#the way he was taking on the brunt of the punishment and suffering and ended up the one who shot ed

[mossiestpiglet]

Izzy taking the unicorns legs as “punishment” for not keeping them safe, the job of a figurehead, only to have the legs given back to him and made even more beautiful with a note saying he is their new figurehead, he is the spirit of the vessel and keeps them safe

[yandere-toons]

ANAKIN SKYWALKER

Platonic & Romantic Headcanons – Yandere

WARNING: abuse of power, fantasy violence, stalking.

Based on Clone Wars Anakin.

PLATONIC:

Anakin has tasted loss one time too many to treat this bond as anything other than a closely guarded treasure, one that he will break a great many rules to prolong. But the restrictive Jedi Order takes every opportunity to remind him: "The Jedi Code comes before friendship". Be that as it may, Anakin considers them family and will now guard them with his life.

If his friend claims someone is harassing them or Anakin witnesses what he considers blatant disrespect, he offers to straighten out the problem in a way that seems like a joke but is deathly sincere.

Once the offender suffers a mysterious injury or sudden change of heart, Anakin cannot resist making a cheeky remark that arouses the suspicion of all who hear.

Obi-Wan senses his burning resentment towards the person and confronts him about harbouring forbidden attachments, which Anakin only proves by denying with such fervour.

Chancellor Palpatine enables this volatility, pushing Anakin to take whatever extreme measures he feels necessary to exact justice, no matter how much it alienates him from the other Jedi.

If properly motivated, he will defend his friend's honour with a barrage of lightsaber strikes, cruel for a Jedi, or blows with his cybernetic fist at the hapless fool who crossed the line that day.

The attack ends when he feels he has made his point and not a second sooner, not one punch less, because Anakin is not afraid to beat some people to death if he is not stopped or given a powerful incentive to restrain himself.

For lesser offences and when the object of his wrath is out of reach, Anakin practices passive aggression. He secludes himself in storerooms to tinker with various machinery, lies about his troubles to anyone who asks but Padmé, and later demands that this offender be shunned and distrusted by his colleagues.

Anakin lends his Padawan Ahsoka Tano a disturbing insight into the brunt of his protective fury when his friend comes under fire, whether from battle droids or Republic officials.

He does his best to limit their role in missions he deems dangerous, and his voice of determination to expose and punish the culprit rings out after a threat falls upon them.

He proclaims their innocence in the face of accusations and rages at those who doubt them. Obi-Wan cautions him to have better control over his temper, but Anakin is outspoken about how absurd he finds the charges and will not rest until he has dragged the serpent who wants to scapegoat his friend into the light.

Until the rightful culprit from whom he wrings a confession is dead or rotting in prison, a cloaked menace that assaults and interrogates their known enemies besets the galaxy's underworld.

Criminals are Force-choked left and right, while Chancellor Palpatine feeds Anakin's darkest urges after he storms into the Senate Building in search of guidance and validation.

Anakin will not hesitate to take the leaps no one else will when it comes to the special people in his life, and if his friend is a fellow Force user, he will abuse his ability to monitor them in this way.

Anakin sees this as ensuring their protection from a hostile world hell-bent on making good people suffer, no matter that his retribution against those who try their luck with his friend grows worse with each passing day.

His perception of them holds more value in his eyes than their true nature. Even if they show a spiteful streak or manipulative tendencies, Anakin has long since convinced himself of their admirable character and springs into action to help them whenever possible.

Perhaps he trusts them to make the right decisions after fighting together in the war, but Anakin tends not to think twice about the morally questionable actions they take on or off the battlefield.

Palpatine notices and exploits Anakin's willingness to bend and break the rules for someone, pulling some strings to put Anakin's friend in perpetual danger. He uses his network of cronies to force Anakin to make uncomfortable choices, such as sacrificing the life of another for his friend, which strains his other relationships and reflects poorly on the Jedi.

ROMANTIC:

Every time some piece of scum manages to wound his partner, Anakin relives the agony of his mother's death and drowns in the fear that he will once again fail to save those closest to him. This desperation drives him to steamroll over entire battalions and lay waste to anyone who tries to dispute his right to act, Jedi or Sith.

For Anakin, losing another person he holds dear is far more frightening than any punishment the Jedi Order could mete out.

Suppose he is indicted on war crimes or threatened with expulsion from the Order for leaving a trail of severed heads and limbs on his unauthorised journey to rescue the partner he is not allowed to have. In this case, Anakin calls the Jedi Council blind for not seeing things from his perspective and understanding why he had to defy orders and cut down that Separatist sympathiser.

Chancellor Palpatine informs Anakin that the Council must not trust him if it disregards his argument so thoughtlessly. On the other hand, he commends Anakin's resolve to fight for his emotions rather than against them.

Palpatine even encourages him to follow his anger to its natural conclusions when he spots his partner in trouble, which nurtures further conflict in Anakin as the Jedi Order insists he does the opposite.

Anakin believes he is partly responsible for his mother's death. He blames himself because, as his guilty conscience tells him, he left her behind to pursue his own goals and returned only with weakness and insufficient urgency to help her.

As a result, Anakin struggles with the lingering paranoia that he will make the same mistake twice when he cannot readily locate and confirm his partner's safety.

On the battlefield, Obi-Wan is one of the few people who can successfully talk Anakin out of putting the entire mission on hold until he finds them.

On starships, clone troopers obey without question when General Skywalker gives the order to leave the room while he tortures a prisoner of war for information on their whereabouts and health.

Between missions, Anakin reaffirms that he values this relationship above all else in the galaxy, even promising to abandon the Order if his involvement in it becomes too great a hindrance.

He fights for his comrades more than he fights for some grand peace, and if the options are honouring the Jedi Code or keeping his partner out of danger, Anakin will maim and intimidate his way to victory.

In his younger, more impulsive hours, he gave little thought to who might see his brazen displays, rushing to embrace his partner after long separations.

As the war progresses, he grows more adept at hiding his affections from the stoic eye of the Council, even though his frustration at this leads him to arrange secret meetings and become increasingly defensive towards anyone who suspects the truth.

Of all his confidants, Anakin trusts no one more than his partner, but Captain Rex is a close second. Respecting his orders to comb the area whenever they stray a little too far from Anakin's field of vision, Rex does his part to watch over one of his commander and friend's favourite people.

Captain Rex makes no judgements of his own, though he does mediate between Anakin and other Jedi who might tell Anakin to cut his losses.

The clones under his command are not inclined to rebel when Anakin orders them to round up the populace he believes is involved in his partner's disappearance.

Some troopers may be a little shaken when he starts strangling civilians with the Force until someone gives a lead; however, their training has taught them to follow all orders, even if it means raiding buildings and dragging people to face an enraged Anakin.

Too sick of the Council's deception to subject Padmé to the same backstabbing treatment, Anakin one day broaches the idea of bringing a third person into the relationship.

He pretends not to have anyone specific in mind so that he can dismiss it as simple curiosity, only to betray his eagerness when Padmé asks for details. She wants to see him happy, so she agrees to Anakin spending more time with them.

However, Anakin applies a double standard: he would never tolerate Padmé or his partner being interested in someone else, let alone inviting that person into the relationship. This takes time and attention away from his emotionally starved self and implies to his abandonment-fearing mind that he is not good enough.

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

[superaznchick]

i had a whole rant typed out like 2 days ago that i made while emotional but it will rot in my drafts forever now because i have now spent the required amount of time in the timeout corner and properly digested my emotions to come back and make a fresh new post

idk what corporate girly out there slaving in front of a laptop needs to hear this AGAIN, because i certainly have heard this before but subconsciously dismissed it because Surely That Won't Happen To I, but it DID so i am now yelling at you from the other side

DONT FUCKING TRUST YOUR MANAGER!!!!!!!!! the nuance here is that YES they can be nice, and they can 100% be the best person ever, and they might not even consciously manipulate you. but you are never safe from subconscious manipulation or just straight up incompetence.

if your manager does their job well, it means you are manipulated. BUT if they do their job BAD, you STILL get manipulated!! this is because even if they are incompetent, you will always end up bridging the gap for their incompetence and it will weigh you down and you will NEVER get credit for your work. in fact, you are in danger on both ends of the spectrum - if you manager is good, they'll take credit for your work. if your manager is bad, they'll STILL take credit for your work AND make you suffer for it because they won't even have the skills at least get you the reward you deserve.

ive spent the last 3 years under my do-nothing manager always giving him the benefit of the doubt, "oh he's just a silly lil guy this is his first management job he doesnt know what hes doing" type shit, and i have nothing but stress and resentment to show for it.

i have LITERALLY been DOING HIS JOB FOR HIM. i revamped our meetings, i put sprint processes in place, i drew our team scope/borders and weighed in on who should staff projects. and on TOP of that i did tech lead and regular ic work. i was doing both my job and at least 50% of his because im not a fucking manager and theres only so much i can do.

but all this time my actual skill set as an engineer is deteriorating because ive been begging for mentorshop/coaching since day one i joined the team, which is 100% the manager's job to coach and level up their engineers, but these needs were completely ignored in favor of me trying to get this dumb fucking team together because my manager literally does nothing. he doesn't do his fucking job, and he gets away with it because he has high soft skill!!!! his boss likes him!!! so he will not be punished!!!!!!

i on the other hand am severely punished because i have revealed my hand as a do-all "superstar", im the one that gets 3 projects with the same deadline that i have to do all by myself, im the one thats expected to do all my work and more AND i am the one that takes the brunt of flack when external teams are ultimately disappointed that the deadlines are not met. i get no protection from any of this shit because my manager is fucking incompetent and refuses to step up. whether he consciously or subconsciously does this DOES NOT MATTER!!!! you will ALWAYS eat it at the bottom line!!!

treat your manager like your enemy, never trust them. size them up in your first few 1:1s to see how much they can do for you in terms of your career. if they are NOT delivering results within the first 2-3 months, CLOCK OUT!!!!!! decenter work from your life, shut the laptop at 5pm sharp, put in your bare minimum to not get canned and turn your brain off from all work problems. sometimes the corporate grind is worth it but ONLY if you have someone competent managing you and they are smart enough to recognize that engineers under them need reward and respect to be retained. if they won't or can't retain you, just let it happen!!!! dont overextend yourself it's never worth it

obv im yelling this from my jail cell as a software engineer so idk how much of this is applicable to other fields, but that's my two cents. i have spent way too much time being upset and angry these last few weeks to not vent about it. if this applies to you, pls save yourself the heartache and learn the skill of decentering work for when it comes in handy. im not advocating for indiscriminate quiet quitting bc that can actually be harmful to your financials, but the art of quiet quitting should still be mastered for when the appropriate time arises. use your discretion

[totallyhussein-blog]

'They wanted to break me, but they lost.’ Iraqis recount IS horrors in Mosul

When the Islamic State group rampaged through Iraq’s ancient city of Mosul a decade ago, the jihadists killed thousands, upended countless more lives and left deep scars among the survivors. Under their self-declared “caliphate” stretching across swathes of Syria and Iraq, they committed beheadings, torture and enslavement, turning life into living hell and leaving behind mass graves.

The Sunni Muslim extremists seized Mosul on June 10, 2014 and the group’s then leader, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, soon made his first public appearance in the city’s iconic Great Mosque of Al-Nuri. In the lands they controlled, the jihadists banned music, burnt books and punished perceived wrongdoers by stoning them and cutting off the fingers of smokers and the hands of alleged thieves.

It was not until 2017 that US-backed Iraqi forces drove IS out of Mosul in one of the bloodiest urban battles of modern times, leaving behind a city in rubble and despair. When the guns fell silent, Mosul’s traumatized residents were left to rebuild their shattered lives. AFP spoke to three of them about their memories of that terrible time.

Azad Hassan, 29, was a young student when IS came, and he suffered the full brunt of their violence. He lost one of his hands to the jihadists, and relatives whom he never saw again. He recalled the terrifying spring morning in 2015 when a crowd gathered in a Mosul square, with all eyes fixed on him, his brother and two other men.

His heart thumped in his chest when he saw the people cheering, their excitement strangely reminding him of a football match. “It was as if Real Madrid and Barcelona were playing,” the 29-year-old recalled, before adding that the situation was deadly serious. IS fighters “cut off our hands”, Hassan said, explaining that they were being punished for a feud with a jihadist.

The family’s suffering did not end there. IS detained Hassan’s brother and three other relatives, and they remain missing to this day. Hassan said he did not give in to a thirst for revenge, but kept studying, started a family and would soon receive his Master’s diploma in Arabic literature.

Now the father of a seven-year-old, he said he has also become an advocate for people with disabilities and for missing persons. Although he admits to often having to battle negative feelings, he said that his “willpower always prevails”. “They wanted to break me, but they lost,” he said. “I now go to university, play football and drive. But the scar is still here.”

Two days before the jihadists swept into Mosul, Judge Ahmed Hureithi left the city to find refuge in Baghdad, but then the extremists came for his family. They detained his father and two brothers, and later beheaded the youngest “with a sword”. He was only 17 years old. “They published pictures,” said Hureithi, 60. “They were proud of such acts.”

Years later, Hureithi would preside over a court in the capital Baghdad, judging hundreds of former fighters for unleashing their reign of terror. In 2019, he sentenced to death 11 French nationals, although they are still being held in an Iraqi prison. “I ruled according to Iraqi law,” Hureithi said. “The evidence was sufficient and clear.”

The courts have handed down hundreds of death and life sentences to people convicted of “terrorism” in trials that some human rights groups have denounced as hasty. Hureithi is adamant that he bears no grudge against the defendants and that he “acted with great impartiality”.

Hureithi returned to a still-devastated Mosul in 2020, and is now vice president of Nineveh province’s court of appeal. “I didn’t recognize the city,” the judge recalled. “It was as if I was entering it for the first time.”

When IS invaded the city, music shop owner Amar Kheder had one goal: to get his beloved music collection out of harm’s way before the jihadists destroyed it. He arranged for a food truck driver to take his decades-old collection of vinyl, tapes, radios and gramophones to friends in Baghdad.

“We concealed the boxes behind the food,” Kheder, 50, recalled. “Once the archive was out of harm’s way, I was relieved.” Jihadists turned up once to enquire about the music shop, but by then he had already turned it into a secondhand clothing store.

He decided to stay in Mosul in the belief that IS rule would last just a few months. In the end, it was three years before the jihadists were ejected.

Undeterred by the destruction in the city, Kheder restored his shop and sent to Baghdad for the treasures that his family had collected over more than 50 years. His is not just any store, but a balm for the soul, he said. “I consider it a pharmacy … it offers each person a remedy.”

Today, Kheder’s shop is again filled with a trove of music history. Vinyl discs, cassette tapes and CDs occupy every corner — many Iraqi and Arab artists, but also Bach and Beethoven.

Vintage round tables, classic radios and old recording machines take center stage, and the walls are adorned with framed pictures of iconic Arab singers from a bygone era. After so much suffering, Kheder said, his music treasure in Mosul has survived and “life has come back … to a city for historians, intellectuals and scholars”.

