#who have to live in a household where one of their parents is miserable and effectively coerced by the state to remain there | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

writing-in-glitter-pen · 5 months

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˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ what I know to be true ⋆｡˚ ೀ⋆｡˚ ༘

Childe wasn't a big fan of the Tsaritsa's demand for him to find a wife, until he'd come upon the perfect girl for the job. You—a lady he knew in his childhood to be a horrible nuisance and demon on Earth. Not only would this marriage fulfill his duty, but would let him settle a long-time grudge as well. Little did he know, he stood more to gain from this partnership than he thought.

Childe x fem!reader II arranged marriage, angst? to fluff, childhood enemies to lovers, romance!

Childe was never one for romance, and especially not for commitment.

He just had so much else on his plate, much bigger dreams than that of settling down in a household and abandoning his place on the battlefield.

He was always looking ahead to a future of bloodshed, of power, of someday ruling the world.

That wasn't going to happen if a distraction stood in his way.

He would sometimes muse about having kids, loving the idea of continuing his lineage and watching a bunch of mini-me's run around, but ultimately, he decided his duty to the Tsaritsa would stand in the way of him being a good father. So he'd just have to settle for being an amazing uncle to the children his siblings would eventually have, spoiling them with presents at Christmas time and teaching them how to protect themselves out in the wild.

So when he was called into the Tsaritsa's throne room and received the news that a harbinger of his status was to be married, in order to keep up with regal airs the nobles of Snezhanaya, he was, respectfully, very unhappy.

"You'll be seen at balls and lead battalions. Your role must be carried with honor. Nobody will respect an old lonely man.", she claimed, then drew out a long, thin arm to hold his chin with a bony hand—long pointed nails pressing divots into his skin. Though her touch was frigid, she looked down at him with a certain fondness in her eyes, though the sincerity of it was undistinguishable. "You need a pretty thing by your side to elevate your status. You know I only want what's best for you.", she cooed, like she was addressing a child.

He new better than to disobey her commands, and something about the smoothness of her voice assured him that this was the right choice. He only nodded, though his fists clenched at his sides in dismay.

Childe read over the listed names of eligible young ladies for him to marry with contempt; scrolling through the meaningless last names and accompanying statures, ordered from top to bottom by how highly they stood in the totem pole of nobility. Like he cared where the girl would come from.

He felt guilt for the miserable thing that would have to marry him; though he could care less about who these women were, he believed that they deserved a partner that loved them, or at least a good man that could stand to take care of them. All they would be to him is a nuisance, a label which they had done nothing to earn.

Though, when he neared the end of the list, a section devoted to common folk who had certain merits like striking beauty or some sort of fame, that he found a name he recognized.

Your name.

Oh, how he remembered you.

You were the daughter of good friends of his parents. Your families would often gather for holidays or dinner parties, sharing what little they had in the name of kinship. The gatherings were lively, full of happiness and cheer...

But you had a certain countenance that stood out to him and branded your name into a special part of his brain to be remembered for the rest of his life.

You were a little brat was what you were.

Though you were only a toddler when he met you, having only just taken your first steps while he was already halfway through being eight, he found you to be the most insufferable little human he'd ever met.

Your parents would always gab and brag about what a good little girl you were; how you never cried or screamed, how you were sweet and patient and loving—a wonderful surprise for parents preparing for the "terrible two's.".

They had to be lying, because every time Ajax would come into view you'd immediately throw a fit, wailing and swiping at his face with a kind of rage an entire army of men could not match.

He had no idea why; he never touched you, or spoke to you, all he did upon your first meeting was draw back in repulse.

You weren't a pleasure to look at; with your beady little eyes and thick eyelashes that lined them, your thin eyebrows and piercing gaze. You looked like some haunted porcelain doll. And there was a certain consciousness behind your eyes that children your age were not supposed to have.

His little siblings were much cuter.

And he did not hesitate to say that.

"Tonia was a prettier baby. What's wrong with her?", he piped up, humiliating his mother and father who immediately scolded him for his rudeness. Your mother only laughed.

"Trust me, she'll be a beauty when she grows up. I won't be surprised when you come around here in sixteen years asking to marry her."

This started a little musing session between your mothers, giggling about the possibility of their children being wed and how wonderful that would be for their friendship and their families.

Meanwhile, Ajax was dwelling on how that would absolutely never happen—if the look on your face was any indicator.

You were red as a tomato, nose scrunched in distain as your eyes pierced his. Like you'd understood him.

How was he supposed to know babies could take offense?

Whether or not your infant brain could comprehend his words, your hatred was clear, and before he could react, your soft little hand went flying towards his face and landed with a resounding THWAP!

Even though you struck him, you immediately burst into tears, bawling crocodile tears that ran down your face and dripped off of your chin.

All of the adults in the room immediately ran to your aid, hushing and petting you while scorning Ajax for "tormenting the poor girl."

Never before had he felt so cheated.

That begun his feud with a two year old.

Your detest for one another ran deep. So much so that every gathering between your families ended in you receiving plenty of sneaky pinches to your fat baby skin and him risking a bald spot with the amount of hair you'd rip out of his head.

It was a nightmare you could walk too, since you'd often seek him out just to babble in annoyance and tug at the knee of his trousers.

"See? Look at how much she likes you!", his mother would coo, but he knew better. Your grappling with his pants was your pea-brained strategy to get him to bend down and remove you so you could bop him one on the nose.

He swore you were such a strong baby. He'd rather take a hit from a club than suffer the force that your tiny fists could bring down on his head.

That's why you were the perfect girl to be his wife

If he were to marry any other woman, the guilt of leaving her alone at home for long stretches of time, depriving her of having the good husband she deserves rather than a man who could never love her, would be overwhelming.

Sure, he was a monster, but he wasn't about to let some innocent bystander be collateral damage.

But you? The evil, horrible little wench you are? You more than deserved it.

In his mind, he'd actually be doing his fellow man a favor by saving an unsuspecting bachelor from accidentally marrying a grisly thing like you.

So, although his retainers were already in the process of scheduling meetings with his potential brides, he plucked your name from the list without hesitation.

"Set the wedding date. I'll have that one."

The organizers looked between themselves warily, deciding whether or not they should challenge him on this monumental decision.

"And nothing too grand—it'll just be family.", he cooly added, leaning back in his chair to rest his feet upon his desk and crushing the list of names under his dirty boots.

In the end, the harbinger always gets what he wants, so his retainers retreated with quiet nods and quick steps.

Though Childe acted aloof towards the decision to have you as his bride, when the day of the wedding actually arrived and he found himself standing at the altar of a small church in Mosepok—his home town, his palms were sweating and eyes darting around nervously. He shifted his weight on his feet as the congregation waited for you to enter; this was supposed to be a small ceremony, but leave it to his mother and father's proud announcements to their friends and neighbors to draw a crowd. As his eyes scanned the faces of those who'd known him in his youth, he realized near all of the small port town was packed into the pews. He wracked his brain for the answer as to why these people would want to watch their old town troublemaker's union, but he supposed it would be the most interesting thing to happen in the town since his era of delinquency.

It was a miracle that the budget the Fatui gave Childe for this wedding greatly superseded the amount he'd needed for the original plan of a small gathering; it was more than enough to feed the whole town for a night, which actually brought a flicker of joy to Childe's chest.

He was pleased that he could give back to the community that handled him like a family in his childhood.

But that flicker was immediately quenched when the creaking sound of the heavy oak doors that led into the chapel reverberated through the room—revealing the silhouette cast in white of his bride.

His stomach turned with anxiety. Childe had led battalions into what could be considered suicide missions if not for their miraculous victorious outcome, and yet, somehow, the fear he felt standing in front of a girl that, though she may not be small by definition, definitely looked so standing next to him, significantly surpassed that of which he's ever felt.

His cold body shook like he stood inches from death.

Suddenly, he remembered the fury your little body had when you were only a baby, and it dawned on him that you've only gotten bigger, smarter, stronger. A little arbiter of the apocalypse couldn't have grown into the meek woman he imagined, if anything, her bloodlust grew with age.

What did he get himself into? Was he an idiot? Did he, blinded by his scheming for revenge, land himself in a lion's den?

With a light tap on the shoulder from the priest, he jolted out of his stupor and found you standing in front of him already, suddenly remembering that he was now to lift your veil.

His hands shook as he reached out, bracing himself for the hideous face he'd been forced to associate with at every friendly gathering between your parents in childhood, and now, due to his own brashness, would have to associate with every time he returned home or attended public events.

He took a deep breath and shut his eyes as he took the fabric between his white-knuckled fingers and threw the thing up and over your head. The procession hummed with awe and approval—some more boisterous men from the docks whistling, to which their wives jabbed an elbow into their ribs.

The sounds of adoration resounding from the audience perplexed Childe, drawing his interest and encouraging him to open one wary eye and peek at you.

But his cautious peek grew into an owlish gawking and dropped jaw when the woman before him shined like an angel.

This couldn't have been the girl he knew in her infancy; her once-beady eyes now twinkled like stars, her red puffy face was now sculpted and the only remnants of her discoloration resided in dusted pink pigments on her cheeks. They were so perfectly placed that they could be mistaken for a painting by an artist with a keen eye. He pried his gaze from your enrapturing eyes to ogle your lips—plushy and inviting. He'd give anything to kiss a gorgeous woman like you.

And he remembered with an unexpected delight that he would by the end of this ceremony.

Before he knew it, the soft ring of your voice settled upon his ears. Having been caught in a trance, he hadn't realized the procession already arrived at your vows.

He only tuned in after the opening sentences of your declaration had passed, your words blurred by his reverie.

"I promise to wait for you when you go and embrace you when you return; to make a warm, solace of a home for you that you can always come back to, whether there be a roof over our heads or not. I promise to follow you through this life and meet you in the next, to be by your side when you need me, no matter how far apart we may be forced to exist. I promise to love you and only you, to be true as long as your ring encloses my finger, and promise to keep it there forever. I will take your family into my arms just as you will me, care for them—as they are an extension of you, to love them just as I do you. I'll hold you ever close to my heart, speak to you with nothing but kindness, recognize your face as that of my partner in life, my one and only, and..."

Childe jumped when he felt your warm hand sneak up on his and gingerly intertwine your fingers, to which he did not resist, nor want to.

"I promise to love you as you are; no matter how much the years we spend together may change us."

To his puzzlement, Childe felt a certain wetness roll down his cheek, causing him to look up at the skylight above the both of you to check if it was raining. When another droplet ran down the other side of his face, he realized he was crying.

Childe never cried, he couldn't even remember the last time it had happened; maybe it was sometime when he was a boy, but the memory simply did not exist. These were not tears shed in misery, they were spurred by your words of devotion, words he'd never been blessed with before. He truly wondered now if you may be divine, but all he beheld of you told him you were, in fact, human, and not a vision of absolution sent from the heavens above.

You tilted your head to the side and blinked your dollish eyelashes at him, obviously waiting for something, to which he remembered that is was now his turn.

He had neglected to write vows beforehand or memorize the traditional vows spoken by couples bound by marriage as an arrangement. He had, in fact, planned on skipping the process altogether, but your profession of love caught him off guard and incentivized him to speak his own.

So, with a blank mind, he resorted to letting the few truths he knew spill from his mouth.

"I'd only known you during our childhoods, but how you've blossomed and changed has..."

He had never been one for words, so making something up on the spot in front of quite literally a hundred people was daunting. His voice seized with trepidation, but he took a breath and moved forward.

"Has...left me speechless. My mind is empty, and all I can think of now is...that I am blessed."

He swallowed a lump in his throat and continued, struck by your endearing gaze on him—it made his voice quiver as it resounded from his chest.

"I'd assumed I knew you, but it's clear to me now that I have so much more to learn."

He unconsciously squeezed your hand for comfort, and, with a gentle smile on your face, you reassuringly squeezed back; making him sigh and yearn to feel more of you—imagining that you felt like warm cotton, soft and homey, something he could bury himself in and happily stay there for eternity.

"And I want to learn it. I...want to spend my whole life in awe of you, discovering as much as I can, knowing you like I know myself."

He could not hesitate before he blurted his next statement, his voice getting carried away from him and spilling his most personal beliefs.

"And loving you as you love me."

Your cheeks turned an even brighter shade of pink, and your eyes glimmered as your perfect lips stretched into an even more enticing smile. He could hear your soft, happy sigh, a sound that not even the priest beside the two of you could catch, almost like a secret meant just for him.

Your sweetness enthralled him like nothing he'd ever experienced— slowly convincing him that you very well may be the best thing that's ever happened to him.

"I'll take care of you.", he promised, and meant it. "I'll spend the rest of my life ensuring your safety and happiness. Despite what you promised before, I will always put a roof over your head. You'll be forever warm and safe. I will fight for you, die for you, do anything you ask. You will want for nothing as long as you're mine."

His vow had come upon its conclusion with one final promise he all but growled, like it was somehow in danger of being broken—that he would go to any length to protect.

"And you will forever be mine."

His pause at the end indicated to the priest that the his vow had ended, and the way your lips parted in wonder and your wide eyes remained locked on his made him want to lean in and kiss you like every inch of his body burned to do. But he had to, begrudgingly, wait; hoping the ceremony would end as soon as possible so he could finally have you to himself and ask you all the questions he was dying for the answers to.

Did you really mean what you said? He sure did, and he didn't even know he had the capacity to not only promise, but want, desperately so, the fulfill the oaths he had declared to you.

Soon enough, the priest announced it was now time for the bestowing of the rings—a symbol of the bond you will share for eternity.

As the ring bearer, Childe's dear brother, Teucer, brought the rings resting on a white silk pillow over to the altar and held it over his head while he balanced on his tippy toes so the two of you could reach the rings with ease. Childe immediately felt awash in shame. All he'd purchased for you was a simple silver band—no precious gems, no original detailing, just a band. He didn't expect to want to take pride in the symbol of his loyalty you'd wear for him on your finger. He'd get you a new one, a better one—one he could admire as he kissed your hand, held it with adoration and smoothed his fingers over it.

But although the ring fell below expectations, there was no disappointment on your face. You barely glanced at it, your eyes trained on his face with a fondness he'd never received before. Your gaze had his heart spilling over with exaltation.

You took his hand in yours and slipped the perfectly fitted ring around his finger, giving it a small squeeze when you were done—as if to brand your affection deep into his hand.

He returned the gesture, taking your other hand in his and, carefully, securing the ring around your finger as well; he breathed a sigh of relief and felt a weight he hadn't known was resting on his shoulders alleviate. His heart thundered in his chest, threatening to leap out in a desperate attempt to be ever closer to yours.

The priest spoke, but his voice was drowned out by Childe's inner voice, wailing for you.

All he could register was the sound of your silver bell-like voice, piercing through the fog in his head like a star's light in the void of the night sky above.

"I do.", you said.

He couldn't tell if he'd rushed ahead of the priest's announcement of his turn or not, but he followed your statement blindly.

"I do.", he whispered ardently, brushing the backs of those precious hands of yours softly with his thumbs.

After the final blurb recited by the priest, a sentiment he couldn't bring himself to listen to in his anticipation, he finally heard the words he'd been waiting for.

"You may now kiss the bride."

Without a moment of delay, he brought both of his hands up to cup your cheeks, a look of ache in his face as it felt like you had reached an invisible hand into his chest and gripped his heart, and kissed you.

Fervently, passionately kissed you.

It took your breath away, left you panting when he finally pulled away after remembering he was, in fact, in front of his parents and broader community.

But cheers sang from the crowd for your union as he led you back down the steps of the altar and out of the church, eyes trained on your feet with your hand secured in his—watching carefully as you descended to make sure you wouldn't fall. He treated you as if you were sculpted from crystal glass.

After the two of you crossed the threshold out of the church as one, Childe gently tugged your hand to draw you closer so that he could whisper in your ear.

"Could we take a walk in the garden?"

