#snapped under the weight of their mother’s expectations and the pressure to perform

[emmaspolaroid]

I short circuit when people say they don’t understand Emma but I accept that it’s because she and I are the same which is fucked up actually because that means Isabella and I are also the same

[border-spam]

Leech Lord - Nobody loves me like you

It was so late it felt like time itself had passed out, that void somewhere in the AM between being tired enough to fall asleep where you stand and feeling the nervous energy of dawn approaching.

The air in the Mechanicum was crisp with night chill when the E-Dev in her pocket vibrated, and Saint Ur-Machina's heart sunk in her chest as she grimaced under her welding mask. No need to check who it was, she'd known before he'd even sent the message.

The God-King was angry.

She sighed, rubbing oily hands into oilier overalls, and frowned at how pointless a gesture trying to clean them had been at all, picking bits of filth out from under her nails as she leaned against the rough wall of the hangar. Pointless maybe, but a distraction, and Seifa needed one of those right now.

The God-King was angry with himself, and that meant the people he cared about the most would take the rage.

The workfloor clock read 3:56AM where it hung from the rafter above her station, clunky ticking echoing across the empty bay. No one but her still working, and she shouldn't really have been there either considering the hour, but that had stopped feeling like it mattered a long time ago. She was always there now. Always working, like she haunted the place. Funny, she used to be so good about managing her time...

The welding mask threw a cloud of sawdust as it bounced across the floor towards the machine she'd kicked it at. She didn't even know what to call the horrible thing that loomed in front of her, some juggernaut of sleek metal she'd been ordered to run performance checks on, jagged lines illuminated by the sickly floor lamps she'd arranged around its skeleton.

Warmachines. Unnamed projects with stacks of paperwork marking them as highly classified, Troy's insignia and the same word she kept seeing over and over in confidential documentation - Uroboros. Tasted like a bad idea, reeked of poor decisions, and she'd always sniffed those out like a Skag.

What the hell did Seifa A'Rosk know about warmachines anyway? They used to build Technicals here, outriders. COV custom Cyclones for stream events, this wasn't what she signed up for, none of it was. Managing the engineering crew should never have shifted into whatever the fuck THIS was.

The steel monster in front of her bled oil silently into the sawdust, refusing to give an answer. Whatever this was, it was for Gods and Sirens, and that was a world she wasn't part of, not really. She wasn't a Saint, she was just a ghost, caught repeating the same mistakes over and over till she faded away.

The E-Dev in her pocket vibrated again, and she tapped the back of her head against the plate steel wall, trying to convince herself she wasn't ready to vomit as she squinted up towards the hangar's ceiling, lost to the night murk the lights around her couldn't quite cut through.

She figured she should answer, making him wait was just going to make this worse.

Jak-Knife had already warned her, a curt ping earlier today to "sstay ou t of his way it s bad seiifa". Ven too when he'd dropped by in the afternoon with the excuse of worrying about if she'd eaten yet and half a bag of something spicy and dripping in grease. He'd said the Cathedral staff were noose tight and whispering nervously about an incident a few hours before, something had gone wrong in a talk with visiting sponsors - with the twins. Word on the rumour mill was it had nearly turned vicious, the suits looking ready to brick themselves as they'd all but ran through the meeting room's doors after Troy had flung them open hard enough to unhinge one, and according to priests who'd been on hand? Tyreen had really embarrassed him.

Sei had winced as Ven explained, both painfully aware of this behaviour pattern and what it meant for everyone he was close to. Why the God Queen had been going out of her way to put her brother down in front of high-value clients recently was impossible to guess - no one could really get into her head or understand her decisions lately, but this wasn't the first time, and if anything it was getting worse. Little insults. Little knife-sharp jokes that weren't jokes at all, and mockeries masked behind a paper thin smile like it made them less deadly. She'd imply he was a burden, or undermine his expertise in ways so cleverly worded that the officials would have no choice but to laugh awkwardly as Troy seethed while his twin continued with negotiations.

Today she'd apparently told him to make himself actually useful and fetch their guests some drinks, right in front of servant crew and moments after he'd finished a grueling breakdown of growth projections and profit expectations for this quarter to a rapt audience. It's hard to tell if him snapping had actually surprised her or had been exactly what she wanted, but the staff who'd been there were terrified, and insisted the Vault Mother had looked genuinely shocked when the desk he threw had missed her head by barely a few inches.

He'd stalked out of the meeting and vanished into the upper cloister, and now it was the middle of the night and her E-Dev pinged for a third time.

She closed her eyes and tried to breathe out the fear coiling through her ribs in a shaky exhale. She knew exactly what was happening, it was the same as always with him. Enraged, dripping with self-loathing, and lost somewhere in that toxic mood somewhere between vicious and pitiful - looking for something to hurt, looking for a way to vent the pain as he paced like a snarling monster, muttering like he was arguing something with himself, a back and forth of accusations and desperate apologies to something no one else could see.

Tyreen couldn't eat him alive with her powers but she could do it with her words... and maybe that's what had changed. Maybe she'd realised a new way to control her twin with manipulations that left him so emasculated and damaged in confidence that he wanted to tear something he loved apart just so he could turn the hatred on himself after.

Of course it was going to be her.

The same dance every time now, the same frustrating steps that she'd memorised by this point, trying to break him out of his deadly spiral as he'd rant at rave at her, till he'd attack her somehow, then skulk into the shadows when he was done foaming at the mouth, leaving her to carry everything he'd piled onto her shoulders - the threats, the hate, the aggression, only to beg for her forgiveness the next day and be ignored.

He'd spend a week desperately apologising, showing how much he understood how pathetically wrong what he had done had been, sending ridiculous gifts to the mechanicum where he knew they'd have to be accepted under his sigil, reassure over and over in messages that it wouldn't happen again, that he'd just been under so much pressure, that he'd just snapped, that it wasn't right and she hadn't deserved it and how much her friendship mattered.

The E-Dev pinged one last time, and Seifa straightened, dusting off her overalls and adjusting the toolbelt slung around her waist.

God-King Calypso demanded a sacrifice - self harm masked as a blade he'd lash at someone he loved so it would cut him all the deeper. She'd take it, better her than someone else. She could handle him. 

She always had.

It was raining again, felt like that hadn't stopped at all this month. Pandora had wet seasons, it's just that the water never seemed to go anywhere. The acrid dust absorbed it almost as fast as it could fall, but in the city it flooded the streets as it rushed down gutters. Neon light reflected from gaudy signs in pools of colour that swam across the uneven paving stones as she slowly made her way towards the Cathedral, a waterproof canvas thrown around her shoulders protecting from the downpour.

Even at this time of night, the city was still alive. It never really stilled anymore, too many deals going down in alleys and money changing hands in clubs for it to ever actually sleep, and as she picked her way past huddled locals far too engrossed in their own business to pay her any mind, Seifa wondered when it was things had changed like this.

This place had been a shanty town, hadn't it? When she'd arrived to take over the engineering division there had been maybe one, two thousand COV followers camped around the cathedral in rickety shelters. Bandits mostly, erecting camps and functional living quarters with expertise alien to any outsider. It was a city now, fuck, it was a metropolis. She'd overseen the building of half of the major apartment systems in the inner ring around the holy quarter, so how did it still feel like it had grown of out nowhere?

Sei huffed out a steamy breath into the chill night air as the cathedral began to come into view, bass music and laughter fading as it was swallowed into the drumming of the rain on the buildings she left behind her.

She used to be so proud when she saw it, the awesome majesty of its twisted spires and jutting angles framed against the rocky outcrop that loomed behind it. Nowadays it just looked like something grotesque, a mirror of what it contained maybe. The COV was rotting from within, and everyone knew the source.

She'd been warned by friends more willing to face the harsh realities of the twin's decline that time was running out.

Tonight, tomorrow, a week from now, it didn't matter why it was going to happen, just that it would, and as much as she hated admitting it to anyone, Seifa knew she wasn't strong enough to do this much longer.

He was killing her.

Anything could set him off now, it was constant. Numbers under-performing this week, an underhanded comment from Tyreen that tipped the balance, not enough sleep, too many stims, not gaining weight, an article mocking his appearance, anything. It could have been any of them he had summoned, her, Ven, JK, the why or who was inconsequential because the desired outcome was always the same.

Troy wanted to hurt himself, not them, but he didn’t know how. The pressure would build and build till he broke down, lost logic, went wild-eyed and shaking in barely controlled rage. He hated being Troy Calypso so much there were times he wanted to tear his own skin off, he'd told her as much on nights alone and open in shared sadness, but there was no escape. It was this, or starving in a manner she couldn’t even comprehend, and when he'd asked before if maybe that would be the better option?

...She'd not known what to say. She'd failed him then, tripping over the words catching in her lungs as he desperately waited for an answer that would make sense of things, and she'd never been able to give one. Just sat next to him as they both sank deeper into the trap of their titles and the horrible reality that there was no clear way out.

He was waiting in the throne room for her, just like she'd imagined. Pacing back and forth across the dias as the city light streamed through the stained glass windows, glinting sharply off the rattling gold spines his ritual gear was decorated with as he moved.

She'd stood in silence, watching, trying to catch what he was asking himself as he'd snap a muttered retort in spite, but not able to ever make out the questions. Like an animal snared in gilded chains she figured, or something else maybe - an idol pretending to be something living? A shiver had ran through her as she waited for him to turn his frantic attention to her, quietly waiting for the blow to come. No one had even been there to greet her or open the doors to the throne room, they were ajar, the staff knowing better than to risk being in his presence when he was like this... she smirked, knowing better than her, anyway.

He'd shifted attention to her so smoothly it felt like the rant he'd been hissing to himself just continued directly into her as he'd turned, beckoning her closer with a quirk of those horrible claws. She'd bit her lip and swallowed down how much that enraged her, being summoned like a fucking dog when this man so often made clear he viewed himself as dirt in comparison to her, but months of dealing with him had tempered the reaction. Easier to go along with it, placate him, nod and let him vent out the bile till he realised how much of a fucking asshole he was and came crawling back later.

It was the same dance as usual, the exact same steps. She could feel where he was going with each shift in direction, jumping topic to topic in an attempt to place blame and becoming more enraged with each simple refute she could offer. She never made it easy, that wasn't her nature in the end, she'd calmly reply back to each accusation with logic that left him shaking harder as the fury built, like a caged predator or roid-mad Psycho desperate to attack but not getting the opening. She could play this game for hours, long enough to make sure he worked for the satisfaction, even if it left her exhausted.

She'd always been petty, after all.

He threw snarled jabs at Mechanicum performance, raised complaints that she knew weren't true, accused "concerns" about output she could disarm easily, the same as always, till suddenly he shifted.. and everything went wrong.

She could handle him with spines raised and teeth bared, she could stand unflinching as he aimed blows that he never really landed, but she hadn't been prepared for him to suddenly relax. He'd stood straight, rolling the weight of the prosthetic on a shoulder all casual and friendly like suddenly he wasn't seething under the grin his snarl melted into, and she'd felt a jolt of fear. This was something new, this was something... worse, she could feel it like electricity crackling up her spine, and for the first time that night her heart began to pick up a stuttered pounding as cool sweat beaded down her back. He took a step closer, and for just a second, there was a question flittering across the back of her mind that screamed something she couldn't ignore before it vanished into her practiced calm.

For a split second, Seifa questioned if this was Troy.

"You know, it's funny, Sei..."

She opened her mouth to warn him to stop, the atmosphere was at fever point, he was going to go too far, something in how terrified his eyes looked against he vicious curve of his smile sent panic through her chest.

"Troy" her voice cracked "Come on, Troy you know you shouldn't keep going, this is -"

He cut her off with a tsk and raise of a bladed finger, bending to lower his face closer to hers from where he towered above her.

"Rude Seifa, I was talking."

He was near enough to feel the body heat glowing from his chest, and her voice choked in her throat as the point of a talon tapped gently against her nose as if he was chiding some kid.

"Funny isn't it?" He cooed, and it wasn't.

"You used to have so much time for me, didn't you. We used to really spend time together..." the lack of his stutter was a warning she knew him too well to ignore.

"... but nowadays you're so desperate to get out of my presence that I can literally see your skin crawl while you're forced to be around me. It's happening right now Sei... ain't it."

That was a lie, and she wanted to slap his hand away from where it pointed towards her chest, push him back towards the throne behind him and tell him how stupid an attack that was. She's always had time for him, she gave him infinite time, she gave him so much of herself that she'd been crumbling, she wanted to tell him the truth of it, that how much she gave him had been killing her, but she couldn't, he didn't give her the chance.

"You've got allllll the energy in the world for your little friends though, don't you. You've got laughter and happiness to pour all over them, fill them up with, show them how much you care, but not me, not anymore. And you know, that's got me thinking recently!"

The smile was fake but the monster behind it wasn't. He may as well have been snarling, and she was fully aware he wasn't really attempting to hide that at all.

He stepped a fraction closer again, close enough for her to reach and press a warning hand against his chest as he leaned further down to meet her eyes, the veneer of his calm cracking under the weight of the now haggard, panting breathes he whistled through that vicious smile, the terror in his eyes. She didn't understand any of this, why was he so afraid when it was him pressing this onwards, why was he so panicked when the act was so calm? His skin was like fucking fire under her hand and the push she gave to try and move him back did nothing.

"Made me realise, maybe I was never your friend really - maybe I was just something you held onto like a lifeline in the storm of your shitty life choices, huh?" She felt tears rise, this wasn't fair, this was too real now, this was being aimed at his friend not his employee, but he wouldn't stop.

"Taken for a ride while you lead me on all these years. That would explain it, right? How much you got for them, how much you'll give them, when I'm just a burden to you. Or..."

His mouth was next to her ear and she wanted to beg him to stop before it was too late, before he did what she knew he was about to do. To stop before he decimated everything, but the words were caught behind the sob she refused to let spill as he drove the knife home with one last twist.

"Maybe the real problem here Seifa, is they are more than friends, hmm? Because that's your real operation method, isn't it. That's how you get what you want, everyone knows it. Maybe they met your standards, but you just never saw me as good enough to fuck."

The crack of his jaw against her fist echoed through the stone throne room for long enough to make the silence that came after all the more horrible.

She remembers that, that noise and the pain ripping through her hand in burning waves, but she doesn't really remember the rest. 

She doesn't fully remember what she saw, the flash of those glaring, monstrous eyes that burned down on them both as Troy reeled in horrified shock, cradling his face in confusion like he couldn't understand why she'd just hit him, she doesn't remember the flicker of Siren wings or the laughter that echoed somewhere in the back of her mind but made no sound.

It's a daze. Whatever he whispered pleadingly after, teary-eyed and shaking, she didn't hear.

She doesn't remember leaving and how she stormed down the Cathedral halls and into the freezing night air, doesn't remember who saw her or if clergy had been there. Doesn't remember the way she'd mindlessly picked towards the hi-rise Ven's quarters were in before realising she was walking the wrong way, or how effortlessly she'd flipped the ignition in her ship, or how prepped she'd been to jump out of Pandora's orbit soon as she hit safe distance, doesn't remember any of it.

But the pain in her hand and the look in his eyes after, she fucking remembers that.

[chain-unchained]

December 12 - Part 4

Guys this part is ridiculously long and I am so sorry. I never meant to drag this out for this long and I just wanted to get it done. It’s important to the plot but I will be glad to get back to soft fluff. Anyway, hope you can enjoy this long ass read!

The spirits must have been on their side that day, for the impact of the Slime didn’t kill them outright. There was time to cut them free, and then he could hopefully use a warp totem to get them all out before the mine came crashing down upon their heads.

‘Just stay calm. You’ve trained with Marlon, you can do this.’

He held his sword aloft before him, then dashed in and cleaved the slime in two. Thus divided, it split into two smaller but still large slimes—Sam and Abigail were trapped in one, Sebastian in the other.

From the split also came several much smaller blobs, which eagerly latched onto Ashe’s legs in their fervent attempts to hug him.  The more he cut the big one, the more smaller ones popped out and clung to him. In seconds, he had dozens of them weighing down his limbs; he couldn’t even move.

“No, please—let go!” He was begging, desperate, and he didn’t care. “Please!!!”

His friends were just one cut away from freedom, and they were just out of his reach. The quaking was unbelievable, and with the weight of the little slimes on his body he lost his balance and fell to his hands and knees.

And then came forth dozens of monsters from deeper within the mine; it was seconds that felt like minutes later that he was deafened by the sound of the ceiling and walls collapsing from where the monsters had fled.

A piece of the rocky walls dislodged and struck him on the back, knocking him flat down to the earth and pinning him there. The wind was knocked from his lungs, and his sword tumbled from his grip.

‘Is this it?’

It was impossible to get his breath back. The rock on his back crushed his chest more each time he tried. The larger slimes carrying his friends danced in a panic just out of his reach as more chunks of the walls and ceiling came crashing down around them.

‘I really just got us all killed by slimes... It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have ever brought them here with me.’ His head drooped, his cheek resting against the uncomfortably warm earth. For a brief moment, he could smell the forest. ‘I’m sorry guys… I’m sorry Shane... I'm sorry Mom… and Grandpa… Am I… gonna be reincarnated as a slime…?’

 ####

 The world had gone dark, but now was swimming back into view. A clinical white ceiling greeted Ashe as he forced his heavy eyes open; his eyelids felt bruised. Actually, his entire body felt like it was just one massive bruise.

‘I’m… at the clinic?’

Gingerly, he sat up and looked around. The other beds in the recovery room bore Sebastian, Sam, and Abigail—all breathing. All alive. He sighed, relieved.

“…and that’s how I found them. Just like that.”

He heard Marlon speaking beyond the curtain dividers, and could faintly make out his silhouette along with Maru’s through them. They both spoke in hushed voices; Marlon was as composed and calm as ever, while Maru seemed to be borderline panicking.

“Thank Yoba that you did!” She wrung her hands anxiously. “Of course this happens on the one day Harvey’s not here.”

“Strange, that. He’s not one to leave town.”

“I know. But there’s a seminar being held in Zuzu City that he said he couldn’t miss.” The wringing intensified.  “This is a worst-case scenario.”

“Were their injuries that severe?”

“No, somehow—bumps, cuts, scrapes, bruises, and Sebastian managed to break his foot. But I’m not—I’m only an assistant. I’m not qualified to administer any aid without Harvey present.”

