#cw: physical abuse

[blueywrites]

turtle dove and the crow, part four

A 1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader

story tags: 18+ (minors dni). smut; true love; unexpected pregnancy; angst, angst, angst; parental issues; corporal punishment; scheming, plotting, and betrayal; hurt/comfort; period-typical stigma regarding unwed pregnancy; angst with a happy ending.

chapter tags: please heed this warning and decide if you are prepared to read this chapter, which includes scenes of harsh but period-accurate parental abuse against an 18-year old child. this includes emotional and mental abuse in the form of 'discipline' and depictions of physical punishment. these methods are always harmful and never appropriate. they do not represent the views of the author. avoiding tw/cw's? read the part four summary instead

masterlist | part one | part two | part three | interlude | part four | part five | part six | epilogue | playlist

PART FOUR: THE WEIGHT BENEATH THE SUN (8.6K)

It’s hard to make the moment last

Hard to keep the dreams you have

Hard to let the love inside your heart

The guards are always at the gates

Turning everyone away

But you got through

Didn’t you?

You’re the One I Want — Chris and Thomas

When you were six— two years before Edward Munson became the new boy next door— your mother still hosted garden parties during the warm months. Pa would arrange the iron furniture into a pleasing configuration, ensuring the grass was level and dry beneath the table's heavy feet. The stiff-backed chairs would be spaced precisely from its wrought edges, far enough for ease of entry but close enough that the ladies would not have to stretch their arms too far to reach the cucumber sandwiches. Those Mama would assemble in careful layers, laying them out on a ceramic platter decorated with filigree. Mama's finest pitcher, made of delicate glass and attractive curves, would be used to serve fresh-squeezed lemonade. She'd garnish the sweet drink with muddled mint leaves plucked from the small personal garden she carefully maintains against the backyard fence. A generous spray of flowers would finish the trio of treasures awaiting the town's ladies, invited by your mother for an afternoon of light refreshments and genteel socializing.

Your sister, Virginia, has the supreme honor of being allowed to join the garden party for the first time this year. She is five years your senior in age and ten your superior in manner, evident in the graceful way she smooths the skirt of her shiny pink dress, perching herself with impeccable posture on the very edge of the iron chair situated to your mother’s right side. Poised and prim, Virginia accepts a glass of lemonade, taking a tiny sip before placing the china delicately to the right of her plate. Ever observant, her eyes dart around the table, absorbing gestures with ease; she follows her sip quickly with a dab of her napkin before arranging it dutifully on her lap again. She is rewarded for this, as the ladies generously indulge her presence among them.

You would be jealous of your sister's invitation if you gave a hoot about such things, but you are entirely disinterested in all of it. You care not for hushed titters floating from beneath their sunbonnets and the passing of cucumber sandwiches, which are nibbled little by little and then chewed behind demure palms as gossip is exchanged. Instead, you've happily plopped yourself behind the apple tree, back to rough bark and short legs spread wide in the ticklish grass. 

Methodically, one by one, you have been picking the delicate yellow petals off the heads of dandelion weeds, dropping each one to collect in the basin of the sunbonnet cradled between your thighs. It's painstaking work and nonsensical, perhaps, but it serves to satisfy some innate curiosity inside you. The purpose of this is unclear; your actions are confusing, the way children's play is often confusing to everyone but the child. But since you are quietly occupying yourself, and your mother and sister are busy socializing, they are happy to leave you to your own devices.

They are happy, that is, until your eye is caught by something much more exciting than plucking weeds.

Your neighbor down the lane has just finished imparting some succulent gossip to the gathering, and her lips are pursed against a grin as she relishes the reaction to her news. Her revelation has the intended effect: shock ripples around the table, but it is mixed with the suppressed delight of knowing a new, tantalizing secret. The party-goers exchange glances, searching for cues in one another, all wanting to know more but reluctant to appear too eager.

"Oh, my goodness." Mama places her hand over her heart as if in regret, but her eyes are gleaming. Interest thrums within the hush of her voice as she begins to ask, "And what d'you suppose he might now do, on account of—?"

"Mama!"

Her question is interrupted by your delighted cry. She turns to see you holding aloft that which made you abandon your collection. Back by the tree, those petals have spilled from the tipped sunbonnet to scatter heedlessly across the grass. "Look't what I caught!" you squeak, eyes alight with eager, innocent delight. "It's a big one, too!"

Despite your excitement, you cradle the large bullfrog gently in your hands, mindful of its comfort as you present it to your mother. You considered it quite the feat to catch the frog without causing it alarm, and when its strong legs twitch against your palm without attempting to flee, pride glows beneath the dirt streaks on your round cheeks.

Your mother does not share your sentiment. 

The way her expression contorts is so opposite what you expected that she may as well have smacked you across the face. Your earlier excitement is smothered like water douses a match, and promptly, you drop the frog. 

You drop it as if by acting quickly, you can undo whatever has caused your Mama offense. But it is not enough. Your mother stares at you, and though the look in her eyes is one you are too young to fully decipher, a parent's disapproval is sensed innately, and felt deeply.

One year after you drop the bullfrog, Mama will sell the garden furniture to purchase seeds and stock in preparation for the coming hardship, and the garden parties would end. Two years after you drop the bullfrog, Eddie will roll in like a summer storm to join his uncle in the red house next door. Seven years after you drop the bullfrog, Virginia will establish a nest of her own, leaving you as the only unwed daughter left in your parents' roost. But no matter how many years pass, you will never forget how your mother's stare made you feel. In the garden, a heavy stone sank in your gut, sickeningly leaden, steadily crushing your delicate insides with each second you spent pinned by her furious stare.

This moment in the hayloft reminds you of that. But there is no stone of lead in your stomach this time. This time, with the salt tang of Eddie's seed still lingering on your lips, your entire body turns to solid, petrified rock. 

Your mother stares up at you from the barn floor. Her face is contorted, screwed up tight with shock and rage, but her eyes are wide, wide enough to swallow you up entirely like a sinkhole would. She traps you. And you remain there, locked tight until the seethe of her voice boils hot from between her lips, blistering the ruddy flesh on its path to you.

"Git. Down. Here."

Each word is a spitfire bullet, enunciated so precisely so as not to be misconstrued. The burn rushes down your spine to melt your solid rock into magma. 

Your muscles are clenched tight, but the warm pulse once stoked between your legs has deadened. You're thrumming instead with horror, with deep, all-consuming dread. Where one moment ago you were heavy as a sinking stone, now you are unsteady, shaky like the first time Eddie coaxed you into a rowboat. 

You can't grab hold of his rough, broad palm to settle yourself this time, and you don't dare risk a glance at the man still nestled in that soft bed of hay. To catch his eye would be torture of a different kind. Instead, you rush to obey your mother's command. Your knee scrapes raw against old, splintery wood as you scramble around and dip one foot to catch the rung of the ladder. 

It's a sturdy old thing, that ladder. Good thing, too, because it holds fast as you cling to it with shuddering fingers and legs so wobbly, they clatter against its rungs with each step toward the perilous ground. By the time you reach the floor, the knee you'd scraped has gone numb. You want to turn your chin down and see if your dress has bloomed a crimson flower of blood, but your neck is unyielding. It's hard enough to step back from the security the ladder provides. All the will your spirit possesses must be channeled into facing the woman looming like a cloud of miasma behind you.

There is no time to brace for a confrontation, but you force your face into as docile an expression as possible before you meet your Mama head-on. She is short and portly, hunched up in such a way as to make her smaller in theory, though, in reality, the sight is only more imposing to you. You expect to meet her piercing stare again, but she isn't looking at you. Instead, she's got one eye hooked on the edge of the hayloft and her lip caught in a sneer so deep it's almost a snarl. 

"You too, Edward," she spits, and your throat dries to dust. "Don't think I'm ignorant of your bein' up there with'r."

The silence that follows is stifling, crowding in on you from all sides. The pressure doesn't ease even as that pregnant pause turns to the creaking and groaning of wood, which protests as the weight of an unseen body shifts toward the hayloft's edge. The thud of booted feet that replaces the wood's cry is little consolation; your heart kicks up at the steady plod that commences, matching it in rhythm but pounding twice as fast. You don't dare to turn and look or even to fiddle with your skirt nervously. Your hands remain still at your sides as your mother stares above your head, watching Eddie climb down from the hayloft. Her eyes dip slowly and steadily along with the thumping of those booted feet until her gaze is even with your face. The final step down behind you is quieter than the rest, and your throat tightens as you sense Eddie's hesitance in the sound. 

As he alights on the ground, Mama's eyes suddenly shift. Where once she had been staring almost uncannily in your direction, as if she may or may not have been trying to look you in the eye, a sudden cut and glint make it abundantly clear that now— now— your mother is gazing directly at you. 

It's all you can do to keep from trembling.

You vaguely hear the shuffle-scrape of Eddie's footsteps and feel the warmth of his body as he comes to stand beside you. The tiniest glance reveals the extent of his mortification: his pale cheeks are beet red with a flush that creeps down his throbbing neck, and his eyes are squinched half-shut as if bracing for a blow. His adam's apple bobs, and unconsciously, you swallow at the same time.

