#Rumours of My Demise have been Greatly Exaggerated | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sonoftatooine · 3 years

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Whumptober 2021

DAY 9: 'RUMOURS OF MY DEATH HAVE BEEN GREATLY EXAGGERATED' - PRESUMED DEAD/TEARS

Characters: Padmé Amidala, Leia Organa, Anakin Skywalker, Sheev Palpatine

Warnings: Brainwashing, abuse, manipulation

Summary: Prequel to my second Winter Soldier AU that I started writing for Whumpay, here and here. Founder of the Rebel Alliance Padmé Amidala struggles with the loss of her husband, whom everyone, now including her young daughter, believes to have died in Order 66. Meanwhile, the Emperor has some unsettling news for his apprentice, Darth Vader.

Hope this one's worth the wait because it took me way longer than I expected to finish this ha

***

Across the Galaxy, the eighth Empire Day was being celebrated far and wide, but deep into the night in the Rebel base on Dantooine, the mood was far more sombre. Sequestered in her private bunk, away from the crowds mourning the anniversary of the Republic’s demise, Padmé Amidala sat weeping over an old, worn Jedi robe, mourning the anniversary of her husband’s disappearance. She had been holding the tears in all day, trying to put on a brave face for the people who depended on her—for the others in the Alliance, for her beloved Luke and Leia who should not have to bear the burden of her misery—but now that she was alone, she could no longer stop them. They came in floods, in torrents, and not even the realisation that she was staining Anakin’s cloak—the last thing she had of him, save for the japor snippet she always wore about her neck and the bright smiles of their two children, snatched during her forced flight from Coruscant all those years ago—with her crying was enough to dry them up. Anakin, oh Anakin. How she longed to have him beside her. For a sign—any single, solitary sign that he was alive, and safe.

But the years had stretched by, and that sign that she had been hoping for with all her heart had not come.

Eight years. Eight years since the Empire had risen from the corpse of the Republic, and her husband had been counted among the dead of Order 66. Eight years since Obi-Wan and Ahsoka and everyone who had known him had given up hope of him having survived the encounter with Darth Sidious that they could only presume must have occurred. But not her. She had feared it sometimes, in her darker moments, but she had never truly believed it. How could she? Anakin and she had been—were—two halves of a whole. Even with how withdrawn and...different he had become in the days leading up to his disappearance, how far he had been starting to pull away from her and all those who cared for him, she would know if he— She would feel it, even without the aid of the Force that her Jedi friends had the benefit of, deep in her bones. She would know if he had died. And besides, there was no real evidence that he had been—that he had been— No body, no witnesses. Only a few snapped Force bonds and the fact that nobody knew where he was. While that seemed to be enough to convince all the remaining Jedi she knew, it wasn’t enough for her. She wouldn't believe it. She refused to believe it.

But not believing it didn’t make the absence of him hurt any less keenly.

Padmé sniffled, a fresh wave of tears trickling down her cheeks. It always hurt this time of year, remembering everything that she had lost. It hurt everyone in the Alliance—the birth of the Empire had had so many casualties. She had been feeling it—badly—for a while now, and nothing had really made it better, save perhaps for the bright company of her children when they were at their happiest. Missions left her feeling sore and bruised in her heart as well as her body—how could they not when the institution that had ripped both her family and her life's work apart marched inexorably on no matter what they did, as if they were nothing more than annoying bugs that barely warranted swatting? The most recent one—to the Kuat Drive Yards—had been hard, their aims only half accomplished when they were discovered, she and Obi-Wan forced to fight their way through what felt like an endless sea of stormtroopers to escape. Though of course, as bad as it had been, it could have been worse. At the very least, they hadn't encountered Darth Vader.

The intelligence they had received from their informant in the Drive Yards hadn't mentioned that Darth Sidious' third and current Sith apprentice would be there for an inspection, and it was only by sheer dumb luck—or as Obi-Wan had claimed, the will of the Force—that they had just happened to miss him. Had he not been called back to Imperial Centre by the Emperor the day before they arrived on Kuat, they would surely have had him to contend with. Which was concerning, to say the least, as it either suggested that their informant was unreliable—or possibly even a double agent—or else that nobody at all knew that he had been coming to Kuat, and that he had been sent there as much on his master's whim as he had been called away again.

She didn't know why that second reason should concern her as much as the first, but it did. The thought that Palpatine could yank on his enforcer's chain and send him anywhere he wanted just because he wanted to...concerned her. Vader concerned her. Which, of course, made sense. The whole of the Rebel Alliance was concerned by Vader—and more than a little afraid of him. But underneath that healthy alarm that any enemy of the Empire would feel upon hearing the Sith Lord's name, there was a concern which did not make sense. Something about Vader made her uneasy—in a vague, nebulous way that she could not quite grasp, but didn't feel like it was connected to the reasons he unsettled other people. Perhaps it was the way he held himself so still when he appeared behind the Emperor in Galaxy-wide transmissions, as if he would not countenance so much as a twitch should his master not command it. Or perhaps it was the way he concealed himself—the robe and the mask, allowing nothing beneath to be so much as glimpsed. Somehow, Padmé had the idea that if he were to remove that mask, she would not like what she would see behind it.

She scowled at herself, balling her hands—still buried in the billowing folds of Anakin's cloak—into fists. Now wasn't the time to be thinking of Darth Vader of all people. It hadn't made her feel better, certainly hadn't made her stop crying. She bowed her head low over the robe, rubbing her thumb over the fabric in an attempt to soothe herself, and wishing he had not been gone so long that it no longer smelt like him. Oh Anakin. Anakin. Where was he? What had happened to him? What was happening to him even now that he could not find his way back to them—?

"Mommy?"

Padmé gave a sudden start at the sound of the small, trembling voice behind her. Head snapping up as she was pulled sharply out of her spiralling thoughts, she wished—not for the first time—that she had the ability to sense people in the Force, the way the Jedi did, before they could creep up on her without her noticing. She turned around, blinking rapidly to chase the tears away from her eyes. Her vision blurred and coalesced, then morphed into a mirror image of her own face—smaller and younger, but dark eyes just as full of tears as her own.

Leia.

Her daughter could act so grown up for her age sometimes that people often forgot she would only be eight years old in a few days time. To Padmé, however, stood in front of the door that connected the twins' room to hers, dressed in her nightclothes and dark hair tumbling out of her plait into wide, glistening eyes, she looked heartbreakingly young. Despite it all, though, she was clearly trying not to cry, her jaw clenched tight around what, in another child that had not grown up with the threat of the Empire looming over their head, might have been loud, wailing sobs.

"Oh, sweetheart, what's the matter?," Padmé asked, her voice quivering with the force of her own sadness as her brow crumpled into a worried frown. "Are you hurt? Do you need—?"