While the guests made their way to the reception hall for their lavish dinner, you and Childe strolled through the church's garden together, hands still intertwined as the two of you gazed at the various winter shrubs and evergreen trees sprinkled with snow. It was beautiful in its own kind of way; the way life persevered through otherwise uninhabitable conditions, how even the bear oak trees existed as intricate silhouettes against the grey sky—providing cover as the sun sank down and gave way to a grim dusk, it was wonderful, and in this moment, it was yours to share.

The two of you came to a halt at a marble bench next to a large, frozen fountain, adorned with swirling details and moulding from an older, more fanciful era. He swiped off the snow that had built on top of the bench, then removed his large, fur-lined cloak to rest on the surface. He led you down to sit on it, having fashioned a dry, warm seat for you as he stood.

"Won't you be cold?"

"I'll be fine.", he assured you. He'd grown used to the frigid air of his home country, having entered various conflicts with nothing but thin linen to cover him for the sake of his movements not being burdened by thick, heavy fabric.

"Thank you.", you spoke, softly, and the words warmed his chest more than any coat could.

He stood there for a long moment, just taking in the sight of you. He just couldn't believe you were real, and couldn't believe you were his at so little a cost—he'd done nothing but bellyache and pluck your name off of a paper, and somehow the situation ended up being the best decision of his life. He'd found someone that claimed to truly, deeply love him by sheer chance.

And that thought brought him to the question that had been weighing on his mind since your vows.

"Did you really mean what you said?", he asked, quietly, hesitantly. After the words left his mouth, he wished he'd never said them. He didn't want to know the answer; if he could live in a fantasy where a miracle like you truly adored him, he'd seize the opportunity and hold it close to his heart for the rest of his life. He felt like such a fool.

"Of course I did.", you chuckled, like the question was ridiculous.

"I thought you hated me.", he confessed, his curiosity for your change of heart getting the best of him when he knew better than to ask too many questions. You only quirked your head and blinked at him, indicating that he needed to clarify. "When we were younger, you acted like you wanted my head on a stick."

To that admission, you laughed heartily. It was a lovely sound, one his mind would no doubt play on repeat in his darkest of times, sending sparks to his heart that would keep him moving forward—back to you so he could hear it again and again. "I was a toddler, dear. I didn't understand my feelings! And you were pretty nasty to me, too.", you said with a playful, pointed look.

The term of endearment made his heart bubble, craving to hear you say it again, but his mind was desperate for more answers. "But...how did you...", he coughed awkwardly, "fall for me?".

His carefully spoken question only made you giggle once again, but you could understand his confusion.

"Oh, Ajax. You were the most entertaining person I've ever met. I know we fought, but I remembered your presence in my life so fondly. And I'd look at pictures of us from our old gatherings, where our parents would force you to hold me on your lap and smile, or take candid shots of us chasing each other around, and I'd wish for you to come back so we could fight again.", you laughed at the memory. "I thought of you all the time, you know. And, as I grew older and life passed by, I'd keep looking back on those photos and...", your cheeks turned even redder than the chilly air had already done, flushing your cheeks and nose. After this conversation, Childe would make sure to rush you inside so you could warm up by a hearth. "Well, my heart would beat for you. And I wished you would come back for different reasons...so I could see you again and fall in love with the man you've become."

Childe gulped in shame. He knew the man he'd become was...cruel. Wicked. He'd never thought so little of himself than when he stood before you, your glorious, pure eyes assessing him like Celestia would upon the day of his death.

But how you looked on at him was not in judgement, but affection. "And when I met you at the altar, I did. I truly did."

He was so swayed by your words, so caught up in your devotion, that though he knew he was undeserving, he leaned down and connected your lips with his once again; his large hands warmed you where they caressed your cheek and the side of your neck, his lips thawing your frozen ones. The flavor of you was intoxicating, but as much as he wanted to prolong this moment, your icy skin pushed him to get you inside immediately.

So he drew back, drawing the most angelic whine of protest from your lips. It made him grin in pride.

"Let's warm you up, huh?"

Though you wanted to stay in the privacy of this isolated garden, continue to live in this moment that only existed for the two of you, you couldn't deny how you shivered and your stomach growled. It was time for your reception, and you couldn't keep your guests waiting.

So you, albeit reluctantly, let Ajax pull you up into his arms and throw his cloak around the both of you before taking you back to the church where he married you, now entering sharing one heart, one life, one love. Forever.

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theemporium · 1 year

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[REQUESTS OPEN]

[2.2k] summer nights, muggle gadgets and lovesick boy who just wants to see his girl again.

based off: “i want you...here...right now” + this request

“How’s summer with the Addams family?”

You rolled your eyes, even if the action was done out of fondness. “You watched one muggle show and now you’re obsessed.”

“Your family are a bunch of loonies, sweetheart, sorry to break it to you.”

Once upon a time, summer was a time to longed for. When the winter days were short, cold and miserable and when spring didn’t seem to hit the spark of sunshine and warm days you needed, it was summer where you found happiness and contentment. It was summer where those long days were spent basking in whatever sun the English weather gave you, fingers sticky with the juice of the ice lollies you’d fight your brothers for and hiding in secret nooks of the house when Walburga would stand by the staircase, red faced and angry at the trails of mud staining the expensive carpets.

But when you enrolled in Hogwarts, you realised that summer held much more than warm weather and grass-stained knees.

Because Hogwarts was a taste of freedom, a taste of the world beyond the walls of the Black household where everything was simple, quiet and nice. It was so fucking nice and it was easy to get drunk off the independence, to get lost in it before you realised it was quickly being ripped away from you.

Because that’s what summer had become. It had gone from being your salvation to your prison in mere years, and now summer was a time you despised.

Summer dragged you away from your friends. Summer threw you under the roof of your overbearing parents. Summer jammed a wedge between you and your brothers as you played the games and politics that came with living in the Black household.

Summer kept you away from James—the dirty little secret you had been keeping for the world because you were young and selfish and you loved having him to yourself, even when you weren’t really supposed to have him.

“I can’t disagree with that,” you muttered out, a huff of amusement leaving your lips as you remembered the dinner from the night before. In all honesty, you were surprised the house was still in one piece after the fights and arguments that broke out last night. Then again, it wouldn’t surprise you to find out that wards had been put in place to keep the place standing for as long as Black blood lived under the roof.

“No one’s giving you too much grief, are they?”

That was the thing about James Potter, you just weren’t sure he was actually real. Growing up with the Black surname, you had been surrounded by pureblooded wizards and witches from the moment you were born. You had dined with them, you had conversed with them and danced with them over the years. You knew what pureblooded children were brought up to be, what they were brought up to think like.

And yet, James was the living anomaly of the next generation of purebloods.

Though he was loud and arrogant and a little too up himself for his own good, he was kind and smart and managed to make you feel like the most important person in the world, regardless of who you were. James Potter cared like he was carrying the world on his shoulders and had to act on their behalf. He cared like nobody else you had ever met, and you didn’t know if that made your heart swoon or your head spin because it was just never something you had ever seen in your life.

Men like James Potter were one in a million and you had somehow managed to catch the eye of the formidable wizard.

It had been his idea to use the muggle telephones. Just weeks before you had to break for the summer holidays, he had dragged you into a broom closet with a bright smile on his face, almost rolling back on the heels of his feet. He explained everything, from the device to how it worked to how he had convinced Lily to retrieve the items so it wouldn’t be traced back to either of you.

He scribbled down his number and shoved it into your pocket, kissing you quickly goodbye before he raced off to quidditch practice, leaving you flustered and bamboozled of the man James Potter just kept proving himself to be.

Because he knew what your family was like. And he knew that you hated going home for the summer. And he knew that with your family watching your every move and magic being a hopeless endeavour because of the Ministry rules for underaged witches and wizards using magic that using muggle telephones might just be the only option you have left to talk to each other.

And he had taken that step, because he wanted you just as much as you wanted him and it made your heart swell.

“Nothing new,” you told him, fingers wrapped around the cord of the phone as you laid back on your bed, window open as the summer heat engulfed your room.

“I don’t like leaving you alone there.”

“I have Sirius and Reg,” you told him, but a part of you wanted to say you didn’t like him leaving you too.

“Sirius fucks off to the muggle world and Regulus doesn’t have a backbone yet.”

“James,” you scolded softly, though you knew he was right. You loved your brothers, loved them in the unconditional way siblings loved each other. But it was an ‘every man for themself’ situation whenever you three returned home for holidays.

Sirius would run off, not ashamed to dish out the same horrid words back to your parents when they yelled and belittled him. He would sneak off into muggle London, spends days there and would come back with treats as a form of apology for leaving you alone.

Regulus was a little different. He still held your parents in high regard, he still wanted to make them proud. He tried to be the son they wanted, tried to live up to the expectations they held for a pureblood son from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. He would never intervene when either you or Sirius were getting scolded.

It meant a lot of the time you were left on your own during the holidays. It meant that you spent days craving to have the warmth and familiarity of the family and friends you made in Hogwarts. You were left craving the life of freedom and independence you had there.

“I’m just being honest, sweetheart. You know I mean good. I just wish I could have you here, ya know? With me.”

You smiled softly at the idea, a warm feeling settling contentedly in the bottom of your stomach. “Yeah, me too, Jaime.”

“It would be fun, don’t ya think? I could take you riding out back near the lake Mum always yells at me to stay away from. We could take a picnic, maybe steal a bottle of fire whiskey…could even watch the sunset from there.”

“Sunset, huh?” you mused, entertaining the conversation even if it stung a little, the jealousy of a reality you wish was your own. “And what about when it gets dark, Mr Potter? You gonna protect me from the monsters?”

“Maybe I have other plans when the sun goes down.”

And despite yourself, you feel your cheeks flushing at the insinuation. “Like?”

“You’re really making it difficult to be a gentleman over the phone, sweetheart.”

“Maybe I don’t wanna talk to a gentleman,” you retorted, biting back the grin that was threatening to break out on your face.

“Fucking hell, baby, you’re killing me.”

“I miss you, Jaime,” you sighed, hand resting on your stomach whilst the other clutched the phone.

“Not been taking care of yourself?”

“It’s not the same.”

You listened to the boy let out soft curses on the other side of the phone, followed by the sound of shuffling sheets and a soft thud that you could have sworn was followed by an ‘ow’.

“It doesn’t feel as good, James,” you continued as you let out a long sigh. “I miss your hands…the way you touch me…the way your mouth feels on me…the way your dick—”

“Fuck, baby, please. I want you…here…right now.”

“‘s not possible,” you murmured in response, shuffling a little to sit up against your headboard, your thighs clenched together. It was fun teasing him, getting him all worked up and bothered. But it sucked when you were left sitting there, memories of just how good he could make you feel left playing on repeat in your head.

“Maybe it is,” James countered, something quite like desire and hope lacing his words. “What if you floo’d here?”

You paused. “James, my parents—”

“—will never know,” he finished for you. “Your mum will be doing her own head in with that dinner she’s planning, and I know Sirius is away somewhere in London for the next few days. Regulus won’t even know you’ve left. You could stay here for a few days, get a break from everyone…stay with me for a bit.”

You pondered his words. “And your parents?”

“Mum loves you,” he snorted. “And Dad would probably adopt you in the drop of a hat.”

“I knew Monty had a soft spot for me,” you retorted, a small smile growing on your face as something quite like anticipation sent a thrill down your spine. Before you could convince yourself otherwise, you were grabbing a backpack and half-hazardly shoving what you needed for the sudden trip into the bag.

“You’re a weakness for all Potter men, baby. It’s all a part of your charm.”

The buzz in your veins felt like the nights you’d sneak out of your room, James’ invisibility cloak covering you as you snuck through the corridors of the school after curfew to go meet him by the Whomping Willow. The nights where you would sneak around just to spend a few hours with him, and even the nights where you would join your brother and his friends in their marauders shenanigans.

You peeked your head out the door, glancing down the hallways and straining your ears to hear if anybody was wandering the house this late at night. Less than thirty seconds later, you were bustling down the staircase and making your way towards the fireplace before any of the house-elves saw you.

“Potter Manor!”

The world swirled around you in blues and greens and reds and pinks, pulling and tugging at your limbs in every direction and making your head spin before you felt solid ground beneath your feet. You blinked, a little disoriented and the grip on your bag ironclad as you took a moment to breathe.

But before you could even step out of the fireplace, a pair of arms were wrapped around you and tugging you into a large, warm chest and something inside your heart finally settled for the first time in weeks since the holidays had started.

“I fucking missed you so much,” James’ muffled voice muttered against the top of your head, one of his hands coming up to cup the back of your head and pressing it against his chest where you could hear his heart thundering away. His other hand was already reaching for your bag, taking it out of your grasp so you could wrap both arms around him.

“You’re warm,” you murmured, enjoying the sound of your boy’s soft chuckles as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.

“That’s all you gotta say?”

“Gotta keep you humble where I can, Potter.”

The boy pulled back, enough for you to look up at him and see the grin split across his face before he leaned down, kissing you senseless like you weren’t standing in the middle of his living room where either of his parents could find you. When he pulled away, he looked down at the dazed look on your face and his smile only widened.

“C’mon,” he murmured and nodded his head towards the staircase. “Need to hide you away before Mum hogs you to herself.”

“Maybe I came here for her,” you retorted, enjoying the feeling of James taking his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers and squeezing softly as though to reassure himself you were really there.

“Don’t go breaking my heart now, baby, I’ve just planned the perfect weekend for us,” James mused playfully, glancing over his shoulder to flash you a wink before he pulled you into his room, locking his door behind him and dropping your bag on the floor.

“Hey—”

“Yell at me later,” he murmured as his arm wrapped around your waist, practically tugging your body onto the bed until you fell on his chest with a soft oomph.

“I forgot how needy you were,” you joked lightly, shuffling until you were comfortably tucked against his side.

“Just want my girl,” he grumbled, tilting your head up so he could lean down to peck your lips. “Is that such a crime?”

“Maybe to my brothers,” you countered and watched him roll his eyes.

“Please don’t bring up your brothers when I’m trying to seduce you, sweetheart,” James groaned, his arm around your body tightening.

You snickered. “I think you are wearing too many clothes to be seducing me, Potter.”

He raised his brows. “Is that a preference?”

“I would say more of a demand.”

“Well, who am I to deny my pretty girl?”

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jiangwanyinscatmom · 11 months

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I don't know if you already answered this so feel free to ignore.

What is your thoughts on Yu Ziyuan? am I the only one that thinks fandon defence of her saying she is just the typical Asian tiger mom is insulting to Asian mothers? You can be strict and not be abusive and guess what? YZ is not it.

Hell the author themselves made an entire chapter to say that she took things too far too often against a single person to be simple discipline towards a disciple. It was personal and she took great pleasure in it, just bc WY decides to stay despite his treatment doesn't make it any less horrible.

Am i the only one that thinks she only accepted WC orders to whip WY because she always took any chance to do so? That if Wang Lingjao hadn't mentioned she would have to be subservient to someone of lower class she would have gleefully cut off WYs hand and not reacted at all to the Wen invasion?

That in her last moments she made sure to remind WY one last time that he would be nothing but a servant to her, to tie him with a last wish so he would have the moral obligation to give up everything to JC like a proper servant should? I wholly believe part of her sudden tenderness to JC in her last goodbye was to also rub in WY face not only what he never had but what JC was losing just to rub salt in the wound.

Just, in what universe does people see a girlboss misunderstood by the world and its sexism? sometimes i think i read the wrong books or saw a different show... am i really the only one that sees this?

Good evening anon, I've been sitting on this a bit as I was weighing how exactly to answer this coherently. So, for the short answer; I do not like her as a character nor is she supposed to be seen as anything deeper than what she is. A terrible mother and person who let resentment rule her.