When Eddie finally opens his mouth, all that eeks out is the briefest croak before your mother interrupts coldly. "You best be gettin' home to your uncle now, Edward."

While the words don't drip with venom, the mention of Wayne is nothing if not a threat, and Eddie recognizes it as so. You would never expect him to argue; in fact, you'd be dismayed if he had, but the thought of facing your mother's wrath alone covers the frozen dread inside you with a fine layer of poignant sorrow. You are heavy, but now you are empty, too. 

Weakly, Eddie clears his throat to rasp, "Yes, ma'am." Your chin trembles at the sound of his voice, but your eyes only begin to sting when you feel the soft, subtle draw of his fingers across the small of your back as he passes by you to disappear out of sight beyond the barn doors. The touch is one last offering of comfort from your beloved before you both must face the consequence of your transgressions.

In the kitchen, Mama takes you apart.

The way she lashes you with her tongue is harsh and unforgiving. Each word darts across the kitchen counter, catches you with its claws, and burrows beneath your tender skin, sinking deep to carve into your marrow. 

"How dare you." Her voice quivers with the force of her rage. "How dare you bring such disgrace upon our family. You know darn well that we forbade you from seeing that boy, yet you went behind our backs anyway. And now, to make matters worse, I find you been carryin' on like a," her lips twist up to spit a sharper barb, "hussy up in the hayloft. What kind of a girl do you think that makes you, y/n?"

She pauses long enough to make you question whether she expects an answer, but she carries on without you. Her eyes dart along the cabinets, unseeing as she chuckles mirthlessly. "And, oh. M'blood could just boil thinkin' how that boy could set there at his dinner table and talk about how good we raised our daughter, only for you two t'turn around and… and…." 

She stutters off, wild eyes rolling as she works herself up. The deepening of her wince uglies her visage, so that lines crease at the corners of her mouth where before there were none. And oh, how foolish you were to think the sight of her bulging eyes would be in any way gratifying. How deeply, utterly stupid of you to think such a thing.

"What you done is unspeakable. How'm I supposed to show my face in town, knowing what you been up to right underneath my nose? It turns my stomach just to think about what y'were doin' up there w'him." 

Each word sinks deep inside you. It’s a barrage of all you deserve because it's the truth. And this is just the beginning. Because there's disgust there, in Mama's screwed-up face, and there's fury, too. But beneath those, there's also hurt— the evidence of a deep wound torn open by your impropriety. It's a hurt you aren't sure you can mend. 

At that realization, fat, hot tears begin to roll unimpeded down your cheeks. They drip from your quivering chin, which tightens with the occasional sniffle as you try to keep yourself from collapsing to the floor, wrapping your arms around your mother’s skirt, and pressing yourself to her shins in pitiful supplication. 

Though Mama is looking at you, she doesn't seem to register that you've started to cry. "I just can't understand it." Mama's fingers press divots into her temples, and her head wags absently as if in subconscious denial. "Virginia was your age when she married her Lawrence. She knew the way of things. And now look at 'er— got her own home and three children to raise." Her hands drop sharply, and a flash of judgment returns. "She's a proper lady. And then what d'we have? You. I never thought I'd see the day when a daughter of mine would behave like this." 

The burrs stick sharply, coating you in a prickly sadness that only intensifies when your Mama's plump arms tighten to her sides, crossing beneath her bosom, cinching in tight as she presses a fist to her lips. 

"Lord help me— what'm I gonna do with you now?" 

It's so much quieter than all else she's said, so much duller, and yet all the more painful for it.

Her name on your lips is a whimper, a sob, a plea all at once. "Mama—" You suddenly feel no more than six years old with dirt streaked on your shameful cheeks, filled with the crushing sense of all you've done wrong.

"Don't." She cuts you off firmly. Your teeth click together painfully as your jaw snaps closed. She stares at you for a long moment. "Th'last thing I wanna do is talk about what was goin' on up there, but clearly…" 

You read the intention in your mother's restless shifting, the discomfited rocking of her heels. Heat floods up your throat, a sickly blaze of shame. "Well," she continues stiffly, "I know y'had your mouth on him, and that's… that's one thing. But I need to know." Her fist drops to reveal a stiff upper lip, but her voice quavers slightly as she asks a question that doesn't stick like burrs or burrow beneath your skin. Instead, it pierces straight through the center of you. 

"Have you had relations with Edward?"

Your shock is like the firm twist of a leaky spigot. The steady flow of your tears ceases so abruptly that it's nearly enough to distract from the question itself.

Nearly enough. Not quite enough.

Horrified panic surges up as the question sinks in: Mama's askin' me if I had sex with Eddie. The feeling claws its way past your stomach, past your heart, past the heat in your throat, and straight up to your head. It rushes there, leaving you dizzy. Black fuzz spreads across your vision. 

And the lie springs up, ready and poised behind your teeth. It's a denial borne of fear, desperation, and the deep ache beating in the child's heart still nestled within your grown one. That tiny heart flutters against your ribs, recalling the plink of music box drift-offs and gentle John the Rabbit wake-ups; the balm of kisses pressed to scraped knees and hurt feelings wrung out with tight hugs; the roundness of laughing cheeks streaked with flour and little hands cradled in large palms, guided to knead love into dough, right here, in this room, all those years ago.

Could you survive the loss that would come with confession? Could you bear to see the lingering light— the final vestige of a mother's regard for her child— die behind her eyes? 

Led by a child's heart and a mind seized by panic, the choice you make is not a choice, but an inevitability.

"No," you whimper, and such sincerity pools within your eyes that even one who knows better might be convinced you believe that. "No, I din't lay with him, Mama. I swear it."

The softening of her features, fractional though it is, brings you such tender relief that tears spring anew at the corners of your lashes. 

"Well, all right," she says finally, and while her voice isn't quite fond, you can see the creases around her mouth ease, fading from deep crevices back to the faint lines you're familiar with. It's a gift you wouldn't dare waste. "Y'know what needs to be done, then."

Without a hint of protest, you retrieve the wooden spoon from the crock on the counter, passing it into your mother's waiting hand and presenting your backside to her. 

With balled fists and a rigid spine, you take your punishment. You press your lips flat to keep all your noises in as Mama spanks you with the rounded back of the wooden spoon. The even raps— ten against your clothed buttocks— smart and sting, but they do not ache. Her actions are not hesitant or reluctant, but they aren’t gluttonous either. Your mother does not grow fat feasting on your pain; she is merely obliged to provide it.

You are braced for another impact when you hear the spoon clatter back into the crock. When you realize another blow will not come, you face her again. Silence reigns the room as you take stock of yourself: warm, stinging skin, pressure in your cheeks, nose, and forehead from crying, and a new, yawning hollowness inside.

"M'sorry, Mama," you sniffle, throat thick with remorse, "M'sorry for disobeying you, a-and bringin' shame on the family. I— I jus'..." You choke and try again. "I—"

There is only one justification, however inadequate it might seem to your mother. It's spoken in the misery of your crumpled brow, in the glaze of your big wet eyes, in the copper of your lower lip where you've worried the spot Eddie's kisses still sweetly linger.

I love him.

"I know." Mama replies as if you'd said it aloud, and her voice is tight, tight with what she is trying to suppress. "I know you do." Her bosom heaves with a heavy, bracing sigh. "But y'know what your Pa said." She doesn’t seem to feel the need to be more specific, and you muster a smidgeon of gratitude for that.

"I know," you echo her, and your voice is tiny and broken. You are tiny and broken. And tired. You realize all at once that you are so tired, it's a labor just to keep from lying down right here on the floor. "R'you gonna tell 'im what I did?"

A jerky nod confirms it, and you think you'd feel more afraid if you could feel anything at all. "I'll speak with your Pa when he gets home," Mama tells you. "Now go'n up to your room. Don't expect you'll get any supper tonight." 

You stare at her, solemn and unresisting, and in that stillness, you can see the moment she hesitates. The flicker that passes across her crinkled eyes is brief, but you see it, and the hush of her voice tells a story all its own. "Don't come down for nothin'," she murmurs intently. "No matter what y'hear. Just stay in your room 'til the morning. Hear me?" 

You can feel yourself wilt further into exhaustion with each passing moment. "Yes, Mama," you croak in dutiful agreement.

The press of her cool palm against your warm, sticky cheek is brief. It lingers only long enough for you to barely realize it has been offered. But that fleeting sensation keeps you alert enough to drag yourself up to your bedroom, softly shut the door, strip off your dress and chemise, and pull on your thin nightgown before relinquishing yourself to the sunken mattress. At that point, you cease to tick, like the final tines have plinked within a wound music box. You have landed on your back atop the covers, and there you will stay until you can summon the strength to turn onto your side.

Though you are tired, sleep does not come to offer a reprieve. Instead, though your eyes begin to strain, you stare at the crack in the plaster above your head. It's the same one you traced while waiting for your crow to land on your windowsill yesterday, yesterday, yesterday. Yesterday beats in the useless yearning of your heart, trailing down your temples to pool in the hollows of your ears.

Yesterday, Eddie held you in your bed until you fell asleep. Today, he never would again.