Leia shook his head, and all of a sudden, Padmé was struck by the horrid thought that perhaps Leia was sensing her distress, experiencing it as if it were her own— But no, Leia had been...off all evening, quiet and moody and uncommunicative in a way that was all too much like her father had been when something had been wrong but he hadn't wanted to burden her with it. She knew from experience—she had to bite down on her lip to fight back another wave of tears—with Anakin that pushing did not help, and so she had tried to give her space, trusting that she would come to her on her own when she was ready. Apparently, that time was now.

Wordlessly, she held out a hand, plastering a reassuring smile on her face that was as shaky as her voice. Leia dashed forward, clambering up onto her lap. Instinctively, Padmé reached out and began to stroke her hair, watching as her gaze flicked down to Anakin's old robe, recognition sparking in her eyes. A little hand stretched out and took a fistful of the dark fabric in its grip.

"Mommy...," she whispered, her voice somehow uncertain and determined all at once. "Is Daddy...is Daddy dead?"

Padmé's hand on her head stilled. Her whole body froze, her mind, her heart. It was as if the winter of Hoth had seeped right into her bones, turning her to living ice. She was choking, couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. What could she say? Oh Force, what in the Galaxy could she say to her precious daughter who, out of nowhere, suddenly wanted to know if her daddy was dead—?

"What?" Instead of any of the comforting things that she wanted to say—should be saying—the words burst out of her without permission or intervention from her brain. "What makes you say that?"

Leia's expression turned mutinous, and Padmé felt her breath catch in her throat, the ache deep in her chest threatening to overwhelm her. Their daughter may resemble her in colouring and features, but that look was all Anakin. She had seen it on his face more times than she could possibly count— more and more as the war had gone on and he had started turning into a shadow of the man he had once been. When he had complained of the Jedi Council, in the aftermath of Obi-Wan's faked death. It was the look of someone who suspected they were being lied to, not trusted, and was masking the hurt that caused them with anger.

"I heard people talking," she said, almost belligerently, as if daring her mother to contradict her, but her tone was belied by the tears that were still shining in her eyes. "They said that Obi-Wan is sad around this time of year because it's when Daddy was killed by the Emperor. That's why he's upset, isn't it? Because Daddy was his best friend and he died and now he's sad without him—"

"Daddy disappeared, Leia," Padmé interrupted her gently. The hand on her head finally came unstuck, and she began stroking her hair again in slow, soothing motions. The little girl was fast working herself up into a crying fit, and she had to get her out of it. She couldn't afford to wallow in her own misery when her daughter needed her, no matter how much she might have wanted to. “Nobody knows what happened to him, but that doesn't mean he's dead.”

She knew that the others in the Alliance wouldn't—didn't—want her to tell her children this. Bail and Obi-Wan wanted her to accept her husband's death as fact, just as they had thought it best for Luke and Leia. “You must face this, for your own good and theirs,” Obi-Wan had told her the last time the subject had been brought up. “Don't let them be burdened by an attachment to a memory. Anakin is gone, Padmé. You know this.” In return, Padmé had longed to snap at him that his insistence that Anakin had died had not brought him any greater measure of peace than hers that he was alive, but that would have been cruel of her, and so she had held her tongue. Still, cruel though it may have been, it wasn't necessarily untrue. Obi-Wan had dealt with his sadness over Anakin's loss by throwing himself into the Alliance's cause, mission after mission, but these most recent ones—as it was every year in the build-up to Empire Day—he had been different. Raw, like a still healing scab that had been picked at until it threatened to start bleeding again. Clearly, he hadn't been hiding his hurt and grief nearly so well as he had thought—or would have liked—if everyone from these “people” who had been discussing his moods to little Leia had picked up on it.

Leia...

Leia. Her beloved daughter, who was still sitting in her lap with wide, tear-filled eyes, staring up at her with an expression that was somewhere between truculent and pleading. Not wanting to be lied to, even for her own good, but still desperate to be convinced that what she had heard wasn't true. It was a burden that Padmé had never wanted her to suffer, even though she had known deep down that it would eventually become unavoidable. Of course it would, when the rest of the Alliance was so convinced that Anakin was dead. Would Luke have to face it soon too? If Leia had already come across talk like this, what would he hear, what might he have already have heard—?

But that was a problem for the future. Now, she had to be strong for Leia. Couldn't let her be crushed under the the weight of the fear that her father had died, when she was sure in her heart that it would have been a lie.

“It doesn't mean he's dead, sweetheart,” she repeated, insistent. “We don't know he's dead.”

Leia's eyes flashed.

“But you think it!,” she retorted hotly. “They all think he's dead! Obi-Wan and Bail and Ahsoka think it! You think it too—you're crying!”

Yes, she was. She could feel the wetness on her cheeks, the soreness in her eyes, despite her attempts to suppress her tears for Leia's sake. Once she had started, it seemed as if she had opened up a well inside her that would never dry up. Those tears weren't only for Anakin now, but also for her children—her darling Luke and Leia who were expected to let go of their father's memory without even having had the chance to remember him. For Obi-Wan and Ahsoka who had let go of all hope and instead were mired in their own grief. And for herself, who felt so empty and alone without her husband by her side. Staring down into Leia's big brown eyes, fierce and frightened and stubborn and sad, she was suddenly struck by the memory of brushing her hair out on the balcony of her apartment on Coruscant, telling Anakin of her plans for a nursery at Varykino, before the dreams and the plotting and everything that had gone wrong. Why, of all the things that could have happened, was this the Galaxy that their children had been born into?

But she knew the answer to that. It was all Palpatine's fault. Everything was his doing, and she would bring him to justice for all the terrible things he had wrought.

“I'm crying because I want your daddy to be here with us, as a family,” she admitted quietly. “I miss him, and that makes me sad.”

Leia's lip wobbled, the tears spilling out from her eyes and over her round cheeks. Softly, tenderly, Padmé reached out and wiped them away with her thumb.

“I don't think he's dead, Leia,” she murmured, with a small, melancholy smile. “I promise you, I wouldn't tell you that if I didn't truly believe it. I feel in my heart that he's out there somewhere, trying to get back to us.”

She felt Leia's gaze on her, searching her face—or perhaps her Force presence—for a lie. Finally, the last of her anger and argumentativeness faded from her expression, leaving in its place something fragile and vulnerable and ever so slightly hopeful.

“Really?” she whispered. If Padmé's heart had not shattered eight years ago on an outbound flight from Coruscant in the wreckage of Order 66, it would have cleaved in two there and then. Force, she looked so young, so innocent. Too innocent for this to be her life.

“Yes, my darling.” Wrapping her arms about her, she pulled her small body to her chest, tucking her head beneath her chin and holding her close. “Really.”