“A bit late to worry about that now. Besides, you seemed to know what you were doing to me.”

“I mean—I have a basic understanding of first aid, but like I said, I’m not allowed to perform it without Harvey being here.”

Ashe’s shoulders slumped as he looked down at his lap. He’d gotten so many people involved in this mess. Gotten his friends hurt, and almost killed. Put Maru at risk of losing her job.

The curtains abruptly were tugged open, and he jumped a little.

“Oh—you’re awake!” Maru sounded relieved, though still anxious. “Thank Yoba. How do you feel?”

“Uh—f-fine,” he fibbed with a meek smile, “just fine.”

He looked to Marlon, and the smile faded. The old swordsman’s face was as stoic as it ever was, but he could see the disappointment in his eyes.

“Never thought you’d lose to a slime, of all things. I suppose there’s a first time for everything, though.”

Ouch. That stung.

Across from his bed, Sebastian began to stir, and Maru quickly rushed to her half-brother’s side. “Sebastian…?”

“Ugh…” He groaned and lightly pushed her face away. “Give me a little space, would you?”

“Oh, Sebastian!”

Without warning she flung her arms around him in a tight hug. “I was so scared! I thought you were going to die!”

“Fuck’s sake—why does everyone try to choke me—” He tried in vain to pry her off of him. “Why the hell do you care, anyway?”

“What do you mean, why do I care?!” She pulled back, an angry expression on her tearful face. “You’re my big brother, of course I’m going to care about what happens to you!”

A flicker of guilt flashed across Sebastian’s face, and he looked away. “… Half brother.”

“Oh my Y—like that matters! Geez! You could at least apologize for scaring me and mom half to death!”

“I didn’t ask you to worry ab—” He stopped mid sentence. “You told mom?”

“Well, yeah!” She curled into herself a bit. “I kinda panicked and… maybe called Jodi too. And Caroline.”

“Yoba damnit,” he rubbed his forehead, “it’s not Mom’s business what I do. It’s not any of our mom’s business.”

Maru poked her fingers together. “I know. Look, I’m sorry, but I just—panicked, like I said. Harvey’s not here, and I didn’t know what to do. Besides, they were going to find out eventually, and they’d be even more upset then.”

“Shit, our moms are gonna finish the job for the slimes.” Sam had been awake for a minute at that point, just lying there listening to things play out as he came to.

Same for Abigail, who pushed herself to sit. “Well, fat lot of good putting fake names in the logbook did,” she said in a deadpan voice. “It’s been nice knowing you guys. Any second now they’re going to come bursting in through the door.”

“Er, actually… they’re in the waiting room.”

“Great.” She looked to Sebastian and Sam. “Might as well get it over with.”

Looking somewhat apologetic, Maru stepped out to fetch their mothers. There was a heavy air hanging in the room. It was awful.

“… How did you know we were in trouble?” Ashe asked of Marlon, who was still standing off to the side.

“Rasmodius reached out to me. Apparently the Junimos asked him to help you, and he in turn asked me.”

To say it was surprising was an understatement. Ashe didn’t think that the little spirits cared all that much for him, especially not since he hadn’t done much to fulfill their requests yet—

Once again the curtains were yanked abruptly open. There stood Robin, and Jodi, and Caroline, all wearing the look of mother bears on the rampage in search of their cubs. Terrifying didn’t even begin to describe the aura radiating from them.

“What were you thinking—”

“You nearly got yourselves killed—”

“How many times have I told you how dangerous those mines are—”

Their voices all overlapped in their attempts to admonish their children. There was no doubt that they were relieved to see them alive and well—the fact that they were so incensed was proof of that.

The heavy ball of guilt weighing down Ashe’s stomach compelled him to speak above them. “It’s not their fault.” In that instant, all their heads snapped to look at him instead of their children, and memories of such reprimands by his own mother flashed in his minds’ eye. “It’s mine,” he continued, somehow managing to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. “I’m the one who brought them into the mines with me.”

“Wh—it is not your fault, Ashe,” Sam insisted emphatically.

Sebastian nodded. “We’re the ones who asked to come along.”

“And I’m the one who got us into that situation,” added Abigail. “You told us that it was dangerous.”

There was a long moment of silence—awkward, heavy, painful silence. It was broken by the sound of Harvey all but skidding into the recovery room, looking mightily disheveled and thoroughly winded.

“Dr. Harvey!” Maru was relieved, and quickly sought shelter behind him.

“Ladies—” Hastily he attempted to straighten his lopsided tie and glasses, “I understand that you are concerned for their wellbeing, but I cannot allow you to stress my patients out. Much less before I’ve been able to examine them myself.”

“How can you expect us to be calm about all of this?” Robin gestured angrily towards her son, who was lying there with a look that begged to be put out of his misery. “We’ve told them countless times how dangerous those mines are, and they still went in!”

Harvey chose his words carefully. “With all due respect… they may be your children, but they are no longer children. At some point, you have to allow them to make their own decisions. Even if they still live under your roof. If you don’t, then they will be pressured into doing things like this behind your back.” He cleared his throat. “Now, please. I need to be able to examine them myself. Maru, could you bring them back to the waiting room?”

His tone left no room for arguments, and they reluctantly followed Maru out of the recovery area and back to reception. The four in the beds were stunned.

“Uh… Thanks for sticking up for us like that,” Sam said as the doctor pulled his wheely stool over to Sebastian’s bed.

“Hm? Oh, there’s no need to thank me for that. I only did what I felt was in your best interests as my patients.” With a faint smile curling up the ends of his mustache Harvey started to examine Sebastian. “I only got a little bit of the story over the phone with Maru—what exactly happened?”

Ashe swallowed guiltily, and began to recount the misadventure to him before the others could. Harvey just listened and nodded his head, moving from examining Sebastian to setting his broken foot in a cast. For a mercy, it was a brief summary. “… and Marlon brought us here,” he finished in a soft voice, picking at the thin white blanket covering his legs. “That’s pretty much it.”

“Well,” Harvey scooted over to Sam, “we can thank Yoba that things weren’t any worse. They could very well have been.”

Ashe cast his eyes back down to his lap. “I’m sorry…”

           “I didn’t say it to guilt you.” He smiled again. “Rather the opposite; there’s no need to dwell on what might have been. You’re all alive and safe now, and that’s what matters. That being said,” he swiveled around to Abigail’s bed, “it might be a good idea to stay out of the mines for the time being.”

“That won’t be an issue.” Marlon finally spoke again. “There was a massive collapse in the lower levels. Joja will want to close the mines to the public indefinitely.”

“Well there we go then.”

After a minute, it was Ashe’s turn, and he sullenly allowed Harvey to give him a thorough once-over. All he’d wanted was to fix up the community center; he didn’t want to put anyone in danger.

‘But that’s not really true. What I really wanted was something to distract myself from thinking.’ The community center was just a means to an end, an excuse. And maybe, just maybe… maybe he’d hoped something like this would have happened. Maybe he’d really hoped that one of these times he wouldn’t end up coming out of the mines.

As soon as that thought came into his mind, he physically shook it away, earning himself quite a look from Harvey. ‘That’s not true! Not even a little! I’m only thinking like this because I feel so guilty.’ He looked down at his hands resting on his lap. Abby had been right; he couldn’t keep carrying on like this. It was tearing him apart.

After a few more minutes, Harvey was satisfied that Sebastian’s broken foot was the most severe injury among the four. He still needed to set the man up with a pair of crutches and show him how to use them, but was content to let the rest filter out of the recovery area and towards reception.

“Ugh, I’m not looking forward to getting home…” Sam’s voice dripped with dread. “Even if Mom listens to what Harvey said, it’s still gonna be awkward as hell. She’s probably gonna want me to pay for my bill.”

Abigail’s face fell at the thought. “Ugh, tell me about it. And we didn’t even get to bring back anything from the mines so we don’t have anything we can sell.”

Well, there was something that Ashe could do to start repairing the damage he’d caused. With the both of them lulling behind him, he pushed the swinging doors to reception open.

The mothers’ heads popped up at the sound, and the conversation they’d been having ceased at once. There was a sort of muted look on each of their faces, and Caroline and Jodi rose to give their kids what was a much-needed hug.

“Harvey’s helping Sebastian with crutches,” Ashe said to Robin, who had gone a bit pale when she saw that her son was not among them. “And, um… I’d like to pay for everyone’s medical bills.”

Surprise flickered across the faces of everyone in the room. He could see that Sam and Abby were opening their mouths to protest his offer, and so he hastily added, “It’s the least I can do.”

“Honey, the thought is appreciated,” Caroline put her hand on his shoulder, “but the bills are already taken care of. Just please, be more careful next time.” She turned to her daughter. “Let’s go, Abigail. We have a lot we need to talk about…”

One by one Ashe watched his friends file out of the clinic with their mothers. He did his best to put on a smile and wave them off; after all, they were able to leave on their own two feet (well, Sebastian on one). That was worth smiling about, wasn’t it?

“Are you gonna be okay?” Maru asked as he turned to pay for his own bill. “To walk home, I mean.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, still managing to smile, “I’ll be fine—”

No sooner had the door swung closed behind Jodi did it swing back open. “Ashe?” panted Shane, his face red from exertion and the cold of the evening air. He was still in his Joja uniform, which was disheveled from his haste to get to the clinic from the mart.

“Shane?” Ashe’s eyes widened in surprise as he turned to face him. They only widened further as the man strode forward and folded him into a gentle hug.

“Thank fuck…” he whispered in between breaths. He was shaking. “Maru made it sound like you were on your deathbed.”

“Oh, er—” Behind the counter, Maru fidgeted guiltily. “Sorry.”

A new lump formed in Ashe’s throat, taking the place of his voice so he couldn’t speak. It hit him in that moment just how differently things could have turned out, and how happy he was to see Shane again.

“I-I…” His chin quivered, and tears began to well up in his eyes as he brought his arms up to squeeze Shane back. “I-I’m sorry…!”

 ####

 It was a slow walk back to the farm. Shane insisted on it, wanting Ashe to take it easy despite his insistence that he was just a little sore.

“Easy, easy does it,” the older man coaxed, helping Ashe up the front stairs—it was at that point that the pain really was catching up to him, and it showed. “I’ve got you.”

“Th-thanks…”

The stairs cleared, Shane held the door open for him. It was pleasantly warm inside the farmhouse, a welcome change from the bitter cold. Mr. Blue jumped over the back of the couch to greet them as they stepped inside, wending his way through both of their legs with audible purrs.

“I think he was worried about you.” Shane carefully nudged the orange cat out from around their feet so they could make it over to the couch. “Where do you keep your medicine and shit?”

With a wince Ashe let himself be lowered onto the cushions, the pain easing up just a touch when he did. “Uh… in the kitchen. Top left drawer next to the sink.”

“Okay. Sit tight.”

Ashe watched him root around in the drawer. “What are you looking for?”

“What do you think, dweeb? I’m looking for pain killers.” Shane looked at him. “You’re hurting pretty good, and don’t even try to deny it.” His fingers closed around what he was looking for, and he brought two small tablets back to Ashe along with a glass of water. “Here.”

“Oh, uh—thank you…” Ashe popped them into his mouth and took a sip of the water to help them down. “… I, um… I’m sorry.” He mumbled into the glass.

“You already said that, you know. Three times. On the way here.” Shane sighed and shook his head. “Seriously, what am I gonna do with you?”

“… I don’t know.” Setting the glass on the end table to his left, Ashe tugged his knees up against his chest and buried his face into them.

After a moment, Shane took the cushion next to him. “Ashe, what’s really going on here?” He asked. “There’s obviously something bothering you and making you not act like yourself.”

Silence. Then, “I miss her…”

“Your mom?” He wrapped an arm around Ashe’s shoulders as the farmer gave a tiny nod of his head. “I had a feeling. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I-I do, b-but… I-I’m scared that it’s gonna mess up your recovery somehow…”

“Bud, that’s not—those two things have nothing to do with each other. Seriously. And even if they did,” he gave a gentle squeeze, mindful of Ashe’s soreness, “I’m in a place now where I can handle it. And that’s got a lot to do with you. I’m not gonna force you to talk about it if you really don’t want to, but I’m here for you. You can lean on me for this.”

More silence. “I don’t remember what that’s like…” He sniffled, trying his hardest not to start bawling again. “I-I was taking care of Mom for so long that I forgot how to rely on others.”

“She was sick, right?”

“Y-Yeah. Cancer. I ended up taking her place at Joja so she could stay on their insurance.” There was another pause as he drew a deep shuddering breath. “I-I didn’t even get to attend her funeral. My b-boss wouldn’t give me the day off for it. It was the worst way to start the year.”

“Wait, this happened on New Years? This year?”

Ashe nodded again. “I-I didn’t really… y’know, have a chance to process any of it. Work, work work. And then I remembered Grandpa’s envelope, and… I came here. It was nice, having so much to do and people to distract me from… everything. But I can’t ignore winter no matter how hard I try…”

His voice broke, and the tears that he’d been trying so hard to hold back burst forth. “I-It’s not fair! She was all I had! I was all she had! A-And I was working so much that I couldn’t even be there for her most of the time! I had to watch her waste away from a distance! And now Joja wants to take even more way from me! It’s not fair! It’s not fair!!!!”

The room became filled with his anguished sobs, and Shane gently pulled him into another hug. “It’s not, you’re right. It never is.”

For what felt like forever, Ashe cried. He cried out the feelings that he’d kept pent up over the year. And when he had no more tears left to shed, he rested against Shane, completely spent.

“Did that help at all?” Shane’s voice was low and soothing as he brushed the bangs from Ashe’s face.

“… I don’t know…”

“That’s fine. It takes time.” He held him close. “Look, if you feel like you need to cry, come and cry on me. Okay? Doesn’t matter when or where it is.”

It took a moment, but Ashe nodded. He wondered if this was what Shane felt like when he was looking out at those cliffs on that rainy day…  

[megalodont]

Mdzs Women Appreciation Week, Day 6: Qin Su and/or Yu Ziyuan

Read it here or on ao3!

-

It was Qin Su’s first trip to Lanling as an official representation of their sect, and she had spent the entire evening hiding her trembling hands in her wide sleeves. Her father, a good friend of Jin-zongzhu, came to Koi Tower often, but she had not attended since she was a young girl. She was sixteen now, however, and her father had decided it was time for her to accompany him. Her mother had argued that she wasn’t ready—a sentiment Qin Su privately agreed with—but in the end their father had won out, and Qin Su had been dressed in extravagant new robes and brought to Lanling. Koi Tower was a hundred times more formal and a thousand times more opulent than the small court at Laoling where she had grown up, and she felt rural and awkward surrounded by the elegant men and women of the Lanling Jin Sect. 

Her father had drifted a short distance away to speak with an old friend, and Qin Su stood by herself awkwardly, her heart fluttering in her chest as though the gentry swirling around her were fierce corpses.

Qin Su nodded deferentially whenever someone passed by close enough for it to be polite, and would then second guess whether that had been the correct move every time. People eyed her, lingering on her robes, and Qin Su fought a blush at the lack of gold embroidery that seemed so ubiquitous here. 

She was so hyper aware of everyone that it was easy for her to note when they began looking towards the entrance and whispering. 

“Here by herself again,” a nearby man murmured to his companion. 

“Well of course, everyone knows…” Qin Su did not manage to hear what ‘everyone knew’ before they drifted away, but soon more whispers reached her. 

“...heard she killed forty of them all by herself...”

“...Jin-furen’s best friend…”

“...terrifying…”

“...amazing…”

“...horrible woman…”

Despite herself, Qin Su stretched up on her toes to see who they were all talking about, feeling some of the pressure of people’s stares as they all looked towards the dias. 

Yu Ziyuan strode through the gawking crowd as though they were stalks of wheat bending out of her way, their whispering only the wind moving through the field as she brushed past unconcerned. She was as regal as an empress in her sumptuous purple robes, Zidian proudly displayed on her finger, but there crackled a certain feral energy around her, like a sleeping leopard. Her face remained severe as she greeted Jin-furen, but it was as if there was no one else in the room except her friend. 

“Excuse me for saying so, guniang, but you seem lonely standing here all by yourself. Did you come with someone?” Qin Su startled like a deer and spun to find a finely-dressed young man, perhaps ten years older, smiling down at her. His eyes had been resting somewhere lower than her face, and when she turned they flicked up to meet hers unwaveringly. 

“Oh, um, yes, I came with my father,” she answered hesitatingly, indicating Qin Cangye, and then startled when she realised she hadn’t bowed. Quickly she swept low, but the man caught her arms in an overly-familiar gesture. 

“Oh no, no need for that, guniang. I’m sure we’re going to be too close for such formalities soon. My name is Jin Licuo, I’m a senior disciple here.”

“Qin Su, of Laoling Qin,” she offered. 

“That sounds familiar,” he said, leaning into her space. “Aren’t you the daughter of Qin-zongzhu? I heard you would be gracing us with your presence today.” He closed the considerable distance between their heights still further. She smiled uncomfortably at him. 

“Yes,” she agreed when the silence stretched too long. She chanced a glance at her father, but he had been engaged by Jin-zongzhu himself and could not rescue her. 

“You’re not betrothed to anyone yet, are you?” He asked. 

“I’m not,” she said trying to make her voice sound repressive without being rude. She avoided eye contact, but it only made him lean closer. 

“So if someone wanted to court you, they could?”

Qin Su swallowed, her hands clenching in her sleeves. “They would—they would have to ask my father.” 

“Your father the sect leader,” he said, his voice both hungry and performatively nervous. “It’s a lot to ask of a man that he gets a sect leader’s permission to court a pretty girl. Maybe we could start without that and ask him if things got serious, hmm?”

“Um, I don’t think—” Could Qin Su tell him how inappropriate that was? Or was this normal here? She bit the inside of her cheek and tasted copper. “I—”

“I see that pig is raising his disciples to be just as licentious as he is,” came an assertive voice. Qin Su turned to blink up at Yu Ziyuan’s cruel and beautiful face. 

“Yu-furen,” Jin Licuo said with a deep bow, not a trace of his oily charm in the obeisant movement. 

“Z-Zi Zhizhu,” Qin Su stuttered, awed by the power of the woman’s presence. 