Heavy footsteps rouse you, and you jolt awake. 

At some point in the afternoon, outside your conscious memory, the slow leaking of your eyes had finally ceased. Blearily, you curled into yourself, tucking your wrists beneath your chin and finally drifting off into unconsciousness. Now, your bedroom is not the way you remember it. It's dizzying at first when your eyes pop open not to the crack in white plaster you'd expected but instead to the sight of your bedroom window. The outside is dark beyond the gauze curtains. The air now hums with the dusk song of cicadas. 

You have little time to orient yourself before the heavy footsteps that woke you yield to the squeal of a door hinge. Your neck is stiff when you lift your head, attempting to blink the strain from your eyes.

Cast in dimness, Pa looms over you like the shadow of death.

Your father is typically imposing, but his visage is made even more severe by the lack of light. His long face appears to be carved with crags, which harshen the snarl of his brow and turn the wrinkles of his sneer into jagged gashes lining his thin lips. What little light remains glints off the bony line of his nose and the flash of his hard, unyielding eyes. He stands unmoving as if etched from obsidian; the only feature to betray him as man and not stone is the ticking of his square jaw. A muscle there jumps erratically, twitching out its silent fury.

Eyes wide, heart fluttering, breath quick and shallow, you lay still as a prey animal hoping to escape a predator's sight. That is no use. Quick as a rattler, Pa's hand strikes out, and the yawning hollowness inside you becomes an uproar of fear flooding your throat.

He takes firm hold of your arm, thick fingers like a vice pinching your skin. When he tugs at you roughly, you let him maneuver you to the edge of the bed. You keep yourself limp and unresisting because, now that you've been caught in his jaws, you know he'll only bite down harder if you don't. And you even shimmy to assist him, fingers twisted tight in the hem of your nightgown to keep it from dragging up your legs. Preoccupied with maintaining your modesty, you're unprepared to be dragged beyond the footboard; you lurch off the bed in an ungainly slump, and your knees clunk painfully to the hardwood floor. 

A shock of pain shoots up both of your legs, and you muffle your reaction with lips pressed tight, following the silent command of your father's grip as he insists you turn to face the mattress. He drops you only once you're kneeling how he wants you, and the loss of his clamped fingers is a relief. Feeling begins to return to your arm as blood flows freely again, and a dull throb starts up in the place he'd gripped you. 

Yet that's nothing compared to what you know is coming when you hear the metallic clink of a buckle. It's followed by the unthreading of his belt, which shicks through the loops of his blue jeans with a drag of denim and a snap of leather breaking free. 

Moments pass in agonizing silence as you wait for the first crack of the belt. Everything inside you tightens in preparation for the pain to come— your muscles, your bones, your heart, and your spirit. You brace yourself, thighs quivering as you hold so perfectly still despite how your skin has begun to dew with nervous sweat. As you hold that stillness, you can even detect the sting of your mother's milder punishment throbbing in time with the pulse that thrums within your tense body. 

Your head has just begun to sag when Pa's voice grates loudly like the grinding of stone, gruff and hoarse. "Y'pologized to your Mama for your behavior?" 

You rush to answer. "Yes, sir." 

"Y'ever gonna dare sneakin' around under my roof again?" 

"No, sir." 

A grunt follows your reply. It sounds satisfied enough to untwist a little of the fear inside you. "Y'ashamed of yourself for what you done with that piece of trash? You regret lettin' him," he pauses so the spit of his words might sting you worse, "ruin you with his filthy hands?" 

Unbidden, Eddie's face blooms in your mind's eye: wild curls of soft dark frizz, crinkled eyes lightened to amber in the sunshine, soft nose dusted with cinnamon freckles, pink lips stretched wide in a smile that makes your heart squeeze even in your memory. You see him there, your beloved crow, and your chin trembles with the truth. You manage to steady it so that your second lie of the day can come out strong. "Yes, sir." 

But perhaps, in your remembering, you hesitate a second too long, because your answer is quickly followed by fire cracking across the crease of your thigh and cheek. 

You yelp with shock and pain, reeling as the contact burns through you, beginning as a white-hot ache before dulling to a throb. You tremble, breathing shakily as your father mutters, "I'll make damn sure of that."

Pa belts you across your buttocks and thighs, attempting to scald that shame into you with the cruelty he wields by his hand. But the whip of the belt is not the same as the lashing of your mother's words in the kitchen; it could never be. Not when Eddie's face has bloomed before you, bathed in summer sunshine. Not in this place, where the bunching of your fingers in the bedspread only makes you think about strong arms around your middle, soft breath on your cheek, and the tickle of wild curls against your shoulder. 

Your father feasts on the cries he draws from you. He takes them as evidence of your guilt and shame. But you're fortified by the memory of Eddie's strong body cradling you in this bed, the breadth of his wide palm on your mound as he brings you to the pinnacle of pleasure, holding you snugly against him when you fall into surrender.

Harshness could never drive out reverence. Pain could never drive out love.

Pa might leave you welted and whimpering against the footboard, but he can never make you waver in your devotion to Edward Munson.

That's not, of course, due to a lack of trying. Because try he does. Pa efforts to cleave you from Eddie in any way he knows how. He begins with a belting and continues the next morning with a visit to your neighbor, Mr. Wayne.

He's over there 'til midday, which you know because you do not rouse from your bed until he returns. You'd lain there on your side for the entirety of the morning, wrists again tucked beneath your chin, but legs straight since curling them made the throbbing in your bottom and thighs sharpen to a burning ache. Throughout the morning, you stared out the window, watching the light crawl steadily up the red siding of the house next door. 

You stirred only when Mama came to tend you. She didn't speak, but you could sense her sentiment in the mild soap and damp cloth she used to wash you, in the gentle pat of a soft towel against your cleansed skin, in the earthy spice of the calendula salve she dabbed on your welts. After she was done, your nightgown fluttered back into place around your hip and flank with the lightest touch. You nibbled on the toast sweetened with butter and honey she left for you on the bedside table, but you did not quit your bed.

This was not the first time Pa had taken the belt to you for some indiscretion, but it was by far the harshest. That's evident as the painful throbbing in your lower half intensifies when you prop yourself up on a palm, testing how it feels to sit up. Your father finds you in the midst of this endeavor: leaning gingerly on one flank, your lips pressed tight and pale. 

You glance toward him warily as he bullies open your bedroom door, and he squints back but doesn't acknowledge your pained expression. "Get y'rself presentable," he grunts. "You're comin' with me next door."

Humiliation, it seems, is the next tool Pa has decided to use to cleave you from Eddie. You know it isn't unreasonable to ask you to apologize to Mr. Wayne for your inappropriate behavior. In fact, now that you've had time to reflect on your actions, you even want to apologize to your neighbor. You cannot— will not— denounce your devotion to Eddie, but you do regret disrespecting Mr. Wayne. He's a man who has been nothing but kind and patient with you and his nephew throughout all the years you've known him, and to think you'd wounded him with your actions makes your throat thicken with genuine regret. 

So you dress hastily in your loosest, lightest frock and spend the majority of the time Pa affords you sitting at your writing desk, crafting a missive of carefully-chosen words you hope will convey to Wayne the depth of your sincere contrition. It takes some scratch-outs and restarts, but by the time Pa returns to retrieve you, you feel satisfied with what you've written.

You expect to apologize to Mr. Wayne for the offence you have caused him, and you expect to make the apology in person, so you don’t hesitate as you follow your father into the red house. It is also unsurprising that Pa would watch you deliver that apology. Knowing his nature, it's expected that he'd want to ensure your efforts are satisfactory. But you do not anticipate the way Pa ushers you through your neighbors' house, one palm pressed flat to your back to keep you from retreating when you see Eddie sitting next to Wayne at the dining room table.

Eddie doesn't look any worse for wear, not in the way you feel after enduring Pa's punishment last night, but he isn't unaffected by yesterday's events. He's wilted like a shade plant left too long in the hot sun: limp curls clumped at the ends, broad shoulders slumped, pink lips sagging at the corners. His umber eyes are smudged with purple in the hollows of their sockets as he stares down at the table. He doesn't look up as Pa urges you forward. 

Your heart seizes at the sight of him, stalling as familiar, hungry want mixes with poignant, thrumming sadness. The impulse to rush to the table and throw your arms around him, to bury your fingers in his curls and cradle his face to your breast, to feel his hot arms crush you against him— all comfort, all sweetness, all desperate relief— is nearly overwhelming. 

To resist is worse agony than any strike of leather, but resist you must. Pa's firm hand on your back demands you stand behind the chair across from Mr. Wayne; all the while as he maneuvers you, you will your crow to look up. He doesn't, though you can tell he now knows you're here. You see it in the tightening of his brow and the twist of his plush lips, which pinch with the effort to keep himself at bay. 

Pa scrapes a chair out, settling himself heavily down into its seat. Standing beside him, you fidget with the crisply-folded letter, pinched fingertips crawling slowly along its edges as you pour all your will and longing into a stare that Eddie refuses to return. 

The stalemate ends as Pa clears his throat loudly, growing impatient. "Go'n, now," he prompts, crossing his arms and kicking his feet out under the table in a scuff and thump of heavy boots.

