#inkwelldried

Some small part of you had the rationality to know that pleasing him would never really make you happy. Pleasing him meant more than you would ever be capable of, but even knowing that, you did what he asked and hoped for some kind of acknowledgment that what you did was worth your time in his eyes. That it was worth HIS time.That was rarely ever a thing. But still, you tried.Your brother was the eye of his affections far more than you were. You weren’t as devout, you weren’t as strong, you weren’t as steadfast. Your brother was all the things your father wanted, and you were... there. You existed too. Sort of.Her grin is wicked and her painted lips are still somehow soft, even in stark contrast to her skin and her eyes. But you know, you know from the way she smiles that she could make him proud. That she’s the kind of devil that would make him smile, and just the sort of thing you need to get into his good graces.You end up with bruises and cuts and three broken fingers and he tells you that you’re a fool, that you’re a disgrace and that if you don’t run and hide now, he’ll break more than that. So you do as your told because what else are you meant to do?Her smile isn’t as wicked and the hand in your hair, nails sharp as daggers, is almost gentle, pulling at the snarls and knots until she can glide her fingers through without resistance. You let her, because she isn’t heavy with the malice she’d come here with. She still presses her fingers into bruises until you hiss with pain and that makes her smile in amusement, but not spite.Your father might have sent you away, you might never actually get the same kind of love he shows your brother, but you’re accepting that. And he might have hissed at your failure and your ignorance and your arrogance, but she... she doesn’t seem that bad to you.