She felt Leia snuggle into her, the sensation of her head resting atop her heart filling her with such love that, just for a moment, it was enough to chase her sadness away. Tugging at the old Jedi robe, she wrapped it carefully around both their shoulders. Large enough to have once swamped six foot tall Anakin in billowing fabric, it swaddled the pair of them easily in something like an embrace.

“I hope he does.” Leia's voice was muffled as she pressed against her, a hint of tiredness starting to seep into it. She pulled at the hem of the cloak, nestling deep into it. Her eyes closed as sleep began to creep up on her. “I want to meet him.”

Padmé smiled tremulously, though Leia could no longer see it. I want you to meet him too, my darling, she thought. Oh Force, how I want you to meet him too. Where are you, Anakin? Where in the Galaxy are you, my love?

***

The sun was starting to rise over Imperial Centre, marking an end to the Empire Day celebrations that had stretched well into the night, and deep in the inner sanctum of Emperor Palpatine's palace, the Sith Lord Darth Vader was sitting at the workbench in his quarters, fixing the wheel of a mouse droid.

"There." Spitting out the screwdriver he had clasped between his teeth, the young Sith set his tools down on the bench with a soft clink. "Is that better now?"

The little droid beeped up at him, whizzing around in an experimental circle, first clockwise, then anti-clockwise. Its name was MSE-6-L407X, he had discovered when he had found it trundling rather pathetically along on one of his night-time walks through the palace that his master didn't strictly approve of but did not technically forbid. It had been suffering the consequences of a sharply-delivered and ill-deserved kick from whom he could only presume from the long ranting description he had managed to get out of the droid to be Director Krennic, presumably frustrated enough from an audience with the Emperor and Moff Tarkin that had not gone at all in his favour to take it out on passing maintenance staff. Naturally, upon coming across it, Vader had offered to help it out—and to lend a sympathetic ear to the droid's complaints about the poor quality of the organic models that populated the Imperial Palace. That he could well understand—Krennic and his ilk grated on his nerves.

<Affirmative> Having run through its series of tests, MSE-6-L407X rolled forward and nudged itself beneath his hand, beeping in gratitude. <Status: all systems at optimal functioning>

Vader smiled. It was an expression that would have shocked the "faulty organic models"—as MSE-6-L407X had termed them—that made up the Emperor's court had they known what his face looked like to associate it with him, and for good reason. Vader hardly ever smiled. He was not to pursue personal happiness, not when his life and his service was owed to his master. But he liked droids, and he liked fixing things. His master indulged him, allowed him this one little distraction to quiet his mind as long as he had not incurred any punishment, and so in the little time that he had between missions and his intensive and seemingly never ending Sith training, he took full advantage of that rare show of tolerance.

Of course, the sycophants that surrounded his master would have been just as shocked to hear that the infamous Sith Lord they scattered from like insects whenever he made an appearance in their domain helped out broken droids in his spare time as they would have been to discover that he might ever do anything so normal as smile, but what did he care about that? The only opinion that mattered to him was his master's.

"Good. That's good." He patted the little droid atop the chassis once, twice, three times. Then he picked it up and set it down on the floor at his feet. "Now go on. I'm sure you've got duties to get back to. Just try to stay out of the path of any faulty organics in future."

MSE-6-L407X beeped at him again, bumping against his booted foot in a gesture that was unmistakably affectionate before whizzing away through one of the tunnels built throughout the palace so that the mouse droids could move around as unobtrusively to guests and residents as possible. As it whirred out of sight, Vader's smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. He turned to the mess of tools and spare parts left on the bench, and began to meticulously clear them away—his master didn’t like clutter. That done, he wiped down his hands with a coarse rag, replacing the old, worn glove that he wore over his prosthetic when doing mechanical work with the one he wore for everyday use. He was starting to feel hungry, he noticed. There weren’t any windows in his quarters, but he could see from the chrono on the wall that it was early morning—the droid that brought his meals when he was staying in the palace would be here in a little under an hour.

But none of that was enough to distract him as he wanted to be distracted.

Ever since he had returned from his inspection of the Kuat Drive Yards, recalled early by his master in order to fulfil his duties in the build-up to the eighth Empire Day, there had been...something niggling at him. Something in the Force, or something mired deep in the fog of his mind, he didn’t know, but whatever it was, it wouldn’t leave him alone. When he had tentatively brought the subject up to his master, he had told him that it must be because of the Rebel attack on the Drive Yards that had occurred after he had returned to Imperial Centre. Or rather, he had snarled it at him through bouts of Force lightning that had had him screaming and writhing on the floor at the foot of the Emperor’ throne. Lord Sidious had been displeased by the attack. Very displeased.

(It had been...a bad day. Vader was still feeling ever so slightly twitchy in the aftermath of those shocks).

As much as he tried to make himself believe it, however, there was something about his master’s explanation that didn’t feel quite right. Which was absurd. But the attack had been several days ago and that feeling hadn’t gone. It felt as if there was something important he was missing, something that he needed to know but was just out of reach, trapped on the other side of a ray shield that kept him away—no, several ray shields all stacked up one after the other, so that their flickering lights distorted and warped whatever was on the other side of them until he couldn’t make out the shape of it at all. He didn’t like that feeling. It made him doubt his master, and if there was one thing he must never do, it was that. Lord Sidious was never wrong, and to even countenance such a possibility would have severe consequences.

And yet that feeling would not let him be. It nagged and nagged at him. Nagged at him when he hadn’t been able to take it anymore and had resorted to prowling through the corridors at night to fend away his errant thoughts. Even now, it nagged at him, telling him there was something, something, something—

With a frustrated hiss, he ran his mechno hand through his hair, tugging hard on a few strands to ground himself in something other than that elusive and—he suspected with no small degree of dread—traitorous feeling. He needed to stop this, couldn’t keep—

He felt another sharp tug, not on his scalp, but on his mind, and he froze as if he had been caught in the jaws of a krayt. Then, a pneumatic hiss as the outer door to his quarters opened and a familiar presence slinked through it in search of him.

Emperor Palpatine. Darth Sidious. His master.

Even if he hadn’t been able to sense him, he would have known who it was. The only other people that ever came to visit him here were the droids, and his meal was still not due for some time yet. It was a little surprising that he should come to him so early in the day but...well, his master was the Emperor of the Galaxy. It could be reasonably expected for him to keep odd hours if the seriousness of any given situation demanded it.

One look at the thunderous expression half-concealed by the shadow of his hood told him that Lord Sidious most definitely here for one of those serious situations.

"Lord Vader" he croaked, his voice was as hard as durasteel.

"Master." Vader scrambled from the workbench and down onto the floor to greet him. His master had made it very clear that he was to kneel to him whenever he was in his presence, unless he had been given permission to stand. The few times he had not quite obeyed to the man's satisfaction had been punished very harshly indeed, and it was an experience he was not at all keen to repeat. "What—?"