[tommytranselo]

so interesting and tragic how despite having the most intact moral compass of the three, vito by far suffers the most largely as a result of the other two's actions. obviously joe and henry, as genre convention dictates, are punished for their transgressions in the end, but it's vito who takes the brunt of it until then and is just constantly taking hits for going along with their plans. really has it ground into him. and he's the one who has the most obvious qualms about doing harm "unnecessarily" (the drugs, shaking down dockworkers) while joe and especially henry are quite flippant about it. and i guess it kind of has to be that way because vito is the player character, which means he especially needs to never get away with anything to really drive the message home, and additionally maintain enough morality (or at least moral guilt) to be likable. still, the end result really is a feeling that fate has quite unfairly got it out for this one guy in particular.

[theburningsunset]

i figured the episode would tug on my heartstrings, i did not think it would leave me crying, feeling mangled and raw.

the unflinching brutality of vader in the camp, was revolting.

anakin spends every day drowning in his pain, hatred of himself, but it's easier to say it's obi-wan's fault ("i am what you made me"), the jedi's fault, but his pain screams out of his bones every waking moment, and deep down he doesn't even blame palpatine, only himself. he could've lived out a happy life as a father with padme, he could've stayed at the side of his brother. the younglings, the masters, the temple, all of operation knightfall, he could've just...not.

he made the single, selfish, pathetic choice to slaughter hundreds at the idea of saving (possessing) one person he loved. and in the end he lost her, too, by his own doing no less.

we saw in the vader comic that he could've chosen a new path, at any point in time. sure, there are things from which one can never truly return, but good and evil are not tracks permanent upon venture, all he would have to do is start making good choices with the time he had left, but that would mean facing the brunt of the weight of every crime he committed, it would mean admitting that he destroyed every good thing in his life and made sure the list of people he killed exceeded the long list of people he once saved. in many ways, that is probably the most terrifying and soul-crushing pill to swallow. so he doesn't. "no. this is all there is" is what he said in rebuke of the kyber crystal that tried to show him an amending path forward, because drowning out your pain by conjuring a sea of cries from new victims at least feels like it numbs the pain, the power fantasy brings a high that tastes like bile. lashing out at the universe, slaughtering anyone for any reason, all in the end to run from himself, block out the voices of the dead, his own damnation. but no matter where you go, you can never outrun yourself. in a sick way, he punishes himself by continuing this path, and if he must be made to suffer, by god so will everyone else. like a child breaking a toy because they can't have it, a coward unwilling to take responsibility for his mistakes. so damned by the weight of his guilt that he refused to ever try and make things right.

shoutout to kenobi episode 3 for reminding me that at the end of the day, star wars is often a tragedy.

[garbinge]

Unfair

Frank Castle x OC Georgia Madden 

Summary: Georgia reached her breaking point and let it all rain down on Frank, in the aftermath he comforts her. 

Warnings: Mentions of trauma and pain, nothing in deep detail but enough to get the point across. 

A/N: This is pure coping for me. I had a day and figured I’d use one of my favorite fictional murdering comfort characters to help me through it. Enjoy xo.

Word Count: 1k. 

She felt the tears sting at her eyes, burning in her throat. Frustration. It never made any fucking sense. When she was a kid, she was told crying was weakness, tears were a sign of defeat. But every time she tried to explain that she wasn't sad. Wasn’t depressed. Wasn’t down. She was frustrated. Fed up. Angry. No one believed her. 

The situation, although different every time was like repeating the same shitty cycle. It was unfair for everyone. 

For her dad; who was unaware surely of the pain and annihilated mental state he left his daughter in day after day. That’s what she at least told her self, he wouldn’t have wanted to see her suffer like this, but maybe it was just too hard for her to place the blame. 

For her; how the memory of her father just dropped in, left a sea of destruction in its path wherever it went and left just as quickly as it arrived. Leaving the wreck behind for her to clean up. Which felt more like shoving things into the closet for someone (her) to deal with at a later time, that never seemed to come.

For those around her; aka Frank. They were the ones who got the brunt end of the anger and frustration. There was never an explanation, just a lash out, a look for an escape and a glimmer of hope that maybe someone else would put in the work and fix it for her. It might’ve been the worse for them, because they were just the innocent bystanders of her destruction. 

She stared at the man she just got into a screaming match with. All those thoughts swirling around her mind as she figuratively stood in the destruction of it all. It was almost as if it was what she wanted. An excuse to get angry. An excuse to boil over past her point. A legitimate reason, something tangible to let the anger find it’s home in.  It was nearly the fifth time today the thoughts snuck into her head and she had enough. The nap did nothing, the bath just sweated out her initial animosity, probably just tiring her out from the physicality of the boiled up trauma. But mentally, she was staring at Frank ready to fucking rumble. 

“I ain’t gonna fight with you.” His gruff voice was firm. 

“Don’t back down now, Rough Rider.” She scoffed at him, one eyebrow raised. “Come on, aren’t you The Punisher?” 

Georgia was now poking the bear but Frank just nodded, accepting her attitude. 

“Fuck you, Frank.” The girl turned around letting her hair whip around as she retreated to her room. 

Frank stood his place letting her settle for a couple minutes before he followed after her. He opened the door that the woman had just recently slammed and saw her curled up in bed, again. Her body was shaking and suddenly a little sob managed to sneak it’s way through the silence. He made his way over to the other side of the bed and bent down so he was eye level with her. 

His hand made it’s way to push the hair out of her face, letting the tears stay on her cheeks and stain them. He wasn’t there to take the pain away, he wasn’t there to help her through it, he was just there to be there. Comfort. In the end, this was her job to tackle, or for her to continue this cycle of shutting down. 

“I’m sorry.” The two words stumbled out of her mouth inbetween sobs. 

She opened her eyes and she saw Frank. Like really saw him. Up close. The scars from past fights, the marks of the new ones from their recent adventures together. 

“You look like shit.” She managed to let out a chuckle. 

“Hey, I thought you were apologizing.” He let his mouth curve into a smile. 

“We’re some pretty fucked up individuals, aren’t we?” She asked moving her hand to wrap around his chiseled face. 

He leaned into her touch ever so slightly, he didn’t close his eyes, almost as if he was punishing himself, not letting himself fully sink into the bliss of the moment because he knew he didn’t truly deserve it. But that was his own cross to bear and he was a lot better at bottling it in and keeping people out than the woman in front of him, no matter what tough guy act she put on. 

“I hear it builds character.” His deep voice offered some comedic advice. 

“I wish I could hide my shit like you do.” Her voice wasn’t broken up anymore and her sobs had slowed, she turned over now, letting her back be fully cushioned by the bed and her eyes drift to the ceiling. 

“You don’t wish that.” Frank said as he settled next to her in bed, taking his arm behind her head and bringing her close to his chest. 

“You cross over to my side of the line, you don’t get to come back from there. Ever.” He was more serious than ever. “Only way out is to find something you care about.” 

His grip got tighter around her and she cuddled into him. 

“This your way of telling me you care about me, Castle?” 

A smile formed on his mouth since he knew where her head was situated on his chest, she couldn’t see it. 

Their problems weren’t exactly fixed, they didn’t even get a chance to really talk about it. But maybe right now another bandaid on the problem was all she needed. Another person to help her hold the closet door shut as she piled up and hid more and more destruction in it. And Frank would allow it one more time. 

It was unfair, for both of them now. He said nothing, just let the silence take over the room. He couldn’t let the words form out of his mouth, it’d make it too real, and he would feel too damn guilty but being a man of action, he did let his hand move up and down Georgia’s arm after her question. Enough to let her know that Frank Castle loved her and he’d do anything for her. 

[dr3amofagame]

haha your snippit abt the dispenser got me thinking.

Dream gets let out of prison and he talks constantly, whatever is on his mind. And he's positive all the time. To a fault where people walk over him. And it doesn't make sense because he was tortured right???? But after an incident they find out it's because he hates the sound of silence and needs constant reminders that other people are there. Also he was punished for any negative emotions in the prison so his default is happy now,,,

hi anon !! this concept makes me SO goddamn sad ,, the idea that he Has to be happy bc anything else would mean punishment im so *punches the walls*

this ,, ficlet is honestly. pretty ooc, not really related to the ask at all, and mostly an excuse for me to cry abt c!dream and c!punz for an excessive amount of time (technically the vote on twitter was supposed to have this as c!sapnap pov, but i just wrote one for him so i went for c!punz instead. mostly bc i wanted to write him LMAO). hopefully someone enjoys it despite *gestures vaguely* all of that mess

tw: trauma, disordered eating, implied torture/abuse, blood, injuries, unhealthy coping mechanisms, emotional distress, thoughts of murder/mercy killing, mentioned animal death, dark content

In the end, it’s all rather anticlimactic, the complete opposite of Dream’s vault and the whole fiasco of adrenaline and theatrics that had made up that day. Quackity ended up having one too many drinks, bragged about the wrong thing to the wrong person - Punz doesn’t know the specifics, only knows that one thing has led to another and suddenly Sapnap was screaming at his ex-fiancé, sword pointed at his chest and tears streaming down his eyes in the middle of the Community House floor, everyone else stood around and watching. A look into Quackity’s office said everything he didn’t - the chests and chests of used and new tools, shiny and sharpened and completely rusted over with blood and everything in between. There’s been a balled up shirt in the wastebasket, completely unsalvageable from how saturated it was with blood, more red than white, and perhaps most chilling of all the calendar, marked with X after X in red pen, going back months and speaking to their utter failure to see what had been happening all but right in front of them.

With Quackity down, Sam caved not too long after, and with his input getting into the prison was no challenge at all. The only thing holding them back were bad memories and the tense, worried edge to Sam’s jaw as he led the small group of them - himself and Sapnap, actually entering the facility, Bad and Puffy waiting outside - carrying them through winding corridor after winding corridor and lava pit after lava pit, until they’d come to stand before a chasm filled with flowing lava, slowly draining before the main cell.

“I- I have to warn you,” Sam had muttered, uncharacteristically hesitant, “it looks…pretty bad,” and Punz would’ve questioned him further, but the lava had fallen far enough to reveal the topmost edge of the cell, so they let Sapnap hound the Warden for information as they directed their full attention on the cell itself and holy shit.

Nothing Sam said could’ve possibly have prepared them for the sight - it was a complete fucking bloodbath, crimson painting the walls and smeared over the floor and splattered over every visible surface like some abstract art experiment gone wrong. The stench of iron and burning flesh and viscera was awful, even over the gap marked by the still-draining lava. Punz strained his eyes; at the very back of the cell, huddled, unmoving, was a similarly bloodstained shape that must’ve been Dream. They remember the crack of Sapnap’s knuckles meeting Sam’s face and breaking his nose, remember themselves chucking a pearl and feeling along Dream’s neck desperately for a pulse - everything beyond that became a swirl of voices and panic and crying that makes their head hurt to think about, so they don’t.

Recovery is…messy. The physical side had been bad enough - pulling Dream out of the cell, barely breathing, limp in his arms and far too light, all Punz could think about was a sheep he’d found a year ago, frail and struggling to breathe, one he’d ended up killing - quick and painless - with a sword through the skull because it seemed kinder than letting it suffer. Watching Dream struggle on the bed, laid up in Bad’s mansion because none of them knew if he’d survive going any further, body resisting the potions they’d slowly forced down his throat after being so over-saturated on them, temperature spiking and heat baking into his skin like the lava from the prison had been imprinted onto his body, Punz feels the same strange mixture of pity and unease, wonders if it’d be a hell of a lot kinder if they just put him out of his fucking misery.

Still, because Dream is a stubborn bastard, against all odds, he ends up surviving - his fever breaks, the potions begin taking effect, and a few tireless, aching days later his eyes flutter open, lucid for the first time in a week. Punz isn’t even in the room when he wakes, only knows that it happens because the too-quiet room suddenly erupts in noise and activity, muffled thumps and sounds of a struggle undercutting Bad’s frantic calls for someone to help, anyone, and they run into the room to find Dream thrashing on the bed, wounds reopened and blood dripping onto the sheets, eyes wild and wide as his head whips from side to side so hard Punz is half-afraid that he’ll straight up break his neck. Somehow, worst of all, not a single scream falls from his lips, nothing but muffled whines squeezing past his mouth, clenched shut, and for a singular, awful second they wonder how long it took before he realized that screaming was useless.

Fortunately enough for them, or unfortunately, it’s not like he can tell the fucking difference anymore, the panic and strain end up with Dream passing out altogether, and they trade uneasy glances with Bad before going to clean off the worst of his wounds. If everything they’re doing feels hopeless, dressing up wounds that’ll be torn open hours later when Dream is awake enough to feel fear but not much else because he’s forgotten what it’s like to not be afraid - well, that’s for them to think and everyone else to pretend not to agree with.

Weeks pass along the same vein - Dream wakes up, panics; they try to calm him down, fails; he falls back into unconsciousness, and they move on and pretend that they’re cleaning up wounds from battle and not from someone that’s literally been tortured for months on end. People stop by, occasionally; Puffy spends more time than not inside the mansion, but hardly ever enters the door into Dream’s room, Sapnap and George drop by occasionally with potion brewing supplies that the rest of them can’t go out to get; once, he’d gone out to the front door to find a chest with an enchanted golden apple, sender nowhere in sight. He knows that the server is busy; Quackity’s admission had brought more than a few secrets to light, and from what they understand, the political fallout has been pretty damn messy. Still, he stays in the mansion, and watches.

He doesn’t exactly know why he stays. They’re not a stellar healer, not beyond what they know to dress their own wounds, and spend most of their time doing odd-and-ends tasks for Bad, who looks more tired than ever. Maybe it’s because he’s seen Dream at his worst more than the rest of them, had been there through his entire fall from grace, watched as his eyes became clouded with anger and madness and a single, desperate hope that he’d chased at the cost of his world and himself. Maybe it’s because they have no ties to the rest of the server - not to Las Nevadas, falling apart under the scrutiny of the eyes that now fall upon it, not Snowchester, caught up in the chaos, not the Badlands, half-dissolved after the fiasco of the Egg and with Sam’s actions having just come to light. Maybe it’s because above everything else, he feels guilty.

They’d thought the prison was the answer. It’d seemed too simple, back in that Vault - a perfect answer, because everyone else was perfectly happy to watch Dream die another time and some part of them had clenched painfully at the thought even thought they knew it was for the best. The prison meant that he’d be alive, if angry, and at some point when he had the time or the nerve or the guts he could go and visit, and they would talk, and Dream would be angry but with time maybe he could even understand.

They hadn’t wanted this. He can’t imagine anyone wanting this.

“Punz?” They don’t jump at the voice at their back, they don’t, but Bad still has a tiny, tight-lipped smile when they turn around anyway, eyes creased in the corners and still not as bright as they’d been before the Egg. Bad looks at him knowingly, setting a bowl of soup into his hands. “For Dream, if you can get him to eat.” He shifts a pointed gaze towards the door. “Maybe you two could talk.”

“About what?” The words come out harsher than they intend, and they take a moment to bite back the mostly self-directed anger that Bad doesn’t deserve to receive the brunt of. “I just-” he waves his hand in the air, trying to articulate the mess that is his relationship with Dream without the words to explain it. “I don’t know, man.”

“You don’t have to talk about everything,” Bad says, calm as always, eyes flicking down to the bowl of soup in his hands. “Just start with the soup.”

Punz sighs. “I’ll try.”

He enters the room in a single, fluid motion, mostly because he knows that if he were to stop at the door then he’d never actually make his way in. Dream flinches back when they enter, eyes going wide and stance going rigid, and the familiarity doesn’t make the sight any easier to bear as they wait, as always, for Dream’s eyes to clear enough for him to realize he’s in the mansion and not stuck in that same obsidian hellhole.

