asked gorgug about it afterwards, and he frowned a little. "I dunno," he said finally. "I think elf parents are kinda... mean to their kids? Like it's a cultural thing or something?"

Well, that definitely didn't sit well with Wilma and Digby. And it definitely didn't sit well with Gorgug, now that he realized it. He asked Adaine about it the next day, and she admitted it with a mixture of loathing and sharp self-awareness. She didn't cry, but she didn't exactly brush the issue off either. Gorgug didn't know what to do, he'd never had a friend, let alone one with abusive parents. He'd always thought his anger was a bad thing, but now it consumed him with unbridled outrage. He wanted to storm into the Abernant house and rip it apart with his bare hands. He wanted to take his friend behind him and keep her safe. He wanted to hug her so she was there with him and not alone and cold and scared and mad. She didn't need to be mad. She didn't deserve it.

But Gorgug knew he couldn't do any of that. So instead, he offered what he knew he could: "If you ever need some place to stay, you know where I live."

Adaine smiled. "Thanks, Gorgug. But I'll be alright."

A few days later, the bad kids had been out late on their quest to find out more about what would later be known as the Kalvaxus Caper. actually, they weren't even "out late". it was about 6pm, but school had let out around 3, so their parents were nonetheless reasonably worried about where the hell their children were.

as everyone was peeling off to head home, only adaine and gorgug were left. gorgug noticed adaine just standing there, not going home yet. "hey, what's wrong?" he asked.

"My parents are gonna kill me. I'm so late. The bus won't take me home now, it'll take forever to walk, we're halfway across town, I'll miss curfew because I was out adventuring --" she said "adventuring" like it was something to be mocked, something foolish that only a child would partake in "--I'm going to be grounded forever... I can't go home, Gorgug, I can't."

Gorgug cocked his head. Two choices, then. Take her home. Or... Take her home.

"You wanna, uh, stay over at my place?"

So Adaine followed Gorgug home. The Thistlesprings had cooked a thick, stewy soup with chunks of meat and vegetables that smelled amazing. They saw Adaine come in and quickly fixed her up a bowl alongside Gorgug's. Wilma and Digby ask her all sorts of questions -- What sort of magic does she do? Are her family wizards too? Where do they work? When do they leave home? How susceptible are they to gnomish-made ballista being fired right at them? What does she like to eat? She looks like she doesn't eat enough, she should come over more and they'll make her nice, home-cooked meals. hey, she used to go to Hudol, what was it like? What's Aguefort been like for her, is she liking it? how about the classmates, anyone nice outside her party? anyone very nice? has she had "the talk" yet--

at that point, gorgug's face goes bright red and he tugs adaine away before they can pull out The Binder. adaine giggles as she's led into gorgug's room. he offers her a pair of his pajamas, which are far too big on her, but she likes that. it's kind of like being wrapped up in gorgug's hugs--enveloped completely. she has to roll the sleeves all the way up so she can even get her fingers out, and the pants still trail on the ground a little.

they spend the rest of the night talking and chatting sprawled across gorgug's bed.

situations like this become far more common throughout freshman year. the thistlesprings want to adopt her, but she's not even technically a Solecian citizen, and it would make the whole "diplomatic immunity" thing so messy. she goes home on the weekends, because she has no choice, and when her parents get force her to stay home because "we're your family and we never see you. i swear, you're so ungrateful sometimes, adaine. what, is it so awful to have dinner with us?"

on her own, adaine begins learning orcish and gnomish so she and gorgug can talk, and so she can better thank and communicate with the thistlesprings. she teaches gorgug some elvish too, and they begin communicating by blending the three languages together in a way that makes no sense to anyone other than themselves.

for his part, it's gorgug who helps adaine become more physically strong, because he's worried about how angry his friend gets, and how that anger sometimes spirals into panic, or vice versa, so he teaches her how to throw a punch, how to block a hit, how to fight with a sword. he is never prouder than the moment he sees adaine's fist collide with her sister's face at ostentatia's party.

for her part, adaine and gorgug do homework together often when she's there, and it's by watching her do magic that gorgug becomes so enraptured by it. he's constantly asking her how spells work, how she knows what level she's casting them at, how she remembers them all. adaine attempts to explain it, and she does so by comparing it to his parents' tinkering. she's just putting pieces together and binding them--her "pieces" are less tangible, but they're still a part of the greater universe around them. gorgug really wants to learn wizardry, but he's not too fond of the abstract. he likes adaine's explanation, though. he begins thinking about tinkering. he begins thinking about machines and the tangible and the world and breaking things and putting them together and making something new. he thinks about family.

fig is an excellent lyricist, but she's not a very skilled composer. gorgug, meanwhile, it fantastic at putting lyrics to music. he loves it. he has just the right ear for it, for knowing where something needs a little aid, where he can boost something so it reaches its full potential. he's also a great backup vocalist. but he's sorta afraid to mention any of this to fig, because she invited him to be in her band, and she was so nice about helping him, and he doesn't wanna overstep. when shes over at his house one day, adaine sees a piece he's composed lying on the desk. she doesn't read it, to respect his privacy, but she notes that it's clearly composition, and asks about it. gorgug awkwardly admits that he's been working on something to go with a piece fig wrote, because, and not to imply he doesn't think fig's great, he loves fig so so so much and he's so grateful to be in her band, but, well, she composed about half the instrumental bits but they're just a little wonky and so he dabbled a little bit in pairing the lyrics with music, but please don't tell fig, adaine, it's not like I've done any better than she has or could.

adaine blinks. "you're awfully anxious, aren't you?" she smiles, sits down on the bed next to him, and says, "Gorgug, if you don't try, you're never going to know if it's any good at all."

so he shows his composition to fig. who immediately tackles him into a hug and screams "THIS IS PERFECT!"

Gorgug blushes and says, "Adaine helped me with it."

Fig recruits Adaine to help them write and compose. Adaine declines. "But if you ever need a tech person once you start really performing," Adaine says, "I'd love to do stage effects for you."

Actually, Adaine, as it turns out, does rather like helping Gorgug compose music. This stems from the fact that she grew up listening to exclusively pretentious high elven music, which she does rather like, but she also becomes pretty fond of heavy metal the likes of which gorgug blasts. she has a playlist called "studying evocation magic" that one would expect to be full of classical music. it's entirely head-slammer metal and rock that gorgug helped her compile.

Adaine goes to Gorgug a lot when she can't figure out spells. She gets lost in the little intricacies and complications of things, and he's very good at looking at the thing as a whole and seeing what's missing. he sees it very technically, which she finds relieving. so much of magic is abstract, but with gorgug everything is right with you, a physical thing.

when adaine kills her dad, gorgug isn't so sure she's okay. everyone else is cheering and hugging her, but gorgug has spent the most time around adaine's violence. her fear. he knows theres something deeper here. so when he gets a chance, he pulls her aside and asks how she's doing. adaine crumples into his side, sobbing, gripping his sweatshirt because it's soft and smells like grass and the woods and something else too, like going home after a long day, like people who want you to have clean clothes because they care about you and not your appearance. "Why did I have to kill him?" she asks, and he knows what she's really saying. Why did killing him have to be the only option?

"I don't know," he whispers. "Is it better that he's dead?"

Adaine swallows. Chokes on a lump of tears. Says: "I hope so."

gorgug and adaine who understand each other. gorgug and adaine who have sleepovers and climb the thistlespring tree and learn together. gorgug and adaine who have a secret language. gorgug and adaine who, of all the bad kids, know the least about their respective sexualities come junior year. riz and fig have been learning about aromaticism/asexuality and pansexuality since sophomore year, and kristen has been out since freshman year, and fabian has gotten over aelwyn and has confessed that he might have had the most massive crush on riz, and is still not over him, but that he really really doesn't want that to get in the way of their friendship, and that he supports riz's sexuality whole-heartedly, and he's realizing how lame his desperation for girls who treat people like shit is because he's realized he doesn't need to feel special just because someone who likes no one likes him, and he's falling for mazey, and that's okay.

but adaine and gorgug?

zelda breaks up with gorgug the summer of their junior year. and honestly? gorgug tells adaine in the workshop of the thistlespring tree late at night as they work together on the solar lasso. i sort of always saw it coming.

there is a dull hum of arcane electricity around them. save that, all is silent. silent, when adaine thinks about how people should care and don't and fall apart and break and how you can want to love someone and still run away. she does not understand it.

did you love her? she whispers, not looking over at him as her fingers turn a a piece of scrap metal over and over, not working on anything, not trying to fix anything. just hoping. just wishing. just wanting to know what love is.

i think i liked that she liked me, gorgug said. and i think i liked being around her. and i liked the... he glances over, blushing. Sorry. Riz is not vocal about his asexuality, and most of the time he is quietly uncaring when they talk about sex. it doesn't bother him to hear about--it's a part of life. still, gorgug tries to keep the others from talking about it around him. adaine, gorgug does not know if she's ace or not, and doesn't care if she is or isn't, but she gets uncomfortable, even a little disgusted, around talks of such things, so he tries to keep them to a minimum for her, too.

but this night, adaine shakes her head, her glasses glinting in the darkness. it's okay. you liked her. you liked sex. but did... what did... she clenches the scrap of metal in her fist, frustrated at her inability to form the proper words. the metal bends and crumples in her palm, and she blinks, unfurling her fingers to see broken shards of metal in her hand. she is still not used to her own strength. she has still not realized she's not really the girl she was years ago. but she is learning who she is, and maybe that's okay too. what was it like? liking someone that way? wanting someone... that way?

it was nice, gorgug says back. it was really nice. he shakes his head. but i think it was more than just... physical. i think she fell in love with me because i was nice to her. and she... sometimes she acted like that niceness was something i only did for her. and if i cared about other people, it was like i didn't care about zelda enough? or something? and i didn't really like that. and she didn't really like that i... that we...

that you were something other than zelda donovan's boyfriend? adaine offers.

he nods. yeah. a pause. i really liked her, though.

adaine taps his hand with hers. a question. he slips his fingers into hers. an answer. she squeezes. he squeezes back. I'm sorry.

gorgug comes out to adaine first of all their friends. he's bi, he tells her. adaine, not sure what to say, goes: "Congratulations". They both laugh. she still doesn't know what she is. she's still not sure she wants a label. he tells her that's okay. she asks if he came out because he has a crush on someone in his fancy new artificer class. gorgug blushes and shoves her playfully. (when he kisses unit later that year, adaine is unsurprised. he seems like gorgug's type.)

when oisin's ruse is revealed much later that year, adaine is not sad. she isn't hurt. she's violently, horrifically angry. so is gorgug.

they are on a boat. they might die. Oisin's voice rings out, Oisin's call. Adaine's face blanches, and Gorgug understands that whatever he messaged her, it means someone is about to die. and it won't be adaine.

it will be a white dragon, to his axe. it will be another, hit by the boat. it will be oisin, it will be oisin, it will be oisin. it will be oisin, for his friend who did not know what love felt like. it will be oisin, for his friend who did not know if she wanted to kiss someone. it will be oisin, for his friend who is easy to love. it will be oisin who dies, and he will enjoy it. and rage is not bad, because rage protected adaine, who should not have needed to protect herself.

and after everything has calmed down, they will eat ants on a log in his bedroom and write music and practice magic and spar and laugh.

oh, also: adaine and gorgug both get overstimulated easily, and gorgug always has a plethora of headphones and fidgets, and adaine goes to him for them constantly. they also both conducted an experiment together once where they attempted to communicate with people inside her jacket. it didn't go super well, but it was certainly fun!

and of course, adaine/ayda/gorgug friendship is a top-tier one. fig's magic is innate, but the trio's magic comes from studying and observing, and they all like to talk about it. sometimes they gossip. sometimes it's about fig. it's never mean--actually, usually it's just about how much they like fig. but they all get together pretty often to just jam out some spell stuff together.

#wowwwww this one was so long im sorry #also I feel like a lot of it was pretty angsty?#I tried to tone it down at the end #oh and let me be very clear: this is ENTIRELY platonic #gorgug thistlespring #fantasy high #adaine abernant #fantasy high sophomore year #fantasy high junior year #fantasy high freshman year #smolwrites

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mcntsee · 1 year ago

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I will always protect you.

Summary: One promise, and three times Kaz kept it.

Warnings: Mentions of child abuse, mentions of alcoholism, mention of alcoholic tendencies, underage drinking. Bruises, blood, stabbing, violence. Usual SOC stuff. And a little bit of ooc kaz.

Notes: Their ages go; first, 4 and 5, then, 13 and 14, after that, 15 and 16, and lastly 18 and 19. With Kaz being the oldest of the two. Also, I don’t know how little kids talk, so I tried to express their age more with actions.

THE PROMISE:

Kaz Brekker, a mischievous five-year-old boy with jet-black hair and sharp blue eyes, found himself running through the bustling streets of Lij. He was on his way to buy candy from his favorite stall when, by chance, he collided with a four-year-old girl. She had bright, curious eyes and a mischievous grin of her own.

"Oof! Sorry," Kaz muttered, rubbing his arm where he bumped into Y/N. The girl giggled and brushed herself off. "It's okay. Are you hurt?"

"Nah, I'm tough," Kaz replied, puffing out his chest. "What's your name?"

"I'm Y/N," she replied with a small curtsy. "What's yours?"

"Kaz," he answered, a sly smile forming on his lips. "You wanna come with me? I'm going to buy some candy." Y/N's eyes widened with excitement. "Yes, please! I love candy!"

Hand in hand, they ventured through the vibrant market, their laughter echoing through the air. They marveled at the colorful stalls, the fragrant spices, and the musicians playing lively tunes.

"Look, Y/N, that stall has lollipops!" Kaz pointed, pulling her toward a display of rainbow-colored sweets.

Y/N's eyes sparkled as she picked a blue lolly. "You think we can eat them all?" To the question, Kaz grinned mischievously. "Duh!"

They spent the day running from one stall to another, devouring candy and experiencing the wonders of Lij. They laughed, spun in circles, and created their own little adventures.

As the sun began to set, Kaz and Y/N found themselves sitting on a park bench, exhausted and with a tummy ache but happy.

"Y/N, I think you're my best friend," Kaz said, leaning against her shoulder. Y/N smiled warmly. "And you mine, Kaz. Forever."

After their delightful day in Lij, Kaz and Y/N couldn't bear the thought of being apart. They made a pact to meet at the same spot where they had bumped into each other every single day. And true to their word, they showed up without fail, ready for more adventures.