“If you can’t tell when a woman doesn’t appreciate your advances then you must be as observant as a rock. Is this the quality of disciple the Jin sect has? If you can’t see what’s in front of your face you’ll be eaten by corpses soon enough.” Though her words were certainly harsh it was her caustic tone which made the Jin disciple twitch, the sound well suited to a battlefield commander. 

“I—Qin-guniang and I were merely talking, Yu-furen—”

“Don’t give me that,” she snapped. “I am not a fool, and you are not a genius. If it was not the fault of your poor training then I have to assume you are simply a bullheaded philanderer like your sect head!” Qin Su gasped aloud at Yu Ziyuan’s audacity. Rumours were one thing, but to say it so publicly? How did she dare? Qin Su felt the congregation's stares keenly but the woman did not seem to care, laying into the young man as she saw fit. “If you can’t keep your hands off visiting women I shudder to think how you act with the disciples and serving girls here. Perhaps I should have Lusi watch you. I’m sure her punishment for improper behaviour would be harsh enough to satisfy me,” she threatened, naming the Jin sect leader’s wife..

Jin Licuo flinched at that. “Of—of course, Yu-furen, I would welcome her direction in my conduct.”

“Hmph.” Yu Ziyuan injected enough venom into that syllable to befit her title. Then she turned to Qin Su, making the girl tremble under the weight of her regard. Jin Licuo slunk off, correctly interpreting this dismissal, and Qin Su almost wanted to call him back to take Yu Ziyuan’s terrible focus off her. 

“Are you the Qin girl?” She asked, expression severe but tone almost neutral. 

“Yes, Zi Zhizhu,” Qin Su said, her voice faded and thready. She rallied. “I am Qin Su of Laoling Qin.” 

“Hmph. Can you fight?”

Qin Su flinched. “N-no, Zi Zhizhu. I don’t have any aptitude for it, I’m afraid.” She fought the urge to sink into the gilded tile.

“And what do you do, if you do not cultivate?” 

“I...I help my mother and father with sect affairs. Correspondence, economical matters, that… type of thing...” Qin Su trailed off, feeling pathetic under the eye of this warrior queen.

Yu Ziyuan eyed her critically. “So you focus on politics. You spend your time keeping things running instead of haring off to whack things with a sword. You do the important work few else could manage and leave the grunt work to the grunts.”

Qin Su blinked. “I… Yu-furen?” 

“Well?” She snapped. “Is that accurate?”

“In… a manner of speaking? It is much too generous a way of describing—”

“No.” Yu Ziyuan’s voice cracked like her whip. “It is not too generous. Do not efface yourself, girl, for others will do that enough for you. Describe yourself as generously as you must to counterbalance their mutterings. Believe what you say, and only what you say. Don’t let upstart little peacocks like that,” she gestured sharply in the direction of the departed Jin Licuo, “walk all over you. You only have as much value as you give yourself, you hear? So straighten up.” The woman chucked Qin Su none-too-gently under the chin, forcing her to stand tall and proud. For a brief second Qin Su recalled she was a mother. “Qin Cangye!” She demanded, strident. Qin Su saw her father startle and turn towards them. “Did you forget your daughter in your haste to lick Jin boots?” The man stiffened in reflexive shock at the woman’s disrespect, but as soon as his eyes fell on Qin Su his face softened in concern. He glanced back at the group of men gathered around him with a hint of shame and began to make his way over. “Not,” Yu Ziyuan said to Qin Su, more quietly than she had anything thus far, “that you need him. You only need one person, Qin Su.” Qin Su blinked up at her, a huge, terrifying feeling opening up in her chest. “And who is it?” She demanded after a moment of silence in which she seemed to have expected a response. 

Qin Su smiled at her, Yu Ziyuan’s lightning crackling through her mind. “Myself.”

[hothian-snow]

Sparagmos: First Draft

To celebrate me reaching 32K with my WIP, here’s a bunch of drabbles which inspired the initial first draft. I might reuse one or two scenes, but not the stuff with Darth Zhorrid. Both Yen and her master has changed a lot through my second revision of the fic too, and so has my writing style. Enjoy!

Darth Kharopos knew damn well that he was intimidating. He must be, lest all the other Darths devour him whole. He was also acutely aware of the effect he had on Yennevyr. It was almost amusing, the sudden change in her posture, her back snapping straight the moment he stepped into the room. Her deference towards him, the soft words and lowered eyes. Was she eager to please, or eager to survive?

From her quick feet and mind, he thought it was the latter. Self-preservation was a necessary trait among the cutthroat Sith, but for his apprentices - his legacy - he wanted more. He thought with her keen eyes and her outsider’s perspective, she’d be able to see the Empire for what it was. To see beyond the rabble, beyond the rat’s race and see what truly mattered. Instead, her eyes were puffy and pink, the next morning they met during saber practice.

Pathetic.

And it wasn’t a one off occasion too. Every time she’d come back from a particularly grueling mission, her mind was elsewhere, her blows lacking the conviction he’d expect from an acolyte worthy of being called his apprentice.

Drawing his attention back to the current practice, he swung a saber at her, the saber deflected mid-swing by a well-placed parry. He stepped aside, and noted how her feet were firmly planted into the ground, readying the body to absorb the weight of a heavy thrust or jab. A defensive stance- again. Must he truly hurt her for her to finally switch to the offense?

The tip of her saber was shaking, her stamina running low.

With the ease of swatting a fly, Darth Kharopos knocked the saber out of her hands. Scowling, he walked away, not pausing to glance back..

*******

Something was different. Clearly, something had changed.

Yet, it was less of a change or a growth and more of a pot bubbling over, the pressure and the heat exploding, the fragile cage of a badly crafted glass teapot cracking, its jagged shards flying into the wall before smashing into sharp little pieces.

Something flared in her eyes and her single red blade came to life, slashing in his direction.

He stepped right and striked left. She jumped back, moving like a spooked jungle-cat, before bouncing back forward with an unexpected speed and thrusted her saber towards his form. He blocked her, catching her blade with the end of his own. Her stance buckled under his strength, and so she slid her saber away but not before suddenly twisting her grips - shifting form, right in the heat of combat, inches away from her enemy - and plunging the blade into where he stood. Darth Kharopos spun his double-bladed saber, creating a quick shield that deflected away Yennevyr’s weapon.

The weapon flew out of her hand.

He felt her clearly. Frustration. Loathing. Wrath.

Their force bond was never this strong, but now he could feel her closer than ever. The way her heart raced, the blood thumping in her ears, her ragged breath and barely held back sobs- it was a dam broken loose, her force presence like a whirlpool throwing the cold serenity of his mind into chaos. Decades of careful restraint and calculating control kept him from drowning in the waves of her emotions.

Yennevyr, with her lithe form and dancer physique, sent a butterfly kick towards his head. Darth Kharopos reeled back. He could’ve blocked her again, that he was more than capable of- but his senses were screaming, alarm bells ringing.

With that distraction - that uncharacteristic distraction, that daring, was so different from the cautious acrobat who used to dance in and out of his range - she summoned her saber back, the hilt smacking into her palm with a loud slap. Fluid like water, she leaped and swung the saber like a guillotine axe above his head. Eyes wide, Darth Kharopos raised his saber up to form a cover, digging his feet into the sand below as the impact hit him. Yennevyr was not relenting.

Her eyes were scarlet. Those amber orbs now glowed red, the color looking like freshly spilt blood against her snow-pale skin. It reminded him of the first time he saw a total lunar eclipse: the moon bled red, as if someone had stabbed its white soil and the wound began gushing glistening ruby.

He let her hit him.

*******

Despair was an emotion Darth Kharopos never experienced, not truly and certainly not personally. Whether that was an indication of mental strength or privilege, he didn’t know.

Lord Atala’s death hit them all hard; the empty space where his mother once stood still felt like a void. Darth Kratais second marriage with Darth Labrys could never fill that gnawing, missing hole, but the woman’s hands were tender and her gaze was warm and when she whispered words of comfort to him, it felt like he had a mother again. Her presence had gentled his father’s severe disposition, and when she brought about his half-sister - Tatyan - into the world, the younger Sith Pureblood felt like a tiny bird fluttering in his palms. She truly was worth protecting.

When his father passed, it felt like a bad dream had come again.

Except this time, mother was grieving and Tatyan was bawling and they all cried together.

“Never show weakness in front of outsiders”, Darth Labrys said. “But here, we’re family.”

Because of family, he’d never known despair.

He was used to inflicting it upon others, though.

Hearing prisoners beg for death, attempting to gouge their eyes out as if the act could wipe away the vision of seeing their loved ones writhing as lightning tore through them, was something he’d grown accustomed to. He saw it coming like a holofilm in slow-motion: the moment where a war veteran’s mind was about to break, their will and determination ready to be shattered into dust at just a single jab. He always made sure their descent into madness was quick- no need to prolong the suffering. Genuine torture was only reserved for the worst of his enemies. It was satisfying, forcing some arrogant Republic general to their knees and making them scream, or exposing some tough Jedi for the weakling they were, like ripping open a bandage to reveal the ugly pus beneath.

How then, had he become so numb to the agony of others, that he missed seeing the same signs in his apprentice?

She was in despair, so upset she wished she’d died.

The circular burns on her arms looked like the ones he was used to inflicting upon Republic foes. It was an easy interrogation technique: stamping a recently deactivated lightsaber onto bare skin, the still-hot metal like a sizzling brand. And when he gazed into her eyes (oh sweet Yennevyr, when was the last time he truly looked at her?), they were dead. Empty glass orbs that had given up on life, if only her heart would just stop beating and give up on her too.

“Do I disappoint you, my lord?”

There was no mockery, no snippy retort in her voice, only pain.

*******

“I’ve always wondered how the law would work out in the long run,” Darth Labrys said, her voice lilting through the holocall. She was referring to the law to bolster Imperial ranks with worthy slaves and aliens, the law which also applied to the Sith. “You can’t expect a slave or a foreigner with no background, no exposure to Sith culture or history to integrate smoothly into Sith society without intervention, much less demand top performances from them.”

Not to mention the consequence of overwhelming power suddenly awakening within someone never taught to wield it, Darth Kharopos thought. The dark side was intoxicating, and one could lose themselves to everything from bloodlust to misery.

“I’m not advising you to go easy on her… but do be understanding, Tyrkos.”

His mother warned that even with the best medicine or therapy available, it would take time, and heavens knew that the Sith journey was already difficult enough, requiring one to fall apart and be reborn from the ashes, to kill who you were for what you could become.

Trust between Sith, especially master and apprentices, was rare. Now, he doubted she’d ever place her faith in him beyond hoping to one day take his place.

*******

Is this how I die? Darth Kharopos thought.

Every breath felt like hot knives stabbing his lungs. The rebreather was dying on him, for he could taste soot in his mouth. Collapsed against the cool floor of his hideout, back leaning against a bloodied wall, his apprentice loomed over him. How embarrassing, for his apprentice to see him so helpless.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she cried out. “Master!”

He thought he’d take that secret to the grave, to ensure that the fallout was minimal. Sith Pureblood, heir to the Rosokor family, involved in a light-side conspiracy. Should he be exposed, the Dark Council would have his mother’s and sister’s heads.

He pleaded for her to understand.

And if she didn’t, he wouldn’t blame her.

Her left hand clutched his holocommunicator where the damning evidence of his treachery laid, and in her right hand was the scarlet lightsaber, poised for execution. In the months under his tutelage, she’d grown into a stunningly beautiful Sith assassin indeed.

He closed his eyes.

“Tell me how to help.”

In shock, his eyes snapped open.

Her eyebrows were scrunched up but whether in anxiety or concern, he could not tell. There was a flush in her cheeks, and wildness in her eyes. Against his every expectation, Yennevyr chose mercy. She chose a chance at the Light. She chose him.

Master, did you not choose me, on Korriban? You saw something in me. I see something in you, too.

*******

Yennevyr hated mopping up blood. She had watched her late father’s maids do it all the time, his underlings scrubbing a crime scene clean. She later played the role of the domestic servant, doing the same back when she was enslaved under the Hutts, whether it be with spilled drinks or bloodstains from a brawl. She wasn’t afraid of blood- the coppery stench just smelled revolting.

Her master bled liters, the liquid forming sticky pools beneath his broken body. Sealing the wound wasn’t too difficult once she found the medkit, although her clumsy handiwork would definitely leave a scar. What was even more concerning was her master’s breathing, the fact that it sounded agonizingly labored and worryingly irregular.

With effort, they managed to haul their way to the hideout’s medical wing before he slipped into unconsciousness.

When his armor was stripped away and it was only his form in plain robes on the simple bed, her master looked more exhausted than she’d ever seen him. Heavy fatigue was written all over his sleeping face. It reminded her of those times she woke up especially early to see the Kaasian sunrise, the soft orange peaking through grey, stormy clouds. Some days, she deduced how master had been running some secret errands the night before, and she’d spot him limping home, his feet dragging, with an uncharacteristic slouch burdening his usually proud posture. Logically, she knew her master was no more or less a person than her, but to glimpse him tired and worn out had shocked her.

She spent the night by his side, the implications of her actions becoming clearer with each passing moment.

To reform the Sith society from inside out, she thought. A lofty dream. When did I become such a cynic?

With curious eyes, she glanced at her master’s resting form, the sound of his still ragged breathing filling the room. She wouldn’t even need a lightsaber; all she had to do was wrap her hands around his neck, and squeeze. She wondered if suffocation felt like sleep.

Oh, will I ever see you this vulnerable again?

Instead, she gingerly placed a palm on top of his limp hand, entangling her fingers with his. His hand was warm.

*******

After the suspicious death of Darth Jadus, Darth Zhorrid - in her sick ways - sought to consolidate her position as a Dark Lord of the Sith.

As if the Council would stand her, Yen scoffed. After they’ve sucked her dry of whatever knowledge Jadus may have passed down to his daughter, she’s dead.

It was no secret that her master disagreed with many of the actions taken by Darth Jadus, but he’d always respected the chain of command, bowing whenever the Dark Councillor requested his presence, amicable before his superiors. This time, however, Darth Zhorrid asked for her master and would not expect anything less than absolute submission.

“Wait outside, Yennevyr. Do not interfere no matter what happens.”

Many may claim force cloaking to be an act of defense, like the Jedi Shadows who’d rather sneak past their foes than needlessly spill blood. Perhaps she truly was like that, in the past. Eager to run, to dart in and out unseen. Conflict-avoidant.

But a cloak was also a tool, like a viper’s green scales that blended into the grass, obscuring fangs and venom. To take it a step further: force cloaking was manipulation. It was to force upon someone a false visage, to bend the mind of onlookers to the point of them rejecting the evidence of their own eyes, denying the existence of a sword pointed at their head. On Korriban, Yen had figured out how to twist her force cloak, inverting it so that her opponents’ visions were plunged into darkness and the world became invisible to them.

It only took hearing her master scream for the first time for her cloak to become a dress.

The scent of ozone reeked through the semi-closed office door. By god, no matter how many times in the past she’d angrily fumed - fantasizing of sweet it would be to give her master a taste of his own medicine - actually hearing her master who had just barely recovered from his previous ordeal now screaming under the powers of some bratty Darth who probably did not even deserve that title...

Yen’s hands curled into a fist, and she was surprised by the anxious lump that formed in her throat. She took in a sharp inhale and when she breathed out, the Force coiled around her like serpentine tendrils, slick and cool. Shadows rested around her shoulder blades like a fashionista’s scarf.

Or for her enemies, a noose.

When her master stumbled out of Darth Zhorrid’s office, a hand clutching at his side, she took the opportunity to peer into the slit of the half-opened office door and caught the Dark Councillor’s sadistic gaze. Yen gave a smile.

*******

Yen had always been good at force cloaking. But this time, instead of projecting the lie of invisibility, she’d chosen an illusion- a glamour, a mirage. To project something false into the world required unwavering will and mastery over that image.

Her mask was fueled by hatred.

Never had she thought she’d one day hate anyone more that she hated the Hutts or herself, until she met Darth Zhorrid. That pathetic mix of insecurity and sadism was infuriating. She had read up on Darth Jadus’ treatment of his daughter. It took everything for her not to barge into that office and wring that sick woman by the neck and ask her if she thought she was the only one who had ever faced abuse. Everyone faced pain at some point in their life. Suffering was the story of all beings, especially so if you were Sith. Yet, when she hated herself, Yen only hurt herself. Unlike Zhorrid, she’d never tortured others as a way to lessen her own pain, to hide her weakness.

And for that, Yen wished Zhorrid was dead.

But not before providing use for her and her master, of course.

Wearing the Force - the fabric of the universe - as if it was a garment, was an act of complete domination. With a smile, she had sparked a flame of interest within Zhorrid. With a light touch of her fingers, she’d quicken or calm the Dark Lord’s pulse, the woman’s heartbeat hers to command at her pleasure. In a blink of an eye, Zhorrid would forgive her master for any misdeeds he’d supposedly done, and most importantly, Zhorrid would leave him alone.

Why pay attention to some grumpy old Sith when the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen was standing there in front of her eyes?

A drugged cupcake ready to be eaten.

Darth Kharopos felt his stomach sinking when he received the holocall requesting that Yennevyr go meet Darth Zhorrid in her chambers. His muscles tightened, as if readying for battle. He wasn’t scared of that snooty brat; anything she threw his way he could take. But Yen, his student, his ward, his protege, his apprentice-

She was smiling.

The Force swirled around her, draped all over her form like a dress blowing in the wind. It was as if she wore a robe of woven flesh, of slithering serpents and tendrils that wrap and cling and coil. There was a gleam in Yen’s eyes, her russet eyes mirthful, radiating confidence. The last time he remembered seeing his apprentice so self-assured was when he was bleeding on the cool tiled floors, her red lightsaber hanging over his head like a bloody guillotine.

“My lord, I am every bit your apprentice. Trust that you’ve taught me well.”

When Darth Kharopos was later summoned to Darth Zhorrid’s office, Yennevyr sat on Zhorrid’s lap like an overpriced poodle. What Zhorrid did not see was the undulating threads latching onto her, their ends sinking into Zhorrid’s skin like a snake’s fangs, or parasites whose teeth pierced her bloodstream, draining her dry.

“Ah, you’re here, Darth Kharopos,” Zhorrid said with a grin. “Very good, you look very nice indeed, perfect for the job.”