“I brought soup,” they say, finally, when Dream looks up. Dream’s lips twitch up in what he probably means as a smile; between the still-healing gashes on his face and the fear that flashes over his expression, still, it comes out as more of a grimace.

“Thanks.” Dream looks away. “I’ll eat it later.”

Liar, Punz thinks tiredly, moving closer to set the bowl down on the nightstand by the bed. They frown as Dream’s expression goes slack and distanced, again, eyes fixed to stare blankly at the wall once again.

“You should have some now,” he tries, careful to keep his words even. “You need the calories.”

“I’m good,” Dream says, automatic, just shy of sincere. “Thank you.”

“Dream,” they don’t quite succeed at keeping a displeased sigh from falling from their lungs, and bite back a curse at themselves when Dream pulls back with a silent flinch. It’s so goddamn hard, to talk to this version of Dream, both of them feeling around the edges of their relationship like walking on goddamn eggshells. A few months ago, he would’ve straight up called Dream out on his bullshit, get it through his thick skull that the whole ‘I’m fine and don’t need anyone’ act was stupid and completely failing to convince him. Here, they bite back another sigh, look forlornly at the bowl of the soup on the nightstand, sure to go uneaten once again, and force themselves to sound completely neutral when they speak again. “Alright. You’ll have to eat at some point, though.”

“Mmhm,” Dream hums noncommittally, once again staring at the wall. Punz stares at his hands. This is so fucking pointless.

“So,” they say after a few seconds, Bad’s words echoing in their head - they can try to make an effort to talk, sure. It’s just that Dream’s not going to cooperate. “How are you, man?”

The words come out stilted, awkward. He looks up to watch Dream’s expression, as the other man begins to gnaw on the inside of his cheek.

“I’m good,” he says, words deliberately light. “You?”

“Dream…”

“I’m fine.” Dream’s voice sharpens suddenly, breath hitching, before he shakes his head and turns his head away. “I’m fine.”

Punz looks at him incredulously. “Are you serious? Do we need to get into exactly how not-fine you are?” They wave a hand in his direction, jaw clenching when he rears back. “Do ‘fine’ people lose their minds from someone waving at them, now?”

“I-” For a second, Dream glares at him, eyes burning with a familiar, irritated fire that Punz knows all-too-well from having it directed at him a few too many times, before it suddenly dies and Dream is swinging his head back to the bedsheets, hands tightening on the cloth as he stammers. “I- What do you want?”

Punz breathes a soft sigh, regret blooming in the center of their chest. “Sorry,” he mumbles, careful to keep their gestures overly-telegraphed and away from the other man’s face. “I’m just- you’re not okay, man. No one’s expecting you to be okay after...all of that.”

“But why?”

Dream’s voice is small, nearly a sob, and Punz directs wide, alarmed eyes to where he’s hunched in over himself, knees pulled to his chest, hands staring at the sheets pulled over them. “Why?” he says, again, quieter, lip trembling slightly.

“Because you were tortured,” Punz begins, words slow as they watch Dream’s expression, trying to pull out the thoughts behind his averted eyes, “Because the cell was inhumane, and nobody deserves to be treated like that. Because you were hurt very, very badly because of what we did, and none of us are expecting you to be fine right after going through months of trauma.” He pauses. “You know that, right?”

“But I’m out,” Dream says, quiet, disbelieving, instead of answering their question. “I’m out of there. It’s over. It’s- everything’s good,” he whispers, more to himself than to them, hands curling into fists and then uncurling. “I’m- they said I would never get out. And I’m outside, and it’s not- not the cell, and I get real food, and Quackity doesn’t visit anymore,” he shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut as his breath catches in his throat. “I’m happy- I should be happy. Right?”

“Oh Dream,” the other man flinches back, breath quickening, and Punz’s hand stops short from where he’d almost let it fall onto the other’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be happy, man. Not- not after all of that. Not if you’re not ready yet.” Dream’s eyes, wide and wet, rise to look at their own, and they feel more than hear the soft, wounded noise that leaves their lips. “It’s ok to be hurt. It’s ok to be scared. No one’s blaming you, alright? No one’s gonna hurt you anymore.”

This, more than anything, seems to be the breaking point, because Dream collapses forward, hands flying up to pull at his tangled hair before Punz manages to ease them away and into his own hands, watching as he grips onto them until his knuckles go white. His breathing shudders, quiet, even his sobs muffled as to make as little noise as possible, and they murmur meaningless croons and hums as he cries into their chest.

“I wanna- I wanna be okay,” he hiccups, and Punz smooths his hair back behind their hand.

“I know,” he swallows around the lump that has risen in his own throat. “I’m sorry.”

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

“You forget yourself, Lord Vader,” Emperor Palpatine hissed, his voice a gravelly snarl.

Vader didn’t move, he simply stared at the warped version of his master that the lenses of his mask provided him. Hands at his sides, back straight, head held high; he silently accepted Darth Sidious’ irate chastising. He respected his master as much as he despised him, as much as he loathed the man’s attempts to at every turn stunt his progression.

“It is imperative, my apprentice, that you adhere. Have I not made this clear to you?”

Palpatine’s face softened, as did his voice; but his eyes still burned, deceiving the mockery of a kindly expression that he’d put on. Vader knew what lay behind the cracks, what the emperor hid behind his wrinkled, deformed features.

“Yes, master,” Vader said after a brief stretch of silence; his head offering a single curt bow.

“Indeed. And yet, you disappoint me,” Palpatine tsked, shaking his head in disappointment as if berating a delinquent school boy.

Another silence, this one longer and carrying an uncomfortable weight. The air seemed thick and tense, and Vader recognized it as a subtle display of power on his master’s part. The Dark Side seemed to hum and sing through every fiber of Vader’s body, resonating and both rejoicing and rejecting the assault simultaneously. Closing his eyes, he let the familiar, harrowing darkness envelope him in its suffering. He knew he belonged submerged within its vicious constraint.

When he opened his eyes once more, the emperor was smiling at him. A toothy grin with his yellow teeth on display, as he pressed his gnarled hands together with a rare, demented glee. His fingers seemed more like claws, and his golden eyes reflected the scarce light.

“Good. Good. You know your place, don’t you?” he purred, and this time Vader did flinch as the saccharine tone washed over him.

It reminded him too much of a long gone era, of a time when Palpatine had been his father figure and friend. When they’d been mentor and student, when Vader himself had remained willfully unaware of the then chancellor’s true intentions and plans for him. 

Now, he averted his eyes but he still felt the emperor’s piercing gaze on him, the darkness perforating his body intensifying as the man took a couple of slow steps towards him. Vader had longed for power then, but it hurt too much to remember the sacrifices he’d been forced to make in order to achieve it.

“Yes, my master,” he acquiesced once more, the unspoken threat of retribution should he stray again looming over him.

“So it must be, my friend.”

Vader almost wanted to snort at the notion that they had ever been friends. 

Palpatine had never been his friend, he had never wanted what was best for him. All he’d wanted was a tool, a right hand man to carry out his dark deeds and take the fall for his own atrocious crimes. In the end, he had succeeded. All Vader had wanted was Padmé, alive and well by his side, and where was she now? Her frail body was rotting in a cold, solitary tomb on Naboo alongside the remains of their unborn child.

Vader had killed them - because of Palpatine. 

Vader had killed them, because of his own naivety and lust for power. As much as he wanted to punish his master, he submitted himself to carrying the brunt of the blame alone. He could never hurt Darth Sidious; they were the same. There was no other way.

“Ah, and so you understand,” mused Palpatine; moving slowly closer to his apprentice until he could place one taloned on Vader’s armoured shoulder in a feigned act of compassion.

Vader knew Palpatine could read him like an open book; he could see into his mind as clearly as if he was to read his thoughts. There were no boundaries or barriers, and if Vader ever put them up Palpatine would cross them with ease and then subdue his apprentice for daring to build them in the first place. Vader had to leave himself bared, exposed and pliable. 

Palpatine smiled again; eyes blazing with disgust and sadistic joy alike.

“Now, I’m certain Padmé would agree with you.”

The very mention of her name was an awakening, as all the searing pain buried underneath chains of denial resurfaced. Palpatine squeezed Vader’s arm, breathing in deeply as if he could smell the agony radiating off of his apprentice; as if it gave him life, as if it pleased him to no end. He let go, and began to slowly saunter back towards his throne; flicking one hand dismissively towards his apprentice. Vader knew it meant he was allowed to leave, and a wave of relief he could not mask rushed through what little was left of his mangled body. Still, he took the opportunity offered and turned on his heel.

“Yet, there is one thing she would know, without a doubt. One thing that you refuse to acknowledge, one thing that retrains you. I recognize the reasoning behind your denying this one truth, but it hinders you.”

Vader slowed his pace, if only to hear what his master’s double edged sword of a remark might hold for him. It was deliberately designed to make him linger, to stir the inquisitive side of him; the one that knew whatever was left unsaid would sting like a thousand daggers. There was a hoarse, menacing cackle of a laugh; prolonging the torment before finally delivering the punchline.

“Know yourself, as I know you... Anakin.”

[one-real-imonkey]

For your CG ask - what if Fox gets Fed Up (sleep/caffeine deprived or smth - your pick) one day and goes: “you know, I’m probably dead meant walking, might as well drag them all to hell with me” and verbally flays the Senate alive. Padme is cheering him on, Bail is laughing so hard he’s got tears in his eyes, Palpafart’s complexion matches his office - the whole nine yards. Imagine the Chaos.

I adore this, but it could go two ways.

On the one hand you have the comical one where this super sleep deprived not sure where he even is Fox who sees someone demeaning one of his siblings and his eye twitches, something in him just snaps, he chugs an entire thermos of Caff and just goes for it. He just starts outing things and wrecks the Siths entire plans. It’s comical and chaos in a funny way. Watching the bad guys panic and the good guys celebrate.

But you know me and I love angst.

So, on the other, more angsty hand, similar premise but dark.

He’s talking about the atrocities committed against the guard, things his vode on the frontlines never knew about because there was nothing they could do and the vode in the Guard didn’t want them worrying, even if it means they had to take the brunt of jokes about their sitting about doing nothing while the ones on the front lines were dying. He outs every single Senator who claims to be pro clone Rights but refers to them as it and treats them worse than their droids or pets, makes them kneel and dehumanises them and threatens their very lives for something as simple and unavoidable as sneezing or coughing, and every single thing Palpatine did, including mind control and using them for personal hits and anything else he wanted. (Go as dark as your mind takes you for how evil Palpatine is)

How clones were designed not to break in battle but they weren’t trained for this and how the shinies wake up screaming, how they have missing gaps in their memories and constant headaches and all of it.

How they’ve had to create their own little support systems and how they have to give shinies flash training on how things work or they’ll end up suffering through hells. How their med bay has a separate section that’s closed off that’s just for the shinies or elder vode who need somewhere to sit and cry and maybe be hugged.

About the lengths they had to go to just to protect vode who were different, but then, what did it matter if the clones used he or she when the Senators mostly used it, except for the risk of what would happen if those pronouns were used outside of the barracks because it was almost worse than Kamino for deviations and no-one wanted to be singled out (for one reason or another) except the commanders to take attention away from their younger siblings.

He calls the Senate out for what they’ve done.

The Senators are horrified, either because their crimes, the ones they didn’t consider crimes because clones aren’t people and who are they ever going to tell that’ll believe them over a Senator, have been outed to the galaxy, or because they had no idea something so genuinely deplorable was happening under there noses in somewhere they considered at least mostly respectable. The ones like Bail and Padmé who could never have dreamed something so evil could be happening.

Not tears of laughter but tears of horror.

But in the end it’s a good thing.

An election is called. The senators backing or working with Palpatine are all voted out by their people, Palpatine loses on Naboo and also the Chancellorship, the Clones and Jedi are no longer forced to fight or serve, without Palpatine there is a peaceful resolution to the Separatists leaving with trade deals established and the invasions and war halted. Mandalore is no longer being influenced by the Sith (death watch) or backed by the Republic for any one faction (new mandos). The war and conflict is over, the thousand year plot brought down by one clone broken by their situation and desperate to protect their younger siblings.

Palpatine is taken out by a sniper (who may or not be a clone outraged by the fake war and worse what the bastard was doing to their siblings in the guard) and the Order never goes into effect because the call for election is made the SECOND Fox finished his rant. Palpatine tried to take Fox with him, but the other Guard commanders (realising that Fox’s headaches and memory gaps always came after his meetings with Palpatine) refused to let him near their brother.

Cody and Wolffe and Rex show up a little while after the initial broadcast (as soon as they could) and pull Fox into their arms begging him to explain why he never told them how bad things were. This is followed by cuddle piles and comfort, something that’s happening across the guard with all the returning clones finding their siblings and making sure they’re ok and happy and safe.

The Jedi are finally allowed to open up the lower levels of the Temple to house the vode who want to stay, and to help any who wanted to leave and find something else out there, finally allowed to back out of the fighting they never wanted to be part of in the first place but Palpatines War Clause not only drafted them but made it impossible for them to back out without the punishment that goes with desertion, finally allowed to take the breaks they were denied so they can heal their minds and bodies.

The galaxy heals.

So basically it’s super angsty but has a sweet ending.

———

(Thank you for sending this it’s brilliant and I love it)

[weelittleweasley]

Rules and Responsibilities | Fred x Reader

Prompt as requested by anon: Umbridge’s reign has taken its toll on the students of Hogwarts, especially you. Since her arrival, it seems like she has had a personal vendetta against some students in particular, you being one of them Falling victim to the brunt of Umbridge’s punishments, you try your best to keep your injuries a secret to most, especially that of your boyfriend, Fred. When Fred sees you talking more to Draco, your housemate, Fred’s jealousy rises and curiosity gets the best of him. What’s going on?

Warnings: cruel punishments of Umbridge, blood, scars, language

Word Count: 4.9k

A/N: This was such a fun prompt! Thank you to the sweet ‘nonnie who sent it in! Xo

The nauseating color of bubblegum pink whisked down the hall, doling out orders before waving her wand as Filch ran behind her, trying to keep the pace. Students glared at the woman they begrudgingly called Head Master. Dolores Umbridge was a curse on Hogwarts, that was for certain. New rules were placed daily which limited the students to just studying and breathing. There was no room for relaxing or fun. A place where everyone once loved became miserable for all.

Not only were Umbridge’s rules unnecessary and pointless, her punishments for breaking her rules were uncalled for and cruel. You had first saw it on Harry Potter’s hand, scar that read I must not tell lies. He brushed it off as it was nothing, but you knew that this woman was a monster in pink. The most horrifying part about it all is that you didn’t know when her reign would end. 

But Harry wasn’t the only receiving cruel punishments like this. You sat down in your Defense Against the Dark Arts class, next to your housemate, Draco. The two of you had a certain distaste for this class, even more so now that Umbridge was the professor. As you sat back in the class, you constantly checked your wristwatch, hoping that it would be over soon so you could bust out of the classroom, do your prefect duties, and meet your boyfriend at the Black Lake. 

“How long is this class again?” you groan to Draco quietly, earning a small smile from him, him trying to stifle a chuckle. “Seriously. We aren’t learning a damned thing and you expect me to sit here and do nothing?”