You steal one more lingering glance at Eddie before dropping your eyes to your hands and unfolding your letter. It is silent at the table as you turn it right-side up to read from. You lick your lips and take a breath to steady your nerves before beginning.

"Dear Mr. Wayne," you begin, reading in a cadence reminiscent of your schoolteachers' voices— melodic, perhaps too overly-expressive. "I want to tell you that I am so very sorry—" 

A lump rises suddenly in your throat, and you falter; you begin again, speaking a little faster, though you can't disguise the tiny tremble that has emerged. "I am so very sorry for what I've done to disrespect you. I have been carrying on in a shameful manner…."

The apology becomes a blur as you race to complete it before losing your composure. As you express your remorse and acknowledge your wrongdoing, the shaking of your voice only worsens; by the end, your chin is wobbling hard enough that your teeth start chattering.

"Tha's all right, dear," Wayne interjects, gruff but not unkind. Never unkind. "I kin what you're tryin' to express. 'ppreciate your apology."

You nod jerkily, accepting the reprieve gratefully. You fold your letter back up with trembling fingers and pass it over the table to your neighbor, who tucks it away in his pocket.

With a jut of his chin, Pa motions to Eddie. "S'your turn now, boy," he says, and there's enough vitriol roiling there beneath the surface to more than compensate for Wayne's lack. Pa's shrewd eyes dart to you. "Sit down now."

You don't dare disobey, though your stiffness and pinched expression bely your discomfort as you perch gingerly on the edge of the chair. Eddie rises sharply, and your gaze catches on the clench of his broad fist at his side, how his ruddy knuckles have blanched with the force of his grip. You know they'd tightened at the sight of your pain, and a sudden surge of longing nearly leaves you breathless.

You'd urged Eddie to look up at you when he'd been seated, but now you know why he didn't because neither can you, now that the positions are reversed. You can't look up at his face and see the expression there. It's hard enough to hear his voice as he apologizes to your father for touching you without his permission, for the deep offense of wanting you when he'd expressly been told he wasn't allowed because he was too wild and frivolous, and that he'd proven himself as such for what he'd done with you in the hayloft. 

At the end of Eddie's apology, Pa grunts his acceptance. Then, he informs you in no uncertain terms what now will happen. It is the result of his lengthy discussion with Wayne this morning; in the end, they both agreed on certain truths moving forward, and they share those with you now.

They tell you that you and Eddie have been stripped of your freedoms and grounded for further notice. That you aren't to attempt to see or speak with one another. That you should begin thinking about your separate futures and leave this silly summer romance behind. That you are both lucky they are benevolent enough to allow you to continue living side-by-side without sending one or both of you away. 

You are bidden to acknowledge the rules, and you intone your obedience, as does Eddie. And when Pa is satisfied that you have been sufficiently cleaved from the boy across the table, you are herded back around the tall fence and deposited onto your property.

Having seen the defeat written across your miserable face, Pa leaves you to your own devices. You choose to sit beneath the apple tree, hissing at the lance of pain that races up your buttocks and into your spine as you thump down into the grass. Stubbornly, you ignore the low throbbing in favor of deciphering the storm inside you.

Under the apple tree, a billow of emotion spreads within, complex and layered, filled with contradictions. Because what you've done is indeed wrong, and you know that. But to take the depth of your relationship with Eddie and reduce it to an indiscreet romp, a careless mistake, an insignificant dalliance chalked up to the folly of youthful impulse… 

Well, you know this also. Down to your core, you know that that isn't right. And no one rivals you in conviction once your mind is set.

Twelve days ago, the intimacy you shared with your crow came to fruition in a wondrous way. As you pass your days in solitude within your roost, that wonder begins to transform you. It starts with a letter. 

Though the tall fence running the length of your adjoining properties keeps you apart from Eddie, and your parents' watchful eyes prevent any wandering from your front porch, one minor breach remains in those steadfast defenses. It's the tree stump rotted straight through, the only place where the grass of your backyards mingles to become one. Secrets are concealed there, announced by the innocuous song of two woodland birds: the turtle dove and the crow.

You don't hear the call the day following your public apologies, or even the day after that. It comes on the third day while you're sat on a stool in the goat pen, working down the nanny's final teat with one hand. Milking her has been slow and steady work, impeded because her kid is leaning against your flank, content so long as you keep one hand on his small bristly side. His tiny tail beats rhythmically against your skirt as her milk rains hollowly into the metal bucket with each pull of your pinched fingers. And when the stream has turned to a dribble, you hear that unmistakable sound: a deep, harsh 'kaa-kaa-kaa' that has your heart pattering instantly against your ribs as your head whips of its own accord toward the fence. You strain to see Eddie through those tiny gaps, but you're too far away for the gesture to mean much. Your eyes dip to second best— that familiar stump, gnarled and weathered gray, splintered but surprisingly soft and spongy to the touch as if it would give way under a heavy hand or foot. You cannot see into the dark crevice at its base, but you know what now awaits you there.

You want to throw yourself to the ground and reach elbow-deep into that damp space, dirt and dress be damned. But you know the second you leave the bucket unattended, all the milk you'd painstakingly gathered would be claimed by the kid. You squeeze out the teet a few more times— perhaps a bit too hastily, since the nanny flicks her ears at you— before snatching up the bucket, bringing it to the kitchen to strain with cheesecloth and tuck into the icebox, leaving the bucket and soiled cloth in the sink out of sight. I'll wash it right quick as soon as I check the stump, you assure yourself. You couldn't possibly wait another moment longer to see what Eddie has left for you to find.

You're thrumming with impatience and excitement as you pop the screen door back open, struggling not to rush toward your prize and draw suspicion from anyone who may see you. Thankfully, a furtive glance around the yard ensures you are alone, and with nothing else to impede you, you quickly gather up your dress and kneel before the stump to claim your offering. 

You reach past the blanket of fertile green moss that skirts the stump's base, mind flicking through the possibilities of what you might find in there. It will surely be a scrap of paper, but what will its few words convey? Will Eddie beg you to join him at the creek one last time? Tell you he's enlisted someone's help, an emissary of sorts, to go between you so you can speak again? Will he express his longing for your body's closeness? His pain at your separation? 

A fluttering thrill blooms low inside you, cautious and sweet, fearful in its intensity. Because another wondering crosses your mind before you have the good sense to prevent it, and that wondering is this:

With an acknowledgment, perhaps, of how unideal the timing and the method is… will Eddie finally put words to the truth you see in that soft expression that graces his features, the one that's only come out for you, only you, only ever you?

Your fingertips graze thin smooth paper nested in a cradle of grass. As you pull your arm out of the stump, you can imagine it so plainly, written in that familiar scrawl: three words to turn a scrap into the most precious of treasures.

But the paper that comes out is not torn hastily from the corner of a brown paper bag as it usually is. Instead, you’re holding a folded piece of stationary, lightweight and crisp white, though its edges have soaked up some dirty dampness from where it has been hiding.

You don't have the luxury of time needed to examine the emotions that stir at this unexpected sight; you need to get to safety first. You tuck the letter beneath the band of your pocketless apron, fumbling with the bow at the small of your back to tighten it. There the paper stays, pressed against your stomach as you return to the kitchen to wash the bucket and cheesecloth. You lay them out to dry, then pass by your mother in a brush of fabric down the narrow hallway. Lightheaded, heart thumping, you creak up the stairs to your bedroom, closing your door and releasing a woosh of held breath. You sink to the floor in front of it, pressing your back to the wood. In lieu of true privacy, this position keeps someone from bursting suddenly in on you before you can conceal what you're doing. With that assurance, you shift forward, untying that tight bow and letting the apron fall across your legs, revealing a flutter of crisp white.

That stirring of emotions returns full force as you run your thumb along the bottom edge of the paper, wiping the collected dirt absently on the hem of your dress. As you unfold it and Eddie's penciled scrawl is revealed, the first wave of your emotion crests to sting sweetly in the corners of your eyes.

The letter isn't particularly long. It doesn't wax poetic about your grace and charm or meander through the hills and valleys of your shared story. It little matters when you can hear Eddie's teasing rasp in every sentence, see his wild beauty in every word, and feel his firm touch in each uneven scratch of letters into the page.

My Dove, Eddie murmurs against your temple, and you sigh, melting with the sticky sweet honey as he voices his claim on you. His Dove. That's what you are. 

"Yes, Eddie," you whisper into the stillness of your empty bedroom, lids low, lashes heavy as you read the next line. 

First things first. Don't you even think about writin' me back. You hear me? Plush lips curl as your besotted expression falls into a pout, and you hear the rasp of his laugh as he cradles your face in his broad, rough palms. S'not that I don't wanna get a letter from you, you know. I just can't have you in any more trouble. It nearly killed me to see how you were hurtin' on account of me. Umber eyes crinkle, and his thumb brushes the corner of your lip. Promise me you'll listen for once. 

You regard him sullenly for a moment. "Fine," you grump, and the crooked smile you're rewarded with softens the edge of your frustration. 

Eddie regards you fondly. I know you don't wanna. But you will anyway, 'cause y'can't help but do what I say now that you're all gooey over me.