"Quiet."

Vader's mouth clicked sharply shut. His master sounded angry. He didn't like it when his master was angry. A gnarled white hand slipped out from beneath the sleeve of his robe, and Vader fought not to flinch away. But instead of an arc of agonising blue lightning sparking from his fingertips, his master merely waved his hand in an almost negligent gesture, telling him wordlessly to rise. Vader obeyed without pause or question. Lord Sidious hated delays, and he despised hesitation in a servant.

"Do you know where this is from?"

His master reached out and placed a small holoprojector down onto the workbench. The room flooded with blue light as it activated, playing a vidfeed which—he could tell from the angle of the shot—must have come from the HUD of a stormtrooper. It was of a hangar bay—a familiar hangar bay—flooded with troopers, firing at two people fighting against them to escape. One was a Jedi, whirling and slashing and stabbing, slicing through plastisteel armour as if it were butter. He was Obi-Wan Kenobi, one of the few Jedi masters to have escaped the Purge during the rise of the Empire. The other was smaller, slighter. A woman, cloaked, face concealed under the shadow of her hood.

"Yes, master," Vader said, watching the recording from his usual place three steps behind and to the right of the man's shoulder. Lord Sidious forbade him from standing at his side like an equal, and he would have taken a very dim view of him looming over him to try and get a closer look. Not that he was sure it was possible for anyone, let alone him, to loom in Sidious' presence. Yes, physically speaking, he fairly towered over his master, who was hunched and withered and had never been particularly tall to start with, but despite their difference in size, he had always felt small beside him. "It is from the Rebel attack on the Kuat Drive Yards."

He did not elaborate, nor ask questions—his master did not appreciate questions. He must trust that all would be explained in time. Instead, he focused all of his attention on to what was happening on the recording. The woman was in trouble, grappling with a trooper that had caught hold of her blaster arm, and was forcing the weapon as far away from him and his fellow soldiers as he could. His other hand came up to grasp at her cloak. She tried to stop him, but it was too late. Her hood tumbled down, revealing her face for all to see.

"Tell me, my friend," his master hissed, his yellow eyes narrowed as they fixed on the woman on the recording, tracking her movements like a hunting anooba. "Do you recognise her?"

Vader blinked. He frowned, watching the woman intently as, having been rescued from her predicament by the Jedi, she raised her slim hand blaster and struck two troopers down in quick succession. She was very beautiful, her eyes that she thought must be a dark brown burning with a fierce determination as she rushed to defend her companion's back, firing again and again into the fray. Some of her dark hair had come loose from her elaborate bun, and as he followed her movements with his eyes, he was suddenly struck by a strange sense that he had seen her like this before. On a desert world, hair in a similar disarray, white bodysuit torn and wielding a heavy duty blaster. Breathless and smiling, saying something that had him smiling back, a soft, warm glow sparking deep in his chest despite the fear and desperation and death all around them—

And then it was gone, slipping from his mind like melting snow. As if it had never been.

"No, master" he said.

Lord Sidious' eyes narrowed almost to slits as he turned around to scrutinise him. Vader held himself still as he felt the man's dark presence prodding at his mind through their bond, searching for anything that might expose his words as a lie. He made no move to shield himself under the attention, to push the man out. Vader always obeyed his master.

"That," Sidious snarled, his presence retreating from Vader's mind as he turned back to the still playing holorecording, eyes flashing dangerously, "is Padmé Amidala."

Vader blinked. The name struck a chord within him. Which...well, of course it did. His master had told him about Queen turned Senator Amidala of Naboo, the young woman he had mentored through her political career in the days of the Republic. The same woman who had betrayed him by siding with the Jedi in their failed coup at the birth of the Empire by helping to found the traitorous Rebellion within the heart of the Senate itself. He understood why his master was so angry now, having been so abruptly confronted with the face of someone whom he had given nothing but friendship and support, and had returned the favour by stabbing him in the back. But what he didn't understand...Well, what he didn't understand was...

"Amidala?," he asked with a frown. "I thought she was declared dead."

His master had told him so. His distinctly remembered it, when he had asked what had become of the traitors that had tried to overthrow him. Lord Sidious had said that she had died for her treason, but not before she could sow the seeds of her dissent into the very foundations of the Empire itself—and that was why he, Vader, must be vigilant in rooting every last trace of it out lest all they had ever worked towards be destroyed. He had listened attentively, even as his heart had ached in his chest to the point of agony, for reasons he had not and still did not understand. He knew that was what his master had told him. So how was she here, now, alive?

"She was presumed so," Sidious spat out, his eyes still fixed on the recording, "based on the information we had after the Jedi's coup. Clearly that information was...misleading."

Misleading? Vader frowned. His master had never struck him as the kind of man who could be misled. But perhaps if the evidence had been convincing enough... He focused all the more intently on the woman in the recording, his eyes narrowed. She had turned her attention to the trooper whose HUD the recording had come from, her gaze directed right at the camera. For one long moment, it was as if their eyes had locked despite the long stretch of space and the few days that stood between them, as if she were staring past all the shields he had built up around his mind right to some hidden place within him that not even he could see. His breath hitched, unable to tear himself away from that blue-tinged stare, blurring strangely as his eyes began to sting with the force of it. It seemed almost to go on forever, before she raised her blaster right in front of her and, steely determination glinting in her eyes, fired. A flash of light and the recording went sideways, abruptly shorting out. Vader shook himself, the spell broken.

The recording ended, there was a long silence.

“I'm sure you understand how this displeases me, Vader,” Lord Sidious eventually spoke, once it had dragged out to the point of becoming unbearable. “Of all the betrayals I have suffered, hers was by far the most painful. But perhaps you are already moved by my plight.”

Without warning, Vader felt an immense, invisible pressure clamp down on him, pushing and pushing until he had no choice but to go with it. He forced back a cry as he crumpled to the floor, knees jarring painfully against the ground below him. The pressure didn't let up, keeping him kneeling at Sidious' feet as he whirled round in a rage to face him. One gnarled hand shot out with the speed and precision of a striking serpent, grasping at his chin and forcing his head painfully far back, so that he could do nothing but stare up into those furious yellow eyes. Throat tightening, Vader felt himself begin to panic. No, no, no. He hadn't done anything to be punished— What had he done to make his master angry? He didn't—

“Unless,” Lord Sidious hissed venomously, “you have some other reason to shed tears over this traitor, apprentice.”

...What?