Darth Kharopos only nodded, his eyes glued to Zhorrid’s pale hand which stroked Yen’s hair as if she was some exotic pet.

“I need you to look into two places: Belsavis, and the Arcanum.”

Belsavis was a tightly guarded secret he was privy to knowing, but his heart skipped a beat when he heard the name ‘Arcanum’. The Emperor’s property. Jedis have died to get a glimpse of the space station, and there were words of a rogue Dread Master recently robbing the place. Was it even under Intelligence’s jurisdiction?

A squeal snapped him from his thoughts.

“So you do know about the Arcanum!”

Her voice went from a slimy purr to an abrupt shriek. He felt a hard shove and invisible cold fists pinning him to the wall. His legs hung in the air, and he glared at that wretched woman.

“My lord,” Yennevyr murmured, her doe-like eyes widening at Darth Zhorrid. “My master’s a Darth of Imperial Intelligence. Is it not his role to know all that is going on?”

The pressure released and soon he was free. Zhorrid made a noise of agreement, muttering ‘Yes, yes… you’re right, of course.”

Zhorrid began ranting, a semi-coherent monologue punctuated with giggles and sudden screeches on the unfairness of her fate and the need to prove her worth to the Dark Council. Before her anger boiled over, a force tendril planted soft kisses on Zhorrid’s lips, quieting the woman’s anxiety in one swift move.

When the Dark Councillor appeared distracted, Darth Kharopos broke eye contact and glanced at his apprentice. He suppressed a shudder, seeing the predatory glint in Yennevyr’s eyes. Everyday, they grew more scarlet.

You will drink my words, or I will pour them down your throat.

*******

Belsavis he took care of alone, but as per Darth Zhorrid’s orders, he allowed Yennevyr to accompany him on the mission to the Arcanum. It was perfect: with every eye glued to the young rising-star commander, a Sith not-yet-a-lord with the bewitching presence of a black hole, nobody noticed him slipping away, leaking whatever information he could find on the Emperor to Republic SIS. His heart thundered the whole way, but every time he looked at Yennevyr - black hair tied up in a bun, a saber and light armor ready for combat - he felt like he could breathe easy again.

The mission was a success. They tracked the thief, Lord Tagriss, down to Ilum. His dualsaber stabbed a hole in the Sith Lord’s chest, and he felt his apprentice’s pride flared through their bond the moment Lord Tagriss’ dead husk fell into the snow.

When they returned home, she was ready to be a Lord.

“From this day onwards, you are known as Lord Soteira,” he declared, his apprentice kneeling before him. “It means savior.”

His apprentice stood up. When she looked at him, something swirled in his chest.

You honed my blade and sharpened my edges until they are lethal. You scrubbed away the rust, and revealed the blood-soaked truth. Master, don’t feel guilty thinking you turned me into something I already wasn’t. I’ll try to reach for the Light as you want me to, my lord, but don’t pity me if I fail.

[comic-brew]

On Smoldering Ashes

Chapter Two: If any more blood is to be spilt

@whumptober2020 days 3. Held At Gunpoint, 6. "Stop, Please", 9. "Take Me Instead", 14. Branding and 21. Stitches (Altprompt)

Series summary: Bruce Wayne has gotten vulnerable. Bruce Wayne has found love. His love and his kids are all he needs to find happiness. Some sick concept of fate doesn't like him being happy.

Notes: Forgive me for I have sinned. Oh god, oh lord, what in the blazing hells is this. Shitty shitty but I'm tired and late *drops mic* (37 mins/4.6k words I've exhausted tumblr's paragraph limit)

Warnings: RATED MATURE. Graphic depictions of child abuse and torture, graphic depictions of violence, blood, swearing, heavy I guess angst

AO3 | Prev Chapter | Next Chapter

***

"Why" Dick hears Bruce's voice implore. "Why are you doing this? I thought-"

Bruce's merely balancing on his toes inches from the end of the cliff, Dick can figure just by the way his voice wavers like it has only ever done no more than a couple times in the past.

Cecile knows this. She knows Bruce, and she knows this. And quite possibly she's enjoying it way too much.

"Because, dear, who can say they're getting paid to practise their hobbies?"

Dick can only gawk at her, an frankly that's the only thing all the others seem able to do as well.

Hobbies?

They're nothing but a plaything to her.

It doesn't seem right. This shouldn't be happening. Dick should be helping B plan the wedding that made him beam just at the thought of taking place.

Not being held in an unknown location by his could-be step mother.

They really dodged a bullet, but in doing so they fell right into a different trap.

His family's unable to speak, stunned by the sudden revelations. He can't blame them, nor can he blame Jason for cursing under his breath.

Barbara's the first to snap out of their trance.

"What could you possibly want that Bruce's money couldn't get you?" she asks. Her true goal though, expertly weaved inside is search of Cecile's motive.

There's none.

Cecile giggles. "Oh dear. It's never about money. It's not personal either, if that's what's bugging all of you. And although my client does pay a fair amount, in reality.. pain and suffering are simply way too enjoyable."

Client, Dick notes. Somebody's paying for this. Somebody that most likely knows who they are when night falls. Somebody dangerous.

Cecile then turns to look directly at Bruce, as she expertly hides her poison inside cheerfully spoken words.

"And you, love, with as many kids as you have here,-" she says, and Bruce's face crumples, "-are going to be a very, very interesting subject"

Duke shakes his head in disbelief at the woman.

"You're sick"

Cecile sits back and ponders on this statement for a bit. Just for a split second, so it's enough to pass across that message, but not quite long to let them be freed from that entrapping mist of concurrent desire for knowledge, and repulse keeping them bound to every word that falls from her lips.

"Perhaps I am" she ventures.

"Perhaps we're all sick, just in different ways. Have you ever thought of that?"

Dick has in fact thought of that, but his answer would never share meaning with Cecile's. How different really are they from the people they fight? They lock all those costumed freaks up in Arkham, but they themselves could very well be described in the exact same way. Sometimes he wonders if they're insane for choosing this life, and the answer that his mind spits out is always yes.

Every life they save is worth it. That's the truth that makes him continue to put on the suit every night, even though the wounds inflicted on him the previous night are still healing.

But are they really making a difference? Aren't they just lunatics running around in kevlar and spandex. Isn't all the grime and mold of the city simply feeding off of them like leeches?

Dick can't focus on that now. Questioning his life choices might have to wait until he's not that tied up.

Heh. Tied up.

Meanwhile Cecile has exploited the moment of nonplussed silence she's created to tighten her sleek ponytail.

Keeping the attention to herself. Every move is calculated to milliseconds.

"Okay, so here's how this is going to go" she begins, clasping her hands together, then motioning towards their hanging limbs. "Do you see those cool little bracelets on your hands?"

On cue, nine heads tilt upwards to test Cecile's statement. And there, right on his forearm Dick can spot a faint blue light shining dully on what seems to be the middle of a silver-like device.

"Those give us, the immense pleasure of electrocuting you whenever you folks might try to escape, or cause any unwanted trouble" she informs, with her mouth taut into a completely mechanical smile.

"Or.. you know. If we're just bored and feel like it"

"And this little screen right in front of you, it's pretty bland now, if you ask me"

She then starts pacing around in the segregated room, seeming to find great amusement in hearing how her heels click against the concrete.

"Well what if I told you the sight will get more entertaining?"

Dick doesn't like this.

"Before you ask, I will not spoil the experience for you. But I will give you this: you will be the stars of a grand performance. You in particular, circus boy should be thrilled by this fact"

He flinches when he mentions him in that way. It's then that his mind fully comprehend just how much she knows them.

It's not just some kidnapping, of those they've had many before. But it's never been like this. Never has a stranger gotten so close only to betray them for laughs.

Some could argue that it was a similar case when Jason had come back, but Jason had always had a motivation. A goal.

Cecile's doing this for nothing else than pleasure.

Before he can compose himself and reply her voice strikes again, this time in the form of a snarl. "So? Any volunteers?"

No, Dick doesn't like this at all.

"Leave them alone" Bruce demands, only it's not precisely Bruce anymore. Not only has his voice assumed the dark edge of the Knight, but his speech is completely neutral, apathetic. Somehow, his emotional state is even more prominent that way.

"It's me you want to get back to"

"Oh, no" Cecile frowns. "No, no Brucie. This is not about you. Hell, it's not even about them. It's about me. And I say it will be nicer to leave you for last."

She rests a finger on her chin contemplatively, but it's fake. It's all fake, and provocatively so. Cecile's head twists around so that her malicious glare lands on Damian.

"How about our little asshole over here?"

No. Not Damian. Never in a million years. Never in a billion years.

"If you value your life you'll stay away you imbecilic Jezebel" Damian hisses, but Cecile makes no motion to enter their space. Instead, the man in black leaves his post to disappear behind the door Cecile had previously entered from, most likely leading even further away.

"I do value my life"

He comes back with three more identically dressed men, one slightly leaner than the other, and one slightly taller.

"Plenty, for that" she says loftily, and while one of the men returns to his post by her side, the other two barge in through a barely visible door next to the right end of the glass.

There's an outrage as the men quickly advance towards the boy. Everything's blurry and spinning and his ears are ringing so that Dick can't quite figure out if he's shouting along with his brothers and sisters or if he's simply been trapped in a lucid dream all this time.

Voices and bangs and thuds and yells, it all gets lost in the end. So much thunderous noice, yet still it can he broken down to its core. Raw and frantic cries of dissent, repeated over and over in a canon, until the words and senses are but a blurred collage of ire and desolation.

Cecile whips a rectangular device from her suit's pocket and before her finger has enough time to hover above one of the polished buttons, the last is pressed and Damian's body is released from the pipeline.

The boy wastes no time, immediately lunging for the men, and despite any rust slowing down his joints because of their inactivity, he manages to hold off the two men looming over him with size thrice his own.

Dick wants to hold hope inside his heart, but he knows it's futile. He also knows Damian is aware that this fight was lost before it even began, but his baby brother isn't a quitter, nor a coward by his own standards.

If Cecile is startled by Damian's fierce resistance, she doesn't let it show. Her finger finds the device held loosely in her grasp, and a different button is pushed. Sparks that are birthed from the device on Damian's forearm begin to climb throughout his every inch of flesh, until he soon collapses to the ground -like lifeless weight.

The men drag him out of their view, and Dick swears he witnessed a smirk manifesting on their faces while they yelled with all their might, yet completely powerless.

***

It starts with low and hollow grunts. It starts with insults, it starts with defiance, it starts with barely discernible hisses.

Most importantly, it starts with no image.

Only screams. Separated by breathless gasps.

"Please, stop"

Dick's heart shrinks into his chest, sinking deep, deep down, until his lungs are under too much pressure to expand.

The screen flickers to life only after the first hollow screams have subsided.

It's.. not a good sight. Nobody expected it to be.

The room is small and dark, the camera feed is black and white and grainy, but that doesn't help in reducing the horror.

The image focuses enough for Dick to make out Cecile finishing stitching deep gashes on Damian's torso back together in the worst way possible.

Cecile retracts her hand hastily, like she's forgotten something. She lolls her head to the side, waving primly towards the camera.

"Stay tuned for a surprise" she whispers almost conspiratorially before turning to Damian, severing the thread with her own fingers, picking at flesh and stretching it out until he's bleeding again all over the gurney he's tied onto.

Damian struggles not to let her hear the sound she would find oh so hedonic. He grits his teeth and grinds his jaw, but groans emanate from him without his consent.

Cecile sets the sutures and her other tools on a filthy table standing miserably beside her.

"Your brother's such an ass" she declares almost smugly, while shifting in her place to face the camera

Without a warning she pokes a finger inside Damian's open wound, evoking a strangled yelp of agony. Soon enough Cecile's retracted her finger. She brings her hand up to her face. She makes a show of admiring the fresh blood coating it, before she tastes it.

She giggles nonchalantly, but there's that certain grace to everything she does.

"Don't worry. We're not done yet"

No. No, this can't happen. He can't let this go on any longer than it already has.

He has to take his place. He'll take his brother's place. Just, god. Just please listen..

"Take me instead!" Dick screams at the top of his lungs, and the dread climbing up his ribcage seeps into his voice. Bent in ways abnormal, tuning in with his despair.

"Do you hear me?!"

He's flailing around wildly and almost hysterically, his voice is getting hoarser by the second. Kicking and bumping the air, but the chains are relentless, so that he's supposed to sit idly by and watch while his little brother is being tortured.

All alone in a dark room.

The man standing tall and unmoving on the other side of the glass only smirks slightly.

"Leave Damian alone!" Dick roars at the screen, and roars at the man, but he knows it's pointless.

Cecile smiles once again to the direction of the camera as she elegantly walks away from Damian, leaving him alone strapped to the gurney -panting, sweat dripping down his forehead.

Damian's head follows the woman even as she disappears out of Dick's sight. The boy's face crumples. Breathless pleas escape his trembling lips, in swift exhales of air that hold no power.

"Please no"

She reemerges cradling an incandescent piece of metal. The sickening calmness on her face is doused in its fiery glow, and all Dick can utter as he goes deathly pale and still is a breathless "No"

Dick finally has enough contact with reality to register his brothers and sisters' own twisting and shouting. The sounds are earpiercing but all hollow to his ears, and Dick only does acknowledge their existence by sight of tears on enraged faces, jaws snapping open with enough force to dislocate, muscles toned and clenched uncomfortably, bodies bent and struggling, in futile attempts to raise enough force and reach the glass to perhaps create a distraction.

Dick can't figure out the faces from his peripheral vision, nor does he care enough to try.

"No."

His eyes are stubbornly fixed on Damian's own, shining wide with terror as the metal illuminates his skin more and more clearly on the screen. On Damian, desperately tugging against the straps keeping him bound to the gurney to no avail, struggling to be freed before the red-hot iron burns the exposed skin of his chest.

"No.. please no" Damian mumbles, and he looks so small. Smaller than a child his age should look. More frightened than a child his age should be.

Dick had promised -to him and to himself- that he'd always be there for his little brother.

He watches helplessly as the metal sizzles the first layer of flesh. He watches as his little brother writhes and squirmes helplessly under the red-hot iron melting into his skin, and he realizes he can't keep his promise.

No, no, no, no, no

Damian is screaming with all his soul and all Cecile does is laugh. Cecile is laughing, and Damian is being tortured because Dick couldn't keep his promise.

He failed him.

"Take me!"

Please no. Not Dami.

Every inch and acre of Dick's skin feels set aflame, but the pain is nothing but the child of wildfire blazing and burning in his chest. Its smoke has filled his eyes with tears burning like acid.

Failed him.

In his ears buzz cracking woods and falling towers. Not his brother's screams and pleas for mercy, not the echoes of laughter, not the thundering cries of their family.

Failed.

And because of his failure his little robin is expected to endure agonizing pain, as also the wounds inflicted on him are what make Dick's failure not only discernible but grievous.

Failure equals repercussions.

Failure equals punishment.

Perhaps it's irrational, and perhaps he's lost his mind long, long ago. Perhaps this is all a nightmare that he can't wake up from, but Dick's senses don't deceive him.

His every cell is howling in despair but yelling and praying are not enough to relieve them of their pain. Flowers buried deep in ice, frantically searching for sunlight- too frantically to know that they're dead.

Dick failed him. Dick should have been the one punished for this failure.

Only moments have passed but the agony grabs them and twists them, draws them out until seconds can't be told apart by eons.

Dick's eyes are fixed on the form spasming on the screen, but those eyes are empty and hollow.

Their azure blue has evaporated, their glossy white has been burnt to the ground. Obsidian vortexes shining with the life they've stolen from his soul in the half light, is all that is left of them.

Damian's voice is rough from the perpetual screaming, but Dick can hear no more.

So he prays to whatever deity listens that Cecile is reached by his own cries tearing through his throat with fading intensity. Perhaps so loudly the air is grazing his vocal cords more harshly than it should.

Perhaps so loudly he is already silent.

But Dick won't mind it even if they fail to produce a sound ever after these, as long as his flesh is torn and burnt instead of Dami's.

The flesh being torn and burnt is his, in a way, but not in any way that matters.

The iron is removed and Damian's face slowly appears behind the sparse smoke of his own smoldering skin.

***

Cecile reappears behind the glass, walking ever so elegantly towards the barrier separating her from them. She peers at each and every one of them in amusement, deaf to te insults so full of hatred being hurled at her from every corner.

She smiles at the teary paths staining Cass and Barbara's cheeks,

"You fucking-"

"-embodiment of evil and-"

"go-"

She laughs at the veins popping on Duke, Jason and Stephanie's necks as they shout their lungs out, feebly attempting to stop the world from sinking,

"I'm gonna fucking kill you"

"Jay calm down-"

"You repulsive.. abomination-"

"-to hell-"

She gracefully snickers at Tim and Bruce's state of dishevelled resignation, a progression of the rage and agony to the point where they're no more prominent than their breathing,

"You hear me? You're going to burn-"

"Don't you dare tell me to calm the fuck down, replacement"

"-in hell"

"He's right Jason, this doesn't help Dam-"

"you'll wish you were dead before I get my hands on you"

But she stops in her track when her piercing hazel eyes land on Dick. So visibly worn out, yet determinedly burning holes through her with his glare.

She stops, and can only regard him in newfound interest.

Dick doesn't shift in his place. Doesn't bat an eye as he speaks with the power of a thousand thunderstorms enhancing the calmness in his voice.

He's made up his mind.

It's his failure.

His decision.

"You'll stop" he says, almost nonchalantly.

Cecile cocks an eyebrow, scoffing.

"Excuse me?"

"You'll bring Damian back here with us. And you'll stop."

Cecile smirks ever so slightly. "I'm afraid I'm not quite done with your brother yet. Besides, why would I do that?"

"Because you will" Dick growls, but soon enough he masks his outburst beneath a carefully tailored poker face.

Something unreadable passes across the woman's face. Dick assumes she's caught up to his thinking. Of course she has.

"Well, you wound me!" Cecile exaggerates, clasping a hand to her chest. Overacting the entire thing, on purpose no less. She's proven to be too much of a hypocrite for Dick to know she's only acting terribly on purpose.

His stomach is urging him once more to let its contents out, only this time he's not sure it's just a lingering side effect of the drug.

"Although, while wounded, you can consider me intrigued."