You flush with heat, bashful but pleased, twisting your lips against the dopey smile that wants to come out for him. Now that that's settled, he snarks, making you yearn to kiss the knowing tilt right off his lips, I want you to know that… well, I really am sorry for makin' a mess of things for us. Maybe if I'd done different, we wouldn't be where we are right now. No use dwellin' on it or nothin', because what's past is past. But I screwed it up for us, and I don't know what to do to fix it, and I'm just sorry, Dove. I really am. 

"Oh, Eddie—" His name is a soft, feminine sigh of anguish as the sting returns full force, burning insistently behind your eyes. You grab up his hands, squeezing them tight; the paper wrinkles in your grip. "Eddie, you didn't make a mess of anything. It's not your fault at all, what's happened."

He stares at you mournfully, dark eyes heavy and sad, continuing as if you hadn't spoken. And I know it's only been a few days since I seen you, but I miss you something fierce. S'like my arm's been cut clean off. His lips quirk up just slightly in the corners. And you'll say that's just me bein' dramatic as always, but I mean it. It really does hurt me that much to be away from you.

Eddie's curls brush your cheeks as he gathers you close to him, pressing his nose to the top of your hair. Wish I could hold you. Be there for you, take care of you. But I guess this's all I can do for now. He breathes in deep, and your heart twists sweetly in your chest at the feeling of his breath there— a cool inhale, and then warmth puffing in short bursts when he murmurs, You know you're my best friend, but you're so much more than that. Y'always have been. I told you I'd never let anyone take you from me, and I intend to keep my word, no matter how long I gotta wait.

Your first tear falls, and Eddie's arms tighten around you. He presses a kiss to your hair. In the meantime, he rasps, quiet but sure and brash as always, if you find yourself missin' me, or if you're havin' a hard go of it, or if you just wanna remind yourself where I am. All you gotta do is call for me, Turtle Dove. And when I call back, what I'm really sayin' is, 'I'm here. I'm here, and I ain't goin' nowhere.'

On the page, there's a gap of space and a scratched-out word, and you can feel Eddie's adam's apple bob in a gulp. And if I'm missin' you, or… or if I'm havin' a hard go of it. If you still want me the way that I want you.

The final line of the letter begins to fuzz while you stare down at it, expanding in a bloom of dark-on-white as more tears flood your eyes. But you don't need to see it; the words have already been etched into your heart. 

Will you call back to me? So I know you're here, and you ain't goin' anywhere?

Those two questions close the letter; there is no signature. After all, when two like souls flutter their wings and settle themselves to perch together on a shared wire, names become nothing more than an afterthought. 

Paper flattens to the wooden floor. It crinkles as you press against it with your palm, leveraging yourself up to your feet blindly as your stirrings finally overtake you in a rush of tears. They flow over as you lurch around the footboard to the windowsill, pushing the gauzy curtains heedlessly aside; they catch the corners of your lips as your fingers twist the stiff window hinge, and your smile stretches in time with the window's jerky progress up the frame. 

September air floods in, ruffling gauze and soothing over your forehead and cheeks. The humid heat of summer has finally broken, leaving mugginess a thing of the past. And it's into that air, scented with crisp wind and the first dry musk of fading leaves, that you call for your crow. 

Your first coo isn't as graceful as usual because your voice is choked by sorrow and joy combined. But you do not let that stop you. You call out your bedroom window again and again, as loud as you've ever been, eyes fixed on the stoop at the back of the red house. You call and call until the door springs open there, and a crow hops out onto the stoop. As you look down upon him, tears run in trails that drip off your chin, and your cheeks begin to ache with the force of your smile. You cup your small hands around your mouth and call again. 

'Turr-turr-turr,' you sing, mimicking the melodic trill of the turtle dove.

This moment will not quell your stirrings. As more days pass, they will billow ever more intensely and change ever more quickly as the transformation continues inside you. Your bitterness and your temper are still to come; you have not seen the last of your aching. 

But, for right now, this is all that matters. A pale face tipped up toward the sun, a cloud of dark curls tossing wild and untamed, a boyish whoop of relief and adoration, and the love that swells within you— still unspoken, but no less true.

#blueywrites #td&tc #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x fem!reader #farmer!eddie munson #farmer!eddie #best friends to lovers #cw: physical abuse #tw: emotional abuse #parental abuse #cw: child abuse #tw: child abuse #tw: physical abuse #cw: emotional abuse #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x f!reader

[kriimhild]

We’ve gone too far

See more on Patreon!

tw/cw:

threat a specific human

torture

blood

scars

foul language

adult themes mention

violence

i'm terrible at English sorry about that.

Visit all my comic pages on Webtoon!

Also check the amazing comic dub that SuperShadicX250 made! 

#FNAFDailyDaycareAU #fnafsundrop #fnafmoondrop #roxanne wolf #daycare attendant #cw: torture #cw: physical abuse #cw: mental abuse #Self Promotion #angst #fnafdailydaycare

[ghostie000]

hi teachers, i really need to tell you something. cw: physical abuse of a child

every time i got a note sent home, my mother would beat me heavily with a belt. one time the buckle hit my front tooth and that's why i have a crown there now. whenever i got in trouble, usually for having side conversations during the lesson, i would cry and panic, beg them not to (which never worked, maybe because they thought i was just being a brat, maybe because it would send the wrong message) and at times have to get through the rest of a six hour schoolday knowing all the while what was waiting for me at home. after the beating i was locked in my room for the day. the next day i'd have to sit on the welts. this was the routine from 2005-2010.

i don't know how classroom management works. i know you can't fix everything, and that cps fails most kids. i just ask that if you have a student who seems more upset or frightened than they should after getting in a little trouble, you talk to them. maybe you could come up with a punishment that doesn't involve leaving them at the mercy of their parents, since some parents don't have much mercy.

#Tw: physical abuse #Physical abuse #Cw: physical abuse #Tw: abuse #Cw: abuse #Cw: child abuse #Tw: child abuse #teaching #pedagogy #classroom management #Teachers #Educators #elementary education #childcare #graphic descriptions of violence #Teaching #trauma

[phoenix-flamed]

It took me this long to remember what I wanted to write about this morning. Oops.

So, regarding everything my Elwin went through as a Bearer -- it wasn't so much what happened to him that made his life a living hell all those years. One of his emphasized traits at auctions was always his hardiness; no matter what he was put through, he still retained the physical strength somehow to keep pushing on, making him a perfect choice for even the most grueling of manual labor. No matter how much he was beaten, bruised, starved, overworked, deprived of sleep, he would not give in. Even his fiery spirit, his determination and strength of will proved time and again to be indomitable forces.

What haunts him about the scars he carries isn't the pain from the scars themselves. It's about what each one represents: a failure to save anyone.

That may sound kind of weird, I realize as I'm typing this, but. From the age of twelve or thirteen, Elwin knew he wanted to help people in need -- particularly the Bearers, but not limited to just them. He wanted to help everyone, no matter where they hailed from, or what their social status was. This belief was the driving force behind so many of his decisions. He knew he was facing a long, uphill battle against members of his council due to their differing opinions, but his conviction was so strong that he would not give up. He finally had the power and position to make a difference, and he would not squander it, not when he could do so much good for Rosaria -- and beyond.

The scar around his neck from his beheading at Phoenix Gate is his largest failure, his largest reminder of the lives he had destroyed with his convictions, and his inability to protect the very people he had sworn to guide and protect, and most of all... a reminder of the loved ones he had lost as a consequence of his choices. For all of the good he had sought to do, for this better future that he had planned so meticulously and so thoroughly for in order to gift that better world to everyone, but especially the children...

It all fell to ruin, starting with that one single night.

It was when he was Branded and sold off at his first auction that he came to realize just how powerless he was now, stripped of everything -- even his true identity. That power that he had dedicated towards trying to change the world for the better had slipped through his grasp, and now he was living amongst the very people had had tried so hard to save.

Now, he could see their suffering first-hand, because he was one of them. He was there to see their torture, see their bodies worn and torn and lithified bit by bit until they died an agonizing death, while their owners gave not a wit and replaced them almost immediately. He was right there with them, by their sides, and he could do nothing for them.

He was powerless, powerless in a way that he had never felt before.

The more he struggled and fought and stood up for his fellow Bearers, the worse he made their lives. What his owners did to him didn't matter to Elwin -- it was what they did to everyone else, and as word was passed from owner to owner of how best to handle his "unruly" and "defiant" personality, the worse the torture inflicted on his fellows seemed to become. In the end, he realized he couldn't help them; he couldn't help anyone, just as he couldn't back when he was still Archduke. All he did was cause more suffering to those he sought to aid.

Yes, what he himself endured throughout those years was beyond painful, both physically and mentally. But the primary damage is more psychological, I suppose you could say. Each scar and burn and bruise acts even now as a reminder of every single person he had been powerless to help, no matter how good his intentions, no matter how hard he did fight. And if we're being honest, the truest catalyst for this unending despair was The Night of Flames and the people who died during that attack, but especially the nightmarish hell that Clive, Jill, and Joshua went on to be put through as a result of it. (Although before finding out their true fates, it was his assumption that they had perished, which really wasn't any better a thought in this situation.)