“Something to add, Miss (Y/L/N)?” Umbridge's voice reverberates in the classroom. In that moment, everyone shifts in their seats to look at you at the back of the classroom. You had been caught. You gulp as you mouth goes dry and Draco just smirks, knowing that you were in trouble now. Finally, it wasn’t him for once.

You couldn’t let Umbridge know that she made you nervous or scared. Instead, you swallowed your fears and calmly replied, “Nothing from me, Professor. Continue.” Your reply was polite, but had a certain kind of snarky tone that made Umbridge’s skin crawl with frustration. She gave you an angry smile and you knew that you had gotten under her skin. But the conversation wasn’t going to stop here.

She starts to walk from the front of the classroom to the back where you sat, relaxed in your chair. Draco looks at you with fear for you in his eyes. “I’ll determine when it’s appropriate for me to continue the lesson,” she simply states, her heels clicking as she slowly walks towards you like a ticking time bomb. “Maybe I should rephrase my statement. You should share what you were saying to Mr. Malfoy with the rest of class. I’m sure it was something very important since you couldn’t wait until the end of the class to talk. Not only are you wasting my time, but your classmates time.”

The false sweetness in her voice made your stomach churn and blood boil. This woman was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Yet you maintained your poise. You smooth out your Slytherin robes and simply speak. “I would love to share,” you sit up, much to Draco and Umbridge’s surprise. “I was just telling Draco that we haven’t learned a damned thing in this class. We have not learned a single thing about magic in the class, so how do you expect us to properly defend ourselves in the face of evil?” you spit.

The students in the class immediately erupt into chatter, knowing that you were right. No one was learning how to protect themselves, especially if He was back. You were speaking the truth that everyone was afraid to speak of. Draco sat next to you with a proud smile on his face, but he kept quiet and simply looked down at his hands. 

Umbridge on the other hand was infuriated by your words. “Well,” she breathed out, eyes burning into yours as a mischievous smile danced across your cherry red lips. “There is no need for you to use magic when there is no direct threat. Not to mention, this class is teaching you very valuable life lessons. Maybe if you listened to my lessons rather than chatting with Mr. Malfoy, you would understand that.”

“Maybe if you taught something worth listening to, I would listen,” you sharply retort earning some ooohs and laughs from your housemates as other students from other houses chatter, laugh, or even clap. Your heart swells with pride at the sight and you smile devilishly at the professor who is shaken at the sight before you.

Umbridge looks around her at the mess of students cheering at your outburst. She musters up a sentence over the cheering crowd and speaks, “That’s quite enough!” Her exclamation makes students stop talking and clapping, slowly dissolving into silence again. “Miss (Y/L/N), you have earned yourself two weeks of detention. After this class, you will report directly to my office.”

She scurries back to the front of the classroom to continue her lecture as you just roll your eyes and sit back in your chair, folding your arms across your chest. Draco looks at you with worried eyes, Now you’ve really done it. You shake your head and scoff, trying to blow off his and your anxieties. You knew what the woman was capable of, but you had to keep your mind from wondering what punishment she would dole out to you. But you couldn’t help it as your palms started to sweat and mouth became dry. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

-------

Like she had instructed, you knocked on Umbridge’s office door after class, your heart beating a thousand miles a minute. Before you left, Draco looked at you scared, asking if you’d be alright. He knew of what Umbridge had done to other students. Even though he hadn’t suffered from those punishments, he knew that students had horror stories of her. You insisted that you would be fine, when in reality you were going mental over the situation. 

But it was too late now. Her voice chimed in from the other side of the door to come in. As you pushed the door open, you stood in the door way as she falsely smiled at you. “Ah, Miss (Y/L/N),” she sighed. “So you can follow direction. Splendid. Close the door and take a seat.”

Obeying her request, you shut the door and sit on the chair next to the desk in her office. Your heart is thumping at a mile a minute. Your confidence from before is gone and you can’t stop thinking about what is going to happen. There was no escaping now. 

She places a quill on your desk and a sheet of parchment. You knew where this was going. You remember Harry talking about this in the Great Hall. Now it was happening to you. Fear flooded your head and you tried to keep your breathing steady and even.

“Now,” Umbridge starts. “I want you to write, I will not speak out of line. The whole sentence. Whenever you’re ready.”

You look at the quill and take a deep breath before picking it up. You hand shook as you carried it to the parchment, gulping nervously. You had to do this. If you didn’t, who knows what Umbridge would do to you. “No ink?” you shakily asked, knowing exactly what the quill did and how it wrote, but asking the question any way to confirm your fears.

Without looking at you, Umbridge says, “No need. Again, whoever you’re ready. The whole sentence. Just once. Then you can be dismissed.”

“But Professor, I’m Head Girl. I’m going to be late for my duties,” you try to get out of your punishment. But you weren’t lying. You were a prefect which meant that you certain responsibilities you had to take care of after class. If you stayed here, you would certainly be late for those duties and you would be stripped of your title.

“The quicker you start, the quicker you can leave and accomplish your prefect duties with no problem, Miss (Y/L/N),” she simply states. 

There was no escape. She wasn’t going to let you leave until you did what needed to be done. You take a deep breath and think, The quicker you do it, the quicker it’ll be over. With that, you start to write across the parchment and your hand starts to sting badly, like someone took a needle and was carving into it. You ignore the sensation and drag the quill across the parchment faster, which only makes the sensation grow and burn and itch more. You let out a pained groan as you suck in a breath through gritted teeth. Keep going, it’s almost over. You continue to scribble and tears start to prick at your eyes as you painfully drag the quill across the parchment. 

Finally done, you slam the quill down and look at your hand. Etched into your skin is I will not speak out of line just like it was on the paper. You look at Umbridge, swallowing the lump in your throat and standing up from your seat. “I’m done,” you speak dully. 

She smiles and speak, “Wonderful. You are dismissed. You will be back here again at the same time for the next two weeks. Have a lovely evening, Miss (Y/L/N).”

Not saying another word, you storm out of her office and down the stairs, scurrying to the Slytherin common room to meet Draco for your prefect duties. This was absolutely absurd. She couldn’t get away with this. A professor physically hurting students? This was cruel. The punishment did not fit the crime. She made Professor Snape look pleasant. 

You burst into the Slytherin common room, Draco waiting for you by the couch. He immediately stands up when you enter, not bothering asking why you were a couple of minutes late. There was no time for teasing you. He was more concerned about if you were alright. But before he could ask you what happened, you held up a hand to get him to stop talking. “I really don’t feel like talking about it. I just wanna get my duties done so I can go see Fred.” The thought of seeing your boyfriend instantly made you feel better, but you knew that you couldn’t tell him what happened. Fred had a bad tempter when it came to you and you knew that if you told him what Umbridge did, he would blow a gasket. 

Draco grabs your hand and examines it, looking at the fresh scars on your hand, blood traced on them. “(Y/N)...” he starts. “I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head, “I don’t need your pity, Draco, I’m fine. Where are the first years?” 

He sighs, “I already took care of it. I didn’t know how long you were going to be, so I dealt with it.” You groan and put your head in your hands, feeling guilty that you left Draco with the bulk of the work of the head boy and girl duties. “It’s no worries, (Y/N). I didn’t expect you to get out of Umbridge’s detention to do your prefect duties.” 

“That’s the thing, Malfoy. I don’t want you to expect me to be a slacker ‘cause of what I did in class that earned me detention. I’m supposed to be head girl. I was given this position for a reason. There’s a certain image I’m supposed to maintain. I have rules and responsibilities like the rest of the students here,” you ramble as Draco grabs your sides.

He looks at you, “You can take a break. If this whole fucking thing with Umbridge makes you late for the next two weeks, it’s no problem. The first years are easy. I can sign off on your duties so there will be nobody suspect. Alright?” You sigh, thankful for Draco’s kindness that came once in a blue moon. “Now, go, run along with your Weasel-bee.”

You roll your eyes and slap his arm, thanking him before running off to the Black Lake. As you ran out of the castle and down to the Lake, excitement replaced the anxiety in your chest. Seeing your boyfriend was always something to look forward to. You and Fred had been dating for almost seven months and yet each day he made it feel like the first day you met. Being with Fred was exciting; he likes hanging around, crackling jokes, and laughing. He was a breath of fresh air. You loved the bloke. People gave you shit for dating the older Gryffindor, but that didn’t stop you; it just made things more exciting. 

Soon enough, the red head’s figure came into sight which made you smile. You remembered about the scars on your hands and quickly dug into your pockets and pulled out the leather gloves you had gotten from Draco last week after placing a bet on a quidditch match. You covered your scarred hand and sighed, hating keeping secrets from Fred, but you knew it had to be done.

“There’s my angel,” he smiles as you approach him, him scooping you up in a tight hug. You smile brightly as he places a sweet kiss on your lips, smiling into the kiss. He pulls away and asks, “You’re late. Everything alright?”

You already felt guilty and you haven’t even said anything yet. “Yeah, prefect duties just took longer than I had anticipated,” you brushed it off, giving him another kiss. He squeezes your frame closer to his body, holding you close. Even though you saw each other everyday, Fred missed you. You didn’t have any classes together, him being older than you, so when you did spend time together, he cherished every moment, every smile, every kiss, every glance. You were Fred’s whole world. When you came into Fred’s life, he didn’t realize how much he needed someone like you. Someone who could keep up with his banter, challenge him, balance him out. You were made for him and Fred loved you with his whole heart. “I missed you today,” you tell him, wiping your lip gloss off of Fred’s lips as he kisses your glove covered thumb. He furrows his brows at your covered hands. “I’m cold. Plus I just won these from Malfoy,” you laugh.

Fred smiles, “’Atta girl. I missed you, darling. Come, I wanna tell you about an idea that George and I had for a new product. It’s brilliant.”

Fred’s cluelessness about your detention sat with you uncomfortably, but in a way it was for the best. He got your mind off of the bad things and let you focus on the happiness in your life. Listening to Fred talk about him and George’s up and coming business and the ideas for products made your heart swell with love. You felt badly lying to him, but you did it to protect him from the unfortunate truth. You were sure he would do the same if he was in your shoes.

--------

As the week went on, you had more detentions with Umbridge and they were getting worse. When your scars would fade, she would make you write again with her special quill and new ones would erupt. She would make you clean her office, sort parchment and other files, and yet continue to make you late for prefect duties. You would tell her that you were late and yet she gave you the same excuse. “The quicker you work, the quicker you get to leave,” she would say cheerily which just made your blood boil. 

In turn, Draco would take on more of your prefect duties due to your detentions. You would run from detention to find that he had accomplished everything already, earning a frustrated groan from you and laugh from Draco. He would just give you a tight side hug and tell you that it would all be okay. Even though you knew he would use this as leverage when he wanted something out of you next week. 

But with the detentions and prefect duties, you had put your hang outs and meet ups with Fred on pause. It made you sad to do so because Fred was your happiness, but if you didn’t take care of what you needed to, you would surely get yourself into more trouble than you had signed up for. That being said, Fred started to get suspicious of why you suddenly put your relationship on hold. 

After prefect meetings became a rarity now, most of your encounters were just passing each other on the moving staircases or in the Great Hall for meals. He started to become worried that you were becoming bored or annoyed with him. Fred would try to pull you aside to talk to you or steal a quick, but you always managed to find an excuse about how you couldn’t stay longer.

“I have to go, Freddie. I have prefect duties to take care of,” you would simply say, stroking his cheek before placing a quick kiss on his lips. 

Before you could turn away, he would grab your hand. “What about after class? Do you wanna meet at the lake?” he would try to get you to be with him. “I feel like it’s been ages since we got to be together alone,” he confesses. His heart yearned for your attention and love. He needed to know now more than ever that you still loved him.

Sighing, guilt rose in your throat at the words that were going to come out of your mouth. After class, you had detention. Your last one with Umbridge. If you missed it, she would surely give you month’s worth of detention. “I really can’t, I have responsibilities to follow, Freddie,” you say, trying not to give much away.

Fred’s heart sank as you told him what he least wanted to hear. “Fine, I understand,” he huffed. “Couldn’t you just tell Malfoy to cover for you for once? The guy’s a prick, but he can cover you for one day, can’t he?”

You lightly laughed. If only Fred knew. “That would be asking too much,” you lie through your teeth. “I have to go now, but I promise I’ll see you soon, okay?” you look at him, genuinely searching his eyes to know that he understood. He just gives you a sad smile and nods his head. “I love you.”

Before he can respond, you were gone, disappeared down the halls. As you left, Fred couldn’t help but feel off. You were hiding something from him and he was going to get to the bottom of it. He was not going to be lied to about something when it came to your relationship of all things. 

Fred started down the halls, down the staircases to the dungeons, to the Slytherin common room. He knew that you would surely be there of all places. But there was no need to even make it to the entrance. Right outside of the entrance, you stood with Draco as Fred ducked behind a wall, watching the encounter.

“This is the last time, I swear,” you tell Draco who just shakes his head.

“I know, (Y/N), you made that very clear this morning, and then again at lunch, and just now. You know I don’t mind, but you’ll have to pay me back in some way,” Draco smirks as you slap his shoulder, rolling your eyes, earning a laugh from him. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. No one’s gonna know that we did this in the first place.”

To you, this sounded like a normal conversation between you and Draco. But to Fred, this sounded horribly. Were you cheating on him with Draco? Were you sneaking around with him, not trying to get caught by anyone? It made sense, the two of you being prefects, you spent a lot of time together.

Fred couldn’t bare the sight of this anymore. He left as quickly and as quietly as he came, his heart sunk into his stomach, but anger that welled up in his chest at Malfoy was palpable. If he ever saw him in the halls alone, Draco was in for a nasty treat from Fred.

You left your short meeting with Draco and braced yourself for your last detention with Umbridge. As you walked to her office, the guilt of lying to Fred was weighing on you more than ever today. Fred looked so disappointed and so sad when you had spoke to him and when you told him you couldn’t see him much today, he looked crush. You didn’t want to give him the impression that you didn’t want to be with him or avoided hanging out with him. In fact, it was quite the opposite. You would spent every waking moment with your love if you could. But you couldn’t swell on the situation too much or else it would make you more miserable than you already were. 

---------

“Alright, Miss (Y/L/N),” Umbridge smiles as you sit at the desk, hand stinging from the pain of writing more lines on her parchment. “You’ve served your two weeks diligently. Have you learned your lesson?” 

You glare at the woman dressed in cheery pink, contrary to her personality. “Yes, ma’am,” you speak with unfaltering eye contact. Bitch. “Since I’ve done my time and done it all perfectly, can I go now?” you give a sarcastic smile.

Umbridge sits behind her desk. “As long as you have learned your lesson, you may leave,” she says as you immediately rise from the desk and grab your book bag. “Before you go Miss (Y/L/N),” she stops you, “you should know, since you’re a prefect, that order is imperative to create a diligent work environment. I will have order. Do I make myself clear?”

Opening the door without a single care, you speak, “Crystal,” before slamming it closed and leaving the wench’s quarters. “Finally,” you breathe out as you leave that wing of the castle, walking through the halls feeling relived that you detention sentence was over. Now you could finally get back on track with your prefect duties and spending more quality time with Fred. 