The Long Answer: She is not misunderstood, she is very easy to break down. She was a jealous youth who actively agreed to a marriage where the fiancé was already lukewarm to her disposition and continued to cast blame on Cangse Sanren stealing something she never had. Note as well, as she was the one to force a marriage and insisted on this even after Cangse Sanren had married Wei Changze. She is selfish and entitled. This carries over to how she treats her children, she is not happy with her own self, so she hyper focused on the flaws she instilled within Jiang Cheng. Instead of actually supporting him as a mother should, she insults him and instead of love she actively despises and insults her own child. This is not a healthy parental figure. She was hardly there enough obviously to even think of offering care and love in a very negligent household. She laughs instead when Wei Wuxian is brought in she is more concerned about being proven right about adding another child into the household will disrupt their already volatile dislike of each other.

Not once does she praise her children she fixates on despising Wei Wuxian and being annoyed he is able to be talented naturally so much she constantly pits her son against him herself and encourages that resentment to grow in him. She does not care about anything other than her own festering hate, and sure as hell never nurtured her own with love. She is miserable, pathetic and no whatever love she may have held for Jiang Cheng was toxic and all the worse to him as she never uplifted him as an actual loving parent should.

Her treatment of Wei Wuxian is certainly just as vile given he wasn't even her own yet she stayed forever jealous all over her own stories that exasperated her own hate for Cangse Sanren and superimposed that to Wei Wuxian. She has no excuse for her treatment of any of the children under her household. Hate is a sad way to live and end life, and it stops being sympathetic when she lived and died garnering the feelings and reactions she earned with it.

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #I hate madam yu #sad poor woman my ass

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misslavenderlady · 1 year

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The Lost Boys Former Lives - Paul 💙

Others: David, Marko, Dwayne

TW: Child abuse, Corporal punishment, Homophobia, S*icidal thoughts, Depression, Anxiety, Death, Drug use, Sex

The playful one of our Lost Boys and the fourth of Max's "family".

This is what Paul's life was when he was human.....

In 1940, Paul was born. He was the youngest child of his parents with twin, older brothers. They lived in suburban neighborhood in Florida. Unlike the other Lost Boys, Paul was born into a relatively wealthy family. His great-grandfather had major success in the steel industry, and such riches were passed to each generation. His parents' wealth had only grown with his father’s massive success as a car salesman (a very sneaky one at that). His mother was a housewife and poured all her time and energy into making sure their home was always perfect.

They were the perfect picture of a successful, nuclear family in the 40s and 50s. The kind you’d see on billboards and advertisements. Bright smiles, neat clothing, and all the luxuries one could only dream of having. Neighbors and friends expressed envy of the gadgets and expensive decorations they owned. That was certainly fine by them, as a perfect image was something his parents strived for more than anything. They always worked to keep up appearances and impress others.

There was just one problem with this; behind closed doors, Paul’s family was downright insufferable. His mother was prone to physical violence due to the nasty temper she had while his father would tear him down with full-volume screaming. There was no proper communication or unity in the household. Anything could set off a fight without any notice. They also hated anything that didn’t fit the traditional W.A.S.P. appearance (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant), looking down on anyone who was even slightly different than them.

Paul was a very odd kid in their mind, and he didn’t always fit the image his parents were trying to keep up. From an early age, Paul displayed signs of ADHD, but it wasn’t really understood or diagnosed in that time period. This unfortunately led to a lot of issues with his parents. They berated him for not staying still, for doing weird things for no reason (which was just stimming), for accidentally interrupting conversations, and for showing certain emotions at “inappropriate” times. Poor Paul didn’t understand what he was doing wrong, and it frustrated him constantly.

It didn’t help that his brothers were golden boys in their parents' eyes. They were perfect at everything. School, sports, music, boy scouts, you name it, they could master it. They worked as a team and it helped them succeed quite a bit. Unfortunately, they would use their duo dynamic for bullying their little brother. They would kick him, throw him in the dirt and mud and lock him in the basement when he was “annoying” them. Paul was miserable, but to them, it was a game.

School life wasn’t much better either. Paul struggled quite a bit, as it was extremely difficult for him to concentrate. Due to the time period, he was punished by his teachers with rulers slapped on his palms or forced to sit in the corner while the other kids laughed at him. He didn’t make any friends because of this.

Paul was a punching bag to everyone around him. He was a frightened little boy who had to deal with the terrible ways the people in his life would punish him. All because of him acting a little differently. He didn’t understand why they were so cruel. Why his parents mistreated others, why his teachers thought he was stupid, and why his brothers wished he had never been born. One day when he was 8, Paul tried to run away from home, fed up with the mistreatment.

He didn't think to bring much. He had run away with just an old lunch box full of random toys. Paul was just a little boy that didn’t know where he was going or what he would do. All he knew was that he wanted to be far away from his family. After several hours, he found a set of train tracks. One thing that brought him comfort was trains, as they could take him away from the life he was suffering through. As he played on the rails, he wished a train would come by for him to get on.

To his surprise, a train DID come, but it was heading straight for him. His foot got caught in the tracks, leaving him stuck and in danger. Paul’s screams got the attention of someone, and in a matter of seconds, a motorcycle rode by the train tracks, the driver on top scooping him up moments before he could get run over.

A runaway greaser had saved his life that day. He was a very nice stranger, kneeling down to talk to Paul at eye level, making sure he was okay, and asking where his parents were. Paul was in complete awe of the stranger. He thought he was the coolest person he’d ever laid eyes on. The bike he rode was powerful, he had a cigarette in his mouth and the leather jacket he wore was incredibly stylish. At that moment, Paul was looking at the image of a person he wanted to be someday.

Thankfully, the stranger was caring enough to take him to a local diner to get him some food and to call his parents. Paul actually preferred the greasy fries and sweet milkshakes over the elaborate, rich dinners his mother made. It was much more appetizing for a kid’s palette. It took quite a while for anyone to show up, so the two of them hung out together. Paul got to dance to the music (which was Good Rockin’ Tonight by Wynonie Harris) and have fun playing games. It was the first time in his life he actually felt like he had a friend, and it brought him immense joy.

Unfortunately, the happiness didn’t last, and soon his parents pulled up outside the diner. Paul did NOT want to leave, clinging onto the stranger who he now called a friend. They were very kind and encouraging, helping him feel a little braver. In order to make it easier, they gave Paul one of their many silver bracelets as a token of friendship. That way, Paul would have something to remember the good times by. He still wears that bracelet to this day.

If Paul thought his parents were mean before, they became MUCH worse after he ran away. They were horrified by the stranger who helped him, and rather than praise them for keeping their child safe, they went on a detailed rant to Paul about how rock & roll was the devil’s music and that anyone who rode a motorcycle was a no-good hoodlum (they also made some rather hateful remarks regarding the stranger’s sexuality). They forbade him from ever indulging in that kind of stuff. In fact, they would make sure of it by harshly punishing him if they even thought he was doing such things.

Paul’s life became empty, as he could never properly enjoy the things that brought him joy. When the family got their first television set, Paul wasn’t allowed to watch anything on it. Several of his toys were thrown out without notice if his parents felt like doing so. Punishments got more severe, and Paul was often backed into a corner either being screamed at or being struck with a belt. All while this was going on, his brothers were spoiled and allowed to do as they wished.

As he started to get older, Paul believed there was no hope for him. That life would only get worse and worse and no matter what he would do, there would be nothing but pain. He was very much alone in the world. He never really smiled or laughed, as he had no reason to. If he was ever seen grinning for a family picture, it wasn’t genuine. He was just in survival mode, doing whatever he could to not invoke the wrath of his parents so he wouldn’t have so many bruises.

The only time Paul would find peace was at night. When everyone else in the house was asleep, he’d sneak into his brothers’ room and take their record player so he could listen to their music. Paul would listen in the basement with as low volume as possible. Music became his savior. In the 50s, he found rock & roll again, and it brought him the only real happiness in his life. It was fun, energetic and made him want to go wild. It helped him realize how much he loved dancing and gave him hope that he could live a fun life one day.

When he was 16, his brothers (who were still at home for college) turned on the Ed Sullivan show to see Elvis Presley perform. Paul was sneakily trying to watch too, as he really didn’t want to miss out. Of course, he got caught and his brothers snitched to their parents, claiming Paul had a crush on the singer. His parents were LIVID. They decided from then on, Paul’s life was going to be far more strict than it already was.

They locked him in his room every night, only letting him out for school and chores. It wasn’t like Paul’s room was a safe place anymore, as they searched the room top to bottom and got rid of every book, magazine, toy, poster and decoration. It was just his bed and nightstand that had no drawer. If Paul wanted to read something, he’d either get the bible or a school book. Chores were worse, as they berated even the most perfect job done. If they found so much as a speck of dust, he’d get beaten.

(WARNING: The next paragraph has mentions of s*icidal thoughts. Proceed with caution or skip if you need to)

Every single part of Paul’s life was miserable. He was a prisoner in his home and overwhelmed in school. It actually got to a point where Paul was held back a year for his struggling, which didn’t help the situation with his parents. With nothing to keep him happy, Paul considered multiple times taking his own life just to make the suffering stop.

One day, Paul got detention for falling asleep in class, meaning he didn’t get to go home until after dark. He was walking alone when he accidentally bumped into someone while turning a corner. He was face to face with three handsome, rocker-style boys around his age. Paul was absolutely mystified by them. They reminded him of the stranger who saved his life as a child. The thing that brought him true happiness.

Amused by him, they introduced themselves as David, Marko and Dwayne. They offered to take him to the local diner for some food and a dance or two. Paul was scared of the consequences with his parents, but the boys assured him it would be okay. He ended up having a really nice time, the weight of the world off his shoulders as they showed him a fun time. When he had to go, they gave him a ride home (it was Dwayne’s bike he rode on the back on). Paul was incredibly sad to say goodbye, but David promised they would come by to help sneak him out for more fun in the future.

So that’s what happened. The night became safe for Paul again, as the boys would come to his bedroom window and sneak him out to play. They gifted him jewelry and helped teach him how to use eye makeup. Whether they went on wild motorcycle rides, went out dancing or just listened to some music while having a smoke, Paul was incredibly happy. To him, life was worth living again, and the boys were the guardian angels that saved him.

They also helped Paul get more comfortable with his sexuality. He had developed feelings for Marko first (who also became his first kiss), but ultimately found all three of them attractive. It was confusing to him, as his parents were very strict about the idea of relationships being between one man and one woman, but his friends weren’t judgmental or restrained with their beliefs.

Finally ready to leave the torment of his parents forever, Paul asked to run away with the boys, as they would be traveling again soon. Having fallen in love with the adorable blond, they all agreed, ready to help him sneak out with what little he had. They were at a picnic spot in the woods and enjoying the celebration of Paul leaving his awful family…..when all of a sudden, said family pulled up in their car.

His parents and brothers were there, ready to take him back home away from the “sinful” lifestyle. His father in particular wanted to send Paul to military school to finally break him down and prevent more rebellious behavior. Paul was struggling with a panic attack, terrified and barely able to breathe. David pulled him aside and covered his ears while Marko and Dwayne completely mauled the awful family. Paul was confused when he saw vampire faces and yellow eyes on his friends, but he never felt anything less than safe. David made sure his eyes were closed while they got back on their bikes and left the scene.

Paul was free of that life, but he still wanted to complete his transition into the next one. He truly loved his friends and wanted to be with them forever, even after learning they were vampires. In his eyes, they weren’t monsters. He’d seen what real ones were. So the three of them agreed to turn him. Paul got to drink David’s blood from the bottle while the others cheered him on. When they asked where Paul wanted to go for his first hunt, he chose a familiar place from his childhood; the train tracks.

Several emotions were going through his mind when he spotted his first target. He had some doubts if he could really take another life, but David assured him he could do it. The world was full of so many cruel, heartless people who wanted to keep them down. It was one less monster to poison the lives of others. So when Paul’s vampire instincts kicked in, he went for the kill.

The first kill permanently changed Paul. After slaughtering and drinking from his target, something wonderful happened. A smile spread across his face. A real one. The most joyful smile he’d ever experienced. He was free. He was safe. Finally, he was ready to enjoy the night as a creature that would never know pain and sorrow again.

To celebrate, Paul went absolutely WILD that night. He flew into the sky and went straight into the window of a fancy hotel, ultimately committing his first break-in with his friends. He smoked weed for the first time, loving how light and dreamy it made him feel. They all drank heavily, not holding back with the bottles of wine, beer and champagne they had. He danced naked and sang at the top of his lungs. Paul even had sex with both Marko and Dwayne for his first time, feeling overwhelmed with love for them. David in particular was very proud of him, loving the wild child that Paul had finally become.

From then on, Paul was an entirely new person. To him, his previous life was nothing. All the bad memories and fears would be lost to time and he could be his true, authentic self. He would never be alone again and he would show his gratitude to his friends by helping keep the party going. Becoming a vampire was truly the best moment of his life, and he would never look back.

Additional Facts:

Paul hated the fact that his hair was cut short as a kid. He wanted it super long, but couldn’t have it that way because it wasn’t “appropriate” for boys. The moment he became a vampire, he vowed to grow it out and never go back to his short style.

If Paul had stayed human and had children, he would have had twins as his parents did. He carries the twin gene (@auntvamp)

He doesn’t just smoke weed for the sake of fun. He also finds that it helps calm any lingering anxieties he has from his human life.

In 1950, Paul saw the movie Cinderella while his parents were away on a trip. He was absolutely enchanted by it, feeling a deep connection to the story and the idea of leaving an abusive family and finding someone who would truly love him. He loves stories with happy endings. To this day, he still hums “So This is Love” when he’s in an especially good mood.

On that note, one of his pet names for the boys is “my prince”

As a human, he was allergic to dogs. The family never had pets anyway, as his parents thought they were dirty and too much work to care for. The only reason Paul knows he’s allergic was that he had a bad reaction to his cousin’s dog during a visit one Christmas. The reason he froze around Nanook wasn’t fear of the dog, but rather fear of another reaction.

The way he treats Laddie is just like how the stranger he met treated him (the stranger called him “bud” too). He wanted to be a super cool and caring older brother for Laddie, and nothing like the ones he had.

Paul never again saw the stranger who helped him as a child. In 1979 he swore he saw a familiar face from a middle-aged man he passed on the street but wasn’t entirely sure.

He has fully embraced the passage of time and the changes that have come with each decade he’s been alive. He loved the free love of the 60s, the disco era of the 70s, and the punk movement of the 80s. In his mind, life has gotten better and better with each decade, and he’s thankful to be still young and energetic as he experiences each one.

Paul never put a label on his identity, but he finds people attractive regardless of gender. When he became a vampire, his confidence was boosted and became quite a flirt. He loves making others feel good, whether it be with sweet nothings or sexual embraces.

He absolutely hates fights. Paul often tries to back out of fights or break them up because it brings back the fear of getting hit by his parents. He believes it’s embarrassing because he thinks he’s supposed to be tough like his friends, but they don’t mind it. In fact, they consider Paul to be their voice of reason if a fight gets too bad.

When Star joined their pack, he felt an immediate connection to her. He remembered how hard it was to be lonely, so he would always try his best to get her to smile or keep her company when she needed a friend. He’s not sure if his feelings toward her are more platonic or romantic, but he’s fine with just being her friend so she’s not alone. (their interactions are inspired by events in the novel)

Paul hates being reminded of the 40s and 50s due to bad memories, but one thing he still loves is going to old-fashioned diners. They’re a safe place for him, and the food is still very comforting. If he’s ever having a bad day, one of the boys will take him on a date to one.

He’s still a little in the dark about his ADHD, but he’s much more open with stimming due to the support of his friends.

Paul is the best singer out of all the Lost Boys. He found a love for karaoke when he became a vampire.

He was rather clumsy as a human, which led to a lot of problems with his parents. He broke a lot of nice China plates due to a bad case of butter fingers. Thankfully, the boys don’t mind it.

The idea of going to the train tracks with Michael was Paul’s. He had quite the adrenaline rush the first time they all hung down from the edge.