Dick swallows thickly. He hopes Cecile doesn't hear him gulp as loudly as he sounds to his own ears.

"You'll stop. Leave Damian alone" he says and although his heart is beating a hundred times faster than it should, his stare is unyielding.

"And you'll take me instead"

Cecile eyes him half incredulously, half entertained, for moments that feels like an eternity. Dick is convinced his soul has already left his body, and the woman is simply left staring blankly at his hanging corpse.

She's still staring vacantly at his direction, with no indication of the fact changing.

But then she chuckles.

She chuckles, and soon snickers are finding their way up her throat one after the other, until her shoulders are shaking with laughter.

Yet the laughs escaping her are perfectly normal. Perfectly contained, just the average sound that could be prompted by an oddly funny joke. A joke so ridiculous it fulfills its purpose.

Perhaps that's the most terrifying part. How human it is.

And Dick is showered in cold sweat when he repeats himself, voice sounding just a little more tight and frantic than need be, but Cecile pays him no mind, laughing silently on her own.

Cecile -most likely pointedly- ignores his protests, which are growing more and more despondent as he's fumbling for words, caught somewhere in the crevasse dividing dread and ire.

"Do whatever you want to do to me! Just-"

He's just a child. Just an innocent child.

"-just leave Damian alone. And take me." Dick says.

An innocent boy caught in the crossfire of a war he never swore to fight, but was instead compelled to win.

His brother caught in the crossfire. His Dami.

His fault.

Dick's stuck in a loop. It doesn't end, it never does. Once it's starts there's no end to look forward to, there's merely one he can imagine, and they won't let him follow it.

All air leaves his lungs. Everything seems so peaceful when the flames tingling his heart have no more smoke to give.

"Take me."

His fault. His responsibility.

"Dick, no," Bruce pleads from behind him. Only then is it that he realizes the rest of them have grown silent, all eyes on him, reflecting the light nearly pensively.

Only then is it that he realizes he's been toeing the line of hysteria. That he doesn't know how to stop.

"B, I have to. I can't let Damia-"

"And I can't let any of you!" Bruce snaps. Dick is taken aback, only not due to the sonorous anger redirected towards him. Rather by the tears he can see glistening all over his father's irises.

Tears.

Shining all across his father's eyes.

Under the enemy's scrutinus gaze, and still he let the sorrow swim all the way up to the surface.

Cecile has stopped laughing. Openly at least, as her palm is covering her mouth in a futile attempt to stifle the giggles, perhaps not wanting to disturb the show. The bright smile lighting her eyes betrays her nonetheless.

"You're my son, Dick. I can't let you do this. I can't let another of my children do this" Bruce concludes, never ending eye contact.

Never trying to deny the tears.

All Dick wants is to give in to the pain of his own, and let Bruce wipe at his eyes and tell him it's all going to be alright, just when he was little.

But he isn't little anymore, is he?

Is he?

Is he strong enough?

No. Not a question. He has to. He has to be-

"I was dead, I should go in next. There's nothing she can do to me that I haven't already gone through" his brother's voice cuts in, disrupting the debate that's been won in his mind, long before it even started.

"Half of us have died, Jason" Stephanie counters. "I don't mind going myself"

"You're not going Steph"

"I'll go then"

"The hell you are, replacement. You didn't make the cut for our club the first time, you'll not make it now.

"Are we seriously having this conversation right now?"

Cass clears her throat to get their attention.

"Me" she offers, and immediately after she's met with loud protests.

Dick watches as the others continue to fight between them, arguing on who should trade places with Damian. They can't understand that he has to do it. He doesn't expect them to. So when Cecile laughs and asks who's it going to be?, his decision is adamant.

"Like I said. It will be me" Dick insists.

He's not little anymore.

"No." Bruce says sternly. "No, you won't go. Do you hear me?"

He is strong enough. He has to be, so he's going to be.

Dick hears him, although elects to ignore him, staring proudly ahead, at the two men walking inside to retrieve him.

Bruce then is yelling, and the others protest, some are still fighting over which one of them should take Damian's place but it's already too late. The cuffs clink open and the two men go to stand by either of Dick's side as soon as his feet touch the ground.

Dick doesn't fight them. He doesn't mind being pushed around with his arms pressed behind his back so tightly his already sore muscles hurt as his arms are straining to bend backwards despite his flexibility. He doesn't mind, because he's doing it for his brother.

As long as his brother's safely reunited with the others, it doesn't matter whatever they might do to him.

Dick sends one last look to his family, and another full of a different kind of love directed right at Babs. He hopes his eyes delivers the thousand messages he doesn't have the time to relay with phrases.

The room is left in hush when the door slides closed behind him.

As far as looks go, Dick's were farewells.

As soon as Dick's dragged into the small room whose horrid purpose he's seen on camera, he spots Damian sitting upright against a corner, with a gun pressed to his temple.

Dick's shoulders stiffen and a breath catches on his throat. Still, it's all going to be alright. It's all going to be okay. Damian's going to be okay.

"I'd advise you not to try anything smart, or-"

"I won't" Dick interrupts sharply.

Cecile stands to the side and gestures towards a skeletal armchair with untied restraining straps. Dick shudders at the thought of how many people have suffered on this same chair, and his stomach fills with dread as the knowledge that he's next settles in.

"Grayson wh-"

"It's okay Dames" Dick says softly, scrambling to regain his composure as he's forced onto the blood stained metal by the men.

He winces when they securely latch the straps around his wrists and ankles, so tightly the leather is pressing into his skin, disrupting blood circulation.

Damian looks hurt and afraid, so Dick does his best swallow his own accelerating fear and suppress the shivers running down his spine, triggered by the icy feeling of metal on his skin.

"Everything is going to be okay"

Dick locks eyes with him and plasters something that feels like the poor excuse of a smile on his face, but he knows it must appear somewhat comforting to his little brother.

Masking his unraveling self beneath a charming smile and a lighthearted joke has always been his gift and curse.

Cecile clasps her hands together impatiently and nods towards the man holding the gun. He hastily shoves Damian into the arms of the leanest of the men, while his extended arm is turned around to point at Dick's head instead.

Damian yelps and as his arms are restrained behind his back, the hideous burn on his exposed chest comes into Dick's full view.

Dick's breath hitches despite himself and.. and..

It's...

The ghastly tendrils of burnt skin spreading across his little Robin's chest that spell out the word brat…

Dick could never describe the utter despair and pain and sorrow and ire and helplessness he feels, yet he doesn't have the time to stare right through the monstrosity etched onto his little brother's flesh as suddenly his chin is being pushed uncomfortably upwards by the barrel of the gun being pressed firmly against the soft skin right above his neck.

As Dick gulps, his Adam's apple bobs almost visibly on his inconveniently prolonged neck. The underlying dizziness finds the perfect opportunity to strike him again as his head slightly lolls backwards.

He no longer sees Damian, but amidst the sounds of his heartbeat echoing from inside the veins and taut muscles in his neck, a small and strangled Richard finds its way to his ears.

"I'm fine" Dick assures, even though he's nothing but. "I'll be fine. Love you, lil bro"

The absence of an answer doesn't concern him as much as that of shuffling or any indication that Damian is guided out of the room.

That is, until a delicate stray sniffle rips his heart apart.

If he could glance at his little Dami, he'd be able to see his reflection fall from his watering eyes in teardrops that he can no longer contain.

Dick can imagine the silently crying face, and so he shuts his eyes closed harshly, trapping inside all the pain and anguish lest it makes way to the surface

With a wavering voice he demands:

"Now let Damian go"

When he reopens his eyes with a breathy gasp he's all alone, bound to the metal skeleton of the chair.

Relief floods his heart.

If any more blood is to be spilt, it shall be his.

[insanityclause]

William Shakespeare’s Coriolanus, starring Tom Hidldeston in the title role, is currently streaming as part of the UK National Theatre at Home initiative.

Coriolanus is set in ancient Rome, where the people suffer from a famine and clamor for changes to the current ruling system. Distinguished general Caius Martius returns from a successful campaign in Corioles and is thus named “Coriolanus.” He finds himself caught in the middle of conflicts at home and abroad as his mother, Volumnia, pushes him to become a consul of Rome. But he is a soldier at heart and ill-suited to politics and thus, betrayal and banishment drive him to form an unexpected alliance with a former enemy, Tullus Aufidius. He vows revenge on the city that rejected him, but this final, ill-fated campaign leads to his downfall.

Coriolanus is particularly relevant in these times of social unrest and political upheaval because it portrays a a country in the throes of transformation, people demanding a voice, and the breakdown of oppressive structures and systems. The play explores the idea of power and the very pertinent question of in whom it should reside and whether it should ever be in the hands of a single person.

It also tackles the dangers of imposing inordinate pressure on an individual and how they can break from the weight of nigh-impossible expectations. In an interview with The Guardian, Hiddleston himself says it best:

“I think the play also raises another complex question as to what degree any individual can withstand the intensity of idealisation and demonisation that comes with the mantle of unmoderated leadership or extraordinary responsibility.”

Directed by Josie Rourke, the production succeeds in bringing Shakespeare’s bloody epic to life even in a confined space. The production was filmed on stage at the Donmar Warehouse in 2014 by National Theatre Live.

The closed quarters of the Donmar Warehouse always push production teams to be more creative in their execution of material and the results in this case are truly impressive. Rourke made the most of the limited space and even turned it to her production’s advantage, ingeniously giving the focus on the characters and the dialogue more than the trappings of ancient Rome, creating a truly visceral experience.

The production was stripped to its bare essentials, the set design all the more striking for its sparseness. Simple props are deployed to impressive effect and even complicated battle scenes are deftly conveyed through chairs, ladders, and creative lighting.

A particularly memorable scene is when Caius Martius takes a shower after being bloodied in battle. The shower scene is not fan service but really more symbolic of the objectification of Martius’ body by the characters, how much blood he has shed for his city and how many scars he bears as proof of his service.

Hiddleston explains that the shower scene was also a way for the audience to see how the character bore his wounds in private even as he refused to reveal them in public. He cries out in pain as the cold water seemingly stings his wounds and one can feel him buckle under the weight of so much expectation. As Hiddleston says:

“We wanted to show him wincing, in deep pain: that these wounds and scars are not some highly prized commodity, but that beneath the exterior of the warrior-machine, idealised far beyond his sense of his own worth, is a human being who bleeds.”

The performances are consistently engaging and even with the majority of the ensemble seated in the shadowy background, when one character has his or her scene, the audience can look at no one else.

Tom Hiddleston is magnificent as Caius Martius Coriolanus, giving depth and nuance to a controversial character. Coriolanus is a difficult man to root for but Hiddleston effectively captures the many facets of the character from the daring warrior, the haughty patrician with such disdain for the plebeians, the dutiful son, the reluctant consul, the vengeful exile, and eventually, the vulnerable family man.

He effectively portrays a man seemingly unyielding in his convictions and yet also easily swayed by his mother, whether she is prodding him to become consul or begging him to spare Rome. Coriolanus is constantly torn between his obedience to his mother and her aspirations for him and his own proud and brutally honest nature.

His fearlessness and ferocity in battle do him little favors when he tries to play the politician and there is a brilliant scene when Hiddleston sarcastically tries to win “votes” from his countrymen and it is obvious how he struggles to keep up appearances. When he eventually snaps and unleashes his rage against the people, one can already foresee his inevitable doom.

Deborah Findlay as Volumnia is masterful and mesmerizing, her powerful influence over her son evident from her first appearance. She is clearly the driving force behind the story – pushing her son to gain renown on the battlefield, then to become consul of Rome, and finally, to relent in his revenge plans to raze the city. Far from the traditional depictions of motherhood as full of tenderness and compassion, Volumnia’s love for her son is rooted in brutal ambition, and she values the glory he can bring to their house more than his own life.

The mother-son relationship is one of the more fascinating dynamics in Shakespeare’s plays and the chemistry between Findlay and Hiddleston effectively portrays this. For all his pride and rage, Martius can never bring himself to refuse anything his mother asks of him, even when they both know that some requests will end in tragedy.

Birgitte Hjort Sørensen as Virgilia, wife of Martius, does not share many scenes with her husband but in the few that she does, her manners and tender looks effectively convey the bond between them. She even employs some sensuality in the scenes where she tries to convince him to give up his bloody crusade.

Hadley Fraser as Tullus Aufidius gives a fascinating portrayal of a character who starts out as the lead’s fiercest foe and then somehow, becomes a powerful ally. The mutual admiration between the two warriors is evident from the moment they are face-to-face in battle.

While there are battle scenes in the play, the duel between Martius and Aufidius is the only one given complete fight choreography and it is an intense and gritty affair, both actors having rehearsed their movements extensively before the play’s run. Even as they exchange violent blows, there is a reluctant respect between them.

When their paths cross again later in the play and, in a rare display of humility, Martius puts himself at his enemy’s mercy, Aufidius recognizes an opportunity for them to finally become the brothers-in-arms they were destined to be. But the alliance is short-lived and soon Aufidius finds his rage replaced with sorrow.

Mark Gatiss gives a delightful performance and is a refreshingly jovial character in a cast of grim figures. His Menenius has the thankless task of counseling the stubborn Martius in his journey to becoming a consul and also tries his best to win the support of the people for his tempestuous protégé.

Peter de Jersey is regal and noble as the general Cominius, another supporter of Caius Martius, but one who is still unable to prevent the misfortunes that befall the ill-fated Coriolanus. Both Cominius and Menenius fail in their efforts to build Martius a career as a consul because they realize that he is a man who cannot go against his own nature.

Alfie Enoch plays Titus Lartius, a Roman general and another ally of Coriolanus. He is a brave and loyal companion in battle but he also is unable to help Coriolanus achieve his political ambitions.

The Tribunes, played by Elliot Levey and Helen Schlesinger, are as scheming and manipulative as one expects them to be, and though there is mutual hostility between them and the proud Martius, they hold the advantage because they are easily able to sway the people to their cause. In the end, Martius, for all his prowess in battle, is no match for seasoned politicians, who know the game too well.

The rest of the ensemble play multiple roles as Roman citizens and Volscians and though there are only a handful of actors, they are all still able to effectively convey the sense of a mob rising against a tyrant or an army of soldiers in the heat of battle. Once again, it is Rourke’s excellent direction that makes the most of the Donmar’s small space and allows the cast to be strategically placed in every scene. Not an inch of the stage is wasted.

The intense, intimate production brings out the character dynamics and the forces at play without distracting the audience with the bells and whistles of intricate set design or flashy costumes. The story is the star of the show and what better way to perform Shakespeare than to put the emphasis on his words.

Coriolanus is one of Shakespeare’s more brutal works, full of rawness and rage, without the customary elegance and charm that audiences may be used to with the romances or comedies. Coriolanus is a bloody cautionary tale about the nature of power, a theme that will certainly resonate strongly with audiences today.

In a time where we are all deprived of the communal experience of live theater, the National Theatre at Home initiative has provided a worthwhile alternative experience and a reminder of the excitement and wonder a well-executed play can inspire. While we wait for the worst effects of the crisis to abate, we can take comfort in the hope of a better future. In the words of Coriolanus himself:

“There is a world elsewhere.”

The stream will be available on the National Theatre’s Youtube Channel from June 4  to June 11. Watch it while you can:

https://youtu.be/XHqkEruwBT0

[gibelwho]

Top 5: Best Films of 2019

2019 was another momentous year for me - spent the first half of the year living at my in-laws house while we waited to move into our forever home, then spending the back half of the year doing house projects as we slowly unpacked. We weren’t consistently heading to the cinema, but we’ve done a race to fit in many more films before the Oscars, which was held this past weekend and where Parasite made history as the first foreign language film to win Best Picture. This is my second year in a row publishing my thoughts on ranking the past year in cinema, so despite the many life changes, excited to keep the tradition going.

Gibelwho Productions Presents Best Films of 2019

5. Marriage Story

4. Parasite

3. Little Women

2 Jojo Rabbit

1917

Marriage Story (November 2019): The film, written and directed by Noah Baumbach, explores the unraveling of a marriage, where the two people are navigating their way through divorce and must forge some sort of ongoing relationship for the sake of their son. The story is an exploration of identity - being part of a couple, emerging as an individual, surviving as a parent, and balancing one’s career. Scarlett Johansson and Adam Driver shine in their performances, finding the truth in each scene, displaying the humanity of flawed people, and really going at it during their epic meltdown fight. The supporting cast is stellar as well, delivering moments of humor, ugliness, and empowerment - notably Laura Dern’s speech about society’s different expectations placed on mothers and fathers. Filmed on location in New York and Los Angeles, the story casts a devastating eye on how two people who have separated can still retain some love in the face of heartbreaking agony.

Parasite (October 2019): A film that starts off as a comical exploration of a poor family slowly infiltrating the house of a rich family in Seoul, then shifts halfway through to become a suspenseful thriller with sequences of violence. Co-writer and director Bong Joon-ho explores the nature of the upstairs / downstairs dynamic, not only having the story center on those in service of the rich family, but also with the production design of the two houses featured in the film. The rich family lives far above the main streets in a multi-level home, with stairs that lead up to a beautifully manicured garden; the poor family’s living quarters is in the lower section of town, they live below the streets, and must contend with the danger of flooding. Avoiding spoilers, a third set of staircases hold a secret that ultimately spells danger for both families. This film has made Oscar history and has opened more people up to the world of International cinema; as Joon-ho said so eloquently in one of his acceptance speeches: “Once you overcome the one-inch tall barrier of subtitles, you will be introduced to so many more amazing films.”

Little Women (December 2019): Adapting a classic novel for the modern era, especially one that has been relatively recently brought to the silver screen, one must insist on bringing an original take - or why else bother. Writer and director Greta Gerwig not only took on that challenge, but elevated the material to a higher degree than has been achieved in previous adaptations. Splitting up the linear story into two timelines allowed a commentary on the past and present that gave more life to the characters and depth to their journeys. Having never read Little Women, I was enchanted by discovering these characters brought to life by a terrific ensemble, including Saoirse Ronan, Florence Pugh, and Timothee Chalamet. Additionally, Gerwig pens an ambiguous ending that will satisfy book readers who felt betrayed by character turns that Louisa May Alcott felt pressured to deliver for publishers in 1868, but that didn’t feel true to her character’s spirit.