As you walk the halls, you hear what seems like younger kid crying alongside with a familiar voice comforting them. Turning the corner, you see a young Gryffindor boy rubbing his eyes, probably a first year. Sat next to him was your Fred, he hand his arm around the small boy, trying to comfort him. The sight made your heart swell. Fred was always so good with the younger kids, which just made you fall more in love with him. “It’s all awful, mate, I know,” Fred speaks to the small boy who is cuddled up next to Fred now. “Umbridge is terrible, everyone knows that. But you can’t let her uptight, nasty behavior get the best of you. We can still make the most out of this. She won’t last long, trust me,” he rubs the small boy’s back.

The boy looks up at Fred, eyes red and teary eyed. “I don’t want her to hurt me like she did to Harry Potter,” he sniffles. “She’s so mean. Why, Fred?”

Fred wished he knew the answer to the poor boy’s question. “Because some people are born evil. That’s the way some people are. It’s terrible, but we can try our best to show them the good. You understand?” Fred looks at the child as he nods. 

Before Fred can say anything else, you appear from down the hall and speak, “She’s not as tough as you think.” Fred looks at you and gulps. He didn’t know how to feel. Were you still seeing Malfoy? Were you going to break up with him? Should he break up with you? “Umbridge is nasty, sure, but she’s not invincible,” you walk over to where the boy is sat on the bench with Fred. “Do you wanna know a secret?” you ask the small boy, who is a little weary of you and your Slytherin robes. He looks to Fred for comfort and approval to which Fred offers his a soft smile and a gentle nod, letting him know that you were to be trusted. The child looks back at you and nods, rubbing his nose. Slowly, you show him your gloved hand before pulling the glove off to reveal your scar from punishments with Umbridge. 

The child’s eyes go wide and Fred looks at you mouth agape in shock. “(Y/N), what is going on? What happened?”

You ignore Fred for a moment and look at the child. “Umbridge did this to me. I know it looks bad and that’s because it is. But she taught me that I want to be nothing like her. She’s cruel and nasty and sick and twisted. She taught me that I want to fight harder against her and everything she stands for,” you tell the boy. “If she wants order, then I want chaos. I won’t settle for anything else.” This makes the small boy giggle. “We can follow her silly rules, but at the end of the day, we fight back against her and against her wayward system. So, you just follow alongside your other first years and when the time comes, we fight back. Sound good?” 

The small boy nods and gives you a smile. “Thank you,” he softly speaks looking at you and Fred. 

“Now, run back to your dormitory. It’s past curfew. We don’t need any more trouble, darling,” you tell the child as he nods his head and scurries down the hall back to his room as you instructed.

You and Fred were now alone on the bench, your scarred hand resting in your lap as you looked at Fred who’s eyes were fixed on your hand. “Darling, what is going on?” Fred nervously asked you. Fred never really let you see him scared because he wanted to be strong for you. But this was genuinely terrifying to him. 

Scooting closer to your boyfriend you tell him everything. “I spoke out of line in class two weeks ago. Umbridge gave me two week’s detention and this has been my punishment. Like Harry’s. She has a special quill that writes in the person’s blood and leaves scarring on their hand. It stings when I’m around her and the quill,” you confess. Fred looks at you, scared for you and he feels horribly that he couldn’t have been there to protect you. “The scars heal, but they hurt like hell.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he implores. “If I had known, I would have-”

“Would have what, Fred? Gotten in trouble and been in the same position as me?” you retort and that makes Fred go quiet. “I kept it a secret because I didn’t want you to worry about me. You would have done the same if it were you in my position. I stayed quiet because I didn’t think it was a big deal. I’m on student among many that’s getting punished like this, Harry included. I know it’s not right, but it’s not like we can stop it. She’s head master now.” 

Fred sighs, “I know it’s happening to a lot of students, but it’s you I care about. I want to know that you are alright. I would never forgive myself if something horrible happened to you.”

You place your hand on Fred’s cheek as he leans into your touch, melting into you. “I know, darling, but I can’t have you worried about me all the time.”

He gulps before asking the question that’s been bothering him all day. “So, the detention has gotten in your way of being with me. But...is there someone else that has gotten in your way as well?”

You furrow your brows for a moment and then it clicks. “Oh, Freddie...you mean Draco?” you question as he nods, you lightly laughing. “There is nothing going on there. He was taking over my prefect duties as I was in detention. He’s been covering for me so my responsibilities there are taken care of. It was a simple favor and that’s it. Nothing more. He’ll probably ask me to do his Potions homework for the next two weeks as recompense, but it’s alright.”

Fred lets out a large sigh of relief, relaxing that he knows all of the truth now. “Alright,” he sighs. “I just...I didn’t know if you were avoiding me or just trying to get away from me all together.”

Grabbing both of his hands, you look at him, “No, Fred. I’m so sorry that I made you feel that way. I love you so much and I never want to make you feel like that ever again. You mean the world to me and I never want you to believe that I resent you. I’m so sorry, love.”

Without saying another word, Fred kisses you with all the love he can muster up in that moment. His hand cups your cheek, pulling you close to him as you snake your arms around his neck. You sigh into the kiss as Fred’s touch makes you melt into him. His lips are gentle, but passionate against yours as he kisses you. He pulls away to look into your eyes, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I’m gonna make that bitch pay for what she did to you,” he growls as you laugh. “I’m serious. No one messes with my girl.”

“Godric, I love you, Freddie.”

[hardtchill]

So with England’s recent refusal to play Russia in the euros, it’s likely they may be kicked out of it entirely (same with men’s wc qualifying though it seems the potential reinstatement after the doping ban has a little to do with it too). Anyways I admire the act of solidarity with Ukraine, but is it entirely fair to punish the players for the actions of their leader? I am trying to navigate what is fair in the grand scheme of things, and also, I am not sure how important participating in the euros is for Russia to qualify in the World Cup in 2023. I would understand not allowing them to participate if allowing them would cause harm to the other athletes in any way or to themselves as many are (rightfully) angry at Russia for their invasion and since Putin is not here the athletes would get the brunt end of it. Just wanted to know your input as I am not fully educated on this subject.

Yeah, this umm is difficult, but for me banning athletes or teams has no use other than to hurt the athletes. These are the reasons i have heard so far.

Russian people need to be punished - The only thing you can 'fault' Russian players for is being born in a country with a dictator so i think it's safe to say that this is not a reason to ban them.

It's just one of the many sanctions put in place in the hopes that Putin will stop - Okay, i can understand that, but do we really think that will work? Do we really think Putin will be like, oh no we can't compete in the world cup, better stop invading?

It's only for a short time and it's needed - the needed is very much debatable. And what constitutes as a short time? A week? A month? A year? 5 years? If you decide on this measure now you can't pull it back until Putin has stopped everything and has left Ukraine. Personally i don't see that happening anytime soon unless NATO decides to grow some balls and personally kicks him out. A year is probably doable for most athletes, but what happens when it takes longer than that? A lot of athletes rely on international competition to make money. Male football players less so but athletes competing individually often times rely on prize money (for example Tennis or speedskating) to not only continue competing but also just feed their families.

With all these reasons you can say, well okay it sucks but there are more measures that suck (freezing banks for example), but it's necessary. In which case i'm on board because yes it is necessary and in that case the need outweighs the consequences for the Russian people, especially because those measures should shorten the length of the war which can only be good for Russian people.

However, banning athletes from international tournaments has absolutely zero effect on the length of this war. Putin is not going to care about athletes not being allowed to go to a world cup, he just doesn't. If anything he will use the ban to further indoctrinate the Russian population into believing the west is against them.

Banning events in Russia and banning Russian sponsors will work, because that is money lost for Putin. By all means cancel every international sporting event scheduled in Russia for the next 10 years because that works. Banning individual athletes will not work, you will only cause more pain and suffering, but this time on an individual level!

I want to end with the fact that individual athletes are not their country and especially not their dictator. We don't ban Chinese athletes because their president is killing the Uyghurs. We didn't ban American athletes when the US was invading Afghanistan. We don't ban athletes from Israel because their government is invading Palestine. Somehow in those cases we can see that athletes are not to blame for the decisions of dictators.

*There is an exception here. Any athlete outwardly supporting Putin can be thrown into the Atlantic Ocean for all i care. You most definitely need to ban those athletes.

[mxvladdy]

Diavolo- True Form

Whoooooooo weeeee! ‘Pologies for the wait on these longer posts. I’ve been hit with a one two punch of house emergencies and sudden costly ass repairs, so my creative juices have been rightly squashed as of late.

Plus side I got my drawing tablet and drafting table back so I can neaten up my blog lay out now (yay!) 

Anyway this one was a challenge in the best possible ways. I really like Diavolo because of how little we know about him so it gave me some wiggle room. Or at least what I know of him- im only on like chapter 23 of the stories. Idk if I did him justice as this is angsty af but I sure had a blast writing it!

Hope ya like! Next up: Beelzebub 

Trigger warning: Mention of blood, and swearing. 

Diavolo-

He'll never show you, so don't ask. His true form is god-like in its own right and such knowledge, such truly raw demonic power in its natural form is not for your mortal eyes.

No matter what your lineage, it would break you. And despite his roles and being the literal devil, he doesn’t want you suffering.

Sometimes when he thinks you wouldn't notice he relaxes his hold on reality, just a fraction. He wants to relieve some of the tension that is always building just below the surface. Like closing your eyes when you have a tension headache. The mental energy he has to exert to keep face is enormous. Regular glamour doesn’t work nearly as well as his own, or Barbato’s magic.

But you see hints during your downtime spent in his company. A ripple in his reflection on the window pane. Unexplainable shadows dancing across his exposed skin. Too many teeth in his mouth when he laughs. Sometimes when you stare into his eyes you see something indescribable staring back behind them. His usually warm and inviting gaze darkening. A barest flicker, a hulking bestial thing kept locked behind in his golden gaze. It's enough to freeze the blood in your veins.

On certain nights when you can slip away from the brothers you stay in his room. Lying  awake, you watch his magic wane and shift as he slumbers. Sometimes you see runes, or at times letters. You are tempted to write them down and ask Solomon. But something stops you each time.

The worst images are the faces. Unknown souls trapped beneath his flesh clawing to be freed. Silent screams fading back into his body as he dreams. Your fragile fingers trace the patterns they leave as you wait for the next day wrapped in his embrace.

Only once have you seen more of his form then he would ever wish. The depths of his strength and mental fortitude were unknown to you so the slip up took you both by surprise. He masks the error well, but the sudden shift in energy in the room couldn’t be suppressed .

You are suddenly so aware of the oppressive weight of gravity on your frame. Your bones grinding together under the force of his aura. You panic, desperate by the need to breathe, but are unable to draw even the smallest bit of oxygen as it is robbed from the room. Time and reality wrapped too, distorting in ways only you thought only Barbatos could do. You knew in that moment the sudden dread of death, how mortally was but a rusty shackle tethering you down.

He collects himself, dispelling the energy and locking his glamour down tight to protect you. But that split second of fury felt like an eternity to you as you sink to the floor. You hiccup a shaky sob and shiver. Your fragile human mind bowing under the strain of what it cannot comprehend. Scolding hot tears fall from your cheeks, before splashing crimson the stone below you.

You didn't approach him again for over a month. No matter how strong you are, some things were better off unseen.

Mini Fic

He didn’t know. For once in his ancient pitiful existence, he had been unaware of his surroundings. It had been for just a moment, one tiny crack in his veneer. The foolishness of Mammon and Belphegor’s actions finally poked the right nerve. He wouldn’t hurt them, for Lucifer’s sake. That prideful demon would never forgive him if he did. But he could scare them. A quick look at his true self; a flash of the deepest bowels of hell. Enough to give them a reminder of their positions and standing in his court. He had expected their whimpers of fear, could taste the acidic tinge of it exuding from their pores. What he didn’t expect though was your blood curdling screams alongside.

Ironically, he would have to thank the second eldest later. His fast thinking is the only thing that saved you from complete damnation. His body shielded yours, taking the brunt of the stronger daemons hellish might for you. What little magic Mammon still had left used to protect you. Though, while your vision was blocked, you could still feel his oppressive presence. It racked your mortal flesh. Diavolo knew what affects his power had on humans. He spent years breaking and consuming damned souls with zeal after all.

The brothers had run from him after that, screaming for Simone. Barbatos following close behind, a look of consternation on his usually impassive face. You had been so limp in Mammon's arms. Diavolo could do nothing, shocked by his own weak will and realization that he might have ruined everything. You had been whisked away so quickly by his faithful servant and the brothers that he hadn’t had a chance to look you over himself. But the brief moment he saw will haunt him for years to come. Your eyes red from the sudden haemolacria, the blood staining your clothes and face. Your fingers digging away at your soft skin, black and purple blotches staining what he could see. Mouth opened wide on a silent scream. He knew what you must have seen. The souls of the damned trapped under his glamour breaking free to latch on to your unmarred soul trying to drag you back with them.

Against his butler's advice he stands at your door now days later trying to see you. He couldn’t sit around and just hear updates second hand. The brothers had been keeping guard most days in a valiant attempt to keep him away. But he could only be waylaid for so long before he used his rank against them.

He had arranged a full council meeting. Every one of the brothers knowing full well it was to get them out of his way. Yet, the order was absolute. This time none of the brothers could reject it. Barbatos would keep them in that room for eternity if he so wished for it. He hated using his age and power against them, but he saw no other way to get to you.

It was foolish now, standing as he was in front of your door. A part of him hoping you would turn the knob and let him in. Let him comfort you for once, instead of the asinine distractions the brothers offered. He could help too. Hells, he wanted to. He wanted to be closer to you. Power discrepancy be damned. The other part of him knowing it was for the best that you didn’t. Your guardian and tormentor all in one. He listens to your muffled sobs for a moment fighting with his feet to stay cemented to the floor instead of heading back in defeat.  

"When my father was still around he took me down to the deepest depths of the kingdom. Where the worst of the traitors and sinners are imprisoned." His deep baritone rumbles through your door during a break in your crying. "It’s a place few seldom go; even now I have yet to return. Back then he told me ‘there will never be a human soul that is undeserving of punishment. Even the ones destined for the celestial realm are tethered to sin.’ At that time I believed him. The things I saw in your realm... " The prince chuckles wearily.

He remembers the ever present scowl on the old King's face. His dark eyes looking out at the sea of damned souls he controlled. Even as a young daemon, fresh into his wings and still sharpening his horns to impress others he could tell how much his father detested his position. How it had warped him, turning him bitter and cold, even to his mate and only child.

Diavolo never wanted to be like that. Not to the ones he supposedly cared for at the very least. "I think that is why he hated the other realms so much.” He continued. “Humans, for their ability to choose which realm they would eventually end up in after they pass. That even the worst sinners could find redemption enough at the last moment to get to the pearly gates. While daemons, no matter how well they served, or the duties they did for the good of their own would never be seen as equals to our celestial counterparts or yours. That this existence is all we'll ever be destined to have. Nightmares and monsters, stories to tell little human children to keep them in line.” He pauses, collecting himself. “I believed wholeheartedly that every human deserved the punishments only my kind could dowel out. But, in this past year I have spent with you, I find myself changing. You are so undeserving of such torment. Somehow you are understanding and forgiving beyond measure to us. You handle our ill tempers with such grace. For daemons such as us, it is staggering, and humbling. I regret that I have hurt you so deeply and have broken your trust. I swear it as the head of this realm I would never intentionally do so." He looks at the door handle willing it to open. " I am so sorry."

Your crying picks up again. Huge heaving sobs that rattle your chest. Great Father, he just keeps making it worse. Clearing his head Diavolo turns.