Despite all that he’s been through in life, Paul is incredibly kind. He won’t hunt people that are polite, he is friendly with kids, holds open doors for strangers, and leaves good tips (stolen from Max, of course) for servers. If he ever spots someone with signs of self-harm marks, he’ll go out of his way to help them with something or say something sweet to brighten their day. He personally knows how much that can mean to someone who’s struggling (him being the kindest Lost Boy is also from the novel)

#the lost boys #paul the lost boys #tlb #the lost boys headcanon #lavender headcanons

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reccyls · 9 months

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Sueharu's backstory (childhood, friendship with Morinaga and falling out, what happened to his eye, how he became a merchant)

Sueharu is an orphan. He has always been alone from his earliest memories. People around him said that his parents had gotten caught up in some conflict or another and died, and he doesn't remember otherwise, so probably that's what happened. Regardless, Sueharu had nobody.

Being a kid with no family to help him, the only thing he could do to survive was to steal. If he was caught, he'd be beaten. And being small as a child, he was often also bullied by other kids. One time, he had gotten in a fight with an older boy, but Morinaga jumped in to help Sueharu in the fight. Morinaga said that he wanted to be friends with Sueharu because he thought Sueharu was smart and strong and interesting. Sueharu had no idea what to make of Morinaga, especially not his reasoning. Sueharu was just some good-for-nothing orphan runt, Morinaga was obviously stronger than him. But an insistent Morinaga is hard to refuse, and so they eventually became friends.

Morinaga's betrayal happens some time later. Morinaga didn't like that Sueharu had to resort to stealing in order to make it to each next day, so he had asked his parents if they could accept Sueharu into their household as a servant. This enraged and infuriated Sueharu, who felt as though Morinaga was looking down on him. He had always harbored some kind of hope that one day he'd become stronger, better than he was now, so that he and Morinaga could stand as equals. And then everything comes crashing down: Morinaga sees him as someone pitiable and inferior, looking down on everything Sueharu had to do to survive and thinking him weak.

So they fight, Sueharu says he never wants to see Morinaga again and that they're not friends anymore, and he leaves town. Again, still as a child, still with nobody supporting him and nothing to his name. Thus, he fell in with a group of bandits who were planning to rob some rich person's cart and sell off the goods. It does not go according to plan, however. The rich man's bodyguards slaughter all the bandits. Sueharu, being a child, was instead captured and taken as a slave.

Specifically, Sueharu was brought to a group of other frightened children, where their captor revealed their fate: some rich people have really twisted interests, you see. And they like to see people fight to the death for their own amusement. Kind of like cockfighting, but with people. There are a bunch of adults who are fighting one another for the sake of the rich people spectating, and every now and then, they shake things up by adding some children into the mix.

Upon hearing this, most of the kids get driven to despair, crying out in fear. As for Sueharu... He's the weakest and scrawniest of all the captured kids, but instead of shutting his eyes and hoping to be anywhere except for here, Sueharu forces himself to watch the bloody fights all the way through. He's studying the way the adults move, how they fight. Because he wants to live. Despite how miserable his life has been before this, he doesn't want to die.

So anyway, Sueharu is picked first and handed a knife, sent to fight against one of the adults. And he promptly puts his 'study' to good use, outmaneuvering the man and in the end, managing to kill him. But during the course of the fight, Sueharu had to let the man get an attack in so that he could launch his own counterattack; this was how he lost his eye. There's a price he needed to pay for victory.

One of the people observing the fight then took an interest in Sueharu, and took him from that place. The man was a merchant, and trained Sueharu to be a spy, assassin, someone who could do any kind of dirty work that needed to be done. That merchant, as you might expect from someone who watches people kill each other for entertainment and buys child slaves, was not a pleasant master. He did not tolerate failure and there were some nights where Sueharu couldn't sleep since he was being punished the entire night long for some mistake or another. But Sueharu grew, and learned, and waited for the right opportunity. And when Sueharu turned 15, that opportunity presented itself, and he was able to seize everything the merchant had, taking the merchant's place and all the power that he had for himself.

#ikemen genjiden #sueharu (genjiden)

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against-forms-recognizable · 1 month

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Shower thoughts on the family structure

Despite its current dominance, the single-income household has never been viable on a mass scale, outside of a few decades in the West, due largely to imperialism extracting massive amounts of wealth from the rest of the world combined with technological monopolies which have since lapsed.

Historically, in households where there was one 'breadwinner' and one 'homemaker,' it was because child labor allowed it to be so, because the industry of the household (the breadwinning) was linked into the domesticity: if you were a freeholder farmer, growing your food, farming, what we would now think of as a job, was in the same class of labor as cooking and cleaning, it was all part of the same system, we did not think of one as a job and the other as not. So, as children are often expected to help out around the house today, children back then would be expected to help out in the other productive endeavors of the household, like farming, or other forms of work. And children didn't typically go to school. They started working with their parents from a very young age.

So you hear a lot of complaints about how difficult it is to maintain a single income household, it's because when children are present, they are being freeloaders, generally; all of the labor they would have done to contribute to the household is offloaded solely onto the parents. And when they are not present, well, that was never very achievable in the first place with one person not earning bread, right?

We switched to a system where children do not work but we did not accomodate the switch to that system by altering the family structure to include a higher amount of laborers per household, which would necessitate a higher amount of adults living together for the family unit than just one man one woman. And we got away with it for a long time because of competitive advantages provided by imperialism, the industrial revolution, and so on.

That is coming to an end, and people are finding out that having kids is now a miserable experience that often makes your life worse, because of the financial and time burdens now associated with shepherding someone through the legal and social structures constraining and defining 'childhood.'

It doesn't have to be, though. We can envision alternative household and family structures that make that burden much less intensive. For instance, instead of marriage, some alternative structure in which a group of best friends bind themselves together and agree to live with each other in a shared household, which future spouses and children are incorporated into. (repping Terra Ignota here)

Such a structure could have one homemaker and three breadwinners because the duties typically assigned to homemakers have been made much easier than previous by technology. After spouses are incorporated in, you could even have a division between homemaker and educator, with one person whose sole job in the household of ~8 adults + however many kids is cleaning, and one person who is solely dedicated to day to day parenting and schooling. And in this structure it doesn't really matter how many people in society are gay or trans or in relationships that will otherwise not produce children because every household will probably have at least one straight couple and they can have as many kids as the household can bear if they want, which is the same amount of kids as a household with 4 straight couples.

Also a necessary comment here about how abusive the pre-industrialization family unit often was, being a child often meant being forced to work on the threat of extreme physical abuse or starvation if you did not. That was not good. Returning to that would not be good. We need something new.

#the family #family structure #towards a better future #to create something you must first dream it #shower thoughts #original #terra ignota

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penofwildfire · 3 months

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You wake up in a world where every ninja but one is happy and had a happy childhood and has no parental issued and all family members are alive and healthy snd good people

That one ninja is so miserable that miserable is an understatement because they got everyone else's trauma thrown at them

Who's the one ninja?

Well I have an AU where all the Ninja's parents are alive and well and present in their lives, meaning everyone is in a better situation except Jay who's stuck in a miserable household and his parents' terrible marriage (fuck Cliff Gordon🖕) so uhhh I guess Jay. That sounds fun (I like torturing Jay he's just fun to throw angst at).

#ninjago #asks #anon ask #jay #jay walker #ninjago au

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fudanshidoublevision · 16 days

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“Nostalgia”.

(A Double Vision x Reader fanfiction for Children's Day.)

⚠️ C. W: Mentions of unhealthy and abusive relationships, abusive households, neglect, implied (but not toooooooo described) bullying and harassment, depressive thoughts, LOTS of reminiscing and reflection, death, dubious living conditions. It's implied Reader has only a PRESENT mother and a family. With who Reader ended up with is left ambiguous on purpose and up to you but I'm letting you have the “sweet good ending” with whoever you end up with. Swearing but not too heavy. Talks about suicide. Emotional dependency and such. If Reader posses an ability isn't discussed or even implied.

It's odd how so much can change in what seems...nothing, out of nowhere. The fact that so many time has passed is scary. Some things in our lives had changed, evolved, stayed the same or just died.

I never thought that I would become an adult, I never had so much expectations in life, honestly.

I never thought I would make this far.

Even if I was only rotting in one place and doing nothing, something my mother said that it couldn't be even considered “living”. I was just trying not to do something I could regret forever instead of digging up too much in my thoughts, I just laid there not thinking or even feeling anything.

I think she never realized that I wasn't living, that we weren't living rather that i— we, were surviving.

But for some reason you always stayed.

Even when I stopped acting like myself. Even when everyone I used to care for just, disappeared from my life because I wasn't putting an effort into taking care of our relationship. Even when I became the worst version of myself. Even when I didn't deserved anything or anyone in my life.

You always stayed, Vernon.

You were my ride or die since the fateful day that I saved you.

Well, I didn't do much really, I didn't really saved you, I just prevented something that any other living being with morals would want to avoid to happen, right? I was going through your same situation after all... Hah, we both had to endure all of that until we finished school together. I know so well how it feels to be hopeless, everyone ignoring what they are doing to you, everyone watching, yet no one doing something about it.

I always thought that you would never had ever wished or even desired to make others feel like that. But, for some reason, you ended up being just like them.

I believe that I'll never understand why you changed so much or if you were always like that, I was aware of your strange behavior and dependency on me but I never thought much of it because that's how you always behaved around me. Heh, I ignored every single red flag and warning that was thrown in my face just for the sake to hold onto you, because you were someone dear to me, someone that always had been there for me.

You were the highlight of my childhood and my teenage years, even if we kinda drifted away in the latest. You were even there when I was the grown, sad and miserable version of the kid you used to know.

Is it bad that i still hold dearly and warmly those moments we had as kids? Like the days were everything in my household...just was horrible and I didn't know where or to who run to, somehow I always ended up in your house, you always opened the door to me, no matter what or why.

Your own home seemed so cold from the outside and on the inside but...when we were together, everything just felt warmer.

...Or the times were you used your abilities to save our asses or just to escape to somewhere, anywhere, when I was locked down in my own room and you were so lonely and bored in your cold and empty house.

Go to anywhere we wanted, as long as no one of our parents got to know that we were running around the streets like not-so-sneaky rats. Hell, even your very-dangerous use of your ability saved us from being late to class. We could have done better things with it but we were young and really, really stupid.

When I used to ride my bicycle, you had to steal my seat and I had uncomfortably sit on the center bar but quickly forgot about that because anything with you just felt right, your presence used to make me so happy and I tended to forget everything, we used to have so much fun with such mundane and stupid things. When we used to drive that crappy bicycle to a concerning speed just to feel like we were flying like those heroes we used to adore and we used to imagine we were.

The times me and my family celebrated your birthday because you were like another member in my family. You were like a brother to me.

Or the times you bought me any silly or meaningless thing that I wanted to me for my birthday because you knew how much that day it used to meant to me. And how much you it meant to me your presence...and your gifts, hehe.

Nostalgia is a powerful drug.

In times like these, i look fondly at the times that you were there by and with me, even when I was talked down, thrown, dragged and abused to my core when we were “living the best and important part of our lives”.

Even if you were being neglected by the ones who were supposed to be protecting us and left alone by your own devices, money being thrown at you like that could compensate the hole they left behind.

We could only hold each other in silence because talking about it brought so much pain to our little hearts and heads.

I'm glad the two of us made it out, together. I will always be grateful of that but nothing good seemed to last in our lives since we started to became more mature.

You changed or more like, you just became the true version of yourself.

Maybe it's an exaggeration but whoever was talking to me with your voice, while using your clothes, saying things only you could only ever knew... That wasn't you, i refused to believe that was you.

Someone else stripped you down from your humanity. Of what made you, you.

But, no. That was you, with the same stupid face, the same idiotic and cocky attitude of always, your signature dimples and that mole in your face but you insisted, no, forced me to call you “Double Vision”.

For some reason, that silly and simple nickname i used to call you by stopped to came out of my mouth.

“V”.

Vernon.

Now, you were only Double Vision and nothing else, the person I used to know, gone and forgotten to do things I never thought you could be capable of doing. Not like I was innocent or had a squeaky clean historial, we were partners in crime, after all.

I was scared and just wanted to, stop. You were more erratic, territorial, temperamental when it was about me. You didn't wanted me to engage with anyone, even if it seemed that you trusted the other members of the Night Crew.

You didn't, you never did.

When we argued in front of everyone because you wouldn't let me go, that day someone died, because of me, because of my fault.

Seeing you taking the life out of someone that just wanted to be on my side, for you to let me go and being unable of doing something because I...just didn't know what to do, I was scared.

I had to force myself to accept the so-harsh truth.

The person I used to know.

You.

Was long gone and he will never come back.

Or just the the version I used to know, I'm not sure if you were genuine with anything about yourself with me, since we were kids.

Was it everything a lie? Were you just holding back until the day I was completely alone and with no one or nothing but you to drag me down with you, no matter what or who tried to get in between?

Even if you did all of this out of the selfish desire of having me all by yourself, some part of me can't quite forget you or stop thinking about you.

Since the day I could escape from you and stay with someone who felt...love for me, I began to forget little by little of you but for some reason, a part of my me doesn't want to forget you.

It hurts me deeply, to think of you. I feel a heavy pressure in my chest and my heart, when I remember you. That you exist and that you used to mean so much to me.

Things could have gone better, right? Is it wrong for me to think that things could have been different, if something, anything, was slightly different when you weren't trying to cut an arm, a finger or take one of my eyes just to have me by your side?

I wish I could only save and stay with the happy memories we made together but the person in those memories doesn't look like you at all, that's not you.

I miss you my dear bestfriend, sometimes.

But I wish we never had met each other.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・。.・゜

AUTHOR'S NOTE???

WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO PUT AN AUTHOR'S NOTE......? Doesn't matter, right?

Thank you so much for reading! And happy children's day! Even if you don't celebrate it today or don't, at all. I hope you enjoyed it! Any type of criticism is welcome...but, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, don't be so hard on me, okay? Be gentle, please.（┬┬＿┬┬)

English isn't my native language and I mostly write only for myself all these years and never shared my writing but I'm trying to learn and get better everyday! Don't think so lowly of me. ᶘಠᴥಠᶅ

I kind of wanted to write something fifty percent wholesome and fifty percent angsty. So, I just had this monster in my head nagging me to write something about childhood, memories and the horror of growing up. And, woah! What a day to post this. Plus, ABOUT DOUBLE???? SIGN ME UP, BELOVED MONSTER IN MY HEAD!

I used my own headcanons to write this thing, that's why Reader calls “V”, referenced to my first post ever. I double (HEHE), triple, quadruple checked if this had any mistakes, so wake me up if there's a mistake I missed, thank you very much.

I have 13 drafts about Double that will stay in that cold and deadly place.....

Anyways, I stayed up all night writing this because of that horrifying monster... I NEED to go to sleep.

Double haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa????? I love you!!!!! ♡ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ

#binary star hero #bshvn #bsh double vision #binary star hero double vision #double vision x reader #binary star hero x reader #fanfiction #sleep.... SLEEP #i need TO SLEEP

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the-kittylorian-writes · 8 months

Text

"In Dreams, We Wake" (2/?)

Fandom: Star Wars - The Mandalorian

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Type: Multi-chapter Status: Ongoing Warnings: Season 3 spoilers, graphic depictions of violence (some chapters), ptsd, subjects on grief & mourning Story Summary: Two years have passed since Ragnar lived the creed without his father. The boy keeps a facade, hiding his true nature as he leads a double life.

Between his roles as Mandalorian apprentice and heir to an ancient House, Ragnar is willing to weave through a complex path that haunts him and the Vizsla name—if only his father were there to see him again. Perhaps, Paz Vizsla will.

The question remains for Ragnar: What would he do and how far would he go for the father he loves?

Read on AO3 (w/ author's notes) or here:

Chapter Summary: Ragnar remembers his life before Paz Vizsla came to his rescue, and the time after Mandalore’s reclamation. Axe and Ragnar make their way to a final stop before returning to Mandalore.

Chapter Warning: Child endangerment; child fatality (only mentioned) ~Chapter 2: Of Agony and Joy~

Ragnar never trusted strangers. He had been raised from infancy to be wary of the world outside of the family in which he had been born. There would always be people watching, his birth mother kept reminding him. Those people wished their family ill and wanted them to neither succeed nor prosper.