Their daily escapades were filled with laughter and endless games. They chased each other through the winding streets, played hide-and-seek among the market stalls, and invented new imaginary worlds where they were heroes saving the day.

Sometimes, Kaz would take Y/N to his family's farm on the outskirts of town. With excitement bubbling inside, Y/N met Kaz's older brother, Jordie, who always had a playful smirk on his face. And there was Kaz's father, a strong and kind man who welcomed Y/N with open arms.

Together, the duo explored the vast fields, chasing butterflies, and picking wildflowers. Kaz and Y/N would compete to see who could climb the tallest tree, giggling with delight at their friendly rivalry. They would visit the animals, feeding the chickens and petting the gentle horses.

As time passed, their bond grew stronger, and their adventures became even more extraordinary. They braved make-believe battles against fearsome dragons, crafted secret hideouts with blankets and pillows, and dreamed of grand expeditions to faraway lands.

One sunny afternoon, as Kaz and Y/N sat on their favorite park bench with nothing better to do, Kaz turned to her with a curious expression. "Y/N, can I come to your house today? I want to see where you live."

Y/N hesitated for a moment before shaking her head gently. "I'm sorry, Kaz. Maybe another time."

Kaz furrowed his brow, not entirely understanding why Y/N didn't want him to visit her home. "Awe, but why not?"

Y/N glanced down, her voice softening. "It's just- my da... he can be a little mean sometimes."

Kaz tilted his head, still not comprehending the depth of the situation. "What do you mean, mean? Like he doesn't let you have candy?"

Y/N's eyes filled with a mix of sadness and fear. "Sort of, yeah- it's hard to explain."

Kaz could sense Y/N's discomfort, and he didn't want to press her further if it made her uneasy. He reached out and squeezed her hand gently. "It's okay, maybe some other day?"

Y/N's expression softened, grateful for Kaz's understanding. She gave him a small smile and leaned against his shoulder. "Maybe."

Kaz smiled back, reassuring her with his presence. He knew that sometimes people had difficulties, and what mattered most was supporting each other through it all, even if Y/N's home remained a mystery to Kaz for the time being.

After a while of some more talking, y/n glanced at her old pocket watch, eye’s widening when she saw the time. “Uh oh. I need to go Kaz.” hurriedly, she stood up from her previous spot, putting her watch back in its place. While she ran as fast as her little legs could, she heard her name being called by Kaz “See you tomorrow?” Without stopping or looking back she yelled “Duh!” and just like that, she was out of Kaz’s sight.

The following day, Kaz waited in their usual meeting spot for hours, but Y/N never showed up. Feeling a mix of disappointment, he eventually headed home to find his older brother Jordie.

“Jordie, something’s wrong,” Kaz exclaimed as he entered the house. “Y/N didn’t come today. I think she doesn’t want to be friends anymore.”

Jordie chuckled softly, trying to ease Kaz’s concerns. “Come on, Kaz. Y/N wouldn’t just ditch you like that. Maybe she had something important to do.”

Kaz sighed, still uncertain. “But she always keeps her promises. I think it’s because I asked to go to her house. Maybe I pushed too much.”

Jordie’s expression shifted, a hint of unease crossing his face. “What did she say, Kaz? Why couldn’t you go to her house?”

Kaz shrugged, oblivious to Jordie’s uneasiness. “Y/N just said her da is not very nice sometimes.” Jordie’s eyes narrowed slightly, concern deepening. “She even mentioned he doesn’t let her have candy! Can you believe that?” Jordie listened attentively to Kaz’s concerns, his worry growing with each word. He understood the weight of Kaz’s words about Y/N’s father but decided not to mention it directly to Kaz, wanting to shield him from unnecessary distress.

“Kaz, I understand that you’re worried,” Jordie said with a reassuring smile. “But trust me, Y/N is still your best friend. Sometimes things come up, and she might have had something important to take care of. Don’t jump to conclusions just yet.”

Kaz nodded, albeit still a bit unconvinced. “I guess you’re right, Jordie. I just miss her, that’s all.” Jordie gave Kaz a kind smile and patted his back lovingly “Also, you’re not supposed to be eating candy either, mister.”

One day turned into three, and although Jordie kept his worries about Y/N’s situation to himself, he couldn’t shake off the unease. He watched Kaz’s hopeful eyes and felt a sense of responsibility to protect his little brother’s innocence.

Days after, as Kaz sat at their usual meeting spot, the weight of worry had settled upon him. But this time, his anticipation shifted into sheer surprise as Y/N appeared, offering an apologetic smile.

Kaz’s eyes widened as he saw Y/N approaching, and he jumped up with excitement. “Y/N! You’re here! I missed you so much! Where have you been?”

Y/N’s smile flickered, and she looked down sheepishly. “Sorry, Kaz. I had important stuff to do. But I’m done now and I brought you a lolly!”

Kaz’s joy quickly turned to concern as he noticed the bruises on Y/N’s face and body. He furrowed his brow and asked, “What happened? You fall down?”

Y/N’s eyes filled with tears, and she shook her head. “I’m not really allowed to talk about it.”

Kaz’s protective instincts kicked in, and he thought for a moment. “Well, my da is really good at fixing things. Maybe he can help you. Would you like that?” Y/N hesitated but nodded.

Hand in hand, Kaz and Y/N made their way to Kaz’s farm, a sense of determination guiding Kaz’s steps. They arrived at the farm, and Kaz’s father greeted them warmly.

“Da, Y/N has some little cuts and bruises,” Kaz explained, concern evident in his voice. “Can you help?”

Kaz’s father knelt down, examining Y/N’s injuries with a gentle touch. “What happened?” he questioned hoping for an answer, sadly, he got the same response as Kaz. “I’m not allowed to talk about it.”

Once Kaz’s father finished cleaning up Y/N’s wounds, he sat down with a concerned expression on his face. “Honey, I understand that you can’t talk about it, but I want you to know that you’re safe here. No one will find out, and Kaz and I will keep this as our secret. Won’t we, Kaz?” The boy eagerly nodded.

Y/N hesitated, looking at Kaz’s dad with a mix of uncertainty and vulnerability. Slowly, she mustered the courage to speak. “My ma and da are both sick.”

Kaz’s dad nodded, encouraging her to continue. “Can you tell me more about it, Y/N?”

Y/N took a deep breath, her voice trembling. “Sometimes… sometimes they talk really weird, and they walk funny.” She paused for a second to look at Kaz’s confused face. “They sleep a lot too.”

Kaz’s dad’s face softened with understanding. “They’re alcoholics?”

Y/N looked puzzled, not fully comprehending the question being made. Kaz’s dad continued, trying his best to explain in a way that a young child could understand. “Sometimes, some people enjoy something that’s not good for them, like drinking too much alcohol. It can make them act differently and cause them to hurt themselves and others.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, realizing that Kaz’s dad understood the situation better than she expected. Encouraged by his empathy, she opened up a little more. “My da is really mean to me sometimes.”

Kaz’s dad’s expression turned solemn, and he pulled Y/N into a comforting hug. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Y/N. No one should ever be mean to you. You’re a kind and wonderful girl.”

Y/N fought back tears, feeling the warmth of Kaz’s dad’s embrace and the reassurance in his words. As he wiped away her tears, he gently asked, “Would you like to have a sleepover here tonight?”

At first, Y/N hesitated, worried about the potential consequences. “I should be on my way home before my dad gets angry at me.” she whispered.

Kaz’s dad gently took her hand and looked into her eyes with kindness. “You don’t have to worry about that here. I’ll talk to him, how’s that sound?”

Slowly, she nodded, finally letting herself accept the care and compassion offered to her. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

Kaz was thrilled to have Y/N stay for a sleepover, knowing they would get to spend more time together than ever before. He took her hand and led her up to his room, eager to show her all his new toys.

Hours passed as they laughed, played, and let their imaginations run wild. Kaz's room became a world of adventure, filled with shared stories and cherished moments.

But as the evening grew late, Kaz remembered he needed to say goodnight to his dad and Jordie. He quietly made his way downstairs, hoping to bid them farewell before returning to his room with Y/N. Just as he was about to reach the main living area, he overheard his father and Jordie having a conversation in hushed tones.

Curiosity got the better of him, and Kaz leaned closer, eavesdropping on their words. His heart sinking as he heard his da say, "Her father hits her."

Shock and anger coursed through Kaz's young veins. He couldn't fathom why someone would hurt Y/N, his dear friend. Without hesitation, he quickly said goodnight to his father and Jordie, a mix of determination and concern etched on his face.

Hurrying back to his room, he found Y/N, already lying down in her makeshift bed, waiting for him. He approached her gently, placing a tender kiss on her forehead. “I will always protect you, Y/n.”

FIRST TIME:

Recently, Kaz had suffered a broken leg, rendering him immobile and dependent on Y/N’s support. Determined to alleviate their hunger, Y/N made a solemn promise. “Don’t worry, Kaz. I’ll find us food. Your job is to rest and heal.”

With a sense of purpose, Y/N embarked on a risky endeavor to steal from those they deemed as “rich assholes.” It was a desperate act born out of necessity, driven by the dire circumstances they found themselves in. Little did Y/N know that Kaz, the restless boy he always was, had decided to secretly follow her.

Kaz hobbled along with a mixture of determination and worry. He understood the risks involved, but his loyalty and protective nature urged him to be by Y/N’s side. He remained hidden, his eyes fixed on his friend’s movements, marveling at her agility and resourcefulness.

Y/N, driven by desperation, resorted to pickpocketing in an attempt to secure food for both her and Kaz. If she was lucky, she could get more money than she would by working for the dregs for a week. She managed to successfully lift money from three unsuspecting individuals, but on her fourth attempt, her lack of experience betrayed her. The merchant she targeted noticed her actions and seized her wrist forcefully, yanking her forward while unleashing a torrent of anger.

“You little thief! Trying to steal from me, huh?” Y/N struggled to break free, her heart pounding in her chest. However, the merchant’s grip only tightened, preventing her escape. “I won’t let you get away with it!” Fear gripped her, and tears welled up in her eyes as she braced herself for the consequences of her actions.

Just as the merchant leaned in, ready to strike, Kaz, fueled by a surge of protective instinct, launched himself at the man, tackling him to the ground even though the pain in his leg was killing him.

“Leave her alone! Don’t you dare touch her!” The sudden attack caught the merchant off guard, giving Y/N a precious moment to pull away from his grasp. She stumbled backward, tears streaming down her face, but relief washed over her as Kaz shielded her from harm.

Kaz stood defiantly, his eyes blazing with determination. He wouldn’t allow anyone to harm Y/N, not while he was there to protect her. “You better stay away from us, or else you’ll regret it!” With that warning, Kaz extended a hand to Y/N, offering her support. She grasped his hand, her fingers trembling, and together they quickly retreated from the scene, their hearts pounding with a mix of fear and relief.

With their stomachs growling, Kaz and Y/N made their way to the bakery. Y/N’s heart raced, but luck was on their side for what seemed to be the first time in a long while. The stolen money she had managed to gather before getting caught was just enough to buy a loaf of bread, some meat, and cheese for Kaz.

As they walked back to their dilapidated “home,” a sense of relief washed over them. Amidst the worn-down buildings and bustling streets, Y/N’s eyes caught sight of a discarded cane. Acting swiftly, she snatched it, ensuring no one would notice its absence.

As Y/N handed the cane to Kaz, a mischievous glint danced in her eyes. Kaz accepted it with gratitude, but when he instinctively positioned it on the wrong side, Y/N couldn’t help but giggle.

“No, silly,” Y/N chuckled, gently correcting him. “The cane goes on the hand opposite the side that needs support.”

Kaz’s brows furrowed, momentarily perplexed, but he quickly adjusted the cane to the correct side, a sheepish smile forming on his face. “Oh yeah, that’s way better.”

“Thanks for saving my ass back there, Kaz” Struggling to match his steps with the cane, Kaz looked at her, “I will always protect you, Y/N,” he replied, his voice filled with sincerity.

SECOND TIME:

As Y/N turned 15 and Kaz reached 16, their lives continued to be a challenging dance with fate. However, a troubling change began to surface in Y/N’s behavior. Kaz noticed that she was increasingly reliant on alcohol, far beyond their occasional shared glass after a long day at Fifth Harbor.

It became apparent to Kaz that he rarely saw Y/N completely sober. Though she fluctuated between tipsy and heavily intoxicated, the presence of sobriety seemed to elude her. Concern etched across Kaz’s face as he observed the toll alcohol was taking on his dear friend.

He approached her room, where y/n was nursing a drink, and gently voiced his concerns. “You’ve been drinking a lot lately.” Y/n, defensive and caught off guard, shrugged it off with a dismissive tone. “Pff, come on, Kaz, ‘m just having fun. What’s the big deal?”

Kaz’s expression grew serious as he responded, “It’s not just about having fun anymore, y/n. It’s becoming a problem. Both your parents were alcoholics, and that makes it more likely for you to become one too.” He didn’t intend to bring back ugly memories, he just wanted Y/n back. His Y/n.

“Oh, so now you think ‘m like the asshole of a father I had? ‘s that what you’re saying?” But alas, luck was never really on his side, was it? Kaz hurried to explain, “No, y/n, that’s not what I meant. I’m just worried-“ But y/n was too defensive to listen. Her voice rose, and she interrupted him, “Just leave me alone, Kaz!”

Frustration built up within Kaz as he struggled to make his point. “I’m trying to help you, y/n! Can’t you see that?“

“I don’t need your help!

Their voices grew louder as the argument intensified. Hurtful words were exchanged, both knowing deep down that they didn’t mean them. In the heat of the moment, y/n’s drunken state led to a physical outburst - a push against Kaz. Stunned by the shove, Kaz felt a mix of anger and disappointment. He looked y/n in the eyes, his voice laced with bitterness. “Maybe you’re more like your father than you think.”

With those words hanging in the air, Kaz turned and walked out of y/n’s room, slamming the door behind him. The silence that followed was heavy with regret and realization.

Y/n, now alone, gradually started to comprehend the gravity of her actions. She felt a rush of memories flooding back - memories of her father’s destructive behavior and the pain it caused. The weight of her actions settled in, “Saints!”

Seeking clarity, y/n decided to take a cold shower, hoping it would sober her up both physically and mentally. As the cold water washed away the haze, she reflected on the hurtful things she had said and done. A couple of hours later, feeling completely sober, y/n mustered the courage to approach Kaz’s door.

Kaz opened the door, his face still wearing a frown, unsure of what to expect. Y/n took a deep breath and asked, “Can I come in?”