Rejection of this nature was new to him. No one had ever dared to ignore him, especially such as this. The royal in him- his father's blood- seethed that he would even stoop so low as to grovel to a short lived thing like yourself. Even deeper yet, it demanded another taste of your essences. You little soul kept safe behind your rib cage. He wanted it added to his collection, kept tucked away deep within his maws.

It was sick; it was wrong. He chokes on the idea. The intrusive thought burrowing deep. How deplorable was he? Perhaps the angels were right to keep him out of heaven.

You didn't show to class the following day, or the days after. Unsurprising to him and the seven of the inner council. He figured the other day wouldn’t change anything. But it was utter agony to him. These days trapped in his office only getting short and curt updates on your health from Lucifer. It had been a special kind of torment.

Today he sat once again at his desk staring at some godforsaken bitching of a royal cousin. He knew this whelp. Some backwater thrice removed eons ago. Yet he was demanding an audience? The gall. The ink of their eligible handwriting makes him cross eyed. Would this day ever cease? He looks to his hourglass, the sands within seemingly frozen in time.

"My Lord, perhaps you should take a moment to stretch your legs?" Barbatos moved from his corner. Gloved hand coming to rest on top of the same three lines he had been reading for the past two hours. "This work could wait another evening I’m certain ."

"Did I do the right thing my friend?" Diavolo doesn't even bother answering the question his servant posed. They both knew he wouldn't. "This program. Our human exchange students. Solomon is one thing, but-"

"Your will and path is absolute." Barbatos states. "There are no mistakes within you, merely stumblings onto different paths."

With a gentle push Barbatos moves the hulking demon out of his way to collect and organize the scrolls and letters scattered about the large desk. "You made the right choice bringing them here. Look at what they have done. They are entertainment to you are they not?"

The prince rose knocking his desk aside and descended on his butler. His true form out in all its unholy glory now. His highly condensed magic distorting the study as if he was a black hole. The axis of the room shifts. His priceless collection of books and toys disintegrating from the cold radiation he emits.

It was all for show really. There was nothing he could do to an ancient being such as Barbatos. So he lashed out, throwing a tantrum in the security of his office. The hopeless agitation he felt fueling the flames of his rage. His butler had only added holy water to his already festering wounds.

Barbatos had been by his side for time in memoriam. The crafty bastard had helped raise him. Had shaped him into the ruler he was today. If anyone could break and remold him it would be his oldest companion.

The dark haired daemon waited for the waves of agitation to dry up. Moving only when the prince was in his more presentable demonic form. Large barrel chest heaving as he reined himself in. “Are you back to your senses?” He asks coolly, already categorizing the items to replace and furniture to be mended.

"I had not meant for it to go like this."  Diavolo croaks into his hands collapsing back on what remained of his desk. Building a bridge between realms, yes. That noble idea was the greater purpose of this program, but the rest of it. The classes, and dances. The parties where he threw his newest toys about to see how they would react to things other mortals worshiped? That had been for his own curiosity and amusement. Lesser beings navigating a foreign world blind to the dangers that were right under their very nose. Bring a mortal with no magic into his realm? Deep down he knew this was an inevitability. Especially with the freedoms he granted them. He just didn’t think he would get so attached.

“No one believes that you would hurt them on purpose.” His butler cuts off his downward spiral. “It would ruin the program. That is what you are so stressed about, right?” Barbatos eyes him skeptically. Diavolo, himself, and Lucifer had spent many sleepless weeks constructing and negotiating this program. If the Arch Angels heard a mortal was hurt down here it could very well end this little escapade. But the look in the prince’s eyes told a different story.

A warm glow emanated from his cheeks and he was unable to meet the old daemon’s gaze. Ah. "Or perhaps things have changed?" Barbatos smiles coyly up from beneath his bangs. "You are your mother's son after all. Neither of you were ever able to stem your bleeding hearts for long." Diavolo squawked indignantly but didn’t argue. Instead he merely turns a darker shade of red and curses under his breath.

He skipped out on court that evening. Not that he cared much. The other nobles would no doubt use the time to gossip about his whereabouts and uncouth behavior of late. Truth be told, he was avoiding the brothers more than anything else. They had made it expressly clear (some more then others) how they felt about him currently. He wouldn't doubt that Belphegor had a few more brothers on his side now.

Instead he stood at your door once more with a tea tray in hand. He had bumped into Simone on the way. The angel had come to bring you dinner and to check up on the last of your wounds. Celestial magic worked miracles on those who have been touched by the darker arts. Diavolo was grateful for his talents. And, by some miracle, Simone had made it abundantly clear he was not going to bring this to the higher ups on his end either.

Upon seeing the prince slinking up the house's stairwell the other man had simply smiled and offered him the tray. “I suddenly got a message from Luke. Could you perhaps drop this by our friend’s door?” Diavolo had accepted without preamble, large hands dwarfing the platter of little tea cakes and sandwiches. The young cherubs work no doubt. His cooking was a fine treat, and a great incentive to at least open the door.

“Hello again.” He knocks twice. “I just wanted to check in on you. I know I am the last person you wish to see but I was hoping to talk?” Silence greets him. Were you awake? He breathes deeply and focuses on picking up your vitals. You were up, your heart thumping steady somewhere in the room. That was good. “I also have dinner for you. Simone had an urgent matter to attend to so he- for better or worse- entrusted this to me.”

Diavolo searches hopelessly for something else to say. He couldn’t just leave the food and go. He needed to see you. “I don’t plan on staying long today. I understand when I am not wanted, but I cannot help myself but be worried for you. Perhaps this is just me contritioning, because I know I caused this. The amount of times I have been called a ‘ass’ by Solomon over this have been staggering.” He rambles. After another bout of silence from your end he coincides. “I see- I will leave the food by the door and let you rest.” Defeated he puts the food down and turns to leave.

The door clicks open slowly. One bloodshot eye peeking through the crack. “Oh mio piccolo mortale.” He loses his grip on your shared tongue at a loss. You looked- you must have been in the hall longer then he or the brothers had known. Such damage couldn’t be done in a few moments. Your skin was healing as nicely as Lucifer had said, but the deep purple scarring still remained on the surface. The burn pattern of it all was random. Twisting wounds that reflected an oily sheen from the light of the hallway. “I-.”

“I know-” You cut him off with a raised hand. “and I feel as though I owe you an apology too.” Your voice was so weak and shaky. A mockery of your normally strong and jovial tone. Hearing you laugh at school had brightened the dreary halls. He hadn’t realized it until you weren't there.

“You owe me nothing.” Diavolo says in earnest. He watches you contemplate your next words before throwing whatever you were going to say away.

“Would you like to come in?” Your eyes drop to the tray. “Luke always makes more than I can eat.”

“I don’t think that would be wise.” He backs out. All his plans crashing and burning around his feet. His actions had been irreparable.

“Perhaps not,” You open the door wider taking the tray and heading to your side table, leaving him no room to argue. “But then again, being a lamb among such wolves as yourself and the brothers isn’t smart either.” You meant it as a joke but he couldn’t even muster a chuckle. It was true. Gods. “Dia-” You approach him again but falter at the last second.

As much as you wanted to be close to him again the memories were still so fresh in your mind. The cold hell fire of his magic ensnaring you, searing your skin. The whispered words of sinners long since past still echoing in your head, all in languages you’ve never heard before. The worst though had to be the screaming. Lost souls begging for help. Some sounded so familiar…You shutter involuntarily.

You wanted to hate him for this. Curse him for putting you through this pain. But how much could you blame him? Or any of them? They were daemons. Whether he meant to hurt you or not, it truly had only been a matter of time before it happened. It would be hypocritical of you to fear or hate him forever over this. Six of the seven brothers have threatened your life before, and you have forgiven them. Hell, one of them actually killed you. What’s more was that Diavolo’s wrath hadn’t even been directed at you.

Wrong place at the right time; seemed to be your forte. “Please, come in.” You repeat again firmer than before mustering up either courage or sheer human stupidity to order him in. You couldn’t tell the difference anymore. “We need to talk.”  

He enters, following at your heel like a lost puppy. All air of princedom gone as you clicked the door shut. Diavolo fiddles with his hands, old habits from childhood coming with his nerves. He didn’t know what to expect anymore. Yelling? Some kind of beratement? A plea to go home and never look back?  He would let you.

You pass by him, giving him a large berth of space to get to your seat. “Tea?”  

Diavolo jerks his head to you. He had forgotten momentarily the plate of food he had used to get access to you. You smile sheepishly pushing it and a plate of sweets towards him with your unbandaged knuckles. He doesn’t move till your hand retracts back to your lap. You jerk your head to the open seat waiting for him. You weren’t going to take no for an answer.

“I- thank you.” The daemon sits making himself as small as possible in the straight back chair. He takes the porcelain and drinks mindlessly. The scalding hot tea doing little to help the tightness of his throat, but it did thaw some of the ice in his mind.

“Are-how…” He fumbles so unsure of what to do next. “I see you’ve been keeping up with your school work.” Diavolo closes his eyes, wincing internally at his words. That’s what he comes up with? Idiotic.

You smile anyway, eyeing the massive pile of books and paperwork spewn about your bed. “Yeah. I’ve taken to doing my school work with Levi in his room. Mammon and Beel are nice enough to drop it off to the teachers when they are due.” He nods. He knew this of course. But it was nice to hear it from you. But yet, you don’t meet his eyes. Far too afraid to see what hid behind them.

The thought of being dragged back into those dark depths again makes your pulse quicken. You instead stare at your nail beds, finding them more interesting. They were purple now. The nails stained black by the contact with his magic. “Will- will that go away?” He asks. Demonic curses or taints were nigh impossible to remove fully. Disgustingly, he hoped they didn’t. Then your nails would match his. The darker depths of his soul coo at the idea, happy that in a small way every daemon would know your his. Not as good as a pact, but as close as he could get to being a part of your little mortal life.

“I’m not sure.” You reply honestly bringing your hands up to place them on the table. “Simone and Solomon have done what they could. But, it is as good as it’s going to get for now. They say it could fade with time.” You look up at him, eyes gazing to the left of his face. “Luke thinks I should see a stronger angel.” Diavolo winces, the thought stung, and terrified him. “I told him no.”

That surprised him. This was your chance. The celestial realm had been skeptical from the beginning. If they knew, it would be a perfect caveat for them to step in. “Why?” Finally you look at him. The fear was still there. Hesitation evident in your eyes. Yet you forced yourself to look at him, fighting through your trepidation.

“Did you mean what you said earlier? About your father and what you think of me?”

“Of course.” He replies without hesitation reaching for your cold hands. You flinch but don’t move away. It felt-nice. His warmth chasing away the perpetual chill that covered your fingertips. Idly you stroke his strong hands with your thumbs.

“Then, I think we can work on this privately.” Slowly but surely you felt like you could fix this. Not for the program, but for yourself.  

[sirianhewigxiii]

Folks, I wasn’t really going to write a full-blown analysis about this entire scene - but it somehow turned into one when I started putting down a minor comment I was planning on making about xD 

But I couldn’t help it, especially since I was hoping for something like this and the show delivered something even better...

First there’s Ironwood. He’s down and defeated, both physically and most likely mentally as well. Winter dragged him into the room in handcuffs, the modified version of his weapon on her back and maybe after she had thrown him into the cell she actually even helped him lie down once she had uncuffed him - who knows, either way she had locked him up now. She ended up having to lock him up and place a barrier between them.

So back to the beginning of the scene when we first get back to the cell room after the time stop, Winter is turned towards Ironwood’s cell and she was looking at her scroll and Jaune’s broadcast.

Still what was she doing before that? Was she probably just looking at Ironwood, thinking about how things ended up the way they did? 

I don’t think there’s any regret in her whatsoever, but maybe just a little sadness about what he has become, because at least at some point in her life he probably was the father she always wanted for herself - one that was nurturing her and listened to what she had to say.

So, we first see her turned towards Ironwood and a few seconds in the camera swings to the side and we see Jacques to Winter’s left. And so far Winter hasn’t even acknowledged him in the slightest, she was looking at her scroll, most likely Ironwood before that and she wasn’t even looking at him when she brought Ironwood in. 

Mind you, Jacques is an asshole who got what’s coming to him, but remember, he has no idea about anything that is happening right now and just for a split-second imagine what it must have been like for him to see Winter coming into the room where the cells are...And not only did she just come into the room - she was dragging in the very man he had once accused of ‘stealing her from him’ at the same time.

And it looks like, in a maybe desperate attempt to get to know about what was going on or maybe just to clutch at any last straw he thought he might have, he must have gotten up and walked to the edge of his cell. Still with how WInter was ignoring him he probably hadn’t dared saying a word up until Jaune’s announcement.

And only then Winter barely looked at him to reply and she even turned around to leave halfway - the strongest reason for that most likely being the fact that she was completely unwilling to talk to him and even what reply she had given him felt constrained as if she was forcing herself to do it. 

Still at this point it looks as if she was at least somewhat trying to at least relay what was necessary to him. But here’s where this entire first shot and the positioning come to play.

Not only is there only some large distance between them, but the perspective this is shown from has the corner-projector of the cell’s wall between them and the pillar looks like a thick black line that separates Winter and Jacques. And Jacques is at the edge of the shot and occupying the lesser space of the two.

If we go full symbolic: that thick line that devides them will most likely never disappear and always be there. Jacques has messed up too badly for that to happened. He had ruined Winter’s entire youth and put her through too much shit. Winter was disinherited when she joined the military, if we do some math here it must have been when she was 21. 

She entered Atlas Academy at the age of 17, had four years of training there and enlisted once she was done. 

We can figure that she must have been already in the military for at least a year or two, since Weiss had been the heiress in her stead for enough time for word to spread around by then. (Blake already knew Weiss in V1), so make her maybe 23 in V3 and since two years have past since the Fall of Beacon she is right now 25 years-old.

So she’s now 25 and for the first 21 years of her life she has suffered through his terror, we have seen some of his behavior through Weiss’ experience, but I can imagine that while Jacques still had a tight grip on Winter, she was the one taking the brunt of his outbursts and punishments on Weiss’ and Whitley’s behalf to protect them for a much longer time by then. Part of Weiss’ and Whitley’s conversation when we first met Whitley in V4 also suggests that the two younger siblings were mostly together most of the time until Weiss first became the second heiress and later on left for Beacon. 

Coming back to Winter that means that for the majority of her life Jacques was keeping her completely isolated, probably even from her siblings - Winter’s room was close enough for Willow to figure out how the Hound was closing in on Whitley in Jacques’ office, when Weiss had to walk quite a distance from her room to the office in V4 and we’ve seen Whitley had been dropping by Weiss’ room often enough in V4 to maybe suggest that his room isn’t too far from Weiss’. 

Winter left Schnee Manor for the military completely on her own, never having had a team at the Academy that we know of, never having had any friends she spoke of or rather having been denied all of those thing from, guess who Jacques who was most likely keeping tabs on everything she did at Atlas Academy. 

The first and only friend she had probably made only after freeing herself must have most likely been Penny. Penny who of her own had a special peculiar situation that set her apart from others.

And Weiss who had most likely noticed how Jacques was trying to keep in control of Winter even at the Academy, therefore left for Beacon, while officially coming up with some other excuse he wasn’t smart enough to see through.