He had always been a self-sufficient and self-possessed child. He led the typical life of a youngster whose parents were high profile on his home planet; they were often dreadfully busy, and a few relatives would pay visits to watch over him, but with a detached manner Ragnar understood. It was hard to keep emotional attachments with someone whose life precariously hung on a proverbial string.

They said he had an older brother, kidnapped for ransom but was killed as he tried his best to escape. Ragnar had never met his older brother, who was but eight standard years when he perished. Two months after the tragedy, Ragnar was born.

Ragnar was the only child ever since. There was father and mother: doting, then absent, then doting again, in a maddening cycle which Ragnar eventually grew accustomed to. He decided not to begrudge his parents. He knew about their lifetsyle; he’d read about it in holobooks, sometimes articles so well-hidden in the archives—fatal harm placed on families such as his, mostly politically motivated, oftentimes—and to Ragnar’s own horror—with successful attempts. His older brother unfortunately was testament to that.

The world for Ragnar consisted of his tutors, sports on the HoloNet where he remotely played with other politicians’ children, and rare, heavily guarded trips with either of his parents but never both of them at once. He was always under supervision. He had never any real time by himself. There was always security detail with him, and they had refused to play with him despite some of them being surprisingly young, barely into their twenties.

So Ragnar played alone or with the kids through the HoloNet projector.

He had learned to only trust himself. He couldn’t even bring himself to trust his own parents. Everyone else in their household all had a job to do. They were paid well and did their work as they should, eyes glazed and almost unseeing, faces faintly smiling at a young boy who ran through the vast halls with no reprimand. Ragnar was ignored for the most part.

One day, Ragnar just developed a sensing.

He was six years old when he first felt it—a fleeting touch like a brush of a finger on one’s shoulder to get their attention. He knew how people felt somehow; he knew how sincere they were or how contrived, how happy they were or miserable or just plain nonchalant. They never had to speak to him or even glance at him. Sometimes, they don’t even have to be in the same room as him.

His seventh and eighth year of life passed by rather uneventfully, which gave the household a temporary yet false sense of peace. Perhaps they were no longer terribly important political targets. His parents adopted a lower profile afterwards, convinced that that was the solution, and their presences were only felt by the masses through their philanthropies.

The ninth and tenth year resumed with tumult. They had to move districts, and finally, they were as good as isolated—a mansion hidden in the mountains, accessible only by small hovercraft. Ragnar’s sensing returned again, and he knew very well that being far off from civilization made little difference. In fact, they were more vulnerable here, hidden away from the main city where all manner of help were situated should they direly need it.

Mother and father were properly convinced once more that this was how they would lead their lives until at least Ragnar’s sixteenth birthday. If the boy wanted, he could take on their line of work, or think of another one—but it had to be prestigious.

Ragnar didn’t know much about the Galactic War which ended a few years after he was born. He knew little of the outside world, so to speak, and he’d rather remain ignorant of it. At the back of his mind, whether his parents conceded to it or not, he would never choose their line of work. He wanted to form a different worldview for himself when he grew older. How his parents conducted themselves—none of that appealed to Ragnar. He had been left alone for most of his life and he did what he wanted despite dozens of watchful eyes upon him. He wished to do away with those overly vigilant and hard gazes. Perhaps he can be a pilot. He’d fly away from there, take all manner of hyperspace lanes and just disappear.

He had only trusted himself—and he wondered if he would ever learn to trust another. The servant droids didn’t count.

Until another, much larger inexplicable tragedy one day, a large warrior covered in armor from head to toe rushed into Ragnar’s horizon.

A sensing overcame Ragnar then. It was as if he knew of the warrior before, coming from another place and time—warm and whole like a blanket of light; yet everything else about the warrior was unfamiliar.

The sensing had told him that he could trust that armor-clad warrior.

Ragnar hadn’t known about the Force. He had also never known of Mandalorians until then. While he knew of the latter far sooner than he’d ever guessed, knowledge of the former came much later, and in quite unexpected ways. *

It was sometime on 10 ABY when Paz Vizsla needed to depart the Glavis ringworld to find others of their scattered Covert.

It had been a year since many among their Tribe had lost their lives in the desolate sewers of Nevarro, swarmed by overwhelming numbers of Imperial troops—uncanny for a mere Remnant. The Tribe were skilled warriors who had grown rusty, drowning in a routine which dulled their senses into complacency when they should have been eternally vigilant. The darkness of Nevarro’s subterranean tunnels wore them all down, save for Din Djarin who had become their sole provider. Only Din fully saw the light of day, and he had been gone many cycles at a time.

Paz was among those tasked to protect and evacuate the Covert should disaster strike. Fellow Mandalorians who had fallen in that siege were adamant that Paz should be their last resort. Let him conserve his strength and munitions for when the time came to unequivocally defend their little foundlings. Let Paz be the white-hot fire raining upon the enemy with his ruthless blaster canon as the foundlings found more avenues of escape and areas of safety.

In the end, things didn’t go as planned. Half the Covert was decimated, and their numbers were already piteously small to begin with. The surviving half needed to split into tinier groups to drift across the galaxy, hide on other worlds and wait for word. The Armorer had only been Paz’s constant companion during those prolonged days of grief which numbed him completely for a moment. No prayer or incantation stifled the pain in his soul, and he spent those long months tracking down the rest of the Covert and keeping tabs on them once they were found.

All he needed to do was go to them, and they would relocate to a new home together and re-establish everything they had lost and more.

This is the Way.

Paz had received a tenuous signal from one of the Mid Rim planets, a signal closely known only in the Covert, uniquely belonging to them and understood by fellow Tribe members. It was a more ancient mode of disseminating a signal, a response to when Paz himself carefully issued out a call—all is clear; we can recoup.

The signal was weak and it came and went; Paz nearly dismissed it as a trap, but no one among the Remnant could have known of their Tribe’s mode of communication—unless the worst happened and they were compromised all over again.

That was Paz’s job—to determine the weight of such situations, and how pursuing them was worth the already limited resources he had left.

He had been hardwired from a young age not to doubt himself or quail at times when his judgment was needed the most. You are a Vizsla, you are a Vizsla—those voices wouldn’t go away. He was indeed a Vizsla, one of the bloodline sent to the Tribe and hidden away as a small child by the Armorer’s own clan. Paz made a clear pact to himself that he would be among the better Vizslas.

The Vizsla bloodline carried with it a plethora of curses as well as blessings. There had only been the bad Vizslas, and the worse Vizslas. If one heard of a good Vizsla centuries after the passing of Tarre Vizsla, that was because they had found themselves disavowed or forgotten in the thick of the Mandalorian Civil Wars. A better Vizsla was even rarer… and since Paz realized he was possibly the only Vizsla left, now was a great time as any to be and remain the better of his bloodline.

Three times Paz needed to switch ships to leave a cold trail faster, and to mislead anyone who’d attempted to follow him. He was painstakingly discreet, and his bulk and disposition presented him with measurable challenge. Sometimes he pretended that he was a simpleton and a mute, and communicated with broken Basic typed on a datapad to strangers who can sell him clues. He walked around like a cripple or a hunchback to further cement his pretense.

Anyone who’d undermined the hulking Mandalorian with attempts on his welfare for the beskar on his back would otherwise lose limb or life. On that note, Paz made sure as much as possible that he did not expose himself as Mandalorian. Din was still out there, supposedly the last among their people who walked the galaxy. He was always hunched and hooded when out in the open, a mountain bathed in quiet shadow.

Paz sacrificed much of his dignity to track the last of the scattered groups down. When this was over, he thought, he would need a long conversation with the Armorer for guidance, for help in restoring much of his self-respect. He would give all for the Creed, and if his own self-esteem was the price, so be it. But he should never throw it completely away.

You are a Vizsla, rang the incessant voices within him. You are a Vizsla.

Paz had stopped to camp in a more isolated section of the planet before resuming his search. Technically, he had found the signal’s source, which was a distance from where he’d decided to land, away from a densely populated space port and prying eyes. He was down to a single cloaking mechanism. If he were to squeeze it dry, he would do so wisely.

The hulk of a man was spent, exhausted, lonely… he endured it all. He wondered for a moment how Din could have handled his own circumstances, and empathy hit Paz like a slap. Din returned to Glavis without his foundling. Din had been banished as an apostate. The silver-clad Mandalorian left without protest, lost and alone in spirit. Paz fought a pang of guilt, but Din had broken the Creed, after all.

On the other hand, Paz had lost his claim over an ancestral weapon through ritual combat—the Darksaber, and it remained in Din’s possession. Bitterness, shame, self-pity, a speck of rage and silent weeping—and it was over. Paz moved on from that defeat, and he took his mind to more pressing matters.

That night on this Mid Rim planet, the Mandalorian lit a low, companionable fire. He warmed some canned rations and ate quietly, lifting his helmet as he shoved spoonfuls of shredded meat and sauce into his belly. He couldn’t even take the buy’ce off entirely. Much of him had turned into hyper-alertness and nerves.

He was at the outskirts of a thick forest, populated by various non-sentient wildlife and an endless canopy of trees. Paz leaned upon a trunk of an old tree and he tilted his visor up; the fog had veiled everything over and he lost sight of the treetops from where he sat.

His cloak doubled as a sleeping bag; Paz had stomped out the fire, and in full darkness save for the myriad of stars peeking through the fog, the large Mandalorian found himself drifting to half-sleep. His breathing slowed down, his heart beat at a comfortable pace… for a precious instant, he was relaxed.

However, just as he had finally closed his eyes—he soon opened them with a start as his world was rocked by a huge explosion west of his position.

Pulling himself together, fueled by muscle memory and survival instincts, Paz had readied his blaster canon, primed it as he lay low, studying the air and the chaos which loomed closer and closer. He was sure now that while it was an ambush attack, it was not towards him.

Paz could hardly believe his eyes.

He saw three more explosions hit the same area; flocks of slumbering wild birds took flight and soon the forest was filled with the panicked screeching of fauna. The commotion was enough to give Paz the confidence to stand to his full height and behold the sight before him.

The earth rumbled from shockwaves and the sky rippled with angry flames licking upwards; it seemed to Paz that the dark clouds overhead had also been set ablaze.

The resulting fire from four detonations was huge, without a doubt. Paz was nowhere too close to the flames and yet he felt the heat seep through his thick layers. He trembled and bit back a moment’s profound agony; he recalled Nevarro, and he recalled the many years before that, where fires had become a catalyst to suffering.

Paz had spotted a mansion there, oddly so, earlier that day. He had thought it abandoned, but one couldn’t be too sure. With his rangefinder, he scanned what he could of the vicinity from afar. There were no signs of life, it seemed. The mansion was weathered and on the verge of collapsing. Something had tugged at Paz like a finger brushing over his shoulder; Paz mentally swatted it away like an insect and he never felt that sensation again for the rest of the day.

…except, now that Paz was staring, dumbfounded, at what he knew was the mansion ceasing to exist under the weight of an inferno—was that he had felt it again. It was that light touch over his shoulder, trailing almost desperately up and down his back.

Paz thought he could be losing his mind, if he had not already lost it long ago. There was urgency to that strange sensation—as if it were tugging at him like a call for help.

The hulking Mandalorian hesitated. He swung at the balls of his heels like a child uncertain of where to go and what to do. He observed the flames and then the sensation had struck at him again—Paz held his ground. Whatever it was on that mansion up the hill was not his fight.

It was not his business. He had his own, and he must remain faithful to that mission.

Settling a conversation with himself, Paz shook his head and was about to turn around and leave this disaster behind…

But the sensation was now practically pulling at him, and something like an image of small hands tugging at his entire being flashed at the back of his mind: a blink of an eye and nothing more.

Paz consequently found himself clambering to the top of the hill in bounding strides.

The mansion was no longer there, and on its stead were tendrils of flames like fingers clawing furiously at the sky. The black smoke trailed at him and he began to cough; he sealed his helmet and turned on his oxygen reserves.

He didn’t know why—what had gotten over him? THIS WAS NOT HIS MISSION, and yet he dove headfirst into the flames, letting the image of a child’s small hands pull him to where he thought he was being led to…

What he didn’t expect at all was to be fired upon by a hail of blaster bolts just as he had entered the threshold of the blaze.

It was no use, certainly, to detect heat signatures of culprits anywhere in the midst of a hellish place. He managed to resort to enhance the feedback of his HUD to detect the smallest movements other than the spiraling flames and debris threatening to fall all around him.

For the nth time that night, Paz wondered why the hell he brought himself upon this fray—

Soon, he realized that he had already been surrounded.

He had learned to estimate numbers in his Fighting Corps training, and a sweeping glance informed him that he was being targeted at and encircled by thirty armed men at least. He didn’t know of what species, but most could indeed be human.

Paz felt his heart clench. If he needed to get out of this scrape alive, he’d need to slaughter them all, even the humans. It hadn’t posed much concern before, as Imperial Stormtroopers were human and Paz had remorselessly gunned down multitudes in the past… but after a period of dormancy, this act felt as murderous as it was an act of self-defense.

That would partly be a lie.

Paz hadn’t clarified the nature of the presence and skillset of practically a private army set to attack him, but he instantly knew that he would outrun and outgun them should it come to that. They were no match for him.

Another volley of bolts pelted his beskar; the pressure threw Paz back and away from the flames, and out into the open. He grunted in irritation, yet gathered enough self-mastery to keep himself from priming his canon in clear view of unknown and unexpected enemies. Paz had relied on the element of surprise before, and he was hoping he could do so again.

Out of nowhere echoed a booming and demanding shout: “WHO SENT YOU?!”

In the wide glade surrounding the mansion burning down to nothing, Paz was quickly encroached by a small army of thugs. They didn’t bother to conceal their numbers as they all poured out of hiding, all of their blaster pistols aimed at him. A few carried rifles.

Paz thought twice about indulging them with a reply. He remained a silent statue, but his whole body was conceivably taut.

“I SAID—WHO SENT YOU?! You’re an expensive hire, and that family’s owed our boss a fortune and could no longer afford the likes of you—MANDALORIAN.”

This ticked Paz off in the best way possible. Now that they knew what he was—they all simply needed to disappear.

He seemed to have been caught in a crossfire between two warring families. Underworld business? Intense political rivalry to the point of wiping out entire families? Something twisted within Paz. He remembered that House Vizsla in its vicious past were no different…

The goons’ faces were masked, and this somehow made it easier for Paz. These masks distorted any semblance of humanity in their features. He remained quiet, unmoved, stoic. Another step, and he would wipe them all out, and whoever sent these thugs would only find out that their men had been decimated by ghosts. Paz knew how to bury his tracks.

The hulking Mandalorian was about to reach behind him and untether his blaster canon from its jetpack clip when the situation turned on him in an instant.

The head goon—or whoever he was, as he was the one who spoke on everyone’s behalf—had produced before him the slack form of a small, dazed, and quivering child.

“I know where you reach, Mandalorian,” hissed the masked thug above the roar of flames and crumbling walls. “Set that weapon of yours upon us, one false move… and this kid gets it, hear?”

The man had flung the child to the ground, and before Paz could even register what happened—the goon had issued upon the helpless small boy a swift and powerful kick. A thin, pained cry filled the air.

The brushing touches over his shoulder turned into frantic grappling.

Osik! Paz thought… and he knew that he had snapped as his vision turned into sharp and vivid greys. Everything happened so quickly, so fluidly, like a wave had shot out of nowhere to smother everything in its wake.

In a matter of seconds, he had come upon the crumpled form of the boy protectively. He hoisted the little boy over his shoulder in a thoughtful position where the child would not be hurt by the canon’s recoil… and before the next heartbeat, he’d unslung his weapon and it spat out a volley of bolts in the rhythm of drumbeats, and not a bolt was wasted as each found its mark on every single one of these thirty thugs.