Hesitant, Kaz nodded and let y/n into his room. The atmosphere was tense, but y/n was determined to make amends. With a shaky voice, she spoke, “I’m completely sober now, Kaz.”

Kaz’s expression softened, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. He nodded and replied, “Good.” Feeling the weight of her actions, y/n continued, “I never intended for it to go that far, Kaz” her voice filled with remorse. Kaz sighed and took a seat on his bed, ready to lend a listening ear. He understood that y/n needed to talk, to find a way to make sense of the chaos that had unfolded.

With a deep breath, y/n continued, “I don’t even know when it started or how it got to this point. The need for a drink just became so overwhelming, and I couldn’t seem to stop myself.”

Kaz listened attentively, his eyes fixed on y/n, offering support without judgment. They spent hours talking, unraveling the underlying reasons for y/n’s struggle with alcohol and exploring the pain and insecurities that fueled it.

As y/n poured out her heart, Kaz remained by her side, offering guidance and understanding. He didn’t have all the answers, but he knew the importance of being there for y/n during this difficult time. He could see the genuine remorse and determination in her eyes.

With a sense of gratitude, y/n said, “Thanks for always being there, Kaz.” Kaz’s gaze softened, and he replied sincerely, “I will always protect you, y/n.” He reached a shaky hand out to her, “Even if it is from yourself.”

THIRD TIME:

The crows and their stupid heists. Y/N and Kaz sat together in Kaz's office, surrounded by the other members of the crows. The air was filled with anticipation as they discussed their latest heist to steal a valuable pocket watch, rumored to be worth a fortune in Kruge. The details of how Kaz had stumbled upon this job remained a mystery to the crows, except for Y/N, who knew it came from a whisper Kaz had overheard in the bustling streets of Ketterdam.

The heist was no easy task, but it also didn't compare to the complexity of their other endeavors- like breaking Matthias out of the notorious Ice Court. This realization brought a sense of confidence to the group, as they knew they had faced greater challenges and emerged victorious. As the planning session drew to a close, the crows dispersed, leaving Y/N alone with Kaz.

Y/N took a seat opposite Kaz, her expression filled with concern. Kaz, ever the enigma, raised an eyebrow and prompted her to share what troubled her. With a deep breath, Y/N spoke up, voicing her worry about the people of Ketterdam and their reliability. She confessed her doubts about trusting anyone in this city, especially considering the clandestine nature of the whisper that led them to the heist.

Kaz couldn't help but let out an amused laugh, breaking the tension in the room. He understood Y/N's concerns all too well. After all, his experiences had taught him that trust was a rare and precious commodity in Ketterdam. But he also recognized the inherent irony in the situation—that the whisper, despite its uncertain source, had provided them with a valuable opportunity.

"You're right, Y/N," Kaz replied, a hint of amusement lacing his words. "People in Ketterdam are not worth trusting, or at least not easily. But this whisper most likely came from some drunk idiot who couldn't keep his mouth shut. We'll tread carefully, as always."

Y/N nodded, a sense of relief washing over her. She trusted Kaz. She always has. Knowing that his keen intuition and meticulous planning would guide them through the heist. “Are you sure you are ok with taking the pocket watch with you for a couple days until I figure out what to do with it?” With renewed assurance she nodded and they set their sights on the task at hand.

As the day turned into night, the crows meticulously executed their plan. Each member played their part flawlessly, their individual skills and unique abilities synergizing to overcome the obstacles in their path. Their heist was a masterclass in cunning and precision, culminating in the successful acquisition of the pocket watch. Little did they know, however, that their triumph held a secret yet to be discovered.

Unbeknownst to Kaz and Y/N, the whisper did not come from just any drunk idiot, it came from y/n’s father and the pocket watch they proudly took, concealed a hidden tracker. It had been planted there by Y/N's own father—a revelation that would soon shake their world.

After the celebration ended, Y/N bid her comrades farewell and made her way back to her apartment, yearning for a well-deserved rest. Fatigue hung heavily upon her, demanding solace in the form of warmth and comfort. She set about preparing herself a cup of tea, the steam from the kettle rising lazily in the air. While waiting she decided that she had enough time for a much needed quick shower.

Unbeknownst to Y/N, her father, driven by a sinister agenda, had stealthily infiltrated her sanctuary. Hidden in the shadows, he seized the opportunity presented by the teapot, meticulously applying a deadly poison to the water within. Satisfied with his clandestine act, he retreated to a darkened corner, waiting for his daughter to return.

Blissfully unaware of the peril lurking within her own abode, Y/N continued her routine, seeking solace in the embrace of a soothing shower. The cascading water served as a respite, washing away the weariness of the day. Refreshed and unaware of the impending danger, Y/N emerged from the bathroom and made her way to the small kitchen, intending to savor the warmth of her tea.

With unquestioning trust, Y/N raised the cup to her lips and drained its contents in a single gulp. A moment later, a chilling voice pierced the silence, causing her to startle. "You know, you ruined my life," the intruder uttered, the words dripping with venom. Y/N's heart pounded in her chest as she realized she was not alone.

Reacting swiftly, a mixture of fear and determination coursed through her veins. She instinctively reached for a kitchen knife, her trembling hand clutching the handle tightly. Slowly and cautiously, she advanced toward the shadowy figure, her senses heightened.

As the figure laughed, the sinister sound echoing in the confined space, they taunted Y/N with words that struck like daggers. "Kill me if you'd like. It won't make a difference, by the end of the night, we both will be dead, dear daughter," they proclaimed, their voice seeping with a sinister resolve.

Y/N's mind raced, grappling with a flood of emotions. Fear mingled with confusion, but beneath it all, a fierce determination flickered. With every step, she steeled herself, ready to confront the threat that now loomed before her. The room became a battlefield, a clash of wills between a daughter seeking to protect herself and the malevolent force that sought to extinguish her existence.

As Y/N launched herself forward, driven by a potent mix of rage and self-preservation, her hand gripped the kitchen knife with a determination that bordered on desperation. With a swift and deliberate motion, she aimed for her father's abdomen, piercing his flesh and eliciting a pained gasp. Yet, even in his moment of agony, he mustered a twisted laugh, taunting her with the knowledge that her own life was destined to be cut short because of him.

The realization of her impending fate weighed heavily upon Y/N as she watched her father's life slip away. With each fading breath, he served as a macabre reminder of the torment he had inflicted upon her. But despite the finality of his demise, Y/N's heart remained heavy, burdened by the understanding that her own days were now numbered.

Her eyes fell upon her father's lifeless form, his body growing cold as the minutes ticked away. In a hurried gesture, Y/N searched his pockets, her hands moving with urgency. Her search led her to an empty glass, bearing the traces of the poison that had claimed so many lives before. She knew its deadly effects all too well, having witnessed its aftermath firsthand. There was no salvation for her now, only a slim chance of surviving until morning.

Driven by a sense of urgency, Y/N hurriedly descended to the dimly lit streets of Ketterdam. Amid the shadows, she spotted Rotty, a trusted member of the crew. With a sense of urgency, she thrust a note into his hands, her voice filled with a mix of desperation and determination as she implored him to deliver it to Kaz.

"Rotty," she called out, her voice laced with urgency. "Take this note. Deliver it to Kaz. Please hurry."

Rotty, recognizing the gravity of the situation, nodded solemnly, his loyalty unwavering. Without wasting another moment, he set off on his assigned task, the note clutched tightly in his grasp. Y/N watched his retreating figure, her heart pounding with anticipation and a glimmer of hope, praying that Kaz would receive her message in time.

In the midst of uncertainty, with the poison coursing through her veins, Y/N was acutely aware that the sands of time were slipping away, but she knew what she needed to do.

Rotty’s hurried footsteps echoed through the halls of Kaz’s office as he approached the door. He knocked, alerting Kaz to his presence, and without waiting for an invitation, he entered, his expression grave. Kaz’s sharp gaze locked onto Rotty, ready to inquire about the urgency that fueled his arrival. However, before a single word could leave Kaz’s lips, Rotty handed him the note and swiftly departed, leaving Kaz alone with the cryptic message.

Kaz’s eyes widened as he unfolded the note, revealing a simple white paper with a solitary lollipop drawn on it. To an outsider, this might have seemed perplexing, but to Kaz Brekker, it held a hidden significance. A sense of urgency surged through him as he recognized the unspoken message encoded within.

Kaz’s heart pounded in his chest as he raced to Y/N’s apartment, his mind racing with a million possibilities. The gravity of the situation only grew stronger with every step he took. When he finally arrived, he wasted no time and barged into the apartment, his senses on high alert.

The sight that greeted him was chilling—a man sprawled on the floor, surrounded by a pool of his own blood. Kaz’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the scene, the implications of what had transpired sinking in. Before he could utter a single word, Y/N emerged from her room, her face pale with a mixture of relief and anguish.

“My father,” Y/N whispered, her voice laced with a complex blend of emotions.

Kaz approached Y/N cautiously, his gaze locked onto her. He could see the fear and exhaustion etched across her features, the toll of the night’s events visible in her eyes. Her face drained of the color it usually had, hands and body slightly trembling. “What happened.”

Kaz listened intently as Y/N recounted the events, her voice filled with a mix of exhaustion and raw emotion. He could sense the weight of her words, the pain that laced every syllable. As she spoke, he noticed the omission—the crucial pieces of information she chose not to share.

“Y/N,” Kaz began gently, his voice laced with concern, “How did he find you.” Y/N hesitated for a moment, she knew. Of course she knew the stupid watch had a tracker, she knew the whisper wasn’t just any drunk asshole, but she couldn’t tell him. “I don’t know Kaz. Maybe I wasn’t careful enough.”

Y/n’s hand extended towards Kaz, holding out the bottle she had found in her father’s jacket. Kaz took the empty bottle from Y/N’s trembling hand, his gloved finger slowly swiping over it. Realization hit him and he knew, he knew he was about to loose his best friend. “I can’t die like this, Kaz. Not because of him.” Kaz’s face pales as he comprehends the gravity of the situation. He knows all too well that this poison means certain death, and he knew what y/n was asking, but the mere thought of being the one to take her life was unbearable.

“I can’t,” Kaz says, his voice filled with desperation. “I can’t do that y/n. Please.” Please. He was begging his brain to think of something else. To find a solution that wouldn’t take her away, not now, not ever.

She understands the pain it causes him, but she needs him, needs his strength and protection more than ever. With a flicker of determination in her eyes, she implores, “Please, Kaz, protect me one last time.”

Her words strike deep into Kaz’s heart, shattering it into pieces. He made a vow years ago to safeguard Y/N, and he never intended to break it, not now, not ever. With a shaky hand, she hands Kaz a dagger, its blade sharp enough to tear through her heart.

Kaz’s mind races, desperately seeking a way to keep her safe, to find an alternative. But the reality of the situation crashes down on him as y/n crumples to her knees, clutching her chest tightly. In that moment, he understands that there are no potions, no saint, no saving her from this fate.

Gently, Kaz sits on the cold floor of the apartment and scoots closer to y/n, carefully cradling her against his chest. He knows she doesn’t want to die at the hands of the man who tormented her for years.

With a heavy heart, he takes the dagger, holding it as delicately as he can, his hands trembling as he positions it on top of her heart. He wishes there was another way, a way to spare her this pain, but in this moment, protecting her means granting her final wish.

“I will always protect you, y/n.” And with a final kiss to her sweaty forehead, the dagger went right through her heart, forever stopping it.

#fanfiction #kaz brekker x reader #six of crows #six of crows x reader #fluff #angst #kaz brekker

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inbarfink · 1 year ago

Text

Among the various readings and interpretations of What the Hell is Up With the Ending to the DHMIS Web Show - one of the more interesting ones (from my perspective, at leas) has always been that it’s all a metaphor for repeating patterns of trauma and/or abuse.

As in, most of the narrative of the DHMIS Webshow has been some sort of surrealist metaphor for Roy being an overcontrolling and manipulative parental figure for his son and his friends

And then the ending shows them finally escaping his influence -

Only that without a frame of reference for just how screwed-up their upbringing really was and without any healthy way to process their various traumas, they end up being in danger of just replicating his abuse on their own. Either on each other or maybe on the color-swapped characters who can, like, represent their own children or something.

And so the vague ending of the Webshow is an open question, yes, the trio might’ve gotten physically away from Roy’s influence - but are they free from it mentally?

Or are they doomed to snap back into their old familiar world?

And the interesting thing about this is that like… that could be what the Web Show is about on a metaphorical level. But in the TV Show, with its greater emphasis on interpersonal conflicts and the characters - the idea of our main trio unknowingly replicating the abuse they live under is not just something we can hypothetically ruminate on. It’s something we can actually see, something we can actually feel.

Like, the first thing that made me think of Yellow and Red’s interactions with Stain Edwards.

This is basically the closest the Three of Them can get to being parental figures within the confines of the Format. He starts out as such a sweet and curious child-like being, his title for himself is literally ‘the Forever Boy’. And, well…

Red and Yellow are just so uncomfortable with his curiosity and thirst for adventure that they basically immediately try and stomp it right out. And that’s like a whole big thing about DHMIS, isn’t it? The way that children’s edutainment and the education system actually curbs children's curiosity and desire for learning so they can better memorize easily-digestible simplified concepts and Respect Their Authority Figures.

You know, it’s the whole thing with…

And that’s kinda how Red acts with Stain? He’s a lot less violent and more subdued about it - but he also discourages the little guy from asking questions and wanting to explore the world.

And he is trying to push him into fitting more into the Format. And, like, managing his life like the Trio’s own life is managed by the Format. First more generally into what being part of the DHMIS main trio is supposed to mean (‘just sit here and something will happen’) and then eventually literally turning him into something he didn’t want to be.

And from our more familiar perspective, it’s clear that Red Guy really just genuinely thinks at this point that sitting passively and Waiting to Be Taught At is how things are Supposed to Be and can’t really imagine things going any other way. He is honestly just trying to get Stain to understand how their life is supposed to work. (Well until it starts becoming about making a new Duck)

And it’s also clear to us how much Red Guy is motivated by just unaddressed grief about Duck and wanting to avoid conflict with Yellow Guy, who's a lot more explictly lashing out at Stain in his grief

"What's the matter with him?" "Nothing. Just don't look at him." "What? Where can I look? I can't look at him, can't look over there..." "No, if, if you want to look at stuff, just tell me and I-I'll make a list. Of where you should or should not look..." "Seems like a weird system..." "Yeah, well, you seem like a weird little...thing with...and you don't even... the other guy at least had his own clothes"

But looking at it from Stain’s perspective, taking aside our understanding of Red’s character and motivation. This is just an authority figure giving him a nonsense set of rules and then lashing out at him when he questions it. Never giving a deeper explanation than ‘this is how it’s supposed to be’ and basically punishing his curiosity.