And while a 17-year-old Weiss, who had been the heiress since she was probably 15 only, had the chance to more freely meet people, make friends and properly heal. Winter didn’t. 

Or rather she might have healed to some extend and moved forward with her life, but she has huge scars that will always remain and never disappear and so she will never forgive Jacques for what she has been through because of him.

Still when Jacques tries to reach out in desperation and gets zapped by the barrier, Winter slowly stops and actually gives him an answer to his question, even though she still doesn’t even look at him.

 So why did she still talk to him? Why did she go out of her way to tell him that they were going to come back for him (and Ironwood) once they were done saving everybody else? Because of Weiss. 

It’s only for a second but we clearly get to see Winter’s pain when Jacques thanks her and whatever he was trying to say afterwards to weasel himself into her good graces gets immediately shut down, when Winter turns around, directly looks at him for the first time and shuts him down with the truth. 

She only looks at him because the one thing she wants him to actually understand is that she wasn’t the one saving him. She makes sure that he clearly knows that she had nothing to do with it and that it was Weiss’ decision to save his sorry ass. If it was up to her, Winter would just simply leave him to rot here and it was only at her younger sister’s request that she didn’t.

And after that Jacques knows it too. You can visibly see him simply shutting down right after and the moment he realizes it.

For the first time he might have actually become aware of how much irreparabel damage he had done to his first child (or all of his children in general).

This wasn’t what he kept thinking of as Winter just running away and being unruly or Winter having been taken away from him by Ironwood. Jacques finally realized that Winter actually truly left because of him. Because he was fucking up.

And he realized that his life means nothing to her.

Actually absolutely nothing.

[hallothere]

I broke down and wrote the essay. No, I did not and will not proofread it. I don’t waaaannaaaa

There’s Only One Winner For Isengard

In a perfect world, in a world with no meta requirements that could bend to the will of the player, we would roll up to Isengard level-capped, no debuffs, with one quest-marker on hand: Ruin Saruman’s day. But this is a pre-written sequence of events in which we are only along for the ride. We, the player, and a Ranger are shipped off to Isengard with only one conceivable goal: survive. On a meta level we know what Saruman is capable of. At level 70 or 80-something at best, even we are aware that we are no match for a wizard with a canon fate. Not to mention our Ranger companion! The Grey Company has been through enough (though we don’t know the half of it yet) and we are reasonably distraught at the possibilities.

This is why we, the player character, will lose the game of Isengard.

Beyond the meta rules of the game, where quest objectives are whatever the devs wanted them to be (looking at you, Mordrambor) the player character can not defeat Saruman in any way that’s meaningful. And (again on a meta level) in order for us to get to experience the action at Helm’s Deep and Rohan at large, we have to get out of Isengard. We’d get bored of waiting for Theoden and Co. We’d hurl insults or slap fish at Saruman and realistically incur wrath. Honestly, with the set of circumstances presented to us, who could survive imprisonment in Nan Curunir?

Only one of the Company ever could: Lothrandir of Suri Kyla. 

To begin with, none of the Rangers we have any real information on could have done it. Anyone who’s spent time in Angmar is at a disadvantage due to the prevailing dread (game mechanic or otherwise) that can be manipulated by Saruman. Any Ranger that has a major traumatic past is at a disadvantage (sorry Mincham) because if nothing else, Saruman has proven to be a master of illusion. Even Halbarad for all his leadership ability has a pretty exploitable weakness: eventually Saruman can crack the code with a vision of Aragorn’s demise, the one end Halbarad must fear above all others. Or what bond could more easily be exploited than that of a leader and his men? Lheu Brenin’s in the gang now after all. All Saruman would have to do was send for a few more incentives. 

But Lothrandir comes built with a few key advantages that make him the only Grey Company Ranger qualified to come out of this battle of wills on top. His specific strengths, mindset, and personality traits combined with the circumstances that the game sets up going into Isengard make him the clear choice of Rangers- if a Ranger you must have- to stay behind in Nan Curunir. 

Lothrandir wins because he changes the game. From ‘go’ our co-prisoner does something that either puzzles the player character or sends them into an anxious fit. Lothrandir declares himself fearless and sprints recklessly into the ring. Any way you figure it, this seems like a poorly calculated move. He doesn’t stop to survey the enemy. He doesn’t gather intel. Heck, he doesn’t even bide his time to see if he’ll be killed before he even reaches the dungeons. Lothrandir sprints right in without so much as a thought or a plan. Saruman doesn’t know it yet, but from that moment on Lothrandir has him on the back foot. 

Consider for a moment Saruman’s MO. He’s a wizard, and he uses a great deal of magic, sure, but time and time again we are reminded of the power of his voice and his words. He calls down a storm on Caradhras (in the movies for darn sure), he via-Wormtongue whispers poison into the ears of King Theoden. He doesn’t lead with any kind of grandiose display when trying to sway Gandalf. No, he leads with a persuasive argument. Later on, he nearly talks Theoden back around, after failing to wipe out all of Rohan. After killing the man’s son for goodness sakes. He nearly talks himself out of that one!

But Lothrandir has already changed this from a game of wits to a game of wills. There will be no vying for favor, or biding time, or compliance, or even giving Saruman a chance to ‘talk it over friendly’ first. He’s already spitting on the shoes of everyone he sees. The accomplishment in this is twofold, and it makes a major impact on the rest of his time in Nan Curunir. 

Firstly, by establishing a new game, Lothrandir sets Saruman up for a whole lot of assumptions. He does not display any signs of diplomatic ability, wisdom, or even common sense. He very intentionally projects an attitude of reckless disobedience. In the player’s own eyes, it seems as if he ‘doesn’t know any better’. This gives Saruman a clear path to take regarding Lothrandir. He assumes you can’t reason the typical way with someone who has shown zero inclination for listening. The player character demonstrates that the Grey Company (or least their associates) are capable of compliance. For all intents and purposes, this Lothrandir doesn’t appear to be. He’s contrary, fool-hardy, and evidently dumb enough to dive in headfirst and get himself killed. You beat that kind of guy into submission… don’t you?

But Lothrandir has changed the rules of the game. Saruman is no longer fighting with his best weapon, but with a tool to be found in any old villain’s arsenal. When he took the approach of reasoning with the player character and disregarding Lothrandir, he set the victor’s foundation on our snow-pilgrim’s greatest strength. 

Secondly, by establishing a new game, Lothrandir makes this a battle of physical endurance. Unbeknownst to Saruman, this is the one thing that makes him stand out from the rest of the Grey Company. He has walked through the frozen north lands and the fiery south lands and come out unscathed. He has mastered the unarmed combat style of the Lossoth by joining in mid-winter wrestling matches in a place that took down many Elves, Angmarim, and notably one King of Arthedain! Lothrandir has conceivably spent his entire life training for this matchup. Any endurance he has built up, any fighting he can do without access to a weapon, all are assets to the kind of game he just made Saruman play. Lothrandir is uniquely built to survive any physical torment Isengard can throw at him, or at least, better equipped than any of the others. 

To say Lothrandir is the best choice, we also have to rule out the others. Corunir was thwarted by the Rammas Deluon and for all he learned from that, it’s a weak spot in his proverbial armor. Golodir too, resisted a fair degree of torture (palantiri based, even!) in Carn Dum, but it won’t be hard for Saruman to suss that one out and make our old man’s life a living nightmare. Even Radanir, serious and seemingly unattached to any social bonds now that his good pal Elweleth has gone sailing, would be a poor choice. He is too serious, (for lack of a better term) too genre-savvy, and even if he is spitting blood and delivering a witty one-liner, that’s Saruman’s foot in the door! ‘I’ll never betray my friends and kin, you kaleidoscope hack’? You’ve just told him your weakness, Radanir! No, he can’t keep his mouth shut to save his (or Saerdan’s) life. Radanir is the wrong choice too.

We don’t know a significant amount about the others (except Ranger death would move Calenglad to tears, we can’t put him through this) in order to pinpoint their fatal flaws in the Isengard encounter. But, the game puts us in the incredible position of having seen Lothrandir’s Achilles’ heel and letting us take that disadvantage away. 

Lothrandir of Suri Kyla is uniquely equipped to survive any physical encounter that Saruman throws his way. Now, who’s to say the wizard won’t change his tune and go back to his old tricks? In an incredible twist of fate, we are. The game sets us, the player, up to play Saruman’s game from the get-go. We keep our pixelated head down, try and fly below the radar, and express just enough concern over the fate of our fool-hardy pal to get Saruman to cement his estimation of Lothrandir as a pawn in the game in stone. By making ourselves the better target for the words of a wily wizard, Saruman decides that the best way to deal with the spare prisoner is by playing right into his hands. As we all know, the player character escapes. While that might seem bad for someone who Saruman has earmarked for corporal punishment only, it covers Lothrandir’s one weakness. 

Aside from being the only significant unarmed fighter, Lothrandir is also never painted as a loner. He spends his time in Suri Kyla, hanging out with the Lossoth and sharing their campfires. In the new questline in Forochel, he jumps at the chance to make a new Dunedain friend and takes to King Arvedui like a duck to water. They’re instant best pals. It’s minutes before Lothrandir is telling him Aragorn’s life story and pledging to go with him on a buddy adventure to seek peace for a regretful shade. And if that’s not enough canon for you, Lothrandir bears the brunt of the Falcon clan aggression on the way to Isengard. He does it for you, his friend and companion in suffering. It’s a bit meta, but we have to assume in the internal universe he knows you a little. You’ve run your merry adventures to a degree where, were this not a video game, Lothrandir would at least consider you an ally if not a friend outright. 

He exposes his weakness unwittingly to the Falcon clan, but he leaves it at the gates of Isengard in an extremely well-timed move. By sprinting through the gates without a care as to what’s going on with you or anyone else, Lothrandir establishes an emotional distance between you both in the eyes of any onlookers. Whatever affection you have for him, it doesn’t seem reciprocated. This isn’t a major weakness for Saruman to exploit, then. You’re not one of his kinsmen. If he did want to pursue that line, he could always send to Tur Morva for one, right?

This is where the game comes back in to shift the tide in Lothrandir’s favor. We escape. We play the game, we nearly lose the game, and had we not been given an out the power scaling makes it difficult to conceive of an outcome where we the player can win Isengard. Sure, we’ve been released from prisons before (Delossad to name one) but this is the climax of Dunland. We make a daring escape, and move south towards the Gap of Rohan and all sorts of bad times. 

Back in Nan Curunir, Lothrandir is getting the daylights beat out of him, and taking a victory lap. He’s cemented his position as ‘the prisoner we’ll break with violence’. The uruks have seen him insubordinate and disorderly. In the Lothrandir interlude, there’s not only the canon (stated outright!) reality of past and present torture. There’s also zero hesitation in Lothrandir taking that one on the chin. There are no other objectives on his mind than making the next few minutes as miserable as possible for everyone around. He has no other goals. And he doesn’t need them. Nobody is surprised that Lothrandir is signing his death warrant within nanoseconds of being presented an offer to comply. He spits on the offer. He tips over the slop bucket. He beats bloody any orc (and gameplay purposes aside there are very few that dare come forward) that actually tries to kill him for it outright. 

He’s built up a non-rapport with Gun Ain. She talks about killing him and he doesn’t say anything. They’re all playing his game and he’s winning. In the conversation with Saruman, we’re not given the opportunity to watch Lothrandir ‘resist’ in the same fashion the player character did. We don’t need to. Saruman has bigger and better things to worry about- killing a prince, wiping out a nation- than one Ranger who he’s just going to order well-flayed again. By setting himself up as the punching bag, Lothrandir has managed to fly beneath Saruman’s priority threshold. He’s been relegated to the responsibility of Gun Ain, and still with somewhat protected status because they haven’t wormed anything useful out of him yet.

All of these moves have culminated to an impasse. Saruman is not winning points in the game like he expected. One ‘meathead Ranger’ has managed to resist all the torments of Isengard, and he’s gained nothing from this. The other prisoner escaped, word had doubtless reached him that the Tur Morva Thirty-Odd are free and raring to be a thorn in his side again. He has no external leverage to apply on Lothrandir and it’s become increasingly obvious that our Ranger friend is not engaging like the player did. But still, Saruman has his pride. It’s his downfall in the end, and it’s his downfall in his fight against the one Ranger who’s already beating him. Lothrandir can’t be killed outright because Saruman hasn’t won yet. And with that guarantee of protection, Lothrandir can coast all the way to the conquest of Isengard. 

He can keep playing the game and stalling for time. It’s morbid, but what better way to waste someone’s time and energy than convincing them slow, drawn-out torture is the way to go? A little extreme, Lothrandir, but it’s still his game to lose. He wastes Saruman’s time. If he is eventually rescued, total victory. If he’s killed in the end, he definitely didn’t give the wizard the satisfaction, so a less resounding victory but one in the win column nonetheless. 

With a little help from our usually Ranger-cidal devs, Lothrandir reprograms Saruman’s game of chess to a boxing match. He takes out all his disadvantages, gets Isengard to attack from a point of... if not weakness then at least neutral ability, and then devotes his every waking breath to violent disobedience.

Sure, you could have taken any of the Grey Company with you to Isengard. Lheu Brenin could have swapped out for Braigar or Amlan or Mithrendan or Culang- but only one of these guys has the brute strength, commitment, and sheer audacity to pull it off. 

You take Lothrandir to Orthanc. There’s a different prisoner of Nan Curunir when he leaves.

[rosyfingereddawnn]

heart of gold (chapter one)

pairing: robert plant x florence bennett (oc)

warnings: domestic abuse, misogyny, description of (past) injury, just... absolute fuckery

words: 3.3k

summary: trapped in a loveless marriage to a powerful man, florence bennett lives every day in despair. after a chance encounter with a golden-haired actor, florence finds that her life will never be the same again.

author’s note: so. this is a nice little period piece, because what else am i gonna do with the history degree i'm studying for. please note that the views of one mr. bennett (and friends) are not my own. hope you enjoy :) feedback, as always, is appreciated!

masterlist

playlist

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Nightgown swaying in the soft breeze of a crisp fall morning, Florence stands outside the door of the ornate music room. Notes of beautiful melancholy and bitter hope filter softly through the wooden door, slightly ajar, a broken barrier to the outside world.

Looking through the small crack, Florence gazes upon the face of her friend and confidante, John Paul Jones. Too enthralled in his playing to notice the distraction, he never lets up, heavenly melodies echoing against the marble walls.

John was rather short, thin, with straight tawny hair that framed his strong jaw, softening his face. His stormy gray eyes and high cheekbones give the immediate impression of royalty, of which he was not. A lowly servant of the master of the gorgeous manor, Mr. Allen Bennett, John’s time was divided between his seemingly never-ending list of chores and his music.

An orphan from an early age, John was adopted into the local church and took what little knowledge of the piano that remained from his childhood and put it to good use. Listening to the man playing now, it is apparent that he had kept this skill sharp.

“That is a beautiful song, John,” Florence giggles, a beaming smile on her face at the sight of her friend sitting at the sleek grand piano. “I would appreciate you teaching me to play this well, though I know that my lovely husband would rather die than to see me touch a single key on this beautiful instrument. The bloody bastard.”

“Ah, what lovely words from a lovely woman… Florence, I don’t necessarily disagree with you, but I’m not sure we should be insulting your husband in such an open space.”