That's the reason he was quick to have his Brand removed and join the Cursebreakers after his liberation, and subsequent delivery at Hideaway. It wasn't just because his goals and ambitions were strikingly similar to Cid Telamon's -- it was also because this was his chance to finally, finally help people. Truly help them, in the ways that he had never been able to as Archduke or as a Bearer.

#Headcanons #The irony of the situation is fascinating to me #TW: Abuse #CW: Abuse #TW: Trauma #CW: Trauma #TW: Physical Abuse #CW: Physical Abuse

[wastheheart]

Carlisle getting home from a long shift at the hospital, but he's completely shutdown and unlike himself. He just says a curt hello to the others at home and takes himself to his study. Esme comes home shortly after and knows he's there, she can smell him; his coat (which he doesn't need but loves) is hung up by the front door.

And it's weird that Carlisle isn't around, he is genuinely interested in his coven members' days, interests, etc, but he just isn't around.

Esme doesn't have to ask, she's familiar with where he goes on the rare occasion he isn't feeling himself. So she softly knocks on his study door despite him already knowing who it is from the footfalls on floorboards. She has the power to take the door from its hinges, but she waits for Carlisle to open it— their relationship is built on trust and respect so it's important he chooses to open up to her.

And as soon as he sees her, he pulls her into a tight embrace, face buried against her hair while the door clicks closed again behind her.

They stay like that for a while until she asks what happened and for a moment he's silent, but his chest deflates with a practiced sigh and he tells Esme that he had to treat a d.omestic v.iolence victim with children in tow. And despite never seeing Esme that way, he can't ignore the fact she did live that reality and it digusts him that now, 100+ years on, this is still happening; that w.omen still have their hands tied in trying to flee or bring their a.busers to justice.

That they can present at hospital with clear, inflicted injury, and either the a.buser is with them, or they are financially unable to leave or just have nowhere to go and Carlisle can't do anything about it. On the rare occasions he can do something, the little he can do is informing law enforcement or social services, but the lies he hears victims speak to pull the wool over practitioners' eyes shatters him.

And so he comes home, emotionally exhausted and guilt ridden he can't do anything more. Esme stays with him all night, fingers combing through his hair assuring him that his kindness and gentleness would have meant the world to them regardless of the inability to do anything else. Assuring him that it is not his fault; she knows he will look out for them again should they seek medical treatment in the future. That despite not being able to do more, his willingness to help and listen is usually the catalyst in victims admitting to a.buse and the beginning of their healing journey.

#ooc #tbd #abuse men #tw: abuse #cw: abuse #domestic violence men #tw: domestic violence #cw: domestic violence #emotional abuse men #cw: emotional abuse #tw: emotional abuse #physical abuse men #cw: physical abuse #tw: physical abuse

[paper-poppy]

early life + the ishgardian incident, putting it under read more due to CW TW physical abuse, emotional abuse, eye strain.

#ffxiv #wol #oc #lore #tw #cw blood #cw: physical abuse #cw: emotional abuse #cw: eyestrain #comic

[ferinehuntressmoved]

[ M ] OTHER'S ABUSE .

Ambessa was not kind to Mel, and this stems from the fact that Noxian is not kind to most of their people. They make them battle-hardened, ready for war, and softness must be bleed dry from any bleeding heart.

Many times in her trials and training of Mel, she was mentally abusive at times to her daughter. This was an attempt to mold her, in ways to fortify her mind against the hardships of ruling Noxus and holding herself away from the heart on her shoulder. She would harden her words, berate Mel's mind, and ridicule her standards many times over. If Mel could not learn to cope with these actions, she would never survive in Noxus. She never stopped the bullying and ridicule from other kids against her daughter; including the insults of her beauty (because in Noxus, beauty was a sign of weakness) and often allowed for Hazing and harassment to continue. Ambessa at times could be threatening and intimidating as well, harshly criticizing Mel in her form or her style. Mel did not conform to the standards of a Noxian soldier and warmonger and Ambessa often reminded her that she was a Medarda and therefore needed to wield the weapon of the Medarda name and hold herself to a standard of a wolf (Where Mel often took on traits of a fox and a panther).

This is why Mel constantly strives so hard to prove herself to her mother and why she 'wants to be enough' because of this constant criticizing talking down upon, and the threats of abandonment (only for it to finally happen when she was outcasted) made Mel both resentful but also still wanting to prove herself.

However, Ambessa was also physically abusive to Mel as well, once again in the fact that Noxian training and the brutality of the nation were more important than the comfort of a child. Ambessa would often hit Mel if she caught her not using the right technique or if she was doing something wrong. If there was a moment in a fight where blood was drawn, Ambessa would grab Mel's hands and force them into the blood, reminding her that Mel could not be squirmish around blood, violence, and gore. That she had to face it as in battle it would be everywhere. Ambessa was not a tender mother, she was a battle-harden warmonger and worked to train her daughter in the same method her mother taught Ambessa.

All of this has led to Mel keeping many people at bay. The effects of this abuse have left a scar on Mel that can't be seen. She often struggles at night to sleep, because she still sees nightmares of not just the Ionian princess being killed in front of her, but her mother forcing the girl's blood all over her hands and knees, or when she would be punished for doing her best because it wasn't the Medarda standards. She often struggles in private with whether or not she is doing the right thing and often feels unwanted and unloved despite all she is trying to do for Piltover. Despite this and more, Mel has learned how to mask her struggles to appear as a completely normal and healthy woman with the prowess of a queen. Deep down, though, she still feels the stress and fear, doubting herself and struggling to sleep. She struggles with self-esteem despite having plenty of confidence and often wonders if she will ever be good enough for anyone or anything.

#— mel headcanons. #cw: abuse #cw: physical abuse #cw: mental abuse

[sinclair-wax-fan]

Vincent started dying his hair around age 12/13—likely on his own in the sink with cheap dye he got Bo to steal from the town drugstore.

He didn’t ask permission because Vincent rarely if ever asks for permission. While not as impulsive as Bo, he can be equally willful. When he decides to do somethings, he patiently and methodically works towards the goal until it is accomplished. He also rarely telegraphs his plans or intentions to others unless it’s necessary—much to the frustration of his twin.

(While Bo is certainly the dominate twin, Vincent can, and will, make his displeasure known if Bo pushes too far—often via extreme passive aggressiveness.

Think:

I waited until you were asleep to completely dismantle the lego castle you spent two days building.

I took the sparkplugs from the engine your were re-building and tossed them in the creek.

I went out of my way to kill the victim you'd been eyeing before you had the pleasure of doing it yourself.

And if the outcome between them is a bad fist fight, a busted lip, a crumbled mask?

Vincent will shrug it off, retreat into the workshop to remake his mask and wait for his brother's lip to heal, wait until Bo's fury cools and he gets bored and lonely enough to visit the workshop under a bullshit pretense--“Mrs. Dobson's jammed up, won't pivot enough to pull open the curtain anymore” or “fucking sinks leaking and I need you to pass me the tools while I fix it”--and then slip his brother a beer while they work side by side.

No apologies required.)

Anyway, I think Vincent likely did an unexpected good job with dying his hair and Trudy was surprisingly chill about it—always indulgent of her favorite son.

(And if your twin gets slapped for stealing the dye while you get praised for doing such a good job on your hair, well it’s not like you made him steal it, is it?)

Shortly after, Trudy begins teaching Vincent to style and cut hair--which he still does for his brothers year later.

#vincent sinclair #bo sinclair #meta #cw: physical abuse #cw: murder #house of wax meta

[jade-island-lives]

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Original Work, The Nimbus Saga Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Aither Thorin, King Caspian - Character, Aslan Wills, Leofine Callway, Gallus, King Boris, Peppercorn, Nutmeg - Character, Archimedes, Ramses, Original Characters, Other Character Tags to Be Added Additional Tags: Fantasy, Medieval, Mental Health Issues, Original Fiction, Dragons, Fairies, Pixies, Magic, Kingdoms, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Chronic Pain, Goddesses, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Physical Abuse, Physical Disability, Back Pain, Car Accidents, Abusive Relationships, Abusive Parents, Elemental Magic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change, Tags Are Hard, Ballet, Dancing, Found Family, Recovery Series: Part 1 of The Nimbus Saga Summary:

Aither Alastair Thorin was 25 years old. Fresh out of medical school and now an intern at a local hospital, arranged to marry a rich yet cold woman at his mother’s wishes, and was addicted to opiates after enduring a rather gruesome car accident some years prior.

To say his life has been a mess is an understatement. Aither was forced down the path of being a doctor by his almost absent father and overbearing mother. His dreams of being a ballet dancer were further crushed by this, along with the car accident that injured his back. And to say he was trapped in a loveless marriage is to say too little.

Depressed, feeling like a shell of a person, and seemingly just existing and not living. One night, Aither is transported to the world of Elvra, to the Mountian kingdom, Candos. A world of kingdoms, dragons, fairies, pixies, and magic.

Here, Aither learns he was gifted by the goddess Uru with the elemental power of air. A power only given to the ruler of each kingdom.