Kinda like, well, how the Teachers tend to interact with the trio.

And then there’s Yellow Guy who’s just totally lashing out at Stain through the whole thing, because, again, he can’t process the grief of losing Duck. Because his environment did not give him the tools to properly process that trauma and he has no healthy frame of reference to grief and that’s kinda...

Yeah, that’s just what I was talking about. Stain’s subplot in ‘Death’ is just Yellow and Red having not interrogated their abusive environment and not really dealing with their trauma and thus repeating the patterns of the Teachers on their new child-like figure.

Which then culminates with either Duck killing Stain in the name of preserving the status-quo of the format (“there’s only supposed to be three of us”) or with Stain having internalized so much of what Yellow and Red (but mainly Red) taught him about what he’s supposed to be that he was willing to kill in the name of the Format - and then slotted in perfectly in the unadventurous, unquestioning role of Duck.

And this lil narrative is especially interesting if you believe any variance of the David Theory. Because Yellow and Red were mainly motivated in their mistreatment of Stain by their Grief about a ‘dead’ family member. Which could mirror Lesley's trapping and mistreatment of the trio and her own motivations.

But I think this idea of mirroring and repeating patterns of abuse are reflected in more than just this one episode. It’s also reflected in the way Red and Duck tend to mistreat Yellow.

Because while Yellow doesn’t slot as neatly into the Child position like Stain did- his simplistic naïveté does mean he often plays a Child-like role in our favorite Forced Family dynamic. And the way that Duck and Red can often condescend to him can… very well mirror the condescending way the teachers address all three of them.

Especially when you also consider the similar manner both the Teachers and Red + Duck react to Yellow being fully charged in ‘Electricity’. They are all so nervous about Yellow breaking away from his supposed ‘role’ as the Stupid One.

And they especially all seem so very insecure about the idea that Yellow might be smarter than they are.

And that’s, you know, also an aspect of children’s education that tends to actually harm children and their curiosity. This desire for ‘respect’ towards authority figures and this egotistical need for teachers and parents to always be smarter than their kids - causing them to subtly or bluntly punish children for just being clever or inquisitive.

It’s, you know “I’m the adult, you are the child. I am supposed to be the Smart and Knowledgeable one and you are the one who must be taught. And you need to play your role!”

Again, that seems to be the whole thing in ‘Time’.

Here it’s a lot more subtle and less openly hostile, but Yellow can tell that just like that Insurance Teacher, Red and Duck’s egos have also been hurt by the fact that they might not be smarter than Yellow Guy anymore. And he considers going back to the role he’s ‘supposed to be’, even though being fully-charged seems to feel better for him (‘this doesn’t feel wrong’), just for them.

That’s almost literally a child giving up on a pursuit of knowledge just to placate his parental figures.

And then, you know, his refusal to do so and his assertion of his own ability to make decisions for himself (his own maturity, "they're not in charge of us anymore" "Maybe they never were") is directly what leads to him ascending and disassembling not just the trio’s dynamic but the very structure of the Format.

And I think, it’s not just that Red and Duck’s treatment of Yellow mirrors the way the teachers treat the Three of Them - it might be a result of it as well. With how condescending the teachers are towards them in general, bullying Yellow is their way to assert some sort of maturity and intelligence for themselves. It's super-fucked up, but this is how they internalized expressing what ‘intelligence’ is supposed to look like. And they have no frame of reference for a way of feeling smart or in control that doesn’t involve shutting someone else down. Because that's what literally every authority figure does for them all the time.

Now, do I think that means that our trio is doomed to mirror those patterns? That they will always inevitability repeat the horrors they go through on each other and others? Well, just like with every ‘cycle of abuse’, it can always be broken. But it will take some actual understanding and self-awareness and personal healing from the trio.

And without this, they’re not just trapped within the Horrors physically, but also spiritually as well. Without it, no matter if they do manage to run away, on some level, their journey will always end up back at home....

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antimony-medusa · 1 year ago

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"There's just something about that guy that means I don't trust him"

Okay so, Phil has got the wrong read of Sunny. I'm gonna start off with that. He thinks they're a confident unconcerned material girl who is comfortable in the fact that their dad loves them, and potentially he thinks that they're a bit older than they are? Whereas people who have been able to see her one-on-one with Tubbo know that she's quite a bit more shy and insecure and young than she puts on! He's been taken in by the facade they're putting on, and I think that's part of why he is making jokes and comments that don't hit well. To understate how yesterday went. I think he botched the interaction with Sunny in the musuem and I hope someone tells him that, so he can apologize and fix that. And to be clear, as a phil viewer, this does interesting character work with Sunny as a sensitive child and I'm in favour of Sunnymin pursuing this line of lore. I'm staring with my little cube guy watching googles looking for the result when Phil realizes he scared a child, with great interest.

Because when you look at the musum one in context, my read is that was phil pivoting badly from an out of lore discussion into "oh hey I can explain something to sunny, who is confident and centred and knows her dad adores her" and then jokingly tried to explain the tallulah experience, and then we know from Sunny signs later that that went over like a ton of bricks. Mistake. However, when we're discussing it, I think it's fair to not have that understanding of the lore though, and to take a more pointed, villainous read of the lore! Go for it with discussing phil as cold and brusque to people who aren't his family, discuss Sunny feeling all alone in the musuem, fill your boots.

But guys, when you're discussing this as meta, I am seeing a lot of tags that are really really eager to paint Phil entirely and unequivocally as a villain and specifically cruel to children and cruel within the family, and there's an element to that that concerns me.

Phil, the cc, the guy, acts working class. He has an accent from a particular part of england that is traditionally working class, but he also has storytelling cadences and humour styles and attitudes towards challenges that are very familiar if you are from a working class or lower income community. I'm from an entirely different continuent, but the area I'm from is the sort of area that people make jokes about, and the whole way Phil acts as a CC is very familiar to me. (Note: even when he's talking about travel or stuff, he still has the "worked retail for a decade" mentality and pays attention to the staff and stuff and what they're doing, check out the brazil storytelling vod.)

And Phil's cubito, when he's not deliberately making a character like osmp crowfather, tends to have the mannerisms of someone who is working class. Even if you're not from a lower income area, I think most people can clock this, subconciously if nothing else. He swears a lot! He banters and roasts his friends and family but would absolutely do anything for them. He's informal in a very specific way.

Which is why when people pivot immediately into "why is he threatening and bullying children again" and "his wicked is showing", and "oh he's a evil stepfather/cruel stepmother" and "can we kill the child abusers now" I go Oh No.

Working class mannerisms are already stereotyped as especially prone to domestic abuse, among other ills. If you are going "oh something about him just always seemed like he would be cruel to children" maybe— push back on that one?

In the same way that during the election I was going "that may not be the play" about americans who didn't know what it was but something about Forever was just so angry and agressive (and they were talking from a perspective that viewed forever as a person of colour, regardless of how he's perceived at home), you might be talking from a perspective that encourages you to interpret Phil's behaviour with children as especially suspect. Potentially. Consider it.

And again, Phil biffed it in the musuem. That was a misstep that had me (autistic) going "oh no I see how you got there but you can all but see the sims negative relationship marker thing pop up". But I'd ask you at least to consider that it wasn't intentional cruelty, and that people can make social missteps before you jump immediately to interpreting their actions in the worst light possible.

#discourse #fandom meta #qsmp #philza #qphilza

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eileennatural · 1 month ago

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i am once again thinking about killua and nanika

like I can't stop thinking about how much they are the same. Like nanika really kind of mirrors killua's emotional/personal arc throughout the series. thinking about the traits they share like...

pre-canon, both killua and nanika are tools. people (their family) are cruel to them, and they are made to enact cruelty onto others. the only difference is that killua can be controlled while nanika can't be. killua 'earns' his 'freedom' by virtue of him being much easier to manage/manipulate. nanika, on the other hand, cannot be managed so she and alluka are shut away permanently.

killua and nanika are largely beholden to the will of others -- for killua, its through illumi's needle as well as years of isolation, conditioning, and abuse by his family, and for nanika its in her nature.

but when they find someone who treats them like kids, or friends rather than monsters or a means to an end, when they're not being made to hurt others, killua and nanika both give freely and ask for very little in return.

killua, over and over, makes gon's 'wishes' come true, even if its at cost to himself. gon, kurapika, and leorio all pass the hunter exam because killua breaks a rule, ensuring the victory of everyone else there. he takes gon to heavens arena so he can train to beat hisoka, he agrees to help kurapika fight the phantom troupe because gon wants to help kurapika, he helps gon win greed island, and he gives everything to help gon beat the chimera ants. and all killua asks in return is that he be allowed to stay by gon's side. gon very rarely verbally asks or demands anything of killua (which some people portray as a sign of his selfishness, or that he takes for granted that killua will do whatever he wants, but i digress) but killua gives regardless because what gon has given to killua means so much to him --freedom, his friendship, his company, his trust, and his open and verbal affection.

nanika, in turn, fulfills all of killua's wishes and asks only for his love in return -- that he hug her, pat her head, and tell her she's good. She never makes cruel demands after killua's wishes because he never makes self-interested wishes, he never makes her hurt anyone for him. even as a child, he treated nanika like just another little sister, asking her to play with him and to fulfill the kinds of wishes she likes to do, such as healing people/animals.

killua (for most of the series) and nanika don't really have concrete goals or objectives of their own beyond securing love and affection by being useful to their favorite person (codependency twins !)

of course, killua and nanika are both eventually betrayed and incredibly hurt by their person, because that's just how codependent relationships play out, especially among people as young and emotionally immature and traumatized as gon, killua, and nanika are.

all of this culminates in maybe my favorite scene of the series, where killua realizes that he's hurt nanika in a similar way that gon have very recently hurt him, and also that by shutting nanika away, he's really just repeating their parents' abuse of her. so he doesn't just apologize, but he demonstrates that he knows why what he did is wrong, and why he did it, and promises never to do it again.

i only wish we cold have seen gon's apology :/

#post inspired by me thinking about alluka actually. and how assertive/protective she is about nanika and killua #specifically the scenes 1. where she stands up to killua on nanika's behalf and 2. where she puts herself between #killua and tsubone and defends him. basically i love her and this character trait i think it really speaks to her personal strength that #being locked up and shut away for so long she still has the ability to do this. but also last night i read a fic where alluka holds a grudg #against gon on killuas behalf bc she thinks that both he and nanika are far too giving/forgiving. and i've been thinking about that #also the fact that i see people refer to nanika as basically codependency personified. which no offense but killua kind of is too.#anyways. this post is way too long thats what happens when i post from my laptop rather than mobile #hxh #killua zoldyck #hxh nanika

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rambleonwaywardson · 5 months ago

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Clegan Olympics AU - "Find Your Line"

Chronologically, this part comes before "The Paris Date." Catch up via this Masterpost if you're new here

AU Summary: Paris 2024 Olympics. Gale is on the U.S. equestrian eventing team, Bucky is a U.S. gymnast, they meet on the plane to Paris, and a love story ensues.

Author's Note: A deep dive into Gale's past. I totally didn't almost make myself cry writing this nope nope nope. Went from having no idea what I was doing with this installment to having it get away from me a bit.

TW for some mentions of abuse in Gale's past.

---

US Equestrian has launched several initiatives going into the Paris Olympics to increase interest in the sport, especially in younger generations. So when Gale, Benny, and Marge were all selected to the eventing and jumping teams, of course they capitalized on having young, attractive, charismatic riders representing USET. Gale has slowly gotten used to the attention he’s garnered in the horse world, but it came as a shock when he found himself being shoved into major newspaper interviews and morning shows ahead of the Games.

He never really wanted any of that. He didn’t grow up with daydreams of grandeur. Really, he grew up unsure he was ever going to make it anywhere at all. His only daydreams were about finding something better, whatever that may be. He didn’t ask to be thrust into the public eye or fawned over by young fans. He won’t complain too much, because he loves what he does and he's grateful every day for where he’s found himself.

But if you ask him, he’d rather skip the morning interviews in favor of getting an early start at the barn. That’s when he likes it the most, when it’s quiet. No one but the earliest grooms rustling about, checking on the horses and prepping morning feed. Nothing but the birds in the rafters and a breeze coming through the doors, the new morning sun stretching lazily down the aisle way.

The stables in the morning have always been Gale’s safe place. Ever since he was a child, it was his escape. It didn’t matter what happened within the walls of their little Wyoming farmhouse. In the morning, he could slip away into the old barn standing vigil behind their home, and he could hide among the horses, the angels watching over him. He’d talk to them like friends, run his hand down their soft noses and feel their hot breath puffing against his skin.

He took solace in methodically checking each of them over every day. He could breathe in the sweet scent of hay and horse without feeling the need to look over his shoulder. He’d wrap his arms around their necks and bury his face in their manes. Their ears would twitch back and forth, and they’d playfully nuzzle his hands while he spilled all of his secrets and fears. They let him hug them as tight as he needed to, and they happily absorbed every tear, every muffled sob. They were his protectors, and his greatest confidants.

When he was older, the horses granted him access to the wilderness beyond their homestead, sometimes even beyond the extensive reaches of their entire ranch. He’d pack a saddle bag and choose one of them to saddle up, sometimes the moment the sun rose, and he’d spend hours out in the countryside. He would disappear from the rest of his life, letting his horse carry the weight of the tiny, fragile world bearing down on his shoulders. He’d ride until he ran out of places to go, until he couldn’t feel anything but the beautiful universe breathing life back into his tired soul.

Even now, as an international eventer, he has days where the training isn’t speaking to him the same way. Days when he’ll revisit his childhood in the mountains, saddle up one of his horses and take them out on the trails instead of riding in the arena. Days when no one knows where Gale Cleven went, because he expressly does not want to be found. He still has days where he’d like nothing more than to gallop bareback through a field, a cowboy hat shielding his face from the hot sun. Nothing but him and his horse and the Earth beneath their feet, a breath of fresh air that reminds him of why he’s here.

Horses have always been his safety, no matter the discipline or the breed or where on this Earth he lives. The barn has always welcomed him into its arms, sheltering him when there was nowhere else.

But growing up, it always had to start in the morning.