He wasn't crying. Of course he wasn't. Why would he cry over this Rebel who had betrayed the man to whom he owed his absolute loyalty? Besides, he hardly ever cried. His master didn't like it. But his cheeks did feel warm and wet, and his eyes were blurring and stinging. He could feel them now—the tears that were still trickling from the corners of his eyes, into his hair now rather than down his cheeks because of the uncomfortable angle he was being held at. What was happening? Why—? Why was he—?

“Master...,” he whimpered, caught in the grip of a shame and fear so intense that he could hardly speak. “I...I don't— I don't understand—”

Sidious' eyes flashed.

“Don't you?,” he sneered. His nails bit into Vader's skin as his grip tightened. “Then perhaps I should have you...meditate on the subject. In your cell.”

No, no, no. Nonononono. He hated the cell. Too small, so that he couldn't even stretch his arms out to their full extent without hitting a wall. Too dark, pitch black without the slightest hint of light to see by when the door was sealed shut. Too quiet, with no noise from outside ever finding its way in, and only the sound of his own panicked breathing to occupy him. It was his master's favourite punishment for him, outside of the Force lightning. Leave him there for long enough to stew in the darkness and the silence and the sensation of gnawing hunger in his gut and walls coming in too close, too close, and he would learn his lesson for life. He would never repeat his transgression again.

Then, sometimes, his master was kind to him afterwards.

“Please, master, please...” he begged. He hadn't meant to transgress. He would take whatever punishment that was given to him—confinement to his quarters, being denied meals, anything, just not the cell—

“Silence!”

Sidious gave him a sharp shake, before his hand retreated and he suddenly drew back. Vader's head fell forward, a curtain of hair falling into his eyes. The invisible pressure remained, like an ice cold hand on the back of his neck keeping him bowed in supplication.

“The Empire will hunt her down, and she will die,” his master croaked. Instead of anger, there was now a note of glee in his voice. Vader felt his treacherous heart clench inexplicably at the proclamation, a few more tears slipping from his equally treacherous eyes. “When the time comes, you shall kill her for me.”

Even as something deep within him—something faint and far away and unreachable—screamed and howled at the words, Vader said the only thing he could say.

“Yes, master.”

Appeased, Lord Sidious' lips twisted into a smile. He reached out and—Vader forced himself not to flinch—rested his hand on top of his mess of blond curls.

“Be careful of these Rebels, Lord Vader,” he said. “They are cunning and deceitful, and if they were to ever learn of your...deficiencies, they wouldn't hesitate to use them to twist your mind against me.”

Vader swallowed. It was an old warning—a much repeated warning. That if his enemies were ever to discover how little memory he had of his own life, how many years upon years he was missing, they would surely take it as an opportunity to fill his head with lies. Another hot wave of shame washed over him at the thought. He would never doubt his master, but perhaps if this were how he reacted to seeing a simple holorecording of a Rebel woman he didn't even know...perhaps Lord Sidious was right to be concerned—

“I understand, master” he whispered, hollowly.

Sidious snorted.

“So you say,” he mused. “You have always been too trusting, too ready to attach yourself to those who would do you harm.”

One final pat on the head, and he pulled away. Reaching out to the holoprojector, he started to play the recording again. Vader frowned, confused, then started violently as he felt the invisible grip that had been holding him by the nape of his neck transfer to his head, forcing him to turn and watch.

“Whatever sympathy you may feel for these people,” Lord Sidious said, “you must destroy it.”

For a moment, he saw the face of Padmé Amidala once again, revealed as her hood tumbled down and she grappled with the trooper that had attacked her. Then, his master stretched out a skeletal white hand and curled it into a fist. The holoprojector cracked in several places at once, then crumbled into dust. Amidala's face disappeared in a shower of sparks.

Vader stared for one long moment at the place she had been, tears still dripping down his face. He felt empty inside.

“Yes, master” he said once again, and meant it. He always meant it. Vader lived to obey his master, and no holorecordings of strangers or inexplicable displays of emotion would change that.

(It was a long time after Sidious left that his tears finally dried up).

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ashnagog · 3 years

Text

SwoonJune day 8 – hands

“And now a hand’s extending outward, quiet comfort they invite, But do we dare take what they offer, do we step into the light?”

- Rise Against, The rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.

Yet another difficult campaign had passed.

It seemed that difficult campaigns were all she ever got these days.

Barriss felt that she was prepared to make any sacrifice for the Republic. For peace, justice, order. Whatever was necessary.

She hadn’t expected to be serving in a war at seventeen years old. She was supposed to be a healer.

Sometimes, of course, she was. But there was a difference in treating civilians who had contracted an illness and treating clones with battlefield wounds while bombs fell around her.

Often, she had to draw on the Force to keep going.

She dreaded the day she might collapse.

And now, she was stood in front of a holotable, relaying casualties to the council. Ahsoka stood next to her in quiet support.

Some say that the ultimate dedication to a cause was to die for it.

Barriss knew that, sometimes, living for a cause was much more difficult.

A small, warm hand slipped into her own under the table, out of view.

It squeezed softly. A silent encouragement. A quiet promise that she would be here, no matter what.

Sometimes, Barriss felt that it was Ahsoka who kept her going all this time, when her own strength failed her. It was Ahsoka that could show her that there was light at the end of the tunnel.

Barriss squeezed back.

#swoonjune2021 #barrissoka #ahsoka tano #barriss offee

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kingstoken · 3 years

Photo

Cover art for Rumours Of My Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated by tfw_cas, created for the 2021 Crowley Resurrection Bang

#crowley spn #my art #fic cover #otheredits

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phoenixswift · 4 years

Note

*Squints* Is... Is that a Pheonix?

Rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated~

#feenietalks #prancingmad

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evcryopeneye · 4 years

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@luanzangxgang

This was a strange thing, Feng Wu hadn’t felt like this before, her joints still ached as did her chest, a kind of tired that she had never felt before, where a few minutes of activity was enough to make her feel like she had done a full day's work. She’d been consigned to bed. A disciple on the other side of the door, more for her safety than anything else, there was something disturbing and unsettling about that. After all. She should have been safe here. This should have been the one place in the world she was safe.

Wrapped in blankets, around her shoulders and over her head, bundled in her lap, as the book laid open. She’d been reading the same line for an hour now. Eyes looking over and over the characters. Their meaning remained elusive. Her brain refusing to process anything as she sat dazed, mind still reeling from last night’s events.

Breakfast was still on the table, unusually it was barely touched. Breakfast meant a feast, well that was if she could get away with it. Her growing cultivation made her hungry, but this morning, she still couldn’t stomach it. Even looking at it was enough to make her feel queasy. Tea had been replaced by water and fruit, Sizhui’s insistence that she should have something at least. Frankly, she wouldn’t have even sat up if the boredom hadn’t driven her crazy. Breakfast felt like days ago.