An unquestionably intense couple of minutes broke as the two sides exchanged firepower, and with Paz, it could have well been one-sided. The hulking Mandalorian hunched his body forward, like a shell coiling around its softer innards—and the child was that softness; blaster bolts ricocheted off Paz’s armor, leaving the little one cocooned and secure. Two brief minutes, and it was over. The blue-clad warrior held his breath, then panted in relief. He stopped firing seconds after he realized that shots no longer fell upon him.

Paz let his blaster canon cool and the adrenaline rush subside. He blinked at the destruction he had caused. He was stricken by his own brutality, and realized how easy it had become to provoke him when the life of a child was at stake.

He wasn’t even sure how he did it. He usually needed both hands to steady the blaster canon, but this time, he managed to do it single-handedly as his other hand was preoccupied in keeping the boy safely cradled close to his body. The child squirmed a little. His chin felt like a welcome albeit justifiably frightened weight over his pauldron.

“Hold on, little one, hold on,” were Paz’s next words, whispered gently as he braced himself to fly out of the scene via jetpack. He had done so in time, for whereupon he stood not a minute ago, the mansion had toppled over completely in massive clouds of black smoke and fine dust. The fires had done their job. The mansion—and surely, the boy’s family—was no more. He could try to confirm it soon after his own derailed mission…

The boy kept eerily quiet, but Paz saw that the child was very lucid and had witnessed everything he had done to rescue him.

“It’s all right…” Paz attempted to soothe the little one. To his rewarding surprise, the boy only held on to him tighter, and obstinately clung to him until daybreak.

Paz had only heard the child sob once before the little one had fallen asleep in his arms.

It was only then did it dawn on Paz that the only place the child would feel safe from now on—and would be fundamental to the recovery of his body, mind, and soul—was in his embrace.

Paz knew he was in trouble, but more so, he felt many times blessed.

This child was his foundling… as this child had already chosen him from the very beginning.

By the time he had returned to the Armorer with the last group of the Covert and his foundling in tow, Paz felt all the nightmares of his tribulations melt away. ***

The Kom’rk starfighter which Axe had been piloting alone was still traveling through hyperspace when Ragnar woke up to a strangely precise pressure digging at his chest.

The boy sat up, realizing that he had slept on his stomach again. He sighed in annoyance. This sleeping position had always been one his body would subconsciously turn to when he felt greatly threatened, mistrustful, and needed a huge deal of comforting. He commonly adopted it in his early childhood, which he suspected had begun when his parents warned him of trust and danger.

Ragnar groaned through his vocoder. To think that sleeping without taking his helmet off would bother him more, but after two years of only slipping out of the buy’ce to bathe and when he was ill as he was ushered into brief care by medical droids, he had faithfully sealed his face in. That had transformed into his comfort zone. On the other hand, the cause of the digging sensation was relatively newer.

The youth reached under his flight suit and drew out a mythosaur pendant strung on a fine leather cord.

He stared at it for long moments as the shiny beskar kry’bes stared back at him with its hollow eyes.

“Dad,” Ragnar whispered, unbidden.

The necklace was Paz Vizsla’s, presented to him when he had completed his apprenticeship under the Armorer’s older brother. Her brother did not follow in the footsteps of a goran as she had done. Rather, he had been one of the Tribe’s great providers during the days when they still basked under the sun, never in hiding. He took in the responsibility of being Paz’s mentor just as Axe did for Ragnar.

Paz’s stories of his own apprenticeship, Ragnar noted, weren’t relayed in much detail. His father did tell a few, but in an unexpectedly impersonal way, as if Paz were seeing things through the eyes of a bystander rather than his own. Ragnar was still new to the ways of Mandalorians then, and all he did was listen and be quiet; he drank information in huge gulps and didn’t offer any queries or opinions unless he was offered the opportunity. The boy then wondered what kind of relationship his father may have had with his own mentor. Sometimes, he would detect warmth in the large Mandalorian’s robust baritone. More often, however, was the neutrality in his voice.

Then, Ragnar accounted for the fact that the man who mentored Paz Vizsla had neither been his buir nor a family member. The relationship could have been, at least, very didactic rather than familial. It was more or less the same arrangement he had with Axe Woves—someone of no clan relation taking an orphaned foundling under their wing.

The boy set his mouth into a hard, stubborn line.

Only that he was not an orphan. Not yet—and he never plans to be one.

His father was still alive. He’s just… drifting far away, but not far enough where the living could no longer follow or the ones who had passed on could carry him off to their realm among the Oversoul.

Folding his still-growing hand over the pendant and letting it rest on his palm, Ragnar let the thoughts flow to him. He regulated his shaky breaths.

In his mind’s eye, he vividly recounted how six grown Mandalorians had to carry the unconscious form of his father on a makeshift stretcher into the med bay. There had been no supply of hover-gurneys at the time, along with the scarcity of medical supplies. There was upheaval and panic barely breaking through the surface; trained warriors could only master enough self-control.

Some had perished and a few survived. Paz was among those who had survived—but the hushed whispers he’d gleaned revealed that his father surely should have been among the fatalities. High-powered energy weapons had torn through his insides, which could have caused immediate organ failure. Blaster burns covered his body, and despite the cauterizing effects of energy weapons, there had been a great amount of blood loss.

The youngster had blocked all sound and emotion out. They wouldn’t let him see his father until he was somehow patched up. Ragnar bolted far and hid in one of the docked Mandalorian ships, and he sat there, verily shocked and unheedful of everything around him. They all had looked for him, and when they finally found him he had been fast asleep for hours.

Ragnar remembered how the Armorer came to him, soothed him with no trace of condescension or coddling, much to Ragnar’s gratitude. But the boy had become inconsolable for days. While he never threw a fit or bawled and made a fuss like how some children did, he had locked all the anguish within himself and refused to be touched or spoken to unless it was someone from his father’s close circle.

Ragnar didn’t expect Grogu to be that source of much-needed support, as well as the green child’s father, whose name Ragnar knew was Din Djarin.

The youngster was crouched among the company of storage crates and didn’t budge or react much. He sported an empty stare under the helmet as he knotted his fingers over and over. Grogu, dear Grogu, had tenderly placed a three-fingered hand over his.

Din had cautiously knelt before him and never forced him to respond in a manner most adults demanded of a child when addressed to.

“Grogu found your father first,” the silver-clad Mandalorian told him, ever so gently, in a voice Ragnar decided was nearly as cherished as Paz’s. “You know, Ragnar—Grogu… he has powers. He can heal.”

That was when Ragnar’s gaze had shot up; he was suddenly paying attention. Through his visor, he searched through Din’s own for any indication of further hope.

However, the only hope Din could offer had fallen a whole parsec short.

“Grogu did what he could. Your father is out of danger now, but…”

Ragnar found the impulse to speak, and it came out sharp. “But what?!”

He withdrew into himself again, disturbed by his own impudence.

Din had tried his best to explain. The medical term was comatose—being in a prolonged state of unconsciousness, a deep sleep with the uncertainty of whether the patient would wake or finally succumb.

He’ll wake, was all Ragnar could think of and it played like a mantra in his head and heart. He’ll wake. My father will wake up. You’ll see. You’ll all see.

Grogu and Din had patiently sat with him, and Ragnar wished for that moment to go on and on until he was irrevocably reassured that Paz would indeed wake up sooner than later.

“Take me with you,” was all Ragnar could mutter, much to Din’s surprise. The man hadn’t a clue of Ragnar’s keen perception, that the boy knew of the time Din had to go off-world with Grogu for important business. “Please.”

The child’s psyche was sundered in two: a part of him wished to stay with his slumbering father, and the other part of him was too exhausted from the cruel burdens of reality and wished to be far away, even for a little while.

“That’s not for me to decide,” Din had sincerely replied, palpable regret in his tone. That was indeed true, Ragnar discovered afterwards.

Din had made Grogu’s adoption official. The man was then duty-bound to take his son with him on apprenticeship training. Ragnar could still afford an ounce of genuine joy for Grogu, who only dealt him with kindness.

“You better make your dad proud,” Ragnar had told Grogu, bleeding himself dry of any goodwill left in him. Grogu’s huge-eyed stare of compassion and scrutiny held Ragnar fast, and the boy felt suddenly bare.

I will, came a will-o’-the-wisp voice straight into Ragnar’s mind. It was a very young voice, yet inexplicably ageless and timeless.

That encounter had left a mark on Ragnar over the much longer days he went through the motions. All foundlings who had sworn the Creed were to re-take the oath in the Living Waters as it was a far more sacred spring in all the galaxy, at least in Mandalorian culture. Ultimately, Ragnar had disassociated through the lighting of the Great Forge, through the celebrations that came after, all through the night that followed and then the morning after.

“Young Ragnar, you may now see your father,” was the Armorer’s unceremonious summons of him after the first meal.

The matriarch had tipped her visored head to Ragnar in an expression of concern. Somehow she knew that Ragnar was not eating as well as he should; the boy’s appetite had all but disappeared. Ragnar knew that the Armorer had been diligently overseeing Paz’s initial treatment, and she’d now found more courage in herself to let Ragnar witness in person all the whispers the child had been enduring over the plight of his father.

Ragnar responded with an imperceptible nod and followed her.

The trek to the station which became a more permanent medical facility was an arduous one. Perhaps that was why Ragnar just wanted to go away for a while and leave his dearest father in the hands of capable physicians. He didn’t want to see a man he had deemed so powerful, so strong, so sure in himself and filled with conviction and zest towards the Way become akin to a cold lamp where the light had been put out—a dim little star where there was once a blazing sun.

But Ragnar decided that this was a test. He would take this all in. He would know what to do after, if he knew that this would be too much for him…

The Armorer had halted before a great metal door.

The boy realized that the light cruiser crash had not destroyed everything in its vicinity; there were chambers that were meticulously made to withstand the very heat of a Mandalorian Forge, which rose to temperatures higher than the hottest, unlivable planets. This was one such chamber, retrofitted by the Remnant and seized back by Mandalorian engineers.

Ragnar swallowed the lump in his throat as the Armorer punched in a code. The doors presently swished open.

His HUD registered darkness at first, and then adjusted to the ambient lighting within.

He felt frozen to the spot but the Armorer had anticipated this. She lent him strength with a gentle nudge over the small of his back.

The boy felt like a wraith, floating into the heart of the chamber with limbs and steps that weren’t his. He felt disembodied… he was disassociating again, letting the world happen to him, rather than him facing the world.

He stopped at the foot of a three large bacta tanks, huge transparisteel pillars towering over the boy and the matriarch.

Ragnar stiffened; his heart began to hurt so much and yet he held his ground. He clenched his fists as he beheld Paz Vizsla, suspended upright within the vat of bacta liquid with a tubes and circuits circling around the form of a once mighty warrior.

His father’s face was still respectfully concealed by a special helmet which aided his breathing and cycled sustenance periodically into his system.

Ragnar had seen his father stripped of his armor only a handful of times, simply in his under suit when he would make time to tuck Ragnar to bed.

Who would tuck him to bed now?

Ragnar felt fury swell towards himself when he remembered the day he told Paz that he was too old to be tucked in. That was soon after he swore the Creed. Oh, such was the arrogance a child possessed from undergoing an important rite of passage which ushered them to adulthood.

Without both armor and under suit, covered simply in compression shorts and dark compression bandages over his burned and damaged skin, Paz looked so different, so small, so achingly vulnerable.

This was the sight Ragnar had refused to acknowledge. He stood there, paying little attention to the other two patients who occupied the tanks which flanked his father’s on either side. They were parents of foundlings as well… how were those kids faring in relation to his own void of pain? Will those Mandalorians in their own recuperative slumber wake up, be well, and join their families again?

Borne out of duty, the first words which Ragnar inquired of the Armorer were, “Where is my father’s armor?”

The Armorer laid her gaze upon him awhile before leading him to the back of Paz’s tank, where a cleverly camouflaged storage closet had been installed vertically, made for the patients’ personal belongings while undergoing treatment.

The closet hissed open, and inside, much to Ragnar’s cascading thankfulness, was Paz’s full set of armor fastidiously arranged. The boy would like to think that it had been readied to be worn immediately upon his father’s waking. A small smile crept over Ragnar’s lips. His father would do that, all right. He would loudly demand for his armor as soon as he opened his eyes.

“Everything’s in order, ad’ika,” the Armorer said with moving, uncharacteristic gentleness. After a pause, she continued, “I would have to leave you now as I have duties to attend to. You may stay for as long as you like. Should you need the assistance of a baar’ur, do so with the comms attached to this storage closet. They should come to you immediately.”

Ragnar nodded weakly to the Armorer. “Th-thank you.”

The child spent the next few hours curled at the foot of his father’s tank, his back towards the transparisteel. He couldn’t bear another second seeing Paz so helpless like that, but he wanted to be close to him… perhaps, he could lend him strength with his presence alone, even when the man wasn’t conscious to see it.

He sobbed for most of his stay, a haunted weeping of a small boy suddenly wrenched from a true hearth and home. It sent Ragnar to impassioned self-abhorrence when he did know that there would be slim chances of Paz emerging out of a major battle unscathed. For the few years under this noble Mandalorian’s care, he knew his father to be wholly selfless to the point of martyrdom. Ragnar didn’t exactly expect it to happen earlier on, when he himself still needed a father to thrive in his own journey of becoming a full-fledged warrior.

The days that came after were harrowing, to say the least. Ragnar drifted in and out of alertness and awareness as a council consisting of Lady Kryze, the Armorer, and a handful of leaders from either side decided upon the fate of the child.

Ragnar didn’t pay much attention, anyway. He was the subject of hot debate. They kept saying, the last heir of Clan Vizsla, the one to lead House Vizsla one day, and all that babble.

Was he only significant due to the clan name he carried? These leaders didn’t show much interest over the fate of the other children whose parents were in the bacta tank, too.

The meeting over his future surprisingly lasted for more than an afternoon. It would take multiple sessions before arrangements could be finalized.

During those interludes, Ragnar was allowed to leave the council room. A child his age was restless and needed to burn some energy so they can settle properly again when it was required.

Ragnar explored the halls which were slowly being repaired from extensive damage caused by the light cruiser crash. The boy had learned of Commander Axe Woves and the man’s derring-do. He faintly recalled Axe standing next to him as he led the cry: “FOR MANDALORE!” and the Great Forge was alive with the wild cheers of their people. Ragnar had felt nothing, then. He had numbed himself, shut himself in. He was only there because the Armorer said he should.

The boy kept to his explorations. There would be sentries here and there, and they would nod to him, and he would nod back. Ragnar made another turn to a station definitely more damaged than the rest, but before he could take a step further—

His boot had hit something, and it reacted with a metallic clanking which drifted a bit across the hall before sliding to a full stop.

A rush of the sensing suddenly latched itself onto Ragnar’s mind. The youngster felt a pull towards that object he had accidentally kicked some paces away.

The child searched for it in the half-darkness; he picked it up.

The object was surprisingly warm to the touch. Had someone else handled it before he did? Metal left alone for so long would keep cold. There seemed to be life beating within this… thing…

A hilt?

It was partly crushed, the top split apart like a steel flower in bloom.

Ragnar wrangled in his racing thoughts and pounding heart. He had seen this before, and he knew what it was.

It was what remained of the Darksaber.

“Ragnar, are you there?”

Ragnar was transported back to the present; his eyes flew open upon the sound of Axe’s voice buzzing through the comms of his sleeping quarters.

“Yeah, I’m here,” the boy responded immediately lest his teacher worry… again.

“Good, good,” came the man’s relieved remarks. “Proceed to the cockpit soon and buckle up. We’ll be hitting Nevarro’s atmosphere in T-minus fifteen.”

“Copy that, sir.”

There was prolonged static on the other end, as though Axe held the transmission button for longer, yearning to say something more. Ragnar waited; the static cut off. The youth had felt that Axe wished to impart more caring, concerned words towards his charge. The man had thought better of it.

Ragnar knew what it was: the hesitancy of someone who was a parental figure and yet could not fully be a parent. The boy had respected it, but now he felt bereft. This was Axe’s way of compromise. He was not the boy’s father, and he was in no way replacing Paz Vizsla.