Gale learned that the hard way, as he learned so many things growing up under his father’s heavy hand. He’ll never forget the day his dad stormed into the barn before sunrise, looking for his ‘disobedient son.’ Gale, half asleep, cowered in the corner of one of the stalls, hay stuck in his unruly hair and clinging to his pajamas. The previous evening had been bad, after Dad came home drunk, looking for a fight. The bruises bloomed quickly on Gale’s arms and chest, and he went to the only safe place he knew. He was eight years old.

But his dad found him in that stall, hiding behind his favorite little quarter horse mare, and he dragged Gale out by the neck. Angry at his son for wasting a perfectly good bed, choosing instead to sleep in a barn just to avoid him, he decided the bruises he’d administered eight hours before were no longer enough. “Ungrateful little shit,” he’d snarled as he shoved Gale to the ground. Gale remembers the silent tears on his own face and how they felt sticky as they mixed with the dirt on his cheeks; he’d learned not to cry out loud. He remembers the horses kicking at the walls and shrieking in the night, unable to protect him.

Gale’s father had always been at his most sane around the farm animals, almost a man that his son could look up to. Almost. But that night, not even the barn could keep the little boy safe. He never went out there at night again.

The only thing Gale is grateful to have inherited from his father is a love of horses. Ironically, his dad was the one to plop him in a saddle and teach him how to hold the reins in the first place. He taught him how to take care of these beautiful animals, even if he had no idea how to take care of a son. He taught Gale how to communicate with them, how to appreciate them and respect them. He taught him how to ride, how to rope, how to get back up no matter how many times he fell. They’d work the ranch together, side by side on the good days. Up at dawn and home at dusk, their legs sore by the end of the day from too much time in the saddle, arms tired from fixing fence or roping cattle, faces bronzed from the sun. His dad never even minded when Gale took a horse and disappeared into the wilderness, because “sometimes a man just needs to be alone in the mountains.” That was the language he spoke. The only language he spoke.

Gale’s dad unwittingly gave him his only ticket out, and it was the only thing they ever shared. It was the only time Gale ever felt close to him. Until his mom introduced him to English riding when he was 13 years old, dressage and jumping both. He fell in love with it immediately. Maybe it was the challenge, the beauty, the grace. Maybe he knew his father wouldn’t like it. Maybe he just wanted to be close to his mama.

“Find your line,” she would tell him, almost every time she watched him ride. Choosing the right line for a jump is critical, both in cross country and show jumping. If you come at an obstacle or combination wrong, it can set you up wrong for the next. He was never sure, though, if she was talking about the jumps, or about life.

His dad never supported his interest in dressage. Or eventing. Or English riding in general. He thought it was soft, prissy, feminine. He never seemed to mind Gale’s mom doing it. At least, he never said anything about it. But he said he raised his boy to be tougher than that. He taught him to rope cattle and ride in the mountains of the west, like a man (all things he continued to do until he left for college, mind you). He raised him to take over the ranch, like there was no other reason to bring a son into this world. He taught him how to rough it in the country. Not to prance around a ring in a cushy saddle and show coat with braids in his horse’s mane.

His father was ignorant. Gale knows that, now. But he long ago internalized the anger and the fear. He long ago came to terms with being a disappointment of a son. Too quiet, too shy, too smart, too stubborn. Too skinny, too sensitive, too pretty, too needy. Too much of a mama’s boy. Too little like his dad. Too ungrateful. Too opinionated. Too sassy. Too queer.

His dad always suspected Gale was gay, and he tried to beat that out of him. He tried to beat it all out of him.

Gale did it all, anyways.

The beatings got worse the older he got, the more Gale’s father realized that his son would never be the man he wanted him to be. By the time he was eighteen, there was no use hiding it. His dad asked him over dinner one night, right after he graduated from high school, why he didn’t ask Marge to marry him already. That’s what everyone expected him to do, even though he and Marge had called it off nearly six months before, when Marge realized she wasn’t what Gale wanted. He tried to tell his dad that they were just friends now, but his dad just pushed and pushed and pushed.

“She’s a lovely young lady… a shame to let her go… get your head on straight, boy… why the hell not?”

The rage boiled over. Maybe it was years of trying to keep his head down, trying not to talk back, trying to save himself even though it never even mattered. Or maybe it was because Gale knew he was leaving soon anyways. Might as well get it all out there. Might as well give it one last go. Why the hell not. He slammed his fork down, rattling the whole table. His mama knew what he was gonna say before he even opened his mouth, and she shook her head. He didn’t listen. “Because I don’t like girls!” he yelled. “I’m fuckin’ gay, dad! Okay! I’m gay. I’ve always been gay.”

That night was the only time his dad ever managed to put him in the hospital. Three broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a fractured wrist.

It broke his mama’s heart, but Gale spent the rest of the summer with Marge’s family, his best friend’s family, letting himself heal. And in the fall, the two of them got the hell out of Wyoming, headed for college on the east coast. He never said goodbye to his father.

For the first time, Gale thought he knew what Mama meant when she told him to find his line. He felt free in a way he’d only ever experienced alone in the mountains. Free to find his own path, his own life, his own self. He stumbled here and there, but he found his own stride. He worked his way through school on horse farms, rode for the university eventing team, and caught the attention of some well-known local trainers. With an unbreakable country-boy spirit and the delicate grace and patience of a well-trained dressage rider, he could do just about anything. Take on any horse they threw at him. Find the kindness in even the wildest prospects. He became known for his ability to connect with the horses, and for his natural talent in the saddle. People noticed. Neil Harding noticed, took him in, gave him a chance to thrive for the first time in his life. And Gale made damn sure he gave it his all.

Now here he is, standing in front of his horse’s stall in Paris. He wonders, if his dad were still around, if any part of him would be proud. He wonders if he’d finally understand. Gale thinks not.

“Hey there, baby girl.”

He walks into Whiskey’s stall, and she lifts her head in greeting, dropping grain all over the front of his shirt. Another day, another stain. He laughs and strokes the side of her face as she turns her attention back to her feed bucket. Gale used to get angry at himself for allowing thoughts of his father to intrude on this safe space he’d carved for himself in the world. But he’s older now. He’ll never forgive what his dad did to him; he’ll never forgive him for any of it. Not for a single blow or a single word. But it’s still a part of the story that landed him right here, and he wouldn’t trade this for anything.

Sometimes he still imagines his father’s voice, telling him how to pick a hoof or check for lameness or read a horse by the way they twitch their ears and angle their head. “She’ll tell you everything you need to know, if you know how to listen.”

Sometimes he feels those broad, callused hands guiding his own to feel for swelling or heat in an injured leg. And sometimes he feels those hands grabbing him roughly by the neck or pounding bruises into his ribs. Sometimes he hears that voice telling him what a disappointment he is, growling at him to stop bein’ so stubborn, stop bein’ such a goddamn fag, stop cryin’, stop talkin’, don’t you dare give me that attitude.

Gale smiles wryly at Whiskey as he smooths his hand along her back, listening to the swish of her tail and the sounds of her munching her grain. His perfect, dedicated, sassy young mare, who Harding had given him the chance to train so many years ago. “Such disappointments,” he says sarcastically. There’s a giant Olympic ribbon on the outside of Whiskey’s stall door that says otherwise.

Gale takes his time running his hands along Whiskey’s legs, feeling for anything abnormal. Kenny will do all of this over again when Gale leaves to walk the jump course. But personally ensuring his horse’s well-being is a habit from his childhood that he’ll never let go of.

He steps back, taking everything in. He’s at the Olympics, competing for the United States on a beautiful mare that he trained from the ground up. He’s the new face of the US Equestrian Team, and he’s damn proud of himself. He’s found himself a new family. He’s found himself a better life. Hell, he’s even found himself… John. Whatever John is to him.

He looks at Whiskey, then up at the rafters above. Sunshine is streaming in, and the air smells like hay, just like the little barn he grew up spending his days in. All these years, and tucked away in his horse’s stall is still the greatest sanctuary he’s ever found for himself. He smiles at the same time he feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes. For once, instead of his father’s voice, he hears his mama’s: “Find your line, Gale. You can be incredible. You already are.”

–

“You’re incredible!” That’s what Bucky will exclaim when he finds Gale after his ride that afternoon, dragging him into a tight hug. The words will hit like a ton of bricks, and Gale will have to keep himself from crying tears of joy and relief, and also of grief for the little boy he’d been, who overcame so much to get here. Bucky will never know what those words mean to him, unless Gale one day chooses to tell him.

Before that, though, they have a medal to win. Gale is the rising star of US Equestrian, but seeing as he’s only in his twenties, not everyone believes he can do this. Gale Cleven and Hundred Proof are going to prove them wrong.

They’re going to prove his father wrong.

The stands are packed, and a sea of red, white, and blue gets to their feet and cheers as they enter the arena. It’s filled with colorful jumps, all themed after France’s culture and history. A small Eiffel Tower at the side of an oxer here, a vertical made to look like the Arc de Triomphe there, countless jump poles painted in the colors of the French flag. The water jump is meant to look like the Grand Canal, with a miniature of Versailles at one end – somewhat ironic, since the arena is in front of Versailles itself. The jumps are arranged differently today than they were for the team event yesterday. Gale walked the course this morning, and he’s running through it in his head.

“For the United States, Gale Cleven and Hundred Proof.” When the announcer calls their names, Gale canters Whiskey in a small circle in the center of the arena. Time starts… now.

It takes them a moment to find their rhythm, but they manage the first few combinations without a hitch, Gale carefully counting their strides between each. They have a 90 degree turn coming up between one vertical and the water jump. During team finals, the mare didn’t get enough air time and splashed her back hoof into the water, earning them a penalty. Gale guides her through a wider turn today, even if it costs them a few tenths of a second, and he urges her to open up a couple of strides earlier. He feels her reach with everything she has, her hooves digging into the sandy footing before she takes off. She lands easily, just barely on the other side of the water, and they’re clear.

“Don’t turn her too tight. Let her have her head when she asks. Girl’s got scope, she’ll take care of you.” Harding’s words ring in his head. As one of the team USA coaches and the first big name to give Gale a chance, he’s been the greatest key player in getting them here today. He’s carefully guided Gale through the good and the bad, and he knows the habits and capabilities of horse and rider both.

Sure enough, there’s a hairpin turn from one jump to the next, and Gale takes it too tight. He can’t help but wince as Whiskey loses her rhythm just as they’re lining up for the next jump, having to slow down with a single trot step breaking their stride before he picks her back up. He’s worried he’s screwed them over, but Whiskey adjusts her stride length and pulls at the reins, asking for her head. He gives her the space and pushes her on, trusting her to get them through this. She does it, sailing over the vertical without so much as clipping the pole.

Find your line.

A triple combination is all that’s left, and they take it by storm. As they land on the other side, Gale covers his mouth with one hand, overcome with emotion, before raising his fist in the air. He looks at the time on the giant clock over the arena entrance. 81 seconds – three seconds under the optimum time – and no penalties. The roar of the crowd makes him feel like he’s going in slow motion, and he knows they know. He and Whiskey are going home with an individual medal.

You can be incredible. You already are.

–

There’s a pretty new ribbon hanging outside Whiskey’s stall, right next to the first. Nine years old, and she’s already a superstar. All she wants, though, are the treats in Gale’s pocket. He obliges happily.

Alone in the stall save for the horse, Bucky doesn’t bother tamping down the urge to kiss Gale silly. He pulls him close, presses their lips together, and cards his fingers through sweat-drenched hair. Gale makes a huffing noise somewhere between a laugh and a moan, and Bucky can feel him smiling against his lips. The sweetness of it makes Bucky’s heart stutter all funny, makes his whole body go weak with a feeling he increasingly thinks might be akin to love, or something like it. He’s not sure he would know.

It’s kind of funny: sometimes, over time, the words you find yourself using to describe someone pop up like clues in a treasure hunt. You don’t even notice at first, but slowly they come together, pieces of a puzzle, leading you towards one bigger picture – you love this person. You love them more than anything.

When Bucky first met Gale, he thought he was beautiful. Hot. Attractive. Handsome.

And then there was cute, angelic, adorable.

Caring, loving, dedicated, driven, smart, ambitious, strong.

Perfect.

Today, there’s “sweet.”

The more Bucky gets to know Gale, the more he wants to know. He wants to know everything. He wants to breathe Gale in and hold him close and never let go and give him everything he’s ever wanted.

After Bucky’s sister died, he spent years pushing the idea of love away, being too scared to let someone get close to him for fear of feeling pain like that again. Now, though, he feels his resolve breaking bit by bit, cracks forming every time Gale sends a barely-there smile his way, or seeks him out in a crowd, or reaches for his hand. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s ready for it, but the world doesn’t care. The world sent Gale Cleven to him like some sort of divine prophecy telling him “it’s time to let go,” and Bucky thinks maybe, just maybe, he wants to listen. He wants to relearn what it is to love someone. He wants to feel it. He wants it so bad.

But it scares him too much.

So he focuses on the now, brushing the existential crisis aside in favor of what he does know: he has a beautiful man right here in his arms. Everything else can wait. He matches Gale’s smile, their noses bumping as Bucky grips Gale’s waist. “You look so good in these, you know that?”

Gale glances down at himself. He can’t say if his cheeks are warm from the heat or from something else. He removed his coat already, leaving him, once again, in a sweat-soaked white shirt tucked neatly into white riding pants that perfectly outline his legs and ass, a black belt calling attention to his waist. “Do I?”

Bucky nods and rests his forehead against Gale’s as he tugs him even closer, if that’s possible. “So fuckin’ good, Buck.”

Yeah, Gale is definitely blushing now. Point, Bucky.

“You’d look even better without them.”

Gale laughs awkwardly, tiredly, even as he finds his hands wandering up Bucky’s sides, coming to rest on his muscular back. “There’s nothin’ sexy about tryin’ to peel off skin tight riding pants when I’m drenched in sweat.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

“Trust me, not one you wanna take on.”

“Try me.”

“I smell like shit.”

“I didn’t care before, I don’t care now.”

Gale bites his lip and shakes his head. He feels his general state of awareness fading in and out. One second, he’s all too conscious of the fact that they’re in a fancy-ass Parisian barn swarming with grooms and riders, nothing but a stall and a conveniently placed, very tall horse blocking anyone else’s view. The next, he’s filled with want and longing as Bucky nips playfully at his neck. And yet the next, the high of his Olympic win is giving way to exhaustion, fatigue falling over him in waves, his back aching. There’s a sharp pain every time he breathes too deeply. He feels like he can barely keep his eyes open, and Bucky feels so solid and warm, his strong hands perhaps the only thing keeping Gale on his feet.