Jojo Rabbit (October 2019): Imagine writer and director Taika Waititi pitching his adapted screenplay to studio executives: a story that centers on a young boy growing up in Nazi Germany, who attends the Hitler Youth camp, and whose invisible friend is Adolf Hitler himself. Oh yes, and it will be a comedy, tragedy, hopeful, heartbreaking, hilarious, and shocking - dancing between the shades of tones and the audience will follow along with each beat. What makes this film succeed is the casting of Roman Griffin Davis, who despite his love for swastikas, steals the heart of the viewer with his earnest innocence and hilarious delivery, along with his interaction with his little friend Yorki (Archie Yates), his Hitler Youth leader (Sam Rockwell), and the Jewish girl he finds hidden in the upstairs bedroom (Thomasin McKenzie). Waititi is a genius filmmaker, who took all his Marvel Cinematic Universe clout and made a film about the dangers of youth growing up in the time of fascism, preaching an anti-hate message that the world needs to be reminded of in these nationalistic times.

1917 (December 2019): A film that centers on one technical conceit - that a full length feature film is constructed as one continuous shot - could fall under the weight of that enterprise, but 1917 delivers on all fronts - artistically, emotionally, and yes, technically. While the film is not actually one long shot, whole sequences are sustained for minutes on end, an environment more accustomed to theater actors than those working in film and one that brings a weight of reality to the character’s journey. Due to the story - two men must cross No Man’s Land to deliver an urgent message to a general that could save thousands of lives - the leads are constantly moving, through trenches, across the muddy no man’s land, through fields and streams, and finally the battlefield. The camera follows them through tight interior spaces and open fields, finding inventive ways to track their movements in the war zone. The two leads (George MacKay and Dean-Charles Chapman) deliver incredible performances as they slog through the countryside, encountering incredible British actors for short, yet powerful, scenes along the way. Co-writer and director Sam Mendes leads an incredible team that achieves cinematic glory and Roger Deakins proves for the second year in a row that he is producing the best work of his career. 1917 is not a traditional war film - through its formal choices, it endeavors to place the viewer directly inside the experience of soldiers in the First World War.

Honorable Mentions: 

Knives Out (November 2019): A classic whodunit that involves a twist of all twists - solving the mystery halfway through the film; what can the movie possibly spend the rest of the runtime on? This is the genius of writer and director Rian Johnson - he somehow manages to ratchet up the tension and reveal deeper twists and turns that subvert genre expectations. A stellar cast supports the murder mystery, led by Ana de Armas, a lighthearted Jamie Lee Curtis who is chewy the scenery, and a broad performance by Daniel Craig as the lead investigator. Chris Evans’ winter sweater became the breakout star of the film and the production design included an epic knives sculpture that plays a vital role in the climax of the film. 

Terminator: Dark Fate (November 2019): I am not a huge fan of the Terminator franchise - I’ve seen the first and second installments, but have skipped the rest of the sequels and never went for the television shows. I entered the viewing of this film with low expectations, and thus was pleasantly surprised by how feminist this film is. Linda Hamilton commands every moment of screen time, the enhanced human protector from the future was an incredible mix of strength and vulnerability, and even when Arnold enters the picture, he knows when to stand back when the women are in command. Yes, there is a totally ridiculous action sequence in a falling plane that defines reality and physics, but there are more moments of women communicating intelligently and emotionally and also women taking command and driving the action forward that fully impressed for what could have been a throwaway addition to the Terminator canon. 

Avengers Endgame (April 2019): With this film, the MCU has concluded its first major story arc, wrapping up a 10 years long buildup of the Avengers and affiliated heroes fighting the Mad Titan Thanos in an epic battle. Yes, the film does build up to a climactic final battle, but it takes it’s time getting there, choosing instead to focus on how the character’s we’ve grown to love over the past decade deal with the Snap that killed friends and family and left the world a broken place. The plot really gets moving when a time travel element is introduced and, in one of several lovely tributes to my beloved Star Trek, brings the viewer back through memorable moments in the MCU’s history, layering on meta commentary or radically changing the shape of the past. This film was a bold risk to focus on character over spectacle (at least for a while) and to craft a fitting tribute for the two titans of the Marvel Cinematic Universe - Steve Rogers and Tony Stark.

Apollo 11 (March 2019): The American space program of the 1960s has long held a fascination in our household and so we rushed out to see the documentary that promised new footage for the seminal event that landed a man on the moon. To our delight, the film revealed itself to be a cinematic achievement as well. Director Todd Douglas Miller chose not to narrate the film with an omniscient voice; rather, choosing to fill the audio landscape with diegetic sound from contemporary source material - journalists asking questions in a press conference, back and forth between the astronauts and NASA headquarters, and newscasters reporting the progress to the nation. Some of the shots included in this film, all archival footage and some newly released 70mm material, are so beautifully composed and complex shots; it's an astonishment that this thoughtful filmmaking was done to capture one of the nation’s greatest achievements and this documentary honors that effort on its 50th anniversary.

[supersweethoneybee]

Mother: Chapter 1 - Test

If you’re under 18, shoo!!!

OwO what's this?

An insert into a near-dead fandom?

I think so.

This chapter contains shit like vibrators in the ass, belly bulges and rubs, spanking, plugs, cum inflation of the stomach (not womb (yet :) ) and lots of dirty talk and foreshadowing.

Comment down below if you have any ideas on what to do to her next ;)

~*~

You sneered at the man before you, drawing your knees close to your naked body. He stood there, staring. He watched you like you were some kind of zoo animal sitting here in this white observation room. Barely anything was in here besides the two of you and one Magi-tek Soldier, the only thing in here was a cart sitting by the sealed door. You had no idea what was in there and you frankly didn't want to know. It was probably some disgusting torture devices that would kill you or tear apart your cells or some stupid shit like that.

You glared at the man before you through the locks of unkempt hair tangled in front of your face, eyebrows twitching as your breathing soon fell out of sync.

Why was he just staring at you? Not saying a word?

Was this some kind of way to fuck up your mind?

Finally, the silence and slight buzzing from the florescent lights above became too much for you.

"What do you want?" you spat.

Ardyn sighed, his shoulders drooped. He scoffed and looked away from you finally.

"An expecting mother should learn to be more patient," he chided, finally turning his sights back to you.

Mother?

An expecting mother?

You reeled back, the back of your skull almost hitting the wall. What the fuck was he talking about?

"Excuse me? I'm not pregnant."

"Not yet, at least." His lips curled up into a crooked smirk, his lids fluttering shut half way over his golden orbs. He could tell by the look you were giving him that you needed more information. The Chancellor tsked and motioned to the single Magi-tek soldier who beelines straight for the cart. "You see, my pet, I am not long for this world. At the end of this little age of darkness, I will no longer exist." The cart rolled up to his right side. Ardyn opened the lid and shooed the Magi-tek soldier's hands away from the cart. "But, I have many plans. Who know how long it will take. One year? Ten years? One hundred years of constant darkness before I am to be killed? I have plans for my children to perform, to keep my legacy fresh in the minds of the people of the world." He motioned the Magi-tek soldier to you with the slight turn of his hand. the soldier marched up next to you, awaiting its next command. "And children, I shall have plenty of, thanks to you."

"You're fucking sick!" you snapped, yanking at the chains bounding you to the lower half of the wall. "You're just gonna fucking rape me and impregnate me for years?"

Ardyn stopped rifling through the cart to look at you. A coy smile tugging on his lips.

"Not yet, at least." The Chancellor proceeded to rifle through the cart that sounded quite full of metal objects. He produced a little remote, about the size of small smart phone with a colorful arrange of numerical order. He proceeded to search through the cart once more, intent on finding something else. "In order to be the mother of my brood, you need to be able to handle it all. It's a heavy load, a long burden, taxing. I need to know that your body can stretch and hold and nurture them." Ardyn cackled suddenly. "I can just picture it now. Your belly all big and swollen, immobile, writhing in pain as they move in you constantly. And each time you give birth, your body will be forced to hold more and more. Astrals, I cannot wait to see you quickly grow soft for them and for me."

Ardyn produced a bottle of lube from the cart.

Your heart dropped to your stomach. You quickly grew nauseous at the thoughts and images that plagued your mind.

"Ardyn, please, no. Anything but this, please," you pleaded, tears suddenly pricking your eyes.

"Relax, my pet, today is just a simple test to see how much you can handle in your behind." Ardyn nodded towards you, eyeing the soldier.

The cold, iron grasp of the soldier's unforgiving hands snatched at your bound wrists and cuffed you to a lock on the ground. One of its hands snatched at your hair and slowly pushed you down until your cheek was pressed against the linoleum. A clasp was forced around your neck, hooking it to the same lock where you were handcuffed. You were forcefully spun around so your bare ass was facing Ardyn. You were trembling, terrified. You couldn't see what he was going to do you.

"Ardyn," you choked, now starting to sob, "please."

"Silence," he spat a sharp crack of his hand across your ass sent you sobbing. "Any more whining I do not ask for will result in much worse punishments."

You whimpered in your closed mouth, you screwed your eyes shut as tears streamed down your cheeks. Your ass was throbbing, red hot probably.

You suddenly gasped at the cold sensation of lubricant quickly being shoved against the pucker of your ass by one of Ardyn's rough fingers, the digit swirling around just a bit in the inner rings of your ass before retreating.

"Relax, pet, I'm simply going to see how far you can stretch before you start your training." You trembled far worse now, awaiting for whatever monstrosity would be plunged into your asshole. You heard Ardyn pick something up from inside of the cart. "Open your eyes. You might as well know what I'm putting inside of you."

Your eyes slowly opened. Before you, held between Ardyn's fingertips, was a metal object about the size and shape of a new beauty blender. A near egg shape. It was bronze colored, shiny, but there was something on the top part of the egg that looked like it could be clicked down. It had a glob of lube smeared around the top as well.

What was it?

The object quickly retreated from your line of sight, and the cold smear of fresh lube now sat on top of your soaked pucker. You suddenly cried out as a tight pressure quickly formed into your ass, your body practically rejecting the egg-shaped object as Ardyn wormed it through the tight rings of your ass. It was painful, agonizing as it practically tore right through you. You cried, squirmed and whimpered, tugging on your handcuffs to try and somehow get away from the painful stretch forming in your ass.

You were starting to sweat.

And just as quickly as it was pressed against your puckered hole, it was now lodged inside of you. You could feel it. It was heavy, very heavy, and cold. You laid there, ass in the air, choking on air and sobbing, soft pleas leaving your swollen lips.

"See? That wasn't so bad. You took it quickly. Perhaps, you won't need as much training as you let on." You heard Ardyn rummaged through the cart once more, no doubt grabbing another egg. "Next size up, here we come."

You seized as Ardyn carelessly wormed and circled the egg against your pucker, this one bigger by maybe a centimeter or two in diameter. The pain was much worse, but Ardyn still managed to push the heavily lubricated egg into your ass with no problem. You shrieked as the second egg collided with the first egg inside of you, rearranging your guts and weighing you down.

Ardyn reached into the cart, pulled out an egg, lubed it up, and placed it up against your ass once more.

You counted in the back of your mind how many eggs he violated you with, how many he plunged into your unwilling ass and joined the rest, each one progressively getting bigger and bigger than the last.

Three...

Four...

Five...

You could feel something leaking down your ass crack. You were sure if it was the excess lube or blood or a mix of both. You couldn't see.

Six...

Seven...

Eight...

Your stomach was throbbing heavy. It felt like it had actual weight to it. You didn't dare test to see if it did nor look.

Nine...

Ten...

Eleven...

At this point, your knees had been split farther apart than before. You could feel your heated stomach brush against the floor.

Twelve...

You could barely hold yourself up anymore. Your legs nearly gave out when the soldier caught you at the last second. Its hard, unforgiving hands dug into the sides of your swollen stomach to keep you up.

Thirteen...

You were starting to feel numb. Your eyelids becoming heavy.

Fourteen...

At this point, he was practically shoving them into you like you were some pinata.

Fifteen.

He stopped.

"Now, I know you can finish off the rest, but I think that is for another day of amusement. But fifteen toys in your tight little ass, I'm impressed." Ardyn's fingers drilled up your naked spine. "I can't wait to see plugged with forty eggs clinking inside of your stomach and womb."

Forty?

You went from a size maybe just smaller than a beauty blender to the size of softballs being forced into your now loose ass.

"Please," you choked.

Astrals, you were so heavy and tired.

"Ah ah ah, pet, we're not done just yet. We have to plug you up now. We don't want your beautiful work being undone when we turn you over." Ardyn dug into the cart and pulled out something, no doubt an anal plug from what he just told you. He slowly brought it right in front of you so you could see it. It was all metal, stainless shiny steel. A metal egg sitting atop a stout base. "Do you like it? I figured it would be fitting if it were in the shape of an egg too." Ardyn carelessly slobbered the egg in the globs of lube and blood mixture now pooled below you and popped it into you. You whined loudly, feeling it suddenly jostle everything inside of you and push at your organs. "Set her up now."

The soldier, not knowing how to handle a human being obviously, snatched off the clasps and handcuffs from the floor and plopped you down on your ass.

You shrieked, your hands flying to the mounded globe that was your stomach. You slowly glanced down, wanting to now vomit from the sight of your lumpy stomach. You could see the eggs pressing against your skin. They were packed together. It was hard to breathe, hard to whimper and whine. You sat there, stomach now forcing your legs apart so it could rest and hang down onto the floor, your breasts sitting uncomfortably on top of your globe. You were just barely able to touch your belly button. Your nerves were on fire.

"I can't, no," you shivered, snot and tears sliding down your heated face. "Please, take them out," you cried.

Ardyn sighed, smile falling to a small frown.

"I would love to, pet, but I can't. You see, you're sitting on the plug and I know your body isn't ready to release them yet. But, I do know of a way that may be able to help it all come out smoother, and possibly settle it just a bit." You looked up at him with pleading eyes. Ardyn simply chuckled once more and pressed a large hand to your mounded tummy, rubbing the lumps slowly before he stood up again. You suddenly cried out once you saw him seize his belt and trouser's button and zippers, slowly allowing his trousers to fall and pool at his ankles along with his underwear. His cock sprung free, erection fully blown. "Suck my cock," he cooed.

"N-no!" you cried.

A sharp smack against your stomach sent you howling, clutching your stomach as the eggs inside of you rattled and tried to go back to where they once more.

"I said suck my cock, you stupid girl."

You slowly peeled away from your belly to look at his cock again. It was big, bigger than anything human, and his balls were hefty too. A bead of something dark pearled at the tip of his cock, dark veins pulsing along the shaft.

Could you even fit that in your mouth?

You had no choice...

Ardyn grabbed at the back of your head and guided your mouth up to his cock. You were hesitant to open your mouth, but Ardyn had jammed his fingers in between your teeth and pried your jaws open perfectly. Your mouth burned violently as he plunged his cock deep into the dark cavern of your throat. He pleased himself with your mouth, pumping his cock as much as pleased at how fast he wanted to go. You felt like you were choking. You placed your haands on his bare hips and squeezed them, pleading with your eyes for him to slow down.

Your pleas were ignored.

After what felt like eternity, Ardyn snatched at your hair and forced you to deep throat as much as you could before he came, practically plugging your throat close so you would swallow every last drop. It was like an explosion in your mouth. It was vile, it wasn't cum. It was thick, slimy, disgusting. It poured down your throat like a geyser. You felt yourself bloat up in your stomach. Your hands flew from Ardyn's waist to your tummy. You choked as you felt the lumps and bumps of the eggs pressing against your stomach quickly vanish by a taut, soft, thick padding as his cum filled you up like a water balloon. Your legs pushed apart a bit more as your tummy surged forward a bit when you felt your sides start to fill out as well.

Ardyn detached from your mouth and was quick to clean his cock off of the black sludge that now sat inside of your stomach and intestines. It was like you actually swallowed the globe your teacher had sitting on his desk in history. You actually looked severely pregnant, but worse. Ardyn, being a little shit, flicked at your tight belly and watched it jiggle and ripple as you swatted his hand away. A dark chuckle left his lips as he tugged up his pants.

The doors to the cell opened just as Ardyn had finished buckling his pants. An old man stood at the doorway with Magi-Tek soldiers on either side of him.

"Chancellor, are you done with your pet for the day?" he chided Ardyn.

"Just finished with her."

The old man only hummed and was quickly gone from the doorway.

Ardyn didn't spare you a single glance until he was already at the doorway, the soldier trailing behind him. Ardyn turned slightly and raised the remote in his hand and pressed a button.

Immediately, something deep inside of you started to vibrate, then something else, and then something else.

They were vibrators! He shoved fifteen vibrators into your ass and now they're shaking up your guts even more, allowing that thick cum to slosh around and pulled at the bile clinging in your throat.

"I suggest not hesitating the next time I tell you to do something, pet," he huffed.

You whined and clutched your swollen belly and taunt sides as it vibrated and jiggled. It didn't feel good at all, but you could now feel it all starting to heat up your core and tighten the coils inside of you.

Ardyn laughed at your sickly figure and closed the door behind him, leaving you to orgasm and vibrate as long as he see fit.

[waywardrose13]

A Broken Lullaby- Part Three

Previous Part // Series Masterlist // Rose’s Masterlist

Dean x Reader, ??? x Reader

Summary: You and Dean would  find yourself tangled together under the sheets on more than one  occasion. It was causal for him, but something much more to you. When a demon makes a comment that sits with Dean sourly, he makes you take a  pregnancy test, ultimately turning both of your lives upside down.

Warnings: Language, sexual content (very, very mild), Sweet!Sam, kinda flirting, fluffy!!!, angst, Dean’s a bastard... Fair warning.

A/N- Y’all really seemed to like the second chapter and I was really excited to post the third one so... Surprise! Thanks for all the kind words on the first and second chapters. It’s what helps motivate me to write for y’all. Hope you enjoy! Love you guys:)

Tags for the series are open, forever tags are open, angst/fluff bingo tags are open, character tags are open. Send me an ask!

It was early the next morning. The memory of last night was fresh in your brain, a newfound anger towards Dean making its way into your head. The fact that he also had not acknowledged you when you had invited him to your baby’s first appointment pissed you off to no end and you couldn’t believe he would just ignore you like that.