How different things would have been if it were Paz himself who’d take Ragnar to apprenticeship missions?

Ragnar choked back a cry.

Vastly different. A million parsecs different.

Before tucking Paz’s mythosaur pendant back under his flight suit collar, Ragnar partly lifted his helmet to give it a tiny kiss. His frame trembled; his muscles throbbed and his head spun for a moment.

I love you, Dad, Ragnar whispered in his mind to a sleeping man in a bacta tank a world away. He can never say it many times enough.

The mythosaur pendant had been handed to him for safekeeping by the Armorer herself when Ragnar had turned fifteen, his current age. Axe Woves had already then been his mentor for half a year, and he was about to embark in more crucial stages of his apprenticeship. He wouldn’t be strung along for the ride not only to examine and observe. He would start to actively participate in all the dealings Axe would take him to—exercises of the mind and body, and the spirit, most of all.

Mandokar.

(Paz had reminded Ragnar time and again of how much mandokar he discerned in his son. The child had the resilience of beskar itself. Perhaps his father was right on target about that, Ragnar thought sadly, bitterly. He could have been orphaned twice. What average child could live through that sort of trauma? What was he, then? A damned orphan and a half? How long will this continue?)

Can’t Dad wake up? Please… can’t he wake up now?

The only great comfort he found as compensation during this dubious time was that he would be seeing Grogu again. Grogu and his father… Din Djarin himself had a streak which was very warm and welcoming to Ragnar, so much like Paz, and yet the two men were unique of each other.

Oftentimes Nevarro would be the final pit stop after every apprenticeship mission before heading back to Mandalore. Ragnar counted six missions so far, but this one had been the least eventful as much as Axe Woves knew.

As Ragnar fell upon the seat next to Axe and strapped himself in for the jump out of hyperspace, he deftly clutched the Darksaber cocooned within its hidden belt pouch and his heart hammered.

“T-minus two minutes until we hit atmosphere,” informed Axe. He had his helmet on and the visor slightly turned to the boy. “Ready to see our friends again, Ragnar?”

“Yeah,” replied the boy in his usual succinct manner.

Yes, Ragnar continued further in his mind. More than Axe will ever know.

When the boy felt Grogu’s mind reaching out to him through the Force, sort of like an astral handshake the children forged for themselves as soon as Grogu started teaching him about what he knew of the sensing, Ragnar smiled.

It was the widest smile he’d done in a very long time.

*****

Mando'a chapter glossary:

*osik - an impolite Mandalorian word; expletive *buy’ce - helmet *kry’bes - the Mythosaur skull *goran - blacksmith *buir - father, mother, parent *ad’ika - “little one,” a term of endearment for a child age 3-13 years *baar’ur - medic *mandokar - the ‘right stuff,’ the epitome of Mando virtue: a blend of aggression, tenacity, loyalty and a lust for life

(for more extra author's notes on this chapter, please read on AO3 ^_^)

Link to "A Child of the Watch" series/collection - AO3

Link to Previous Chapter - AO3 || Tumblr

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robotnik-mun · 1 year

Text

So, while I primarily jaw about Sonic stuff? I’m also a pretty avid Deltarune fan, and like most in the Fandom I got my own ideas and theories of where this is all heading to. Now, the Big Stuff has been covered a dozen times by now, and better than I could do it, so I’m gonna introduce something a little small scale.

Namely, I think I got an idea of what is up with Kris’ half of the bedroom.

At a glance, this paints an incredibly dismal picture of Kris as a person, especially in contrast with Azzy’s half of the bedroom. It’s just a void of anything you’d expect a teenager to have- no decorations, no awards, nothing to indicate they have any kind of hobbies or interests, not even an alarm clock. Kris’ life is just an unholy, unnatural blank.

Likewise, it says nothing good about Kris’ dynamic with their family, at a glance. What kind of brother lords their accomplishments over their sibling in such a gratuitous manner? What kind of parents PERMIT something like this to occur? You’d be under the impression that Kris is blatantly neglected and overlooked, and it would seem born out by the fact virtually everyone in Hometown is more interested in talking TO Kris about Azzy rather than conversing with Kris for their own sake. The game system in the Dreemurr household has one good controller and one outdated, junky controller. Berdly even refers to Kris as a ‘fellow bluebird’, the context making it clear he regards Kris as being unremarkable and ignored as Berdly himself was prior to the Spelling Bee.

Yeah, this room seems symbolic about Kris, doesn’t it?

Only... I’m not actually sure this room being this way is why we think it is. As we learn more about Kris it becomes clear that Kris isn’t some blank slate we pilot, but someone who does in fact have interests and hobbies and all that jazz, as any teenager should. Nor is Kris actually being neglected by their family- the ‘bad’ controller is used by Asriel rather than Kris. Kris is in fact greatly loved by their family, from what we see. So why is none of that reflected in their half of the room?

I think Kris’ half isn’t like this because Kris is completely unaccomplished and lacking in things they like. I think, at one point in the past, Kris’ corner was every bit as decorated as Azzy’s... and then, for whatever reason, Kris willingly decided to just get rid of it all, and chooses to live this way for reasons that we can guess at, but will probably become clear the further along we go.

Why do I think this? Because whatever their failings as people, I have an incredibly hard time believing that Toriel OR Asgore are so negligent and oblivious that they’d allow a set up like this to persist unless it was by Kris’ own choice. I could be wrong, mind you, and I do believe that Kris’ parents are at some level unwilling to confront that Kris has problems... but I don’t think that even with that caveat that either of them is so utterly incompetent as to just allow one child to seemingly flaunt their accomplishments in front of the other like this.

And then there’s Azzy himself. We don’t know anything about how Asriel is in the present. So far the picture we have painted for us though indicates that he is in fact a good guy who cares deeply for his sibling (as well as being a colossal dork at odds with the kind of Golden Boy that the rest of the town has constructed him to be). So on that front, it seems incredibly unlikely that Asriel would make his half of the room the way it is given how it’d look for Kris. And even if the truth is that Asriel is in fact a horrible asshole (which strikes me as unlikely-but-possible), then it comes back to Asgore and Toriel not allowing this even if Asriel was covering up his actual bad intentions.

Therefore? My conclusion is that Kris, for whatever reason, has gotten rid of all the things that defined THEIR half of the room, and is choosing to live this weird, miserable existence that we see them living. Why they’re doing this, as with everything else, is open to heavy interpretation. My own suspicions range from them doing it out of sheer self-loathing, to them deliberately doing it to hide the details of their life from Us, the Player... there’s a lot going on here that indicates things with Kris go far beyond what We see, and they are privy to thinks that We aren’t. But either way, their corner being the way it is? Is due entirely to their own choice, and Toriel is simply permitting it even though its not a healthy thing for Kris to be doing at all.

In the end we’ll only know once the rest of this game is finally released (and God I hope that’s soon you seriously have no idea), but for now? I choose to believe that Kris’ life isn’t as barren as this room would indicate... they simply, for whatever reason, are unwilling to share that life with others at this point, either due to the events of the past or due to not wanting Us to see.

... I also like to think that, if this is true, Toriel is storing all of Kris’ things in the attic in the hopes that one day they’ll want it back. That however is less textual based and more Realm Of Pure Headcanon, heh.

#Deltarune #Kris Dreemurr #Asriel Dreemurr #Toriel Dreemurr #Asgore Dreemurr

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dreamwritesimagines · 8 months

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It’s CMA-

I’m a little late to the party but I’m here! I’m going to be taking notes as always.

I feel like Ben woke up as soon as she left because he’s just so attuned to her and had a moment of panic before realizing what had happened.

“”You won’t stop loving me now that I said I love you?””

Stop dream that’s literally so fucking sad. Why would you put that??? I feel like it might be subconscious for some people but for her to be so insecure that it becomes a conscious worry and thought I just- AUGH I WANT TO FUCKING KILL HER PARENTS FOR DOING THIS TO HER!!!!!!!!

“”I didn’t do this so that you would fall in love with me,” he said. “I did it because I want you to be happy. Simple as that.””

Augh Ben’s selfless love again he’s just so ❤️❤️❤️ shaped. This chapter is killing me and we’re still on scene one. I don’t know if can handle this soft fluffy shit; it’s been killing me for like 30+ chapters or whatever already I can’t take it anymore (/hj plz don’t stop)

I don’t think this will happen because there’s been no hint of it but thinking back to that early chapter where clover challenged Venus (was it Aphrodite or Venus? I don’t remember. Either way) and I just feel like Venus would be vindictive enough to make clover fall in love and then have her lose it tragically.

Like just knowing mythology as little as I do, I feel like just making her fall in love isn’t enough and is actually a reward for her insubordination and disrespect. Again, I don’t think it’s going to happen, but it would be an interesting twist on things.

Ben’s nonchalance at being caught in the greenhouse means one of two things to me: either this has happened to him before and he’s just like over it at this point, or he’s so in love with clover that it doesn’t even occur to him that being caught is something they should be worried about.

Also I wonder how Anthony will react to them sneaking off places. Like there’s no way at least some people wouldn’t gossip, even if it’s just his family roasting them and calling them out. Or if Anthony is too besotted with Lottie/actively being a hypocrite to give a fuck?

Does the household staff know that their marriage is a sham? Do you think they’d guess that it is now?

Aww they’re so cute!! Lmao I feel like their PDA would be normal if a bit mushy for todays standards but for them it’s going to be miserable at their first normal people ball back.

It’s interesting that clover is okay that Gordon painted her when before she’s been adamant that Ben is the only one who could do so. I kind of feel weird about Gordon not asking permission at all, especially when he knows them, then revealing it to all these people, and selling the painting tbh but I’m not sure if that’s just me……..

Maybe I’ve just been reading too many posts about people taking pictures of strangers without their permission, posting them online, and making them famous, and how that ruins peoples lives and the right to privacy or whatever. I know this is a different time period but I do feel like it applies here a bit.

Also Gordon only asked clover if she didn’t mind at the end, not Ben and we only got a hint of his reaction which was that he was surprised and also that the painting would be seen for centuries, so I’m curious as to how he feels about it. He didn’t seem super thrilled about it though, and I wonder if I’m reading too much into that or if he’s protective of clover’s privacy or what…

I don’t think he’d necessarily confront Gordon about it, but I wonder if it makes things weird between them at all. After all, this painting probably made Gordon a small fortune, but Ben knows that clover has previously been pretty adamant about no one else painting her.

I think that he sees that clovers not upset so he might not say anything, but it’s interesting. I also wonder if he’s worried about this setting a precedent for other artists to not ask permission before painting people, or if not just painting them, then selling that art for money without doing anything to alter the appearance or hide the identities of the models.

I know that they said that they weren’t identifiable and that Gordon wouldn’t out them, but a lot of people saw clover’s dress that night. It would only take one person remembering that for the cat to be out of the bag. And I don’t think it would be scandalous or bad, but it might draw unwanted attention….

Also Gordon never gave Ben the chance to bid on the painting himself. It’s their moment, they should get first dibs on keeping it to themselves imho, or at least some say and/or compensation.

I understand that that may be too modern of a concept, but bridgerton is a modernized regency after all, and if nothing else, I’m pretty sure historically art models have been compensated in some way for their time or whatever.

Idk I’m probably way, way overthinking it lmao. It’s a sweet gesture and it’s cool that they’ll be immortalized forever. I wish they got to keep the painting though, not gonna lie.

Overall it’s a sweet chapter! I love it, even if I’m feeling a bit critical of Gordon right now haha.

Fantastic work as always; love you lots and can’t wait to see all your thoughts tomorrow!! <3

CMA HI MY LOVEEEE! 😍❤️

Omg I'm so exciteeeed! 🥰❤️

Oh he definitely thought she left when he first woke up, when he couldn't find her beside him ❤️

Yessss! That really is an insecurity for her! 💔 She's used to people taking things away from her when she likes them, (her parents) so now that she loves Benedict back and he knows it, she does fear that he might change his mind 💔

I don't think Benedict ever thought about her falling in love with him while he was working on that greenhouse, especially after she told him she would never love him 😈

That would scare the hell out of Clover, if she almost lost him 😏

I think Ben's nonchalance means both actually! 😂 Like, people walked in on him while he was busy for sure, at least the staff sometime, and he's verrrry distracted by Clover to care about it 😂

People will be gossiping and Anthony will try to talk to Benedict about it but nope, he won't listen 😂 He's too in love 😂

At least Anthony is being careful! 😁 Benedict is very reckless 😏

I doubt anyone will think their marriage is/was a sham after seeing them together in the future chapter lolll😈

THE PAINTING! OMG I HAVE SO MANY IDEAS ABOUT THE PAINTING! ❤️

So I definitely get what you mean, and I feel like how Benedict would react had three contributing factors, the fact that they weren't identifiable, it was 'acceptable' aka a proper depiction, and Clover's reaction 😁

Gordon's painting plays a pretty significant part in Clover's character development, because for her, being "seen" doesn't equal being threatened/ in danger anymore ❤️ She is starting to feel safe and comfortable with the rest of the people as well, that's why she was so fine with it, she's not nearly as scared anymore ❤️

And while she is still adamant in not letting anyone paint her (like a portrait where her face and identity is visible to anyone who looks at it) it's more about Benedict now rather than herself ❤️ At first, it was because she only trusted Benedict in an unconscious level, and now it's because she is in love with him that he is "allowed" to paint her more differently than anyone else ❤️

And in some way, both Benedict and Clover find it romantic because while Clover is sure Benedict's works will be seen by the people for centuries, Gordon's is the one that'll show them together ❤️ Without any posing or anything the ton deems necessary in portraits, it just shows their love and Benedict is actually in there, because when Benedict paints Clover, he's not in the painting with her ❤️

So they're both fine with the painting, Gordon is essentially the only artist that could pull that off and depict their love as it was 🥰

Thank you so so much my love! ❤️

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smokypavlova2002 · 10 months

Text

The Lost Daughter

A Y/N Malfoy story

Chapter 1 - New Beginnings

Word count - 994

Warnings: None

YN Malfoy is sitting with her brother and his friends on the Hogwarts express, as they travel back to school for the start of the new academic year. It will be their sixth year at Hogwarts, and Draco is acting shiftier than usual…

Y/N Malfoy stares at the rain drops racing across the train window, tracing their twisted paths with her forefinger as the Hogwarts Express moves rapidly through the countryside, wheels clattering loudly on the rusted tracks.

A slow smile stretches lazily across her lips as she is reminded of the fact that she will be able to catch up with her closest friends again, a welcome change to having to spend all her time cooped up in the Malfoy mansion with only her cat for good company. Y/N misses spending rainy afternoons crafting feather dream-catchers with Cho and Luna, sharing book recommendations with Hermione, and playing wizard chess with Ron in the Great Hall.

Mostly she misses sneaking out at night with Harry, exploring every inch of Hogwarts’ many corridors and discovering hidden passages and tunnels within the castle grounds. Thinking of Harry makes Y/N’s cheeks heat up, and she can feel the reddish hue rising to the surface of her skin as she attempts to hide her blush in the sleeve of her jacket. Hopefully she will be able to spend more quality time with Harry this year…

Draco’s clipped tone snaps Y/N out of her thoughts, rudely jolting her to attention as if she had had ice water thrown into her face.

‘What on earth are you staring out of the window for?’ Draco bites, glaring at her sister from across the booth, sending shivers down her spine. ‘Seriously you spend more time daydreaming than doing anything useful. It’s pathetic’.

Y/N sinks back into her seat, brushing off her brothers’ rude remarks and returning her gaze to the window, the outside surroundings flashing by in a continuous blur as the train continues to race through the countryside. Draco huffs and turns back to Blaise and Pansy, resuming their previous conversation.

‘Hogwarts,’ he scoffs. ‘What a pathetic excuse for a school’.

Y/N has noticed a certain change in her brother’s demeanour lately, and he has seemed more irritable than usual. Sure, he has always been a bully and a pessimist, but the sick pleasure he seemed to gain from making the lives of others miserable is no longer noticeable in his mood. Joy has slowly faded from Draco’s eyes, and his skin has taken on a more sallow and pale appearance in recent months, clear indicators of stress and anxiety. Y/N can only wonder what has caused this change in her brother, although she knows he will never open up to her as they never formed a strong bond despite growing up together.