When Gale barely reacts to his teasing words, Bucky pulls away to look at him and tilts his head. The newest Olympic silver medalist blinks tiredly and raises an eyebrow in question. Bucky smiles, reaching a hand up to stroke the sweaty hair back away from Gale’s face. Then he puts his hand on the back of Gale’s head once again and urges him to rest against his shoulder. Gale sighs, letting himself relax, and Bucky feels that heart-stuttering, stomach-fluttering, suspiciously love-like feeling again.

Marge told him, the other day, that Gale has never been good at letting others take care of him. Too stubborn and independent for his own good.

And yet here he is, letting his guard down. Letting Bucky take his weight. Letting Bucky take care of him.

“Let’s get back to the village,” Bucky says, and Gale nods against his shoulder.

Back in Gale’s bedroom, Bucky waits for him to shower. Gale had been right: even not sweaty, breeches seemed like a bitch to get off, and Bucky is kind of glad Gale didn’t let him help with that. He neatly folds the discarded riding clothes, even though he’s sure they’re heading straight for one of the laundry facilities in the Village. Then finding himself with nothing to do but idly scroll his phone, he can’t help but glance around the bare-bones room. It’s just like his own, plain and minimal. But he notices a book on Gale’s bedside table, the corner of a piece of paper sticking out from the middle. After a few moments, curiosity wins out and Bucky grabs the book, flipping it open.

Tucked between well-worn pages, he finds an old, faded photograph, the flimsy corners creased with white from a lifetime of being kept close. In the picture, there’s a young boy with shaggy blonde hair and a bright smile. He’s sitting on top of an unimpressed-looking pony, a blue ribbon hooked to the bridle. A beautiful woman stands beside them, her hand reaching up to press against the boy’s back. She’s laughing, her smile a mirror image of the one Bucky has seen on Gale’s face time and again, a mirror image of this little boy’s. Bucky flips over the picture. There’s four words scrawled across the back in loopy, feminine handwriting: “Find your line. -Mama.”

When he hears the shower stop running, he carefully replaces the picture and the book back on the nightstand. Moments later, Gale walks out of the bathroom, completely naked and rubbing a towel over his hair until he looks like a disheveled hedgehog. Bucky could grab him by the waist, make him drop that towel and put his hands on him instead, but he doesn’t. He just watches as Gale, wincing, leans over to grab some sweatpants from the drawers by his bed.

Bucky frowns as Gale pulls the pants up, letting them rest low on his hips in a way that would make Bucky’s mouth go dry if he weren’t concerned about something else. “Your back okay?”

Gale shrugs and goes about combing his fingers through his hair, trying halfheartedly to tame it.

“Buck.”

“Hurts a bit,” Gale mutters. He takes a deep breath in as he sits down on the edge of the bed, biting back a groan. “...More than a bit.”

Bucky’s frown deepens as he studies Gale closely, watching the way the other man scrunches his nose in discomfort and tries to arch his back forward in a noncommittal stretch. “Alright, lay down.”

Gale furrows his brow, starting to shake his head, but Bucky won’t take no for an answer. He turns and motions to the rest of the bed behind them. “You heard me. On your front.”

Skeptically, Gale does as he’s told, settling on his stomach with his cheek pressed against his pillow. He tenses when he feels Bucky straddling him, knees planted firmly on either side of his waist. Then there’s warm, strong hands on his bare skin, still dotted with drops of water, and he lets himself melt into the mattress.

“Bet these beds aren’t so great for back pain, huh?” Bucky asks as he starts carefully pressing his thumbs into the absurdly tight muscles on either side of Gale’s spine.

“Mmm.” That’s all Gale can manage as he bites his lip, trying to keep from flinching when the pressure hurts so bad and yet feels so good at the same time. He moans quietly when Bucky finds that one specific knot in his mid-back, the one that twinges every single time he takes a deep breath and gets worse when he has to do too much jumping for too many days in a row.

Bucky hones in on that spot, trying to work the tension out in the most amazingly unbearable way, making Gale gasp and clench his teeth. “Told you I’d return the favor,” Bucky says.

Gale tries to nod, but he finds he can’t. He doesn’t say anything, just focuses on the way Bucky’s hands work their way up and down his back, somehow finding every troublesome spot – which is everywhere, really. Gale sometimes jokes that his back is practically made of scar tissue after everything it’s been through, and Bucky isn’t sure he’d disagree. He thought he was tight, but he wonders how Gale even functions in this condition, much less rides horses at peak performance nearly every day. Nearly every muscle from his neck to the base of his spine is laced with tension.

“Horses make you tough,” Gale mumbles, like he can read Bucky’s mind. “Don’t usually notice the pain ‘til I’m home.”

Bucky knows a little something about that. He shifts his attention to the inward curve of Gale’s lower back, where the muscles often take the most daily strain. He works his thumbs up and down, in and out, finding nothing but knots that refuse to let go without a good fight. “Have you been this tight all week?”

Gale shrugs but doesn’t say a word. He’s struggling to keep his eyes open, so he stops trying. Bucky shakes his head. “Coulda said somethin’.” If he’d known, he would’ve done this sooner. Hell, he would’ve done it every night if that’s what Gale needed.

About a minute later, though, he notices that Gale’s breaths have become deeper and more measured, no longer hitching when Bucky hits a new sore spot. Bucky stops massaging, hoping he’s at least made a dent in the tension that Gale has been carting around, and he presses his hands flat against Gale’s back. He leans forward so he can see the other man’s face, and he finds that his eyes are peacefully closed, his lips parted with one hand curled in a fist under his chin. Blonde hair, a little dark and not quite dry, falls messily over his forehead.

A literal fucking angel. That’s what he’d told Curt after he first met Gale on their flight into Paris, but the description has just taken on new meaning. The pure, unfiltered adoration swelling in Bucky’s chest as he watches Gale drift off will be the death of him.

“Buck?” He says softly. “You still with me?” He reaches a hand up and strokes his still-damp hair.

Gale’s eyes flutter open at the warm cadence of Bucky’s voice. Bucky’s hand stills, but Gale tilts his head up, trying vaguely to press into the touch. Bucky obediently resumes petting his hair.

Satisfied, the corner of Gale’s mouth curves up in a small, unguarded smile, but he hides it against his fist.

He’s an Olympian. He’s an Olympic medalist. A beautiful, wonderful, perfectly lovely guy (who Gale is falling a little in love with) is giving him a massage in his bedroom at the Paris Olympics. If he wasn’t so worn out, he’d tell Bucky to pinch him, sure he has to be dreaming. A tired little laugh bubbles out of him before he lets his eyes close again.

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head in amusement and confusion. “What?”

Gale’s answer doesn’t really clear anything up, but it’s the only thing Bucky can get out of him before he’s sound asleep, that precious smile still teasing at his lips.

“I found my line.”

…

Next part

#i'm normal about them i swear #“I found my line” I'm sobbing #Gale deserves the world #clegan olympics au #clegan #masters of the air #mota #john egan #gale cleven #buck x bucky #clegan fic #olympics au #tw: abuse

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baronessvonglitter · 5 months ago

Text

if love be rough with you, be rough with love | chapter 10 | "all the wrong things for all the right reasons"

Dave York x f!Reader

Word count: 3,228

Summary: you and Dave finally have a night alone to explore your desires and he teaches you how to please him.

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, age gap (reader is early 20s, Dave is early forties), light d/s tones, TW for mentions of past child abuse/domestic abuse (reader's family), mentions of Dave's past infidelities, first time, oral (f + m receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v sex (reader is on the pill), dubcon (starts off rough but reader gets into it), reader bleeds her first time, choking, creampie, little bit of bathtub sex, a little bit of bloodsucking (but maybe not the way you think), Dave is adopted(!)

Author's Note: Please note that for the sake of the story there is mention of bleeding during MC's first time having sex. This isn't common, I just used it to show Dave's dark interest in blood and inflicting pain. It also goes to show how the MC is losing her innocence little by little as she is introduced to her new role as his mistress.

Series Masterlist

You walk together through the side entrance of a five-star hotel. "Have you done this before? Taken a girl to a hotel?"

He gently grasps your hand, giving you a little smirk, but doesn't answer. You can already guess that you're not the first but that doesn't matter to you.

At the front desk he checks you in and you hang back, taking in the spacious, elegant lobby. It's almost afternoon and there aren't many people around, but you still feel wary of running into someone Dave knows. He puts his arm around your waist and leads you to room 308. You commit that number to your memory, placing it among just one of the many significant details of this day. You hold his hand as you take the short elevator ride to the third floor.

"Where does your wife think you are right now?" you ask curiously.

"She thinks I'm out with friends."

There's a part of you that likes the lying, deceptive aspect of this relationship. You're doing all the wrong things for all the right reasons.

The hotel room, your sanctum of sex and desire for the night, is elegant yet understated. It looks more like a high-rise apartment than a hotel. A king size bed adorned in tasteful neutrals, a large TV, a minibar complete with every type of alcohol, and a view overlooking the city.

You turn to Dave, who's watching you with an amused expression. "Up to your standards?" he asks, removing his jacket and watch, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves as he comes close to you.

"It's perfect," you tell him, removing your own jacket. In his arms you softly kiss his cheek.

"No more of that," he says gently. "Kisses on the cheek? Now you'll have to do better than that, my girl. Kisses for me have to mean something. I want to feel you, savor you."

Eyes wide, pupils dilated with lust, you lean in and kiss him, slipping your tongue into his mouth. He tastes like desire and you can't get enough of him. Dave trails hot wet kisses down your neck.

"Strip for me," he commands, already unbuttoning his own shirt. There's but a small pause before you acquiesce. Slipping off your clothes you are left in only your bra and panties, a peach silk set you're glad you wore today. Dave eyes your body hungrily, and the bulge in his pants grows. "Sit on the bed," he tells you, and you perch yourself on the edge, parting your legs, keeping your eyes on him as he removes his shirt and unbuckles his belt. The sound of the metal, of the leather being pulled through the fabric loops, discomposes you. The next thing you know, Dave is kneeling before you, his eyes full of concern.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "I thought I lost you for a minute."

Coming back to your senses, you feel foolish. "Yeah.. yeah, I'm fine. Sorry."

This doesn't necessarily dissuade him. "We don't have to do this if you don't want to," he says in a serious yet comforting tone. "You looked out of it. What were you thinking about?"

You would never dream of ruining this time with him with such talk. "Right now all I can think about is you.."

He smiles and puts his hands on your thighs, letting them travel up then back down to your knees which he hooks over his shoulders. You scoot yourself to the very edge of the bed, nerves thrumming with anticipation. Dave brushes his hand against the growing wet spot on your panties. "I have so much planned for you, sweetpea," he whispers, gently lapping his tongue against your wet spot, pressing his tongue hard enough for you to feel through your panties. You give a loud, needful moan. Dave pulls your panties down and kisses his way up your thighs. Each kiss is like fire upon your skin, and your breaths get shorter as he inches closer to your pussy. "Look how wet you are. And I haven't even done anything to you yet."

Your breath comes out in short puffs, and Dave gently blows on your clit, making you exhale with a sweet sigh. He holds your thighs, keeping them pushed back to expose more of you, and he takes in the sight of your already drenched folds. Without a moment's hesitation he dives on, devouring you with unbrideled fervor.

You moan in surprise, hips arching up to press yourself against his mouth, his tongue gliding along your clit as he inserts two fingers inside, intent on making you cum as hard as possible. All his patience with you dwindles the moment you dig your fingers into his hair, demanding more of him. He's never gone down on you until now and he wishes he'd done it sooner. "You taste so fucking sweet," he growls. Time seems to stand still, minutes seem small eternities while Dave works his magic. Your hands grab his hair, his shoulders. whatever you can grab hold of and the sounds that leave your mouth are absolutely wicked.

Spurred on by this, Dave gently takes your clit between his teeth, using his fingers to fuck you. You try to give him encouragement, to communicate your appreciation, but your mind is a mess and you can only generate feral sounds. You tremble all over, even your thighs which Dave clamps down with his arms. Only at the right, precise moment are you able to speak: "Oh my god Dave, I.. I.. oh!" A powerful wave rolls through you, carrying you to bliss.

Dave talks you through it. "There it is, my girl, yes.. you're so beautiful and this is all for you." He continues lapping at you, sucking up the juices of your arousal.

"Dave!" you moan as another great wave overtakes you. A thin sheen of sweat covers your body. "I don't know how much more I can take!"

"Just let yourself go, let me take care of you." His voice is soothing, hypnotic, almost romantic. You follow his gentle command and unleash the onslaught of pleasure that's been building up inside you, crying out his name, gently pushing him away when you become overstimulated.

He chuckles, laying next to you on the bed. "Do not ever be ashamed to tell me when you're done. Was that the first time you've ever had your pussy eaten?"

You nod, too overcome to speak just yet. Your eyes are bright, skin glowing. Dave sees this and pulls you in for a kiss, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. "What do you say to making that a regular occurrence? Tonight and as often as possible," he says. "But you understand that now I have to fuck you. I've been waiting so long, imagining when and where you'd finally become mine."

"You think I haven't wanted that too? I've fantasized about this moment forever. Make me yours.. leave your mark on me." You take his hand and guide it back to your pussy, and he readily takes over, fingering you again, gliding smoothly, stroking that soft, hidden part inside you that makes you scrunch your face in pleasure. He teases you relentlessly, filling you up but not wanting to stretch you out too much - you're so tight and he wants to relish that feeling. He's excited to be your first and he has no doubt he can make your first time memorable and pleasurable.

Only just before you come do you feel him unclasp the front of your bra, fondling your breasts and nibbling on the hardened points with his teeth. This is what propels you over the edge. He fingerfucks you through your orgasm. At the same time it's too much and not enough. "I need you inside me, Dave. Please.."

His response is little more than a growl as he moves over you, getting rid of the rest of his clothes. You cast your bra to the floor with the rest of your clothes. Dave stares down at you on the bed and you think you can see a bit of tenderness beneath his intense gaze from the foot of the bed. "Come here first. I want to fuck your mouth," he commands.

You get on all fours at the edge of the bed and he moves your hair away from your face. This creates a Pavlovian response in you to open your mouth. "Good girl," he says, pulling your hair back as you take his cock into your mouth. You know by now what he likes, but this time you let him take charge because that's what he likes in this moment. "You take my cock so well," he praises. "I'm turning you into such a good little slut. But only for me.. my fucking whore."