“John, my dear friend, I do apologize for my sharp tongue, but I believe it is warranted,” Florence says, taking a seat beside John, smoothing her lace nightgown. John’s fingers still press softly on the piano keys, as he plays a simple tune. “I’ve seen the way he treats you and the servants. As much as I wish to change this for you and the others, I am powerless. This is the only way I may hope to keep my sanity.”

“Very well,” John says, a soft laugh punctuating the end of his sentence. “Though I hope, for your sake, that he doesn’t catch wind of this, or else we are both in trouble!”

“John, pardon me, but I do need to take Florence off your hands for now.”

John’s hands pause, the room falling into silence.

A soft voice belonging to one James Page filters through the open door, interrupting the moment between the two friends. A lean man of average height, with a shock of long midnight curls and eyes a kaleidoscope of colour, James Page is yet another servant indebted to the cruel Mr. Bennett. Whereas John tends to steer clear of the man, and subsequently, punishment, James witnesses Bennett’s anger much too often. Unwilling to submit to Bennett’s furious dictatorship, he often receives the brunt of the man’s mistreatment.

Upon entering the music room, a dark bruise is visible, blossoming on the man’s eye, surely another ‘reward’ for his defiance. James sends the pair a shy smile, and with twin looks of concern, John and Florence take in the state of their friend.

“James! My goodness, your eye looksー”

“It’s nothing, John.”

“Nothing? That certainly looks likeー”

“It is nothing that hasn’t happened before. Please leave it, Florence.”

“A-Alright… What did you need, James?” Florence says, absentmindedly twiddling her fingers, a nervous habit of hers.

“Well, my friend, a certain someone is going to be requesting your presence very soon. I thought it best to warn you ahead of time, so you can prepare.”

With a smile thrown to John over her shoulder, Florence bounds over to her raven-haired friend, hooking an arm through his. James, comfortable with the casual touch of the woman, leads her to her room with a final wave to John.

Navigating through the maze of grand halls of the manor, the wealth of the owner is more noticeable. Shades of red and gold flirt with rich browns, lit by immense crystal chandeliers. Priceless paintings adorn the walls, trapped, much like the lady of the house, in embellished shining frames, just expensive enough to throw shadows on the pain and suffering that happens under the surface.

Not yet rid of the worry that James’s beaten appearance had brought her, Florence unlinks their arms. Ensuring the door to her bedroom is shut, she pulls James closer to her with a hand on his elbow. Her other hand flies to his face, assessing the damage done to it.

“James, I am aware that you do not wish to submit to my husband. That is your choice to make. I will stand by you, always.”

“I appreciate this, my friend.”

“But you must be careful. You don’t know what he is capable of, and neither do I,” says Florence, a grave look of concern gracing her features. “James, I need you here with John and I, not 6 feet underground in an unmarked grave. I know it is not in your nature, but please do try and be careful?”

“I will try,” James’ hand raises, landing in his long dark hair. Raking his nails across his scalp, his lips lift into a crooked smirk. “Though this is an interesting development.”

“Pardon me?”

“The wife of the madman has a heart. And I thought this trope was only found in the books shelved in that gigantic library of yours.” James’ chuckle echoes across the grand hallway. Usually filled with suffocating silence, the halls of the manor serve as another reminder of the terror that fills its occupants. “Now, I understand that you have afternoon tea with Mr. Bennett and his mother, so I will leave you to prepare.”

And with that, the stubborn servant is gone with a click of the closing door.

Minutes later, Florence, finally dressed in a ruffled scarlet dress, a sunhat perched on her head, reaches out to turn the doorknob.

A second too slow.

The door is opened from the other side, and the woman is met with the face of her husband, mouth contorted into a permanent frown.

Allen Bennett was a short, burly man, with close-cropped hair and dark eyes. What he lacked in height he made up for in power and prestige, swindling people out of their money in back alley deals at night, and running the city as mayor by day. This man is not to be crossed, and he knows it. Everybody does.

Gazing at his wife with disinterest, he scoffs, immediately glimpsing the beautiful dress she is wearing. His eyes almost glow in their anger.

“Hm. I thought I had told you that dress looks atrocious on you before. Take it off right this instant. You are not a whore, my love, so you will not dress like one.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Wonderful. I expect you in the foyer in 20 minutes, not a minute later. We must attend a meeting with my mother. I am sure you have been notified of this.”

“Yes, dear.”

With a quick peck on the lips of his wife, Mr. Bennett is gone, and the unfortunate Ms. Bennett feels as though she can finally breathe again. Changing into a sky blue number, she is struck by the thought that this cannot last forever. This treatment of the servants and of Florence herself. The control this vile man has over everyone. The unhappiness and unease he supplies wherever he goes.

This simply cannot last, can it?

-------------------

“Florence. Are you listening, dearie?” A grating, sickly sweet voice breaks the woman from her reverie, a storm in her sea of dreams. Florence takes a sip of her tea and smiles apologetically at the older woman across from her. The woman, satisfied once more, launches into a tedious story about her shopping excursion the day before. Feigning delight at the tale, Florence’s eyes travel around the sun-lit tearoom, with its gleaming surfaces and tall, gold-lined ceilings. Truly a beautiful creation.

“... And, my son, as I was exiting the shop on St. Thomas’s Street, you know the one…” Florence catches the eyes of her husband, glaringly angry as per usual, and at this, she realizes the older woman had paused in her story once more, shooting her an irate scowl.

“Mrs. Bennett, I must apologize for my inattention. My mind was indeed elsewhere, I am terribly sorry.”

“It’s quite alright, girl. Does my son deal with this offensive daydreaming as well? If he does, we must fix this immediately!” Mrs. Bennett titters, cigarette dangling precariously from her lips.

“Mother, it’s quite alright. You mustn't worry about this,” Allen says, leering at his wife as though she was a prize to be won. “My wife knows her place. At least I do hope she does…” The mother and son erupt into giddy laughter at the horrible joke, Florence following uncomfortably, quivering smile creasing her face.

“My goodness,”  Mrs. Bennett wipes her eyes of phantom tears with a lily white handkerchief. The woman takes a drag of her cigarette, and huffs a plume of smoke in Florence’s face. “How old are you now, dearie?”

“A month ago, I reached my 23rd birthday. Allen bought a beautifully crafted sapphire bracelet for the occasion.”

“So thoughtful, my son. You are of age, of course. May I ask when you two are planning to conceive?”

“Well, as of this moment, we were notー”

“You may still be… young, but the only use you are to us, my dear, is to create a wonderful child,” Mrs. Bennett, eyes scrunched up in mock kindness, takes the young woman’s hands from across the table and strokes her thumb across the elegant wrist. “I know you would be a very capable mother. As a result of this, I am expecting a lovely grandson or daughter to call my own.”

“O-of course… Thank you for your counsel, Mrs. Bennett.”

“My pleasure, dear. Now, my son, where was I…?” The woman says, launching into her story once more. “Ah, yes…”

Florence, try as she had, could not take her mind off of the words of the matriarch. As a young girl, she had wished to be a writer, a musician, maybe. What she had not planned for was a truly unhappy marriage to an evil man, doomed to the static life of a housewife. She had loved Allen once. In the beginning. He had supported her and her dreams, and she had loved him in return. She had loved his humour, and his chivalry. His treatment of others. This was but a ruse, of course.

A year after their courting had transformed into a union, Allen Bennett had changed. Florence had finally met the man behind the mask of charisma and kindness. She had gotten too close, and now she is stuck, like a bird with a shattered wing, unable to escape.

“Thank you for a lovely time, Mother, as always,” says Allen, placing twin kisses on her heavily rouged cheeks. “Come now, Florence, we must return home immediately.”

“Thank you Ms. Bennett, for your advice and hospitality. We must do this again sometime.”

“Lovely idea, dearie. Hopefully, the next time I will be able to finish my story without you nodding off!” Ms. Bennett drawls, smirk hanging off her lips like the fancy cigarettes she so often smokes.

Formalities over and done with, the couple step out into the fresh afternoon air and into the waiting carriage that had brought them. Once inside, Mr. Bennett shoots out a strong hand, clutching his wife’s arm in a bruising grip. She lets out a surprised gasp, caught off guard by the sudden pain dealt to her by the man.

“Florence, Florence, Florence… What on God’s green earth will we do with you?” says the man, squeezing harder with each repetition of his wife’s name. “You are incapable of paying attention. You can only dream of meeting my mother’s expectations, the way you have acted today.”

“Allen, I am tryingー”

“You are not trying hard enough! You never have! Why I married a whore like you, I have no idea.”

The vice grip on Florence’s arm grows ever stronger, and she feels wretched anger in her heart, climbing up her throat. With a gaze of fire, she retaliates. “Allen, let go of me! I have done nothing wrong, and as a reward I receive your anger and a bruise to boot!”

Gazing into Allen’s eyes, Florence is confused, frightened even, at the horrible amusement dancing in them. Quick as lighting, before she could even register the action, the woman feels a sharp pain grace her cheek, and, with growing horror, she witnesses Allen’s raised hand begin to lower.

“My dear, you must know your place in this house,” whispers Allen in a venomous tone, bringing his wife ever-closer to him. “You will stay quiet and obedient. There is no other option for you, I’m afraid. Alright?”

“Y-yes.”

“Lovely. Tonight, we must attend a play at the theatre you love so much. This is an important appearance, very good for business. Please do try not to ruin it.”

Florence nods minutely, pressing her palm to her burning cheek. A crimson streak spoils the otherwise pristine white of her glove. She had forgotten that Allen wore rings.

“You will not speak to anyone. You will appear happy and in love, the image of a perfect wife. You will dress in your best garments,” Allen rattles off, smugness dripping from his features. He’s proud of this; proud of the power he holds over her. The power he holds over everyone. “That is all I ask of you. A list of tasks that someone as useless as you could complete with ease. Is that clear?”

“Yes, dear.”

-------------------

“Flo—”

“John, I—”

“My Goodness, your cheek! What happened?” The dulcet voice of one John Paul Jones rang through the quiet of the hall. Florence, caught in her attempt to make it to her room unnoticed, deflates and faces her friend.

“John… I’m sorry, but I do not have time to talk right now,” Florence rushes out, face pinched as she checks the time on the ornate grandfather clock in the corner of the foyer. Must have costed a million, though it meant nothing to Allen, of course. “I am attending a performance at the theatre with Mr. Bennett, and time is… of the essence, I’m afraid.”

“I understand, I truly do, but Florence… was this Mr. Bennett’s doing? You must tell me what happened.” John gestures to the woman’s cheek, which is tinted red from the force used against her.

Sighing, Florence takes John’s hand and leads him into her room, once again the door is shut and promptly locked. She takes a seat on the immaculately-made bed and gestures for her longtime friend to follow suit. John sits, smoothing out his work-wrinkled shirt, and looks down at Florence expectantly.

Taking the man’s hand, she looks into his gemstone eyes, and recounts the story of what had transpired early that day.

“After all that had happened, I was, in my opinion, justifiably angry, so I took a page, pardon the pun, out of James’ book. It seems that my beloved was not a fan of this particular chapter, and he made that quite clear.”

“And the cut? The blood on your glove?”

“I had forgotten that Allen had the propensity to wear rings,” Florence whispers with an acerbic giggle, eyes pained and downcast now. “I doubt that I will be forgetting this anytime soon.”

John meets the woman’s gaze, and notices the beginning of tears brimming her eyes. He takes Florence’s hand in his, a silent offer of comfort that she would never refuse.

“John, as much as I adore your company,” says Florence with a peal of wet laughter. He knows Florence is avoiding the subject, but he lets her. She’ll talk to him, eventually. “I must get dressed for the performance. Hopefully, after we return, I could witness some of your incredible talent on the piano?”

“Of course, of course!” John exclaims, standing now, as, once again, he gently takes hold of Florence’s hands, now rid of the soiled glove. “But Florence, before I leave… Please be careful. James and I, we couldn’t bear to see further pain come to you. Please, for us, be cautious.”

“I will do my best, John. Thank you.”

John presses a quick kiss to Florence’s cheek in passing, and exits the room, and the woman is left alone again. Slipping on a lovely ensemble painted lilac and silver, the woman lets her thoughts wander.

She’s been alone quite often lately, after all. Her only friends in the house are John and James after all, the other servants too frightened by the man she married. Florence certainly does not blame them. She can’t say that she minds the solitude either, if it gets her away from Allen.

The intricately paneled door opens with a sharp click, and Allen waltzes in, leering at his wife, as if the thoughts drifting through her mind were audible to the man.

“Ah, Florence. I am glad that you've finally learned to dress yourself. Thank God himself for that.”

Florence, cheek still stinging from the blow dealt to it earlier, has only the mind to nod and smile as warmly as she can manage. This is taken as permission by Bennett, who caresses his wife’s uninjured cheek with the tips of his fingers, as if he thought her to be precious. Florence bristles at the touch, a string of rather unladylike words at the ready, but she holds her tongue, remembering her promise to John. She would be cautious, act like the perfect wife. She would be safe.

“Come now, my love,” whispers Allen, into his wife’s ear, beckoning her closer with a finger under her chin. “We have a show to attend.”

Palm outstretched towards his wife, Allen helps Florence into the waiting carriage, uncharacteristically gentle, as he always is in public. Public image means everything, and Allen Bennett is picture-perfect in that respect.

“My love, I remember how you love the theatre. I do hope this play captures your attention.”

“As do I, dear,” Florence says, voice wavering ever-so-slightly under the scrutiny of her husband. “Though I do not know if I have knowledge of this particular play.”

“I believe it’s called ‘The Voysey Inheritance’. It details the scandals of a family thought to be perfect, polite and proper. Interesting, is it not?” At that, Allen has pasted on a cheshire grin.

Sounds familiar, Florence thinks, silently cursing her husband and his monstrous greed. If only she had known, walking into this. Known about the sides, dangerous, that he hadn’t shown until it was too late. Until she was trapped.

Finding their seats, the couple take in the gorgeous marble pillars and the ruby, velvetine seats. The shining wood of the stage is visible from the upper flights, where elite folk like Sir Bennett make themselves at home. The massive carmine curtains remain closed, shielding the growing audience from the scenes that are set to come to life. Florence has always loved the beauty of this theatre, and, though it has been years since she has last stepped foot inside of it, she is charmed anew.

The lights of the theatre dim, signalling the start of the show. Florence grins into the still darkness, excitement for the performance growing. Casting her eyes to the stage below, she puts aside her worries. She completely forgets about the vile man sitting next to her, mind filling with the orchestral opening music of the play. She is home.

The curtains open slowly, and Florence loses her breath. There, on stage, is the most beautiful man Florence has ever laid eyes on. She cannot focus on the words flowing from his thin lips, for she is distracted by the halo of golden curls surrounding the man. His romanesque nose is prominent and his eyes, stormy skies in an ocean of blue, are captivating. His curls, spun silk, bounce across his broad shoulders, as he commands the stage. The actor’s luxurious suit glints navy in the blinding lights on him, accentuating his muscled body. He is not phased in the slightest by the attention firmly placed on him. Completely in his element.

He enchants her, as though he was a wizard, and she, the poor soul under his spell. A snake charmer that she’s read about in books found in the gigantesque manor library, and her, the sin-riddled reptile under his control. He is forbidden fruit, and she wants a taste.

The performer is ethereal, and Florence cannot take her eyes off of him. She must find out who he is, somehow.

------

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