At the moment, he feels more out of place than ever. Will he find his place? Or will he forever be a puzzle piece from a different board?

Chapter 2 of the Long Winter is now available to read!

@soul-write @soul-write @spellboundinks @rachywritessomething @sunshowerflower @queerlilchinchin @spellboundinks @clubsheartsspades @sunshowerflower @dawnsplaceyt

#writing #writing community #writeblr #the nimbus saga #the long winter #chapter 2 #ao3 #original works #cw: car accident #cw: emotional abuse #cw: physical abuse #cw: violence #medieval #fantasy #wip

[talesofmetalandmagic]

BadThingsHappenBingo – Episode IV

Fandom: League of Legends (Shurima)

Characters: Emperor Omah Azir, Xerath (+ extras)

Prompt: Corporal Punishment

Synopsis: Azir's ordeal starts at last – and the more he fights, the more pain comes. How Imperial can you be in such a state?

@badthingshappenbingo

He realized that he wouldn't even pass that test when he lay down.

An emperor cannot sleep on the ground, thrown on the stones like a dog. He forced himself to remain seated for at least three portions of the meal: since he can't see, with his eyes still seeled, he only has those to understand how time passes. After the fourth, or maybe it was the fifth, the pain in his legs was such that it left him breathless with every breath. I'm doing it to survive, he'd told himself as he crouched down. Some have done worse. The days with sealed eyes fold back on themselves, curl up and loosen: Azir feels like suffocating, inside a bottomless pit. Sometimes he is so furious, he'd like to tear apart everything that surrounds him: the walls of that cell, the door and the bars, the whole quarry in which they have confined him, and finally the stitches on his eyelids to be able to see the fruit of the his work and bask in the imperial strength he still has. Other times, more and more meal after meal, he's so tired that he can't move: he lies on his back or on his side, lying inside that cell that he can't see. However things go, Azir is tired: and the day when he welcomes the opening of the door with his heart in his throat and a thank you on his tongue comes too early and too late at once.

-Xerath.- he hasn't spoken for days, his tone is so dry that he doesn't seem alive.

-Xerath, don't go away. I'll do as you want, I'll make you happy. Get these threads out of my eyes and tell me what I have to do to leave me alone.-

-Stupid Azir.- he had replied. He had summoned all his self-control of him, clinging to a thin thread that he hardly feels anymore, in order not to break the promise of a moment before him and jump at his throat like a furious cat.

-You could have stopped suffering a long time ago if only you weren't so arrogant. But we will take it away from you, even that pride of yours. For now, come: I'll loosen your stitches. In a few days you'll be out, and you'll start working.-

-What does it mean? Work at what?- He had screamed until his throat ached, coughing so hard it pulled at the stitches in his eyes. They cannot expect an Emperor to work: it would be an insult to his inheritance. But they're going to take his stitches away, and right now that's all he needs. He will see Shurima again. It can't go wrong with that thought in mind.

Finally, seven feasts later, they untie the threads from his eyes once and for all.

Azir blinks several times, heart pounding, scrutinizing his trembling fingers. It's me, it's really me. He will be better, now. He doesn't even have time to look around: they are already calling him out, leading him through the corridors and under a stone portico on the edge of the quarry. As he climbs the stairs he wonders how much more of him will remain when they're done. They make him sit in a wooden tub, without even a sheet. He has to wash himself, as if he were some farmer, with soap so greasy it leaves him itching and in water so slimy that he's probably dirtier afterwards than before. There must be sand in the basins they pour on his head. When he stands up his buttocks, back and feet are speckled with splinters. To dry themselves they throw a jute cloth over him, rough as a hair shirt: Azir dabs on it with small touches, without rubbing, but his rubbed skin still burns with each contact.

-Hurry up,- Xerath growls in five different voices. His new dress is a mud-colored tunic, a rough square and so short on the thighs that it looks indecent, made of a material that is perhaps scrap cotton and perhaps half-carded goatskin. He doesn't even have a belt to keep him on. A floppy hood of the same material hangs over his shoulder blades. Azir would like to tear it apart and throw it in the faces of each of those bastards, but a naked Emperor cannot stand.

He climbs the stairs tense as a spear, yet again cuffed hands and feet, on legs now too trembling to even think about running away. At the top of the quarry, among the dusty remains of winches and scaffolding, Xerath sits on a throne of sandstone boulders, sprawling legs propped together. Two hands grab the hood on his back and pull it over his head, almost up to his eyes. -How dare you lay your hands on me?- Azir spreads his shoulders, extending his arms until the handcuffs scratch against his bound wrists. He can't take that thing off if he can't touch it, with his hands firmly held on his back, but he can show that bum how to treat an Emperor. Xerath's metal hand brushes against his cheek and grips his chin with his nails.

-You will cover your head before your Lord!-

He lets it go, floating back to that throne-like spot – and let's make him happy, Azir thinks. Wearing that rag is humiliating bareheaded or covered. The humiliation is elsewhere, and an itch of panic creeps into his stomach.

-My…- he can't truly dare to say it. He begged for him once, but even an enemy can be begged to. Now, that bastard is asking for much more. - Oh, Xerath. You must be crazy.-

-And yet, my sweet,- Xerath chuckles, -I am perfectly lucid. A unique life lesson in the world awaits you. It won't be pleasant… for you, at least, because it will bring me endless joy. It is necessary that you suffer, that you suffer every day, that you feel ashamed of your name and of your every feather. You will be humbled, and it will be right.-

-Cut it short and tell me what you want. Do you want money, do you want an army, do you want me to fight for you?-

Azir has raised his voice, and for a moment he sees Xerath glow with a warm glow. Absurd: he should know how the Emperor of Shurima speaks.

-I'm an Ascended like you. Indeed, more than you. I deserve my tribute, and it is right that you give it to me, creator of all my misery. I want you to build a temple for me. A complete temple, down to the last column. You will build it yourself and according to my design, toiling in the same place where my father lost his life in the indifference of all. When that temple is completed, and not before, I will let you go.-

Azir closes his eyes, so hard at first that the stitches burn again; he wants to think, but his head hurts too much to concentrate enough. His first instinct is to thank the Sun Disc, because he really can't take any more torture and anything that can end that confinement will be welcome. But there is a different threat, in what Xerath asks: a pain that an emperor should not know, much less an Ascended.

-Do you want to shame me?- He spits out those words like a bitter pill, and it would be wonderful if he could take Xerath in the face and let him know what he thinks. If he too accepts it will take him months, maybe years… there was a temple to the East that had been started before he was born, and that was left incomplete even at the time of his fall. And this temple, Xerath would have him build it all himself.

-Poor little Azir, he is afraid of dusting his feathers. But if you don't like it, I'll take you back there. You know I would: we can lock you in the ground again, sew up your eyes again, and all your other orifices. Six months will do you good.-

Azir hates, and he would like to slap, the shiver that runs through him. -No. Alright it is, miserable bastard. I will build a temple for you, but make sure I leave.-

-This is a promise, Azir. I keep them, unlike you. When we're done, I'll get you out of here.-

Azir drops his head, that ridiculous cowl brushing the top of his beak. He closes his eyes, because he's so tired he could fall asleep on his feet, and swallows all of his venom. He can feel the gaze of father and mother on his neck: his failed son, the destroyer of empire. At least, they would certainly say, you'll build something this time around.

-Open your eyes, Azir.- He has so much pain in the stitches that it blurs every time he breathes, but he wouldn't ask even if he knew Xerath could hear him. Honey is what goes eye infections.

-Listen to me carefully, because you have no escape. From sunrise to sunset you will work on my temple. You will carve the stone, you will carry it with your own hand to the plain, you will arrange it and you will finish it, mixing the clay with the sweat of your brow. There are other things you will need to know. You'll learn them along the way, and stupid as you are I can imagine how long it will take. But there's one thing you won't have to worry about: your imperial pride. Because from now on, in my hands, you are no longer emperor of anything.-

Until I can free myself, Azir thinks. Or until someone finds me… Nasus will be turning over every dune to find his Emperor himself, and will unleash scouts and charioteers until he knows something. He just has to wait. May Xerath delude himself, look at his dirty hands and sanded feathers and he thinks he's won. He really can't end like this.

-The first thing you need to know is that I will no longer allow you to call me Xerath. I spit on the name you gave me. To you I will be My Lord: so you will call me, with the ceremonial speak. Thank me, Azir.

The wretched, filthy… Azir's cheeks are already hot as he grunts a thank you – and they're even hotter a moment later, when he gets a slap that makes him stagger backwards. Azir folds in half, covering his face. That worm hit him under the eyelid, his eye burns like it's about to burst.