Draco’s apparent hatred of his sister may have stemmed from the fact that Y/N Malfoy was not, in fact, Draco’s biological sister. Y/N was adopted as a baby, having been abandoned by her parents as an infant, and taken in by the Malfoys to be raised as one of their own. Despite this, Y/N always felt like she was an imposter in the Malfoy household, intruding on the quiet lives of Lucius and Narcissa and their only son. In fact, Y/N often wondered why the Malfoys even decided to take her in while they were raising their own newborn son, and they never seemed to care for her in the same way they cared for Draco.

Y/N would often ask Narcissa, the only Malfoy whom she vaguely trusted, if she had any information about who her parents were, but her inquiries were always immediately shut down by her adoptive mother, who seemed reluctant to talk about anything to do with Y/N’s biological parents. Nevertheless, Narcissa did promise that when Y/N came of age, she would be able to learn more about where she came from, if she so desired.

Everyday Y/N would daydream about her biological parents, wondering what they looked like, what their jobs were, what they were doing in that exact moment. Were they kind and caring people, with hazel eyes and dark hair like herself? Or perhaps she only got that from one parent, while the other had lighter features and blue, maybe green eyes? Perhaps they were artists or musicians, or did they have jobs in the ministry, or were they in fact educators like her teachers at Hogwarts? Y/N secretly hoped that they might still be together in a loving relationship, so that one day they could reunite with her and live together as a strong family unit.

Y/N’s eyelids fluttered to a close as she began to dream of her parents…

Y/N felt a rough hand shaking her awake as the train horn blared, signalling their arrival into Hogwarts station. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, she looked up into the piercing stare of Pansy Parkinson, who told her sharply to move out of the way so she could reach her trunk, which was stowed away on the overhead railings.

As Y/N was gathering her belongings, ready to depart the train and head straight to the Great Hall for a hearty meal, she glanced quickly at Draco, who had his eyes fixed on a black duffel bag perched on the railings on the opposite side of the carriage.

‘Aren’t you coming Draco?’ Asked Pansy, in that sickly sweet tone she always used when talking to Draco. Poor Pansy. She would never give up hope on her delusion that she and Draco were destined to be together. Y/N wasn’t sure Draco was actually capable of loving another human being anyway, he seemed concerned only for himself.

‘You go’, Draco muttered in response, his eyes fixed on the duffel bag, unmoving. ‘I’ll see you at dinner’.

As Y/N departed the carriage, she glanced once more at her brother, who was using his wand to close the blinds on all the windows of their carriage, quietly muttering enchantments under his breath as his brows furrowed in a look of concentration and simultaneous vexation.

Draco was up to something, and Y/N was determined to find out exactly what it was. But for now, Hogwarts was waiting for her…

#hp fandom #harry potter #harry potter x reader #harry potter x y/n #draco malfoy #hp fic #harry potter x oc

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jamesphillimoresumbrella · 6 months

Text

I don't have a lot of time and I haven't been sleeping well anyway, so might as well blog about it.

Because it's me, let me preface this by saying that I could have behaved better and I know it. I ought to know by now that my habit of running and hiding does no one any favors in the long run, but I can't take it back.

Towards the end of August, it hit me, suddenly and violently, that not all parents were like mine. Which I knew. Mom's a bit special like that, and growing up as a kid with divorced parents in a country where there is no such thing as divorce was its own steaming kettle of fish. And I knew Mom was possessive and jealous and deeply reliant on other people (despite harboring a deep resentment because she was on her own - yes, make that make sense). But it was shocking to realize that other parents just...let their kids be. That they have full and complete lives apart from their children, and they let their kids do things on their own. And that they're not pinning all their hopes for happiness on their kids; they're not counting the years from the time they were little, waiting for their kids to rescue them from a life made miserable by their own reckoning.

I could have done better than shutting down and simply not talking to my mother for months, with no explanation, but it hurt so much. On top of the realization that it was possible to live in a household where I didn't have to worry if the smell of fish or not having enough ice would throw someone into a rage. On top of dreading people acknowledging my accomplishments in front of her because she'd use it as fuel later on when she inevitably got mad at me (the sheer horror I felt when my godmother told her on the phone that she couldn't rival my baking - and I still feel the urge to point out that it's a different skill set under different circumstances. I'm decent with bread but pies are not my strong suit). On top of each phone call lasting at least an hour unless I have a pressing need to go and most of it consisting of complaints on how other people have done her wrong, on top of being her only support person, on top of her utterly unrealistic view of life in the States. I keep saying she's very much like the immigrant mice in An American Tale, who think that there are no cats in America and streets are paved with cheese.\

I was already doing poorly this year.

And now my grandfather's dead and things have come to a head. Again, I could have handled things better, but I ended up in the ER and apparently I scared them enough that they sent me to the psych ward for a few days. (It turns out having a well thought-out and highly reasoned plan is highly concerning.) I've missed the funeral, but am still flying out today despite my better judgement.

I don't know where I was going with this. I just needed to get it down before I actually talked to my mother, I suppose.

#life; maybe talk to me about life #tw: toxic parents #tw: suicidal ideation

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twenty-first-century-ki-laila · 1 year

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How would you consider treating abusive parents? Sometimes I have an, uncontrollable, strong feeling of revenge. Sometimes I happen to even react to them. But they're not too much as they have treated me, so badly and ill mannered.

If hair being pulled, hands being twisted and neck being held, getting beaten by sticks, and having your basic rights being rewards and something to earn by just being obedient, is not seen as abuse then I think, even this generation, has lost their sense of compassion.

The reason is very simple, yet the situation is extremely horrible and brutal, that if the child (a victim,ofc) no longer feels safe in their own house then those parents have failed miserably. If the child has thought about no longer wanting to live, more than once, then those parents should have their dignity taken away from them. As they have, falsely, taken away from their own child.

Yet these parents, monsters I'd say or even sinisters, true, have the audacity to never even once reflect on what they'd said and what they'd done so far to have such an innocent soul be broken by such negativity. Instead, they're very confident about themselves. Naricissm? Who knows. One can never figure out such creatures.

(Tell me your thoughts on this :))

This is a very complicated question. Ill try to answer it to the best of my understanding and abilities.

Parent-child relationships in general are very delicate and complicated due to the generation gap, differences in the way of life, and thinking and differences in personalities. Parents raise their children, trying to sow beliefs and ethics they consider superior. So it can be difficult for parents to cope when children develop their own minds and thoughts, which are contradictory to their thoughts and beliefs. They only make peace with their children being different from what they intended them to be when they see their children living happy and successful lives on their own terms.

Personally, I think that there isn't any right and wrong to parenting if the child grows up to be a normal, functional adult. But abuse makes things very complicated. Not only does it ruin the foundation of the parent-child relationship, which is security and comfort, but it also takes away the opportunity of having a happy, healthy childhood which is important in development of every human being. While parental abuse is traumatising, it is also very derogatory in nature and often leads to children developing self-esteem issues along with PTSD and other problems. It does not imply that all mental health issues arising in children are due to incompetent parents. Sometimes, there are other factors responsible. But even then, parents play a key role in the development of the child with how they deal with the situation.

I have grown up in an environment where abuse is seen as a way of disciplining rowdy children and is practised regularly in many households. Somehow, many people around me grew up carefree without an inkling of what they went through and then used to complain about how kids these days are just very sensitive. But they fail to realise that family structure has a key role in why they grew up trauma free despite all that abuse and negligence. Back then, parents weren't the primary source of security and comfort, and children had other options. And even if they didn't have these sources of comfort and security, they grew up in environments that were less restricted than us, which ensured proper mental and physical development.

I can't say much about what to do if you are going through parental abuse. But the priority should be to make yourself safe and functional. For that, try to understand the reason. I understand that it is not the most feasible option, but unfortunately, children depend on parents for financial security, which is more important than anything in this century. Understanding why they do it will make it easier for you to cope with abuse and avoid the triggers that will ensure safety. Sometimes, parental abuse is not something that happens on a daily basis and is limited to result declaration days or when parents think that they can not control their children. Sometimes, the parents are simply incompetent and have no understanding of how to handle certain situations. In that case, you've to be the mature one. I know this sounds like bad advice to children, but the focus is to be trauma free as an adult. Sometimes, parents are just repreating what they went through due to generational trauma. In these cases, I'd recommend staying low. The best you can do pretend to do what they expect you to do. You have to find methods to survive.

Try not to get revenge and potentially ruin your life. The goal is not to have a better childhood (sorry, but it's already ruined). The goal is to be a trauma free adult. And if your parents are not even providing for you financially, then I'd recommend getting jobs secretly. Unfortunately Police and social services aren't very helpful enough. Apart from that I can not suggest you much.

I think parents who abuse their kids are just too weak mentally. People first go on and rant about how wrong it is to inflict pain upon people who are weak and then do the same. I've seen people boast about how they love their parents despite everything, and their parents were probably frustrated and angry and that they have every right to beat them. And then they talk about how they have no trauma due to it. I think these people won't hesitate to beat their children too. My question to such people is that would you beat a person poor or weaker than you simply because they don't do things according to you? Because if beating your children is right, then beating any random, weaker person I right too. Because if this is right, then people can beat their spouses, their parents, their friends. Why not beat everyone?

Parental abuse is rooted in mental weakness and lack of control over negative emotions. These people have no control over their situation, and when they get frustrated, they take it out on people weaker than them to feel in control. That's the way I define it. And that is how it is.

#tumblr asks #ask reply #parental abuse #parental trauma #parental neglect #ptsd

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system-of-a-feather · 1 year

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Dear Problematic Siblings; An Open Letter to Older Siblings Survivors from a Youngest Sibling Survivor

(TW: Some levels of emotional abuse, neglect and psychological abuse mentioned. Not sure what level of detail to warn since its that whole Trauma Thing where you don't know what is and isn't 'that bad' so just be careful if any of those are particularly touchy topics)

Don't think too formal of this writing despite the formal sounding title, this is a bit of an open free form letter I wanted to put out to those who have siblings you aren't in contact with or don't have a relationship with following an abusive childhood environment may that be due to having to cut contact for safety or bad blood from how you hurt each other growing up.

I am / We are the youngest of two sisters - one older by 6~ years, the other older by 4~ years and our household was unsafe since before I was born. In theory, my oldest sister might have seen the abuse arise, maybe my middle sister had a bit of time before plunged into hell, but I was born condemned. First and foremost, its important to acknowledge how even these few years have likely developed how we perceive our lives and our situation greatly; far more than either of us can probably have the conscious awareness of as - regardless of how old we were when we first faced it, we were still learning and forgetting a lot of things that would innately frame the way we see the others and the world.

To the sister that made my life miserable, to the one that actively attacks and bullied me, actively tried to silence me and turn my parents against me, actively made the already bad neglect worse and actively took away all of the very few to no resources I had; to the sister that told me I couldn't complain because I was "too young" to remember the worst of the trauma; to the sister that I threw out of my life for four years and refused to so much as be in the same room as or see for two years, to the sister I gave up on after she disappointed me by repeating the same harmful behaviors over and over again over the six to eight years I had made an attempt to come to an understanding and make things work with; to the sister who - after time apart and given independent healing - came to the realization that our lives and childhood sucked, that we both were put through, that over time realized that the there was a lot more to life than the petty stressors we had built a habit of fighting over; to the sister that still from time to time, when prompted with specific triggers, will still revert back to those survival mechanisms and begin behaving in ways that are similar to how she did when we were younger; to that sister, I understand and I forgive you.

It took a while to get around here - a lot of work of healing and a lot of time apart to work through, process, recover and grow from the damage I had sustained in childhood both at your hands and not, but I understand. We were both children and we were both trying to survive. Children being forced to survive like we did will almost always look ugly, will almost always make a mess, and thats not your fault nor mine. Neither of us should have been put into that situation, and I understand why we were that way before, I forgive you and I hope you forgive me for whatever slights I likely did while trying to survive myself. I also understand that just acknowledging and being aware of this doesn't stop the trauma and immediately cure the pain and wounds that were inflicted upon us, and while we might relapse into old dynamics, I understand and forgive you already so as long as you do the same back. Healing isn't easy and more than anything, the thing that I value and cherish most is that we both have reflected on our pasts and how they affect our present and have made active genuine effort to handle it. The past is in the past, and the future is what we make of it. I'll be patient with you if you are patient with me.

To my oldest sister; to the sister that saw my pain when I was seven and came to help me; to the sister that took responsibility for making my life good and making sure I succeed; to the sister that saw the danger I was in and became dedicated, obsessed even, with making sure I did better than she did; to the sister that sat me down when I was not even in middle school to plan out all my classes up until graduate school and planned to help me enroll in the military at age 14 to pay for my tuition; to the sister that wanted to see me happy all the time to the point of recognizing a complex dissociative disorder and intentionally triggering one part out regularly to make herself feel better; to the sister that trained me in the brutal world of capitalism and taught me how to live on nothing because she knew, for a certain, that no one would be there for me and made sure I knew that I was entirely on my own; to the sister that gave me freedom and protection from my parents in exchanged for the knowledge that no one would help me should I fail; to the sister that got me a bird when she knew she was going to leave me alone and unprotected; to the sister that taught me to dominate everyone and everything to maintain peace, safety, and control; to the sister who was extensively traumatized and scared who used me as a subject to project her anxieties upon with good yet selfish and inconsiderate intent; to the sister who both saved me from my parents, but also made the effects of the 10x times worse and more dramatic; to the sister who I defended for 21 years of my life and kept from being disowned 6 times when no one else in the family would stand up for her; to the sister who - upon the slightest push back and watered down critique to acknowledge the damage done - threw me to the side as a party not trying in the relationship; to the sister who doubles down and refuses to reflect and grow, I appreciate what you have done for me and understand, but I do not forgive you - nor do I see myself forgiving you in the near future.

The most I can hope for is that you, much like my other sister, when given time apart, will come to realize the damage that you have done. That you will come to realize the true shittiness of our lives and understand that by constantly running, by constantly living in the ways that we originally learned to cope with our lives, by perpetuating the trauma that we were born and raised in, by never looking back to move forward, we will never truly escape and live the life that we deserve but were denied. As much as I wish I could sit here with you and help you through this process, that would cost me my own ability to heal, to move forward, to grow. I understand that you were doing the best for yourself, and I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt that you did what you thought was best for me - growing up how we did was hard and you more than any of us three had to deal with a lot of it on your own and without warning. You were of an older generation - mental health information was not as accessible and far more stigmatized - people were more conservative and less progressive. I completely understand how and why it is that your pain had been redirected onto me; however, I can't see that you see that. You seem unable to see your own fault and folly along with the consequences I was forced to bare. I can not forgive you, if you can not acknowledge your part in this show.

To that sister, all I can say is I hope you heal. I hope you get better and I hope you see that life doesn't have to be a constant game of run away from the past and trauma. I hope that one day you will realize why it is that conflicts follow and case you around. I hope that one day you reflect on the past and realize how your pain had caused others pain and I hope you can still love and accept yourself anyways. I hope then that we can talk again and start anew, but until then, I can not forgive you.

To both my older sisters, I don't know what our childhood was like for you - I lived it, I watched it, I saw it, but I could never truly fullly understand or begin to fathom what it was like on your side of the table, so I won't act like I do any more than I need to understand that I don't need to hate you for the rest of my life. Our childhood was hard, harder than any of us can properly remember by the sheer nature of it. I don't wish to hold bad blood over things happened in the past that will only get further and further in the past until they disappear to irrelevancy. I don't wish any ill upon either of you (excluding the acute moments when you really piss me off and/or we trigger one another****). I truthfully hope we all can heal, move on, and live our lifes regardless of how bad our first two or so decades of our individual lives have been. We are all survivors and thats something to be respected of.

Sincerely,

The Youngest Sibling

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