You sighed and slipped out of bed, flitting around the room and getting changed, picking up your discarded clothing from the night before and tossing them in the hamper in the corner of the room. You needed to get a few things done before going to the doctor’s, which included the giant pile of dirty clothes in the corner of your room.

You made your way through the quiet bunker in search of Dean. You had called and made an appointment, wanting to check on your baby’s health and get the first ultrasound and sonogram. You wanted to see if Dean was interested in going to the appointment with you, since he hadn’t let you know the night before. The bastard. Frankly, you didn’t really want to go alone. You hoped he’d want to tag along, see your baby for the first time. But he was nowhere to be found, setting a frown on your face.

You did, however, find Sam. He was sitting at the table in the library, munching on a bag of almonds. You smiled at him, thinking it was probably time to let him know that you were, in fact, pregnant.

 “Hey, Y/N,” Sam greeted cheerfully. He gave you a smile and looked back at his computer, popping another handful of nuts into his mouth.

“Where’s Dean?” You asked, taking a seat.

“He went off on a hunt,” He answered. “Seems like a simple salt and burn. Why? Didn’t he tell you?” You frowned.

“Uh, no… I uh, I made an appointment today,” You said. “I was planning on asking Dean to go with me. I don’t really wanna go alone.”

“Is everything okay?” He asked, his brows furrowing in worry.

“Yeah, it just turns out that the demon was right.” You gave him a small smile, looking down in your hands in your lap.

“You mean… Wait, really?” He asked. You nodded, his hazel eyes filling with confusion. “Are you and Dean… a thing?”

“Well, it was supposed to be a one time thing. But, you know how I feel about him and… It just kept happening. I dunno… I don’t think he feels the same way. I know he doesn’t feel the same way. He also wasn’t too thrilled that I was pregnant either.”

Sam gave you an empathetic smile and reached across the table to grasp your hand. “Look, I know Dean. He’ll warm up eventually.”

“Hopefully, but at first… He wanted to get rid of the baby.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah. He said some stuff that really hurt me and proved my worst fear. He doesn’t want a relationship with me, nor does he want our baby. He looks at what we were as just fuck buddies. I know I can’t force feelings onto another person, that’s not what I’m trying to do and I know it’s not fair to talk like this but… It just hurts, Sam,” You said. You let out a breath and ran your free hand through your hair.

“He’s stupid for not wanting to be with you,” Sam said softly. You glanced up at him, a light blush creeping onto his cheeks. “I know he’s my brother and I shouldn’t say this but… You deserve the world and I don’t think Dean would be able to give that to you.”

You blushed, ducking your head, your hair falling in front of your face. Maybe Sam was right, though you couldn’t help what you felt. But what Sam said made a new flutter rise in your chest, one you never felt around him before.

“Thanks, Sam. But I still wish he was here,” You murmured. “I really don’t want to go to my first appointment alone.”

“I’ll go with you!” Sam chirped. “I’d love to see my little niece or nephew.”

You smiled and squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Sam.”

“And, Y/N?” He said as you got up from the table. “Congratulations.”

***

The day was cool and hazy. A thick blanket of grey covered the sky, the sweet smell of unfallen rain and the weight of a potential downpour looming in the air. You and Sam walked in a comfortable silence down the sidewalk, your hair pulled into a soft braid that fell over your shoulder. Your brown, heeled boots clacked softly against the pavement with each step you took. You slipped your hands into the pockets of your sweater, the light wind blowing the stray strands of H/C around your face.

“You nervous?” Sam asked after you checked in. Your leg bounced up and down as you glanced around the room, your eyes landing on all the other expectant mothers and their husbands and partners. Your frown grew. You were so grateful that Sam had accompanied you, but you wished Dean was here to see his baby for the first time.

“That obvious?” You asked, giving him a small smile.

“It’ll be fine, Y/N/N,” Sam said. He placed his hand on your knee, his thumb rubbing small circles to help calm you.

“Eliza James?” The nurse called. You stood up at the sound of your cover name, which was also the name on the insurance card, and walked with Sam to follow the tall brunette. “How are you today, Ms. James?”

“Um, nervous,” You said. She sat you down and began to take your blood pressure. She went through each routine check-up painlessly and then led you down blue and pink decorated hallway to your room, holding the door open.

“Doctor Adams should be in soon.” The nurse smiled, her blue eyes twinkling with kindness. You sighed deeply and sat up on the table, fiddling with your fingers.

“There’s nothing to worry about, Y/N,” Sam said. “You’ll be fine.”

“I know but it’s my first baby, Sam,” You said. “And the father isn’t even here.”

“I know,” He murmured.

A light knock sounded on the door. It opened slightly, a face peering inside. “Ms. James?”

“Yes,” You said.

Doctor Adams was a lanky woman with shiny black hair and thick rimmed glasses that sat on a pointed nose. Her slender arms were curled tightly around a clipboard as she walked in, her heels clacking on the tiled floor with each step. “Hello, Ms. James. I’m Doctor Adams and I will be performing your first prenatal exam and ultrasound,” She said. She walked to the side of the bed and seated herself onto the chair. She clicked her pen and looked up at you.

She asked you a series of questions and did a few routine checkup tests, all the while keeping a kind smile on her face. She wasn’t a very graceful woman, bumping your nose a few times with her hand and backing up into her chair, but she was efficient and got right to it.

“Alright, Ms. James, we are going to start your ultrasound,” She said, setting her clipboard down on the sink behind her. She put on a pair of gloves and grabbed a tube, walking back over to you. “Now, this will be cold,” She warned as she squeezed a bit of the gel onto your belly.

She grabbed the wand and spread the gel around before looking up at the screen, her wide smile getting impossibly wider as her brown eyes lit up with excitement. “There’s the little bean!”

You looked up, your anticipation eating at you. As soon as your eyes landed on the screen, you couldn’t help the smile that quickly spread on your face. Your heart instantly felt fuller as it swelled with love for the unborn baby inside you. Your eyes began to water at the intensity of it and you reached out to grab Sam’s hand.

“I say you’re about six weeks along,” Doctor Adams said. “Don’t be frightened if you begin to have morning sickness within the next few days. The six week mark is about when it starts.”

 “Wow,” Sam breathed, his face lit up with awe. He looked on with curiosity and keenness at the tiny bean-like shape on the screen. He was absolutely thrilled that’d he’d have a niece or nephew.

“Daddy’s excited?” Doctor Adams joked, giving Sam a knowing look. Your eyes snapped to his, your head shaking.

“Oh, no, he’s not the father,” You said. “He’s the uncle.”

“Oh, my apologies,” Doctor Adams said. “But you are excited, no?”

“Very!” Sam smiled. Doctor Adams gave him a nod and looked back at the screen.

“Well, your baby looks perfectly fine. It’s right where it’s supposed to be, so far so good. Would you like a copy of the sonogram?” She asked.

“Oh, please,” You answered.

3rd person POV

She stared at the picture all the way back to the bunker, her hand on her still flat belly, thumb tracing small circles. Her heart was filled to the brim with absolute love for the tiny thing inside of her. She couldn’t wait to hold her baby, see its little eyes- which she hoped would be as green as Dean’s- and run her hand over its little head.

Sam watched her, a small smile on his face. He was so happy for her, knowing that she always secretly wanted a family. Y/N had told him before that she hoped Dean would be the father of her children some day. He knew all about her feelings for his older brother. He had pushed for Dean to break through his shell, maybe admit his feelings for her too. But Dean never had said anything.

He sighed deeply, his smile fallen and a frown replacing it. As Y/N and Dean slept together secretly, Sam harbored his own secret. One that no one knew about. But if someone looked hard enough, they’d be able to see the signs. How he gazed at her across the room, or even the table. How he’d take a stance in front of her protectively during any dire situation. How he’d jump at the opportunity to help her with anything and everything. And how when he found out she was pregnant, his heart ached at the thought that it wasn’t his, and it never would be.

Because she was in love with his brother. A womanizing, drinking, ignorant brother that he had to watch throw the woman he loved to the side like she was nothing. Like she was just another bitch from a bar. Dean had been the second person she had given herself to, and he didn’t seem to care.

And no, he didn’t care. As Y/N and Sam drove back to the bunker from the appointment, Dean was drunk and pounding into a chick from the bar he had been to. Their grunts and moans pissing the people in the next room off, their bangs on the wall echoing through the motel room.

Dean rolled off her when they were finished, breathless and sated. He hadn’t given any thought about Y/N or the baby. He just saw an easy lay and took it, bidding her farewell after she got dressed with harsh goodbye and another drink of whisky.

He was alone again. The dark of the motel room swallowing him like a black hole, the alcohol making his head fuzzy. He collapsed onto the bed, the stench of sex still in the air as he drifted off to sleep, unaware of the text message that had come through his phone.

The message containing the first picture of his child.

Part Four

A Broken Lullaby tag list:

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[prognoseas]

WRITEBLR: SAMPLE WRITING.

type of writing: roleplay application.

length: 1,121 words.

trigger warning: drowning, violence, murder, parental neglect, mental illnesses, suicide, body horror, bereavement.

in this water body where the lake is too shallow and ocean too deep, he’s sinking into a world buried underneath the weight of the streams. like the liquid dreams, his realities are unfurling in small tides, the base of his reveries abraded by the way they whirled. it has always felt like this, with his shoulders slouched sideways, bearing the collared ends of the unparalleled worlds, submerged in his own waves. it doesn’t quite connect well: how his daydreams end in soft neon glow that shines from the ripples. it’s too... idealistic, almost. truths don’t simply flow.

they’re never static. instead, they glitch. unlike the water, following its flask, it follows its own rules. the rules: there aren’t placid rules. a lot of thunderstorms, a lot of hurricanes. in here, the capillaries of the cracked skies, opening up to pour more water but not in soft rains. no, not in the way that he likes it.

he doesn’t like how it dissolves, the order in which the stories are told are never in particular direction. he finds it hard to follow, as though he’s an emptied bottle with too many messages shoved inside its brittle body, swaying in the furious dance of the current. and prays, prays for no god to understand for his chest-tongue is tied, hoping for whoever is listening to show him the way. and these, these are his tales, spilled in the skewed sinews of a storyline:

          i.

atrophies never started kindly. instead, it came into view in a rushed bang, almost too sudden, almost too startling. instead of beginning this with a birth, his memories jumped straight to the corners of a mansion which hallways spoke in terrors. nightmares. as an entrée, he vividly remembers the prognostic of mama’s maladies, diagnosed early in his childhood. it did not show on her skin, still as translucent, as gossamer as ever. instead, it crept in her viscera, its disappearing act reminding him of the specter wisps hanging outside his midnight windows. he did not recall how she cured herself, but it ended in a split-splat of red painted across the garden’s latest bloom. they told him she was unsalvageable. he believed it was of the snapped neck — later on in life, he decided that it wasn’t a murder by the broken bones, but the broken heart.

          ii.

the haunting never washed the corridors anew; she had been, had always been. in her white sleeping gown, floating mid-air. ethereal, he was captured by her wraith even before her post-mortem autopsy. false: even before her pre-mortem insanity. she had always been beautiful, flesh braided with her purpled veins. enchanted, he was, but papa did not deal well with apparatus. their new house wasn’t as grandeur, with papa’s office being in the attic instead of facing the garden ( it was suggested, also later in life, that mama dove into her pool of vermillion with papa as a witness — what an act of bravery ). he does not recall much about this family portrait of three, but in retrospect, marisse’s life also took a leap with mama that day. there was an indent that etched a mean streak into her, and he watched as marisse cut her blonde locks three days prior to her sixteenth. they were withering, but what else? a fragmented glass in his kaleidoscopic dream, and the fissures only grew wider with the following years.

          iii.

the first, deepest gash was when marisse trampled over his favorite toy, causing him to bleed glass. in another mirror where he would reflect, he would’ve memorized this better, but he did not. embedded traumas tiptoed around his mama-specked mementos, crushing him from toy to toy. papa spent more of his time six feet under, decaying alongside his experiments — inquired himself, over and over, what made the death remained as such? in the house was marisse to take care of him, her madness distorted into disguises that papa always seemed to miss. and this is how he remembers the weight of waters: by the way she pushed his shoulders, drowning him at 3am while telling him that it’s for mama, for mama, for mama. he vaguely recalls the sloshing bathtub water, overflowing with the pressures. he vaguely recalls the shooting of sighing bullets. bang, bang, bang. for mama, for mama, for mama. in the name of the father, and the son, and the holy spirit. papa came home to a smoking shotgun, and buried marisse next to mama.

          iv.

does he recall everything in-between? does he need to? papa sunk himself into more crematorium sorrows; a mind as brilliant as his engraved the epitaphs with rewritten obituaries, altering murders into suicides. next thing is how his kaleidoscope fell apart its shard cut deep into his bare feet. in this liminality, papa became the slivers that inserted themselves to the crux. the biography to his orphaned status was found against papa’s disappearance, declared guilty for the fallen. he did not spend a long time in the orphanage, his hands meant for crucifixion; each sneer that the boys and girls lent him was returned twice as much in silence. he learned that even the cruelest violence could bear the face of a saint, and so that was how he learned to do it. he inherited the mind of a father and the heart of a mother, after all. lunacy was a legacy, after all.

          v.

and so, they called him home. this is home. they named it the second summon, but what was expected out of a son birthed from riveting allusions to death? he was not violent, nor was he greed-stained. however, a show knitted from his glass-beaded smiles, solemn, somber. he’d seen enough souls to baptize himself to a performance with riddles latticed out of sheer proficiency. this was what papa had been trying to achieve: the 54 emotions distilled from bereavements. and he touched the spectators, one by one, allowing them to taste the pernicious intents of feelings, each with its distinct flavors. everything in the subconscious was accessible, is accessible. nothing is subliminal, he would promise you. nothing is artificial.

          o.

in this water body where the lake is too shallow and ocean too deep, he’s sinking into a world buried underneath the weight of the streams. like the liquid dreams, his realities are unfurling in small tides, the base of his reveries abraded by the way they whirled. it has always felt like this, with his shoulders slouched sideways, bearing the collared ends of the unparalleled worlds, submerged in his own waves. it doesn’t quite connect well: how his daydreams end in soft neon glow that shines from the ripples. it’s too... idealistic, almost. truths don’t simply flow.

[langyahallarchives]

萧景睿的身世 - Jingrui’s Birth (Ver. 1)

Twenty-four years ago, the Marquis Xie of Ning embarked on a campaign in western Xia, leaving behind his pregnant wife, the Grand Princess Liyang, who remained in Jinling to await the birth. That same year, the master of Tianquan manor, Zhuo Dingfeng, agreed to spar with a cult leader at the border of Miao. Before leaving, he entrusted his beloved wife, heavy with child, into the care of his father-in-law in Jinling.

Now, who could have guessed that disaster would strike so swiftly? There was a sudden outbreak in Jinling of the disease commonly known as diphtheria, and the city rapidly became a hellish prison. In order to prevent the spread of the epidemic, local authorities sealed the city. Commoners were strictly prohibited from coming and going as they pleased, with exceptional allowances made for only a few wealthy families. Naturally, this included the two women in the Xie and Zhuo families.

Although prominent officials and other noblemen had the special privilege of leaving the infected zone, in the end, they still were not able to act however they wished. Government officials prepared various quiet mountain temples in the nearby vicinity to serve as temporary dwellings, where they were quarantined for a time to prove they weren’t carriers of the disease before being given their freedom.

At this time, Lady Xie was eight-and-a-half months pregnant, and Lady Zhuo was nine months pregnant. By chance, they were sent to the same temple on the Rui mountain, and became neighbors there. Originally, the two women were but passing acquaintances who only saw each other at various social events. However, thanks to experiencing this hardship together, and without their husbands by their sides, the contact between them increased, and they discovered that their personalities were quite agreeable. They often sat together doing needlework and conversing happily, swapping stories about their pregnancies, and soon became as dear to each other as sisters.

And then one day, as the two of them were playing chess and chatting together, all of sudden, they went into labor at the same time. Because it was before their due dates, their servants were taken by surprise, and hastened to prepare the delivery rooms. From the afternoon all the way to the deepest night, it was sheer chaos. Outside, the wind howled, the rain came down in sheets, and thunder and lightning roiled. At last, when everyone’s insides were twisted up into knots from anxiety, the cries of infants pierced the night, and two little boys were born, seemingly at the same time. Amongst a field of smiles, the midwives carried these two most precious little young masters outside, to bathe them in a large wooden tub that had been prepared for that purpose.

At that moment, the unexpected happened.

Lightning struck a hollow cypress tree which was situated in the center of the old temple’s courtyard, and one of its branches snapped off with a crash, falling upon the roof of the delivery room. In an instant, roof tiles cracked, the ceiling beam was knocked askew, and the window lattices shattered. The gale from outside extinguished all the candles in the house, and someone screamed. Both guards and maids hurried to extricate the two women, and the midwives, who were so startled that they had fallen over backwards, hastily fished the babies out of the tub, and fled.

Fortunately, they were more scared than hurt, and no one was injured. However, once the new mothers had been resettled in their respective rooms, and everyone had breathed a sigh of relief, a rather large problem arose. The two little boys that had been carried out in pitch darkness, naked and without a care in the world, were both equally wrinkled, were both wailing at the top of their lungs in quite the same way, were of similar weight, and had similar features. So which infant belonged to Lady Xie, and which to Lady Zhuo?

By the next day the question became even more critical, as one of the infants began to have difficulty breathing, and before long, it had passed away.

Thus, when Marquis Xie returned from a successful campaign pacifying insurgents, and when Master Zhuo returned from the prestigious accomplishment of vanquishing the cult, they were greeted by their beloved wives, both sickly and grieving, as well as a single child that no one was sure who should take home.

Since the Lady Xie was also a Grand Princess of the current court, it was unavoidable that this matter would come to the attention of the emperor. The emperor issued a decree commanding both families to bring the child to the palace, so that he could personally preside over the case.

However, upon seeing the appearances of both pairs of parents, the emperor quickly realized that the situation would not be easy to resolve. Both Xie Yu and Zhuo Dingfeng were tall and slim, with distinct features. Both mothers had arched brows and almond-shaped eyes, and were beautiful and refined. They were not terribly alike, and yet when scrutinizing their features, the contours of their faces and other characteristics were more or less similar. Even if they were to wait for the child to grow older, the possibility remained that it would be difficult to judge whose child he was, simply by his appearance.