He pulls away when your lips tighten around him and your tongue caresses the underside of his dick. "Not yet, sweetpea. I want to cum inside that perfect virgin cunt. Regarding birth control," he continues smoothly, "you're on the pill, right?"

You have a questioning look on your face then you realize how he knows this about you. "I forgot. You like to go through my room." He must have found your pills in your bedside drawer. "Yes, I am," you answer him.

"I just wanted to see if I could trust you," he says easily. "And you, sweetpea, do you trust me? With your body, with your emotions, with your soul?" As he asks this his hands roam your body, appreciating every curve, every plane, and the triangle of soft hair that covers the entrance to your best-kept secret. God, each little touch, no matter how innocuous, dares to send you into a frenzy.

"Yes," you sigh, your heartbeat a timpani drum beat pulsing your entire body.

He hooks your knees over his forearms and positions yourself at your entrance. "This first time is just for you, sweetpea. The next time and all the times that come after are for me."

He pushes in and you gasp at the intrusion. You're wet enough to take him but it's still a matter of acclimating to his girth. He gives shallow strokes, easing deeper each time until he finds your barrier. "Look at me. Breathe," he commands in that low, soft voice. You do just that, then he slams himself against you, causing you to cry out at the brief yet searing pain. The shock wears off soon enough and you feel him fully sheathed inside you, and the first word out of your mouth is, "Fuck!"

Dave takes a moment to let the feeling sink in. He's never been in such a tight pussy. He has to hold back just from cumming right then and there. Slowly he removes himself, eliciting a slight wince from you. There's a little blood on his cock. A real virgin he thinks in wonder. Not just someone who's never been fucked, but someone who's bled for him, given something up for him. He brings you up to a sitting position. "Suck it off."

You do, and it feels ceremonial. You swirl your tongue around the head of his cock and let him push into your mouth a little bit. He stares at you with what you might think, if you didn't know better, was love.

He pushes you back to the middle of the bed, joining you on the soft sheets as he presses into you again. There's less pain this time. You cease to think of anything except what is happening between you, the slow and gentle movements.

"You're so warm, so tender, and so god damn tight, sweetpea," he whispers. You whisper his name over and over, a prayer of lust and love. You kiss his face, his shoulders, his chest, wherever you can put your lips. There's the centralized feeling of the momentum of his hips rocking against yours, moving steady and deep. Meanwhile Dave is cupping your ass, bringing your legs over his shoulders so that he's in as deep as possible, a look of concentration and determination in his dark eyes. The eye contact alone is a type of eroticism, as you're both unable to feign anything in your compromising position.

"Oh god Dave.. please!" you moan.

"Please what, sweetpea?" he replies, a smug smile on his lips.

"Harder! Please!" you beg, and are rewarded with the smooth, quick pistioning of his hips, his thumb caressing your clit. An unstoppable wave of pleasure washes over you and you give a ragged cry as you cling to him.

He takes a moment to pause to revel in the feel of you pulsing around him, the way your cunt dares to consume him whole. Then he deftly maneuvers you on top of him and without being told what to do you ride him, sinking down on him, impaling yourself upon his cock. "You take me so well," he murmurs again, his hand reaching up to graze your jaw and travel down your neck. "You've already come for me like a good fucking girl. I want you to come again and again until you're a fucking quivering mess." His hand slowly grips your throat, lightly squeezing, his thumb pressing down on your windpipe just enough to make you gasp. Your hand covers his and for a moment Dave thinks you're going to remove his grasp, but to his utter delight you press his hand harder against you. He restrains from squeezing too hard yet he can see the effect it's having on you. "My girl likes a little choking? Likes it a little rough?"

Your only answer is a stifled moan as you continue to move on him, finding a rhythm that feels the best for you and that makes his eyes roll to the back of his head. He continues pressing until you ask him to go easy and he does ease up, just enough to keep you under his thumb. "Come for me, baby. You've got another one in you." His free hand cups your breast, teasing your nipple, rising up to kiss you. You wrap your arms around him, grinding your hips harder, opening your thighs wider to accommodate his girth. This time an even greater surge of pleasure engulfs you, makes you feel as if you're drowning in this long, drawn-out climax. Dave lets out a surprised grunt, shuddering as he comes, and you feel the warm rush of his seed. In that moment he leaves a piece of himself with you and it feels like a gift, like a secret. You stay locked together in this embrace, catching your breath. Though he is satiated, Dave looks at you as though he could ravage you all over again.

"You're mine now," he says. "You'll never belong to anyone else, not really."

"Why would I want to?" you smirk and it damn breaks his walls.

He puts you on your back, legs still spread so he can see his cum dribbling out of you. "I took it easy on you this time," he says, using his fingers to push his cum back into you. You wince, still sore. Dave notes this and is more gentle with you. "How do you feel?"

"A little achy, but not bad.. my bones feel like jello," you give a little laugh.

Dave smiles. "I have an idea."

The tub is warm, full of frothy bubbles, and you're lying with your back to Dave's chest as he lazily strokes down the middle of your chest. "I suppose this isn't the first time you've been unfaithful to her," you say softly even as the bathroom tiles echo your voice and make it louder.

Dave agrees, nodding. "You're right, this isn't the first time I've been unfaithful."

A twinge of jealousy pricks at your heart even though you know such a reaction is silly. "So the others were just flings, or...?"

His voice rumbles against your spine as he speaks. "The others started as just flings. I had some fun.. there were quite a few.. some I even took home right after meeting at the office, others I met on business trips, but never anyone close. Never anyone like you. You're different."

You take those words into yourself, even though they sound like a bad line from a teen TV drama. You're different, not like other girls. You're better. You can't be upset about things he did before you met. And you have to admit part of you thinks his double life is hot.

"Has Carol ever caught on?"

He pauses. "Couples will usually have arguments about faithfulness or the lack thereof, but her accusations have never been very strong, just mild critiques about how I'm away from home so much."

"You seem to have such a good relationship with her.. sometimes I watch the two of you and it seems so surreal, like one or both of you is putting on an act."

He tenses up a little at that. "What do you mean?" His voice is on edge.

You pause. "Tell me about what you were like growing up.." You tilt your head to look at him and he gives you a quick kiss. "There's not much to tell. I was in the foster system from a young age and the family I was eventually adopted into was a military family. We moved around a lot from base to base, different countries. So naturally that became my calling as well."

"And your family was okay? I mean, they loved you?"

He nods. "Yeah, we were really close, and still are."

"What happened to your birth parents?"

"I don't know. I don't care," he says with a shrug.

"My parents were shit. Well, my dad was. He used to drink a lot, beat my mom. And she never did anything about it. She was helpless."

He moves to face you. "Did he ever hurt you?" His eyes take on a ferocious look.

"Sometimes, but more than that he was manipulative. He knew how much I loved him despite everything and he used it against us, moreso with me than with my mom or my brother."

"He should have protected you. A father is supposed to be someone you can depend on," he says, and he strokes your damp hair with such love and tenderness that it almost makes you cry.

"It doesn't matter anymore. He's dead. He's been dead five years." You look up at Dave and manage a smile. "I see now why you're so dedicated to your family, how much you love your daughters. It's part of what attracted me to you. I guess I see your happy family and I want that."

"Maybe it's why you're fucking the father of that happy little family," he suggests, a provocative look in his eye as he takes you into his arms. He positions you on top again, facing away as his hips roam your slippery hips and you fit over him like a perfect glove. "This is what playing house gets you, sweetpea. Now you have to let me use you how I want.."

Your head tilts back as you slide over him, grateful to have this with him, for him to fill you up any time he pleases. This is your only chance for happiness and you're going to take it.

<- prev chapter

next chapter ->

dividers by @saradika-graphics 👑

#pedro pascal #dave york #ao3 fanfic #dave york fanfiction #dave york x reader #dave york smut #dave york x you #dave york fic #dave york x f!reader #dave york x female reader #if love be rough with you be rough with love #pedro boys #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fiction #pedro pascal character smut #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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icurushasfallen · 21 days ago

Text

Here's my take on this post

Okay, so I have my own theory. I’d like to think Wade wasn’t loved as child and has serve abandonment or attachment issues. Through the movieverse, we see Wade as this goofy guy. He’s quick-tongued and annoying and had an extremely crude sense of humor. But I think there has to be some truth in his jokes.

Wade was never comforted as a child. When he cried, his mother was the type to watch in silent resentment. I think Wade’s mother was similar to Beatrice HorseMan from the Netflix Show Bojack HorseMan.

Wade, in the comics, was a love Affair of Slade Wilson and his sister-in-law at the time, Hailey Wilson.

As a child, Wade was raised by his mother and his uncle, Mickey, whom he believed to be his biological father.

He later gave many conflicting reports regarding his childhood. Among these was his claiming that his father abandoned his mother while she was pregnant with him and she took out her anger on him until, as an adult, he beat her instead. He also claimed that his mother died when he was five and that his father, an army officer, became abusive, causing Wade to grow up to be a thug and criminal.

When his father got his act together and tried to rein in his son, one of Wade's friends shot and killed him. On another occasion, he told a writer that his father was a teller of bad jokes who abandoned him and his mother while he was a boy. And because of this his mother turned to humor, alcohol and home shopping networks as a coping mechanism. He believed that he ran away from home so that his mother wouldn't need to spend what little money she had left on him. All of these accounts appeared to either be false memories implanted in his mind or lies made up by himself. (All stated verbatim by the Deadpool Wiki)

But me frankly? I think the first statement had some truth in it. Hailey had a run-away affair with Slade in my opinion. Slade probably left for one reason or another, leaving them both broke and borderline homeless.

Theres not much Hailey, but I like to believe she was a young woman down on her luck and got herself pregnant with Wade. She then started to resent Wade and maybe even beat him at times. His uncle? A drunk and (Im my interpretation of Wade) the start of Wade’s trauma induced Hypersexuality.

I like to think he did kill his mother accidentally. Maybe in a fire (A motif to the fire would trapped in later as adult after his mutation)

And circling back, I believe thats why Wade has such a soft spot for kids. Like Russel in Deadpool 2. He see’s a child in his same situation more or less and realizes the kid in like him in a way. He was never comforted and therefore comforts others. I.E his humor and remarks. Maybe it’s not how other people comfort. But I like to think that it wasn’t always bad with his mother. And maybe they did bound over the odd joke or two. But whatever the reason, I think Wade just needs to comfort others in order to comfort himself.

I’m in the works of writing a fanfic based on this. It’s gonna be Christmas themed in lue for the holiday season and whatnot. But if you’re interested in a synopsis, I’d be happy to deliver.

@atimesfeeler @twilightkitkat @icarusredwings @ramblingautisticman

#poolverine #deadclaws #deadpool #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool 3 #wade wilson #deadpool fanfiction #wade x logan #Wade Wilson needs a hug #tumblr fanfic #fanfic writing #angst #hurt/comfort #abandoment issues #attachment issues

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zvtara-was-never-canon · 7 months ago

Note

they managed to massacre Aang's character and all the struggle and importance of his choice in the finale in a SINGLE page, and yet there are people who think the comics are good

and of course Katara's would have nothing to say on the matter, toootally in-character

Not to mention: yes, Zuko is right that a lifetime of indoctrination won't magically stop affecting him just because he's aware of it now, but the way the comics really said "If you're not perfect, you deserve to die. Not rehabilitation, not even incarceration despite it being an option, just straight to violent, lethal punishment" is horrying.

And lets not forget the blatant abuse apologism of having Zuko, the kid who was told by his abusive parent that his disfigurement and banishment was "for his own good" after he made one "mistake", turning to his closest friends and asking them to be his "safety net" by MURDERING HIM IF EVER STEPS OUT OF LINE - and said friends then agree to it.

Are you fucking kidding me? The real Aang would have double-down on the "You're NOT your father" bit, and the entire friend group would have been super concerned about Zuko because a victim of abuse saying they're as bad as their abuser thus deserve to die is one hell of a red flag as to how their mental health is going.

Speaking of mental health: I talk a lot about how Azula was constantly being abused by the supposed heroes in the comics, and how the justification of it is rooted in ableism, but this nonsense with Zuko asking to be put down like a dog is also peak victim blaming, and one of the few moments in which one can actually feel bad for comics!Zuko.

And it ties into a disturbing pattern I noticed among Avatar fans - and mainly Zuko fans. They don't truly understand that what Ozai put his children through was wrong, they simply think he chose the wrong kid as the escapegoat. They think Azula should have been the one that is constantly punished just for existing, while Zuko is the golden child that can do no wrong - or else.

This moment right here? With the people that he trusts agreeing to inflict violence on him if he ever makes a mistake? This is that "or else". This is literally the same mentality that led to Azula's breakdown because NO ONE CAN SURVIVE UNDER THAT MUCH PRESSURE.

And that leads us to the main reason why the comcis suck: Yang was using Zuko as a self-insert.

"Zuko‘s relationship with Ozai is something we – Mike, Brian, Dark Horse, Nickelodeon, and I – talked about extensively when we first started working together. There’s this strange thing that happens to people in power. The pressures of power often blur the lines between enemies. That’s part of what happens to Zuko here. Ozai is the only one who knows what it’s like to be Fire Lord, the only one who has the wisdom of experience. I also looked at my own life. I used to clash with my dad quite a bit when I was a teenager. However, as I grew up and found myself in roles that he used to have, I began to understand more and more of his decisions. My father isn't thoroughly evil, of course, but I imagine Zuko feels a little of the same pull."

Yang. My guy. My dude. The words "Ozai" and "wisdom" should NEVER be in the same sentence. Every single action of Ozai's as Fire Lord was based on him being an abusive piece of shit that finally got access to absolute power. He is not a stern dad, he is abusive. He's not misunderstood, he needed to be stopped and locked away. He is a human being with feelings and motivations, yes, but he is WRONG ABOUT LITERALLY EVERYTHING EVER. He NEVER had a point. Zuko has nothing to learn from him except what NOT to do. That's why he looks like an older, unscarred Zuko. A version of Zuko that never changed.

This is the core issue of the comics, and why it had so many moments of unintentional abuse apologism: they say Ozai is a villain, but they're going out of their way to constantly make the characters come dangerously close to saying "Maybe he had a point." That's why they have Zuko turn to Ozai for advice despite claiming he wants to avoid becoming like him - because the guy writting them couldn't understand that the bad guy was, in fact, bad and in the wrong and has no wisdom to offer to anyone.

Avatar, the series, is about the world moving past from the sick mentality people like Ozai had, and about his son realizing that he did not deserve to be abused. The Avatar Comics are about telling Zuko (and others) "Ozai isn't wrong actually, you'll understand when you're older."