The movement at the door, was more than enough to take her away from her book, the dark clad figure was one she hadn’t expected. The still pale and cold cultivator had little reaction to his presence, except to cast her eyes down, muted and uncharacteristically withdrawn. She didn’t know what to say to him other than. “I’m ok.” Hopefully it would be enough to shake off his worries. “Rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.”

#&&char: Feng Wu #luanzangxgang

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redspiderling · 4 years

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Lets Talk About the Spoilers

After lots of traumatic experiences in the MCU, I read the spoilers for self preservation. I like to be prepared and I’m well aware of the fact that I don’t actually lose any enjoyment in the experience due to knowing what happens, as long as the film is well made.

There’s this film called the Black Widow that we were supposed to be seeing this week. It was clear from the moment the film was announced that its only possible issues would arise from the script.

Given that we’re already familiar with the character, that the director is excellent and that it’s a solo film (which means there isn’t a chance for it to lose focus) the only thing that could go wrong, is the script.

What could go wrong in the script, you ask?

For one thing, they could shoehorn a lot of shit to be introduced for the next phase of the MCU and exhaust us with unnecessary references to other characters we “miss”. Combine that with no new information that is significant enough to make us interested in the story of a character that is presumed dead, and you’ve got yourselves a mess I’d rather pretend never happened than consciously pay real money to watch in the theatres.

This is why scripts are important, in case anyone was wondering. No amount of gorgeous cinematography or Natasha’s braided hair can save that shit.

Thankfully, Scarlett had already said she wasn’t actually interested on making a film that was “the same old shit”. Well, she said it more eloquently but that was the point. Unfortunately for us, what’s interesting to the actress might not necessarily mean it’s of interest to us. Because while Scarlett might enjoy the chance to finally have a script that acknowledges Natasha is a human being with emotions, we are a bit beyond that point after what Endgame put us through. Which is why I’m here, needlessly over analysing.

I’m a control freak like that.

Here’s “Scarlett Anounces Black Widow to the World” level of happy, to make you feel better.

Attention! Do not open this read more if you don’t want to read potential spoilers about the Black Widow movie.

Before anyone freaks out, I’d like to point out that spoilers are usually out of context, and as such don’t necessarily mean what they say.

Let’s start with the stuff that appear particularly bothersome:

The End Credit Scene

The spoiler that has made the most rounds in news sites and one that’s actually really easy for people who don’t dwell too deeply into storytelling and just write Marvel articles for the clicks to make some guesswork on, is that after the end credits the Burton family can be seen in front of Natasha’s grave.

On a superficial “eNDgAMe waS AmAZIng pOor NAtasHA FinaLLy gOT her FunERal” level, that scene seems obvious, and understandable, and acceptable.

On my level of “Has been involved in the MCU specifically for Natasha Romanoff and has spent years learning about and making films”, that sentence makes me want to buy an MCU Blu-ray box set and burn it in my garden while I dance around it and holler in fits of rage.

So which one is it, you ask? What if the end credit scene IS Marvel attempting to “pay its respects” in a spectacularly too-little-too-late way?

My answer is: It Depends.

What’s the context? Because if the last I see of Natasha before that end credits is her joining Cap in the mindset we met her in when IW happened, welp, Phase 3 on Blue-ray is £45 that I’ll never see again. I’ll make sure not to inhale any fumes while I burn that shit to the ground.

BUT, if the plot of the film gives us reason to believe that the news of Natasha’s demise might have been greatly exaggerated then that end credit scene is the most perfect way to say goodbye to Natasha Romanoff, Superspy extraordinaire. In this case, the news of Hawkeye are even more welcome because lets remember, he’s the only one who was there in Vormir, the others just had to take his word that Natasha died and, we the viewers? Well, we’re the ones most easily fooled in cases like these.

So I’d be glad for that end credit scene if and only if Natasha remains out there after having saved her family and is now moving in the shadows, free of the burdens of her past, which brings us to the other spoiler available online

The MacGuffin/ Foxcharge

According to one rumour, the Foxcharge is "a sort of clean slate digital eraser that gets rid of your prints, face, DNA in any government databases”

I hate MacGuffins. I really do. I hated them before Endgame, and I hate them with a passion now. As long as it takes an entirely secondary role to something else, or works as motivation for other things I don’t mind them.

Since the entire cast has been that exuberant about their characters and how deeply they’ve been examined in this film, I’m going to assume the MacGuffin does indeed take a secondary role in the greater plot so, ok.

On a first glance it doesn’t exactly sound like exhilarating storytelling material but, again, it depends a lot on the context. If this film takes place after Civil War, and not after Winter Soldier, why would Natasha be looking for ways to erase her data from databases? It depends a lot on how the film handles it. As a storytelling element it could range anywhere from derivative to exhilarating. Exhilarating it being something that Clint or Yelena use that allows Natasha to disappear entirely after the events of Endgame like the badass superspy she is.

The other theory is the one that insists the stuff Natasha was seen carrying (and is holding in one of the Funko dolls) were Pym Particles, but I find that highly unlikely. Like we’ve said before, if they want to bring Natasha back there’s countless ways for them to do it. I don’t think they’d like to go down the Time Travel road again so while I can’t be entirely sure, I doubt that that’s what this is about.

Yelena is Actually a Bad Guy/Double Agent

That would actually be on brand. If Yelena is to be a member of an as of yet unannounced Thunderbolts team for the MCU and works for Ross during the events of the Black Widow film, it would actually be a good call.

Because if there’s some kind of “passing of the torch” happening here, at the very least they should make sure to make Yelena and Natasha as different people as possible. It’s bad enough that right now Natasha is considered dead in the MCU, I would’t like to rage for also having her traded in for a younger model. Ew.

Taskmaster Doesn’t Actually Die

Very much a plot element and, to me at least, inconsequential, one way or the other.

Melina Is Actually the One Who Restarts the Red Room

That would also make for a very interesting character, not to mention interesting dynamics within the little family-like unit the characters seem to have in the film.

The Film Makes Natasha Appreciate the American Family She Found in the Avengers

Um.... Duh. That’s not much of a spoiler, although if this is a “Russians Bad, Americans Good” kind of thing- No. Cate wouldn’t do this to us.

We’ve talked about this before, but it seems that this film will help Natasha figure out the things that matter to her, that make her life worth living, that make her realise there are things to live for, not just to die for. And like we’ve said before that makes for a satisfying film, in and of itself, but within the context of Endgame it does come a bit as too-little-too-late.

I did say in the past, and I still believe it, that in order for this film to be satisfying for the fans of Natasha, it can’t pretend Endgame didn’t happen. Or even worse, pretend it didn’t happen and then have an “oh wait, here’s a fake funeral moment with only the Burtons paying their respects to Natasha even though she led the Avengers for 5 years and interacted with almost every single MCU character” moment.