So the emperor held the child for nearly half a day, and did not come to a decision. However, in his heart, he found that he was becoming fond of the child, and thus came up with a compromise.

“Since there is no way to confirm who this child belongs to, it would be improper for him to use either of the surnames Xie or Zhuo. We shall bestow upon him the imperial surname, as well as the generational name of princes. That makes him Jing… mm… Jingrui will do, as he was born upon Rui mountain. He shall live for one year with the Xie family, and then spend the next year with the Zhuo family—in other words, he shall be the child of two families. What say you?”

Thus went the emperor’s decision, and since there were also no better suggestions, both families could only agree to this.

This was how Xiao Jingrui ended up with dual identities: he was the son of the Marquis of Ning, and also the second son of the Zhuo clan. Furthermore, because of this, the two families who previously had very little to do with one another became as members of the same clan, with a very close relationship.

Having two identities meant double the love and double the honor, but also double the work. From the time that he was young, Xiao Jingrui understood that he was not like his other brothers and sisters: he had to satisfy the expectations of two sets of parents. The Xie family placed emphasis on his studies, and the Zhuo family valued martial prowess. Xie Yu wished for his child to master clever strategies for commanding troops, and Zhuo Dingfeng wished for his child to gain thorough experience with the pugilist underworld.

Although he was under exceptional pressure, all things considered, Xiao Jingrui lived up to expectations; his performance was splendid. He could speechify well enough to startle members of the imperial academy, he could match his sword against others in the pugilist world, and on top of that, he was handsome, and had an elegant frame. His best friend Yan Yujin put it this way: “Wish I could be that perfect…”

- From Nirvana in Fire Ver. 1, Chapter 1, The Child Of Two Families. Translated by Andrea

二十四年前，宁国侯谢玉离开怀孕的妻子出征西夏，莅阳公主留在金陵待产；同年，天泉山庄庄主卓鼎风与魔教教主约战苗疆，临走前也将身怀六甲的爱妻送到金陵委托岳父照顾。谁知天有不测风云，一次被民间俗称为“白喉”的疫情突然暴发，金陵城内顿成修罗狱场。为免疫情扩散，官府封了城，严禁百姓出入，只有一些富贵家族得到了特殊的照顾，其中当然就包括谢卓两家夫人。

虽然达官贵人们有些特权离开疫区，但毕竟不能随意行动，州府官员们在附近的各处清静山庙为他们安排了住处，要度过危险期确认没有染病后才得自由。

这时谢夫人怀胎八月半，卓夫人怀胎九月，碰巧被送到了睿山上的同一座庙宇中作了邻居。两位夫人原本只是在社交场合见过的点头之交，这次同遇患难，丈夫又都不在身边，交往多了后，彼此都觉得性情相投，常在一处针线谈笑，交流怀胎的感受，很快就情同姐妹。

这天，两人正聚在一起聊天弈棋，突然同时阵痛起来。因为产期提前，仆从们措手不及，匆匆准备产房，好一番忙乱，从下午直折腾到深夜，外面电闪雷鸣，风雨大作，等大家惶惶然把心都揪成麻花了的时候��终于有婴儿的啼哭声响起，两个男孩几乎是同时落草。

在一片喜笑颜开中，产婆们捧着这金尊玉贵的两个小公子到外间准备好的一个大木桶里给婴儿浴身。

就在此时，意外发生了。

古庙院中一株空心柏被雷电击中，一��粗枝轰然断裂，砸在产房屋顶上，瞬那间瓦碎梁歪，窗棂也被震落，狂风猛卷而入，屋内烛火俱灭，一片尖叫声。侍卫和婢女们慌慌张张抢出两位夫人，被吓得向后跌坐在地上的产婆们也手忙脚乱地摸黑从木桶里捞出婴孩，逃了出去。

好在有惊无险，无人受伤，重新择房安顿好了产妇之后，众人刚松了一口气，就突然发现了一个大问题。

摸黑被抱出的两个男婴，赤·裸裸身无牵挂，一般样皱皱巴巴，一般样张着嘴大哭，重量相仿，眉目相似，哪个是谢夫人生的，哪个又是卓夫人生的？

到了第二天，问题更加沉重，因为其中的一个男婴突然喘不上气来，未几就死了。

当谢侯带着平定叛乱的赫赫战功，卓庄主带着击败魔教的烁烁威名赶来时，只看到自己虚弱哀伤的爱妻，与一个不知该归谁所有的婴孩。

谢夫人既是当朝长公主，这件事就不可避免地惊动到了当今天子。皇帝下旨命两家带着婴孩入宫，想亲自做个判断。

但一看到两对父母的模样，皇帝就知道事情难办了。

谢玉与卓鼎风都是长身玉立，五官明晰，两位夫人都是柳眉杏眼，秀丽文雅；虽说不算很象，但细察其五官，轮廓特征竟然差不多。

即使等孩子长大，只怕也难单凭长相，就判定他到底是谁家之子。

皇帝抱着婴儿看了半天，虽无决断，但因心中十分喜爱，便想出了一个折中之计：“既然无法确认这孩子究竟是何人之子，那他姓谢姓卓都不合适，朕就赐国姓于他，按皇子辈取名，叫景……景睿好了，他生在睿山之上嘛。一年住在谢家，下一年就住在卓家，算是两姓之子，如何？”

皇帝作了主，何况也没有更好的办法，大家也只能同意。

就这样，萧景睿便有了双重身份，即是宁国侯家的大公子，也是卓氏门中的二少爷。而素无往来的谢卓两家也由此变得有如亲族一般，关系紧密。

两个身份带来的是双倍的宠爱与双倍的尊荣，但同时，也有双倍的辛苦。萧景睿从小就知道自己与其他的兄弟姐妹不同，要同时满足两对父母的期许。谢家重文，卓家重武，谢玉想让儿子掌握将兵奇谋，卓鼎风要求儿子通晓江湖历练。虽然承受着极大的压力，但萧景睿总算不负众望，表现得甚是优秀，论文可词惊翰林，论武能拔剑江湖，再加上天生一副潇洒俊美的好皮囊，按他最好的朋友言豫津的说法，就是“完美成这样也就够了……”

[chwrpg]

I hate it. I hate having to go along with everything my friends say.

A NOTE FROM ADMIN R: Oh Autumn! You most definitely snapped on this application. Let me tell you, this gave me more than enough to let me know that you not only know who Callista is but for me to trust you with this character. I can not wait to see what you do with her from here on out.

OOC NAME/ALIAS, PREFERRED PRONOUNS, AGE & TIMEZONE:

autumn, 23, she/her, est 

DESIRED CHARACTER:

callista singh! 

HOW ACTIVE WILL YOU BE?

i’m living that quarantine life right now so probably an 8! 

DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER:

There’s more than meets the eye when it comes to Callista Singh. Her persona has been carefully crafted since she was eight years old, the year of her mother’s momentous fourth Oscar win. If her parents have taught her anything, it’s that the world’s a stage and she has a role to play. To be a dutiful daughter, a role model for their younger fanbase, and a prize show pony, as far as she’s concerned. What she felt or wanted didn’t really matter -— her life had been decided before she even got a say. There are moments where she can remember family getaways to exotic locales, just before her parent’s careers had exploded, and sandcastles made with painstaking care. Five grinning, sun worn faces beaming through a faded photograph. That serenity didn’t last longer than it took for them to land back on the tarmac, and as Callista grew older, those moments became so few and far between that they’re only distant memories now. 

She can pinpoint the exact moment everything changed, the first fleeting moment that her classmates had mobbed her for information after being spotted on a red carpet. After a few roles in popular TV shows and movies, she was practically a household name herself. As Callista entered high school and then later university, her queen bee status was cemented. After all, she had an advantage other girls didn’t have. She didn’t have to stay up late poring over magazines or rewinding teen movies in the hopes that it could be them. Not when she could be there herself; front row at New York Fashion Week, access to practically any movie set in the world. You name it, she got it. She didn’t have to pretend to be royalty -— she was royalty. In her mind, anyways, and she made sure everyone knew it. It didn’t matter that sometimes she could barely recognize herself or that her friends didn’t have a single interesting thing to say. It didn’t matter that more often than not she cried herself to sleep, or that people wouldn’t show up if she wasn’t paying because despite the glitz of her money, she wasn’t really a nice person. But none of that mattered.. She was on top, right where she belonged. 

Callista had never really had to work hard for anything. She was talented enough to keep booking roles here and there, smart enough to do well in school and pretty enough to land the most perfect boy in school. The perfect, beautiful boy that put his hand through the drywall inches next to her face, his breath hot and furious on her neck. The gifted boy she didn’t recognize sobbing an apology into her chest, even though they knew the cycle would repeat itself again. But none of that mattered, because to everyone else, they were perfect and she wasn’t going to do a thing to jeopardize that image. After all, who was she without it? Her path had been laid out for her, even if it wasn’t something she was sure that she wanted. Marry an obnoxious, overtly polished former frat boy with good connections, pop out a few brats and secure a place in the family legacy.  The one concession her family allowed was that she could attend Ravenwood for writing. Since she was little, she had been filling notebooks with stories that seemed to pour out of her. It started as a way to lull herself to sleep as after parties raged on downstairs and then took a life of its own. It was the only thing that had ever been truly hers. 

Everything was going to plan. Everything was perfect -— if you ignored the bruises or the fact that no one in her family had spoken actual words in days. She could feel the pressure mounting, the weight of all her obligations finally wearing her down but it wasn’t until she walked into her father’s office one day that it all truly snapped. Callista thought she was interrupting a therapy session but what she had really been interrupting was an oral service of a very different kind. Her father had begged for her silence at first before turning to accusations and threats that she would be the one to ruin the family if she told. After a few weeks of sleepless nights, she broke eventually. Callista didn’t know what she had been expecting but the truth had only been met with a coldness that she had never seen before, almost as if Callista herself had committed the betrayal. The Singh household had never been the oasis that they advertised it to be but now every second in their house felt like being in a warzone. Still, her mother stayed, and they had never talked about it again. 

Being of their status, her parents had always said that there were certain things they could get away with, certain directions that were easier to hide, which was something she was learning firsthand. Callista Singh was officially going down a bad road. Not only did she have to do court mandated therapy, but her parents had to do some serious damage control to boost their image and they were not going to let her forget it. After a generous donation to Ravenwood, her major was changed from writing to a dual degree in fashion design and business administration, with a minor in performance arts. Something serious, understated, and ready to show that she would be on course to not being a huge family disappointment. At first, Callista was extremely resistant to therapy and tried everything she could possibly think of to get out of it. There was no way she was going to bare her soul to one stranger, let alone a room of them. Not that she’d ever admit it but the therapy has been helping and she’s grown an attachment to the Breakfast Club. There are few people that she would give the St Laurent shirt off her back to, and they definitely make the list -— even if she refuses to talk to them in public unless it’s an emergency. Still, slowly but surely, she’s coming around to their strange ways. Except for Jorge Benitez. She’s convinced that he’s always going to be a huge pain in her ass. 

personality: 

Growing up, she had been a sweet, pensive child who was content to spend her days raiding her father’s library. But as her parent’s influence loomed larger in her life, Callista found that softness transformed itself into something sharper. It’s not that she’s heartless exactly, it’s just that she learned to use her heart less. As the Singhs’ infamy grew, so did Callista’s attitude. She can still recall the rejection of her first audition. She can still hear her mother’s cold tone, “you just weren’t good enough.” Being the youngest of a family of overachievers was already challenging but that moment pricked at the insecurities that had sparked in the back of her mind; she wasn’t pretty enough or original enough or just enough. At that moment, she realized that she never wanted to feel that way again, not if she could help it. 

Despite a cold exterior and a perfected resting bitch face, she’s very sensitive and takes a lot of things to heart. She’ll often mull over something long after it’s happened and ponder how things could have turned out differently. In constant need of control, Callista has a carefully crafted set of rules and expectations for hers and others to follow, even if she would never own up to it. Typically, there are very few people that are able to elicit a reaction she can’t quite control, Jorge Benítez is definitely one of them. For reasons she can’t explain, there’s something about him that just curls right under her skin and lingers for longer than she’d like to admit. 

There are lots of rumours floating around about Callista and her dating escapades. She’s even gotten into publicity relationships to appease her parents. But truly, she’s only ever been intimate with her ex boyfriend. She’s a hopeless romantic, and only wanted to give herself to someone special, not that her ex particularly fit that description. Callista is a true matchmaker at heart, which is why she’s dying to get Ainsley and Adeline together. Even if it’s partially so that she can say “I told you so!”

As someone who has always had to adhere by a strict social order, she can come off as standoffish and cruel at times to people outside of her circle. To those in her circle, she’s charming and polished, never a hair out of place. Her fall from grace is unlike any pain she’s ever imagined. Not because she particularly cared about her inner circle on more than a surface level but because without that designation, she doesn’t really know she is. But now for the first time in her life, it’s looking like she can start to figure it out. 

 SAMPLE WRITING:

fuck. Despite callista’s best efforts, the purpling on the inside of her arm wasn’t going away. Fingertips skittered over the spot before gently tracing down to the bruises littering her hips. It was the most careful she had been with herself in awhile. It wasn’t like it still hurt. The aching had faded a long time ago. The additions to her skin had been met with shock at first, bordering on indignance, but even that had turned to numbness.Tired eyes drifted shut for a second, unbidden memories rushing around the walls she had tried to put up. At first, she had looked at him marking her as a symbol of love. Hickies were placed into her collarbone, kisses pressed after it. But it didn’t stay that way for long. Then it was rough hands tugging at her, asking what she had done to make that guy look at her that way. The hits had started coming below the belt, in places nobody could see. But as time went one and no one seemed to notice, or even protest, he got braver. His symbols of love started blooming higher and higher on her body until she wondered if she was just making it up, if the people around her just couldn’t see. The lies came easily -— i fell again, can you even believe how clumsy i am, i have to wear these sunglasses because cheap fluorescent lighting gives me a headache. 

There’s a part of her that’s glad she got caught because she didn’t know if she would have the courage to leave otherwise. She would be stuck like her mother was, a cry for help never fully formed on her lips. The other part of her missed her old life. Callista Singh had never been one to shy away from attention but she was learning that there was such a thing as bad publicity. A shiver still ran down when she thought of her first public appearance. She had been agonizing over the perfect outfit for days. After all, making an entrance was a Callista Singh staple but as she walked over, their faces seemed to shift in unison. It was a look she recognized but couldn’t put a finger on. But it hit her just a second later; she had been guilty of giving that look herself. A clear cut signal that whoever you were, you didn’t belong. It was all so sudden that she did the unthinkable: she backed down and for the first time, found herself regretting what she had done. 

The first time she lifted, it had been an honest to God accident. As Callista realized the sunglasses were still perched on her fresh blowout, her blood went cold. But as big eyes darted around, she realized that there was another feeling filling her chest -— pure, unadulterated adrenaline. She was always so controlled, aware of every single little detail. Honestly, couldn’t remember the last time she had really enjoyed herself at a party. Lifting was something else that she was good at, something that was hers and hers alone. Something that would separate her from her parents. And besides, hadn’t she already provided these department stores with more than half of their revenue alone? Call it a consumer’s discount. It was a good ride, until she got sloppy. Getting busted wasn’t the troubling part, a Singh would never be in trouble for too long. What Callista hadn’t counted on was the shocking dive in public opinion and the alienation from the life she knew. I mean, if they could forgive Winona for her little incident, they could forgive her for fucks’ sake. Even her patented Ibiza weekends couldn’t get anyone back on her side. 

Those same Prada shades rested on petite features as she waited impatiently outside the office, or prison, that she was subjected to for the foreseeable future. She knew that she should be grateful that the sentence was lenient but she would honestly rather burn her Louboutin collection than be seen outside here, mixing with people she wouldn’t have even blinked at last month. I mean, really, she hadn’t expressed an actual honest to god emotion since the sixth grade. Were they going to sit around this circle jerk and share their feelings, and sing kumbaya like they were going to be friends after all this? She could name at least sixteen better things she could do and one of them included drinking on Rihanna’s yacht.

Her iced coffee wasn’t lifting her spirits the way it normally did and she crossed the short distance to toss the remainder in the garbage, noticing the gaze of the person across from her. Behind her shades, she surveyed him, gaze lingering on the dark curls for a moment. He seemed familiar enough but she couldn’t put her finger on it and she was no in fucking mood today. “If you’re gonna stare at me for this long, at least take a picture and sell it to TMZ so you can clean up that thing you call an appearance,” she snarled, snatching up her phone and busying herself with it. Even though, just as usual lately, there were no new messages to answer. The words she had uttered with such disdain only a few seconds ago lingered in her head. Normally, she would have had an image to uphold. The barbed wire in her words would have been disguised with a honeyed tone. But else what did she have to lose? For the first time in her life she didn’t have to push her anger down and smother it into submission, and it felt good. 

After the other had stormed off, she let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Wanting to be the last person in the session and hopefully skip the pleasantries, she waited a few minutes after the start time before waltzing in. Her lip practically curled with distaste as she took a quick glance of the surroundings and the company. At least Adeline was there, that wouldn’t be so horrible. A jolt of surprise struck her as her gaze reached the last chair. And of course, who else could be sitting in front of her but the person she had just told off moments before? She groaned inwardly, cursing the justice system for making her be here at 8 am on a fucking Saturday. 

 ANYTHING ELSE?

1985!

okay so please forgive me for the long ass app lmao! 

[fullscoreshenanigans]

#don’t get me started #no actually I will #the ends justify the means for both of them #snapped under the weight of their mother’s expectations and the pressure to perform #Emma’s refusal to accept fake happiness was a radical act of rebellion #instead of Winning at the generational curse like Isabella chose to do Emma said she didn’t want to play #and she said this game sucks why does anyone have to play what if we just Didn’t #the pain of being everything your mother is as well as everything she’s not #and what defines the daughter is the separation from the mother #Isabella raised Emma to do the one that she never could which was Leave #GOD IM SO #THEY MAKE ME!!!! #I’m sorry i just never see anyone talk about the issues Isabella projected onto Emma like #listen okay listen

I short circuit when people say they don’t understand Emma but I accept that it’s because she and I are the same which is fucked up actually because that means Isabella and I are also the same