No, Yang, they won't. Because there's nothing to "understand" here other than THE GUY THAT ABUSED HIS CHILDREN AND COMMITED GENOCIDE WAS WRONG ABOUT EVERYTHING, YOU DUMBASS!

Saying "the villain had a point" does not make a story better unless it is true - and in Ozai's case, it simply isn't. Insisting otherwise doesn't make the story and characters more mature, it just means you couldn't understand a cartoon aimed at 7-year-olds despite being a grown-ass man.

And I won't even get into Bryke approving of this bullshit otherwise I'll start tearing my hair out in rage at how badly they seem to have lost touch with the message of their best work, so let me just use a simple statemet to make everyone understand just how much of a disaster this is:

Even M. Night Shyamalan didn't misunderstand ATLA to the point of thinking Ozai wasn't actually wrong, but Bryan, Mike and Yang did. The comics understand the show less than M. Night Shyamalan did.

I rest my fucking case.

#atla comics #the comics suck #zuko deserved better #azula deserved better

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willowed-wisp · 5 months ago

Text

HER KNIGHT, HIS HEART- part two

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| Ser Harwin Strong x female!OC/reader insert

WARNINGS: violence, swearing, abuse

She had forgotten about Rhaenyra's fly about- it was Harwin Strong's fault, lecturing her about not angering her father. Putting aside her unattainable ambitions- at least he possessed the balls to properly counsel her, hence she chose him of all people.

Not a lot had happened in those two days, though her father was more emotionally challenged.

Apparently Prince Daemon with the City Watch had mutilated and murdered petty criminals.

Elspeth had never had too many dealings with the dark horse of the Targaryens but had enough to distance herself from the rogue.

The woman had also had no interaction with Ser Harwin Strong. She didn't know how to feel about that- having an innate desire to search among a sea of faces hoping that she'd see his. Elspeth shrugged that off as an aversion technique, but the anguish when she didn't find him spoke otherwise.

She had always envied Rhaenyra for the primary reason that she could ride dragons- be in the wilds if she wished. Just as she held hatred of man's freedom to fulfil any role they desired while women were made to battle in bed chambers and birthing chairs.

The woman felt more kin towards the Targaryens than her own. She loved seeing her princess in the clouds - what a rush that would be. It wasn't foretold for Elspeth, thankful she hadn't been roasted alive by

Having missed Syrax's flying session, she was glad a tourney was taking place- maybe it could provide the rush always wanting in her veins, "I missed you at the Dragonpit," proper and upfront- that's why they got on so well. Rhaenyra stood in a blood-coloured frilled gown- exiting the carriage.

"What was keeping you?" Elspeth had to stifle her amusement. Not that Rhaenyra looked ridiculous.

"Did King Viserys pick this out for you?" Brow quirked, lips in a smirk. Her best friend returned the sentiment.

"What made it obvious? The frills or the patterns?" Bunching it up by the mid hem.

Rhaenyra eyed what the Hightower wore. "Are you sure you don't have dragon blood?" Referring to the black and gold gilded gown the woman wore. Its neckline was high and crossed, sleeves short- nothing too fancy. She needn't impress the councillors nor onlookers.

Elspeth tutted, "None hold more disappointment than I, Princess," they walked- the older assumed she would receive an earful from her father for being late. "You should have a sibling by the end of events." Rhaenyra smiled, it was a momentous occasion for her. She seemed excited for the company of a brother or sister- Rhaenyra convinced it will be a little girl called 'Visenya".

"Yes Visenya is on her way. I can't imagine going through labours- I’m not in a hurry," Elspeth nodded, her younger siblings provided a strong deterrent to following her 'wifely duties. Others seemed to enjoy the deed committed to be with child, not that the girl of nineteen knew personally. "So... what kept you from the Dragonpit? Syrax missed you- she's quite fond of your presence. Soon she'll be able to bear two riders..."

A purse of her lips, "I fear the dragoness would send me to my death if I saddled her. I don't possess your lineage, Rhaenyra, and Hightowers would make the worst dragon riders. You and I both know that." They started to ascend the steps, up to the entrance and where the most powerful people in Westeros watched the events.

Their laughs quieted down, hushed by the cheers from around- only the king audible and able to translate.

"I know many of you travelled long leagues to be at these games. But I promise, you will not be disappointed. When I look at the fine knights in these lists. I see a group without equal in our histories. And this great day has been made more auspicious by the news... that I am happy to share: Queen Aemma has begun her labours!"

They had sneaked to their seats- sat either side of Alicent in the front row. Rightful cheers ensued-Elspeth one of thousands in attendance. She knew Rhaenyra never wanted the fate of the kingdoms in her hands - she wanted to fly around on Syrax for the remainder of her days. A male heir would make sure that happened. "May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!" An eruption of applause. She found herself politely clapping.

"Who's first?" Directed at no one in particular.

Calculating by sigils on armour.

Somebody beat them to the punch, "Opening this wondrous tournament. Ser Casten Tully," a streak of blue and silver, "His opponent- the strongest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Harwin Strong!" Something leapt inside of her- head perking. Navy, forest and carmine flashed and glimmered with armour.

In a blink of an eye, Ser Casten was in a bundle on the floor- his beige steed a few feet away.

Cradling his shoulder, a broken collarbone maybe.

Her focus on the man was short lived. Ser Harwin trotted over on horseback- helmet lifted and his eyes were straight on her, "Lady Elspeth Hightower, I stayed true to my word." Eyes not daring to roll, as she stood from the stool.

She draped her hands over the boundary- elbows rested on stone. "I'm afraid I haven't made a wreathe," Elspeth was dismissive. Stifling that guilt deep down in her chest.

"You could give him your necklace..." Fucking Rhaenyra. What was she playing at?

Oh, he looked oh-so amused with himself. "Are you going to deny a knight his favour?" He was lucky he was handsome. Fingers fiddled to undo the clasp of her golden chained, emerald encrusted piece of jewellery. Sliding it down his lance. "No kind words?"

"Don't push it, Strong," she spoke through gritted teeth. Gods above she was in trouble. Especially when he wore the necklace- smuggled with his chainmail and chest plate.

Then he was gone.

She returned to her seat. Alicent and Rhaenyra sharing looks of amusement, “Was that why you were absent from the Dragonpit?” The answer as clear as her silence was loud. Chin up and observing the next rounds of the joist. Gwayne was on the lists, but Ser Criston Cole was the cream of the crop. Fairly unknown but his reputation from the Stormlands had preceded himself. And he didn’t disappoint, she overhead Westerling’s information as he spoke to the Princess.

For every other knight she didn’t pay attention. “Ser Harwin Strong!” But him, eyes trained on him while he took a lap around the list field. He seemed to notice, bowing on his horse at her- that smile prominent under the helmet. Alicent gasped as Rhaenyra laughed in a quiet manner. Elspeth didn’t know how that made her feel, although her cheeks felt warm.

The woman maintained her composure. “His opponent, Ser Gwayne Hightower!” Her arm was touched by a concerned Alicent. Harwin had a reputation for near killing his competitors- it was a worry. Not that she had control over the events.

“Gwayne will be fine.”

Elspeth was pissed off. So much so she had left the royal balcony, storming down to the knights’ village. Finding exactly who she was looking for, “You let him unhorse you,” the dishevelled hair didn’t help her unexplainable infatuation. While he stood there, unlinking his armour.

“Your Lord brother was better than me, that can be changed with more training,” He remained so calm and gentle. As he always had and she presumed would continue to be; riling her up even more.

She paced ever so close to the man, chin up attempting to look more foreboding, “Why did you let Gwayne beat you?”

“Ser Gwayne is a fine knight.”

“He may be a fine knight but he can’t unhorse you,” her chest met his; heart skipping, maybe that wasn’t hers. He hadn’t looked away- staring into Elspeth’s eyes as she did his.

That harsh edge to her melted as he dipped his head down, “Did you want me to win, my Lady?” Ending at the shell of her ear, Elspeth sucked in a breath.

The woman sought to maintain her composure, “I trusted you wouldn’t sully my honour, Ser Strong,” faces mere inches away, “But I’m sure you won’t repeat that mistake next time…” She took a few steps back- aware of prying eyes of tourney goers and those of knights.

Nothing could hide his look of bemusement, “You wish to give me your honour again?” The woman nodded.

“You are the strongest knight, in the Seven Kingdoms. You’re one of the best there is.” A wave of pride on his face but something waged sincerity.

“I didn’t know you to be capable of such flattery, my Lady.” He was too happy with himself.

“Don’t push it, Strong.” Deja vu as she walked away- turning back to witness that intent look on Harwin’s face, “Never forfeit another tourney.”

“Don’t you want your necklace back?”

She waved him off, “For next time. Don’t want you forgetting about me,” maybe she winked, maybe she didn’t. Elspeth was not ready to admit she winked at Harwin Strong. Or that she had given him her most treasured possession.

Those eyes of blue watched the girl, “Are you sure, Elspeth?” She was weak at her knees. Yet she held it- a weak, timid nod. How had they gotten so close again? Whatever the reason, Elspeth just wanted him to disappear and let her thoughts remain pure and allow for her to go about her usual day.

Not constantly think about him.

The woman just couldn’t figure the knight out. She couldn’t fathom why in the Known World would he align himself with her? The eldest daughter to the Hand of the King and the most outspoken Lady that the court had known.

Murmurs fluttered the air, a blur of orange came into view. “Ser Harwin,” The unmistakable voice of her brother. He had to look twice at his sister being in the knight’s village, “Sister, I think you need to return to your Princess.”

“Does being a stickler ever get old, brother?” Unamused and unyielding. Until that look emerged on his face. “Gwayne, what’s wrong?” Wide green eyes met his calmed blue.

“The Queen is dead.” Drums thundered around her- only a figment of her imagination but they pounded stronger than her own heart.

Fuck. “Rhaenyra. I’ve got to go.”

Without a second word, she found her best friend and held her tight despite declaring she ‘didn’t need’ Elspeth’s sympathies. That didn’t prevent the Princess from melting to the floor in the Hightowers’ arms. Both Elspeth and Alicent cradled her that day. Not speaking a single phrase, just sharing each others’ despair.

Queen Aemma was the perfect mother to them all. Never thinking herself to be above any subject. She was a true Queen. And a true Targaryen.

What was the Seven Kingdoms to do without her by Viserys’ side?

And her death was in vain- Prince Baelon only saw the living world for a mere few hours. Elspeth didn’t need a lesson from her father to understand what this meant. The succession of Viserys’ throne was in question. Unless he remarried and produced a male heir or two.

It also meant her father would be in a more ridiculous mood- which meant more suitors in the coming days.

The days went fast and her sanity broke at a quicker rate. She felt Rhaenyra’s pain- that agony. The Princess was there for both the sisters when their Lady mother passed, and now they would return the favour. Though, Alicent had been stealing her and their mother’s clothes as of late. And had been around the Kings chambers. The woman just hoped Alicent wasn’t being forced to play an adult game at the age of fifteen.

But knowing Otto Hightower and his schemes- that most certainly was the truth. And it made her blood boil.

A crash of doors, “What is the meaning of this?”

“Are you so power famished that you’re going to exploit your youngest child? Your daughter?” She sat on the desk he was working on- closing the book that kept his focus even while she spoke. Her stare was that of rages- not surprise, “You’re rotten at your very core, that throne... Please don’t drag Alicent into your games!”

“Well you certainly won’t do what’s best for this family… Alicent has a keen mind for the way things work in this world.”

“She’s a fucking child who has a misguided idolisation for her father! Mother would never forgive you for this…” Her breath taken as the man she called ‘father’ had his fingers wrapped around her throat. Nails digging further- a crushinh hold. It wasn’t fear running through her. It was pure hatred. “Do it. Kill me. Show them the monster you’ve always been.” It was a struggle worth the pain- he released her from his grip.

Elspeth didn't know what lurked behind those eyes before. Now she did. A coward and a kingmaker. Her throat felt the construction still, coughing to realign any part of her windpipe as soon as slumped outside of the door- not caring what the Kingsguard stationed outside thought. Before their worried faces asked, she had charged halfway down the corridor- passing by with steeled manner.

“Lady Elspeth, whatever is the matter?” The master of laws, Ser Lyonel Strong. One of her father’s peers that made sense, she was quite fond of the man. He often checked in with the woman, almost like an actual father would. Not that she would know.

She shook her head- politely, “Ser Lyonel, you are in good health?”

“Child, I have known you since you were knee high,” Arms crossed, “Your Lord father?”

She nodded, “I have to attend, her grace. I will see you in court, Ser.” Elspeth had been wholly unaware of the bruises circling her throat- however, the master of laws had not been so ignorant.

Lady Elspeth had not gone to Rhaenyra- a blatant lie so she could venture down and out of the castle. Kings Landing was a much better crowd than Oldtown ever had been.

The woman found herself on the bar counter - wooden and bulking - singing her tunes as somebody tickled the ivories and picked at the strings. A tankard of ale raised in her hand, that would be her fifth. Not that she paid for any of them. She knew Bert the owner, but vagrants had been stockpiling her in alcohol since she strutted in.

She was among the clouds- unaware if it were the ale or the brute slinging her over his shoulder. Not that the girl argued, she was too far gone to walk- it was nice being carried around.

Until her back crashed into a wall, “You are foolish for coming here, my Lady,” so polite yet so gruff at the same time. It ignited something in her.

Anger… lust… Elspeth couldn’t rightly say which, “Ugh, not you, Ser Breakybones…” Eyes rolled, taking a step she wasn’t ready to take in that condition- falling into his arms. And she felt safe, secure. The woman found herself in the clouds again. So she giggled, looking into his stern face. “I’ve always fancied you…” his hand swept away the hair, unable to resist sweeping in behind her neck. She couldn’t help but wince.

She felt this man of all men tremble, “Who did this? Was it one of those pigs inside?” He let her go for a moment- about to absolute havoc to the patrons until they gave him answers. But a hand on the side of his face stopped him- everything in the man. Eyes widened as if his own heart ceased to beat when he saw her composure unravel and the tears break down Elspeth’s soft skin.

All but shattering. He held her snug while she bawled. Elspeth barely noticed when he carried her, all the way to the Red Keep. She’d have appreciated that in consciousness or told him to fuck off.

#house of the dragon #ser harwin strong #harwin x reader #harwin breakbones #harwin strong #ser harwin #house hightower #house strong #house targaryen #hotd

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