When asked during an interview, Scarlett said that Feige announced to her the Black Widow film, AND Natasha’s death at roughly the same time. And while the Endgame writers chose to ignore Natasha’s film, I’m hoping the Black Widow writing team didn’t ignore Natasha’s fate in Endgame.

To conclude, while they don’t seem like much, these spoilers show potential. I can understand if some would rather hold their hopes, and to a level I do so as well, but I have placed a lot of trust in the creative team here. We can only hope that they won’t let Natasha down.

#Black Widow #Natasha Romanoff #Black Widow spoilers #omg what a tag #Black Widow Movie is Here

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slushrottweiler · 5 years

Text

Six line Sunday

I was tagged by the WONDERFUL @pikapeppa almost 2 weeks ago, but I got sidetracked and forgot... so I'm doing it now.

To make up for it, here are excerpts from a few of the pieces I've been working on. They're not all exactly six lined but 🤷‍♀️

************

First up: Chp 4 of Vesuvia University Institute of Medicine and Magic: Kink and Fetish Study -- Julian x Terra Modern Au

‘Help me Obi-wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.” Terra quoted in a cutesy voice and Julian let out a back of laughter.

‘Excuse me! Do I look like some back-water jedi has-been to you?’ Julian struck a dramatic pose, and gave a sweeping gesture to his costume.

‘Fine whatever, you’re the universe’s first birb jedi. Explain to me again why you’re covered in feathers?’

‘The Raven! Edgar Allen Poe! These are the cornerstones of horror here people.’

(Banter! ALL THE BANTER)

***********

No. 2: Fenhawke one-stop -- Deep Roads

"You're taking the abomination?!"

Fenris snarled as he stormed toward Hawke. It wasn't a rare occurrence for the elf to come barreling into a room and immediately start bellowing insults, but he usually restrained himself until they were in private. For the broody elf to be having a go at Hawke in public, something really had to have pissed him off.

Several people had turned toward them at Fenris’ shout, either curious to see what this terrifying elf was on about, or in fear at the mention of a possessed mage. A noble woman to Hawke’s left actually clutched at her pearls, her companion already trying to gain the attention of some passing guards.

**********

No 3: New multi-chap Fenris x OC fic -- Sirraffer

Shooting another glare at Varric and Hawke, Fenris huffed and explained, ‘It hurts. When I’m not expecting the contact, when I can’t prepare — the marks hurt.’

The curiousity didn’t fade from the healer’s gaze. In fact, it seemed to intensify, sparking as she scanned all of the markings left visible by his armour. Her eyebrows scrunched low as she once again crowded his space, but she didn’t touch.

‘Fascinating.’ The comment seemed to slip from her unintentionally, her warm breath ghosting over his neck and making him shudder.

(Should I even write this? It's not Fenhawke, so will people even want to read it?)

***********

Lastly, Chp 4 of Between the Lines -- Varric x Reader/OC

9.32 Dragon

Care to explain to me why the hell I'm finding out about your return from some Carta chit! Do you have any idea the ridiculous rumours that have been circulating about you? Angela was so convinced you were dead that she was trying to find a ghost-writer to finish HiH in your absence.

Don’t worry, I told her the rumours of your demise had been greatly exaggerated.

Come and see me as soon as you’re finished sorting your shit. Earlier if possible.

- Silver

….

Varric, people are saying you are dead! Your brother and the rest of your exhibition arrived back weeks ago, with not a word about you. I swear if you make me come down to the Hanged Man, it will not be pretty.

….

Maker’s tits V. Just let me know you’re ok.

- S

….

Now Silver, were you worried about me

************

I shall tag Anyone who wants to share, but also @pikapeppa, @gilliandaye, and @kassim-apprentice-of-air

Because I adore their work and would love to see what WIPs you all have in the works

#tag game #wip #six line sunday #sls #dragon age #the arcana game #devoter #fenhawke #fenris x oc #varric x reader #fenris #varric tethras #julian devorak #slushie writes #fanfic

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shslskaterboy · 2 years

Note

it's enabling time!!! i'm gonna be gutsy and ask u about komahina and hinata (standalone)

Oough I have so many answers, so I’m going to try to keep this as reasonable as possible I promise

Hajime my beloved 🥰

Hairline Fracture, Rumours of My Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated, Dancing For Rain - Rise Against

This is How I Disappear, Give ‘Em Hell Kid - MCR

Klee - Sakanaction

Red Flag, The Dead Can’t Testify, Don’t Count On The Wicked, Definition of Destiny - Billy Talent

(All in keeping with the hc that he’s a closet emo punk because I’m right)

❤️ Komahina is arguably the one I think of most so I have to try to be so so normal about this ❤️

Swing Life Away, Methadone, The Black Market, Midnight Hands, The Good Left Undone, Wait For Me, From Heads Unworthy - Rise Against

Cemetery Drive, Famous Last Words - MCR

Stand Up And Run, Surrender - Billy Talent

Tabun Kaze, Hasu no Hana, Eureka - Sakanaction

Sweet Sun - Milky Chance

Enjoy the Silence, Shake the Disease, and But Not Tonight - Depeche Mode

Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division

Your Love - the Outfield

Just Like Heaven - the Cure

Take Me Home Tonight - Eddie Money

#turns out I was not normal about this after all #but let’s be real #no one expected me to be #props to anyone who actually listens to any of these #or even looks up the lyrics #I swear if you do you’ll know I was right about all of this #also I don’t know any Japanese so the sakanaction songs are based purely on vibes #sorry this post is a mile long #i just have a lot of thoughts #hajime hinata #danganronpa #skaterboy answers

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idxchanyeol-blog · 6 years

Text

snake oil and holy water

in which chanyeol tries to come to terms with the idea that his success was bought, not earned

character development prompt: detail the shittiest moment of your career (+5XP)

To say that Chanyeol’s career thus far had been turbulent would be an understatement of mammoth proportions. A true rollercoaster ride: his time with Poizn has seen soaring highs and crushing lows, winding loops and sudden turns in the track, thrill and terror in equal measure. And much like a rollercoaster, whenever they pull into a station for a moments reprieve and the adrenaline begins to fade, he’s left with a feeling of overwhelming sickness and regret.

The worst moment of his career (To date, at least) comes before he’s even stepped out on stage with his members. Before the group cement their reputation as a magnet for scandal. Before the downward spiral that sees him lash out at the fansign. Before his transformation into the hardened cynic of today.

The lowest moment of his career is spent alone in the dorms, plagued by worries that it’s all over before it’s even begun.

Before the fall comes the rise.

He’d always had concerns about company tampering during his time on the survival. On reflection it had been foolish, no, downright idiotic, to have not seen the signs. But pride has always been his downfall, and every victory was another victory with which to feed it. Every round he won, every rung of the ladder he climbed served only to inflate his ego which would in turn blind him to the harsh reality.

Or perhaps he did see the signs, and chose to turn a blind eye. A self-serving wilful ignorance. Selfishness is a trait that runs in the Kang family genes, so it’s not unthinkable that he simply pushed the questions to the back of his mind. Survival shows are cut-throat, and it’s as valid a tactic as any other. It holds less honour, sure, but it works. It sees him consistently on the top of the pile when he should be buried deep underground. He chooses to believe that he was always in the dark and not peeking through the curtain, but perhaps he’s more like his parents than he’d care to believe.

In truth it doesn’t matter what he knew. Regardless of how, he found himself crowned winner and for the briefest of moments was on top of the world. Finally, the recognition he’s so craved all his life. It’s a matter of days before he’s tumbling from the peak into freefall, recognition and admiration morphing into resentment and apathy. The cat is out of the bag.

To begin with he dismisses the chatter as idle gossip; rumours dreamed up by slighted fangirls angry that he’s beaten their favourites. Give it a week and it’ll stop, he’s reassured, they’ll move on to something else. They seemingly never do. A week passes and the noise only intensifies, the alleged corruption that led to his win an albatross draped around his neck. With each passing day it gets heavily, the scrutiny intensifying. He’s yet to even debut and already the name on everyone’s lips.

This isn’t what he wanted though. 99 Entertainment was supposed to be an escape route. A training ground where he could forge his own path through sheer grit and willpower, not buy his way to the top. And yet all they are is incompetent. The story doesn’t die, it only spreads. An open wound left to fester, the poison slowly spreading and corrupting public opinion. Why it isn’t nipped in the bud immediately remains an unsolved mystery; perhaps they didn’t know just how toxic it was, or believed the patently untrue proverb that all publicity is good publicity, or that they would be proved wrong by his talent and stunned into silence once he returned to the stage with Poizn. Or, perhaps most likely, they were simply to inept to catch it before it spiralled.

Either way, by the time he’s pulled aside there’s no hope of clawing it back. Damage control is the only viable option. There’s truth to the rumours, he’s told, but he’s not to address them. To do so would be breach of contract. The voice that tells him is strained with stress. “We’re figuring out how best to handle this. All options are on the table right now. Including possibly removing you from the line-up to limit the blast. We thought that you should know.” He simply nods and walks away.

As he slowly shuffles back to the dorms his mind is racing, a thousand voices thundering inside his head. The glacial pace is deliberate as he tries to order them, each second a new barrage of questions raining down. Why did they do it? How much was I worth? Was any of the success actually mine? A few more steps. Was everyone else in on it? Did my competition throw it deliberately? What am I supposed to do with this information? A few more steps. What are my members going to think of me? Am I the only one? How does this impact them? A few more steps.

Was I not good enough? Am I not good enough?

By the time the door swings open he’s drained. Empty. Numb. The empty silence of the room roars as he crosses the threshold. A glance around confirms that nobody else is around. On a normal day he’d be curious about their whereabouts, furious that he’d not been informed or invited along, but now he’s grateful for the solitude. A bag is thrown aside carelessly as uneven footsteps echo through the room. He perches on the foot of his bed gently, eyes fixed on the carpet underfoot.

Chanyeol has known anger. Chanyeol has known sadness. Chanyeol has known disappointment. He hasn’t known whatever this is. It makes his stomach feel tight, as if he’s going to vomit at any moment, head spin like a concussion and lungs smaller than the breaths he’s taking in. Every negative emotion you’d care to name bubbles away inside him, a cocktail of melancholy.

And he feels dirty. Like he’s been used and discarded, a broken toy thrown across the room by the child who’s smashed him to pieces. His skin crawls with disgust, regret overcoming him. Why had he decided to do this? To sign his soul away to the devil on nothing more than a whim? To flee the haunted house of his family? The very ghosts he’s been trying to escape have followed him, and no matter how far he seems to run the shadow always stretches further.

Time passes. How much, he doesn’t know. Seconds feel like minutes, minutes like hours and hours like days. He sits there, despondent and wordless. The first time he can recall not knowing what to say. Eventually he rises, carves a path towards the bathroom. A click confirms that the door is locked, that he is guaranteed some privacy. The hiss and patter of water from the showerhead confirms that he won’t be heard by anyone who returns. Clothes are discarded messily in a pile in the corner before he steps under the hot stream.

Crying in the shower to hide your tears is a cliché. But it’s a cliché that Chanyeol embraces with open arms. As soon as water hits his skin the floodgates open. A single ugly sob followed by silent weeping with eyes sown shut. His shoulders are hunched, breathing heavy as he lets go. Such displays of weakness are rare, but when they happen, they are guaranteed to be spectacular.

From this day forwards, he thinks, he’ll have the same reputation as his parents. There a problem? Throw money at it until it goes away. The very stigma he’s come so far to avoid now hanging over him for the rest of time. They’ll be so proud. He should have done better. If he’d done better, nobody would have asked questions about his win. Or they wouldn’t have cared at least. The company should have trusted him, not made shady deals behind his back and then prepare to throw him under the bus because they’ve left a scandal of their own creation to escalate out of control.

Sadness turns into anger. A plastic bottle is grabbed, launched across the room at full force. Just as the dull thud-thud of contact with wall then floor chimes out, an arm sweeps across the rest viciously and sends them clattering. And then a shout, primal fury that needs to be unleashed, followed by a fist to the tile guaranteeing his knuckles purple. The soft side of his hand hits in time with sobs as he slowly lowers himself to settle amongst the bottles, hugging his legs in tight and trying to regain control of his breathing.

The dream is dead. It was fun while it lasted.

Time passes. He still doesn’t know how much, but by the time he emerges his skin is pruned and the light from outside the windows has faded. The room is no longer unoccupied, and as he saunters back towards his bed wordlessly a flurry of concerned and inquisitive looks are thrown at him. “Not tonight.” Is all he manages as he lays back expressionless, too emotionally drained to even begin to explain.

As should be obvious, the talk of the dreams’ demise were greatly exaggerated. The situation was never dire enough to warrant his removal and the scandals that plagued his members proved to be a blessing in disguise, watering down the controversy and taking the heat off of him before he has a chance to make the rash decision to buy out his contract. It takes some time, but eventually he returns to his normal self, goes on as if nothing has happened and nods along with whatever the company says like the good little dog he is.

Vindictiveness is a defining trait though, and he’s never truly forgiven those involved for almost ruining him to achieve their own ambitions. Or indeed himself for believing his own hype and almost winding up buried because of it.

#solo #id.prompt #wc: 1647 #( under a read more because i got carried away with length )#( being here has taught me that i apparently like to ramble but i had muse to write something miserable so *shrugs* )

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