-I said thank you, what else is there!-

-Thank you, My Lord.-

A tear trembles in Azir's eye: the Emperor swallows, so hard his beak crackles. -Thank you, My Lord. No more of these slaps, what are they for?-

-This is how you discipline a rebellious servant. Isn't that right, Azir? Your father said so. And don't answer back: for you'll not be allowed to speak unless you are spoken to. You will keep your head down, as a sign of shame and penance, at any time of your day, and when you are in my presence you will cover your head. The less I realize your existence, the more serene my days will be. You will don the tunic you wear, and no other article of clothing will be allowed to you. You deserve me to leave you naked, but I'm forgiving.-

-Thank you, My Lord.- Azir whispers. The slap that follows is so strong that it reopens the blood to the stitches of the right eye. He hiccups. -Ouch, why?-

-Harder. I want to hear your voice, Azir.-

-Thank you, My Lord!- Azir covers his face with his arms, but no more slaps come. What is this man doing to me? There can be no lower humiliation anywhere.

-You will wake up when we tell you, and you will fall asleep the same way. You will have two meals a day, which you will eat without complaining and without asking for more. We will provide you with a round of hourglass to complete your banquet, so I advise you not to waste time on etiquette and court ceremonies. After all, no court could ever want you, filthy as you are. Say thank you.-

-Thank you, My Lord.. Azir speaks aloud, his jaw aching. No slap, this time it's fine for him. He clenches his fists: how he wishes he could cover his ears.

-You will sleep on the sand, like my mother and father, and their mothers and fathers before them. And may you savor their every sob, every ache in their muscles, and every one of their terrified thoughts as they endured what your family forced upon them."

-Xerath, you dream. I don't even know them…-

The slap comes from the right, solid and dry. -I did not know them, My Lord. You hurt me! You can't expect I really…-

Another slap, another one. Azir's face is on fire, he no longer knows where to turn: his knees tremble and give way, the ground approaches. No, not like that… but a moment later he's on his knees, arms crossed in front of his face, sizzling eyes dripping with tears.

It's a bad dream, now I'll wake up.

Azir closes her eyes until the stitches hurt and crouches under his rags. It's just for a while, so I don't get slapped. They will come to rescue their Emperor and it will all be over. While waiting, he will have to endure – and may the name of his Dynasty be not further outraged with manual labor. How come he hates me so much?

-Azir? SO WHAT?-

He sighs, grumbling: his face hot with shame and slaps, his eyes swollen under the scars of the stitches. neck aching as he looks into the eyes of the monster he once called brother. Spit on him, he thinks for a moment. Be imperial.

-Alright, my lord.- he says instead. -I'll do as you wish.-

-So be it,- says Xerath. -You will see that a little suffering will do you good too.-

Azir lowers his eyes, swollen where the stitches have been hit, right eye blinded by the dripping blood. His hands are shaking. He hates himself.

#lol #league of legends #azir #omah azir #emperor azir #xerath #shurima #bad things bingo #cw: physical abuse #cw: violence #cw: eye trauma #azir's new groove #get ready folks this is how he loses his gleam and starts being humbled #I love how I tag this AU referencing one of the funniest Disney movies #while it being constant torture for this Emperor here

[distopea]

44 (for Vex or Astra)

@lured-into-wonderland

Kiss meme 💋

Today, he felt in a certain mood. Not that he could ever truly understand the deepness of his own sick brain, but he craved to hurt, and he craved to manipulate. Watching his supposed sister standing by his side - he didn’t believe in those lies, they had nothing in common after all, not even their physics - only gave him the most wicked ideas. He didn’t know why she was so hopeful regarding their relationship; there was nothing such as hope in the universe he was walking in, and the more she stayed by his side, the less she would be able to get away in one piece. 

He didn’t want to anyway. For even breathing next to him, she had to pay. 

“Ah…” He sighed and rolled his arm around her shoulder, pulling Nunnally closer from his chest. He had noticed how much she liked physical contact, her body shivering each time he was closer to her. Perhaps she was such a needy individual, naive and full of desperate urges, and she wouldn’t be able to voice it. It was pathetic and funny. He slid his finger against her cheek, watching with hunger the way she seemed lost with that gesture, confused by the obvious intimacy. And he loved that. 

Violently, not caring if he would bruise her skin, he crushed her neck further against his side while he forced their bodies against the nearest wall. She had always claimed that she wasn’t afraid of him, but she had always been full of distrust regarding his actions; and she was only smart for that. Yet, despite all the alarms and other red flags he had been showing, she had never decided to go away. She thought that she could be unique; the one able to change him. He forced her back against the concrete, his other hand grabbing her face while he laughed and prevented any scream from escaping from his fingers. “Fuck, I think I’m in a mood.” He whispered, and watched with delight her reaction. He couldn’t say what she was experiencing right now; but surely, oh surely, she knew it wasn’t right. 

With no other purpose but to take control and disgust her, he forced a kiss upon her. He glued his entire body and pinned her there, using all his strength to forbid her to move, his mouth devouring her one, tongue out to seek for hers. He wanted her to panic, to forget how to properly breathe, and to be mortified that her so lovely brother was sick to the core. Sick enough to take advantage of that situation, and why not perform actions that her flesh would carry forever. Breaking her was the most amusing game he had in a while.

“Ah little sister…” Vex smirked while he eventually parted, his eyes falling on her swollen lips, slightly more purple because of the violence of his suctions. “You look so dumb.” He chuckled and turned around, continuing his walk as if nothing had happened. 

#; lured into wonderland #⌇opening the surgery room ( 𝙑𝙚𝙭 | ic ) #⌇raging machine ( 𝙑𝙚𝙭 | modern main verse ) #⌇bond of nothingness and neurosis ( 𝙑𝙚𝙭 / 𝙉𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 ) #cw: non-con #cw: incest implied #cw: physical abuse #; tagging everything to be sure this is still a safe post #; sorry Nun but he's really fucked up

[kriimhild]

WGTF #19-20

Pspspsps! Hey guys! Two more WIP pages are available at Tier2! 

Tier 2 contains: 

early page sketches 

comic bubbles, frames and dialogues!

#FNAFDailyDaycareAU #fnafsundrop #fnafmoondrop #au #oc #cw: torture #cw: physical abuse

[kissmeau]

Autumn's father took good care of him after he was born for about a year. It's the main reason Autumn was able to have appropriate cognitive and motor skill development and the opportunity to create a better attachment style in the future.

Autumn bonded with his dad as a baby, receiving warmth, food, and care. Autumn's father would conversate with him about his mother and tell some of the stories he would want to write —the nice parts of the horrors. He was a wanted child, and in the end, both his parents were excited to welcome him into the world. Autumn was swimming in a pool of love and eagerness.

But as soon as he could walk and hold his feeding bottle, Autumn's father realized his son was his own person and not an extension of his wife. So Autumn would, eventually, leave him. It was terrifying and irrational, but he couldn't control the despair. It was similar to when his family kicked him out and when he lost his wife. He couldn't endure the idea of the future, but he found relief in whisky and rum. It got so bad at some point he would drink mouthwash in the absence of alcohol, ending up in the hospital. Autumn was left alone at home without explanation.

Autumn sought his father plenty of times, he searched for the emotional connection he inadvertently felt as a baby, but he would either get no response or a furious response. However, he would still try to engage in a conversation, talk about the TV shows, ask for food, and demand his basic needs were met. But nothing. Nothing came from his father rather than moldy bread and overcooked instant noodles.

Autumn would cry a lot, unable to name his feelings. He was baffled, a toddler with no behavioral references. Then, the bad guys showed up when he was four years old. They weren't meant to lay a finger on him, the one with the debt was Adam, his father, but he tried to protect him. He tried to defend him all the time. He wanted his father's well-being above his —subconscious gratitude from his first year of life. Until the day he asked his father for a gun, and his father did nothing but laugh at him.

Autumn was no longer protecting his father when the bad guys came in. But he was still beaten; he became part of the deal. But, every time he was punched and washed his wounds, he thought of making them pay. It's when his hygiene habits became obsessive. They could have put their filthy power on his skin, but Autumn would erase it with patience and dedication. He would fantasize about the final blow as the water from the shower fell above his body and scrubbed his body with soap to the point of irritation.

Autumn's ideas of revenge were terrible, horrific, bloody, and twisted. But, for him, they were alright. The bad guys didn't deserve mercy; his father did not either. When his father died, it was Monday, and that was it: Monday. When he killed the bad guys, that's what it was meant to be for that Wednesday. Up to this day, Autumn sees no wrongdoing in his actions.

It was, it is, and will always be: Vindication.

#cw: blood #cw: physical abuse #cw: death #❜ ─ Autumn ; headcanon ─ ❛ #❜ ─ Autumn ─ ❛

[magpiedminx]

(Hope I did the content warning tags right - Talking about physical abuse, parental abuse, mental health, stuff.) My Dad full out triggered me tonight. I'd gone over there for Boxing Day and hopefully dinner. But Mum & Dad were talking about some kids who were acting up at the mall, and Dad made the comment that they needed a good smack. He didn't mean it, he's long ago changed his mind about physical punishments, it was a knee-jerk comment. But man, it brought back a full on flashback of my being 12 years old and my last spanking. And every time I got one I heard the phrase "We love you, but.." I think I was 35 before I saw any variation of "I love you" that didn't have that 'but' attached.

I departed as quickly as possible without freaking out my parents. They're far from the same people who traumatized me as a kid and teen, and I forgave them long ago.

All the way home (15 min drive) trying to shove off a panic attack with deep breathing exercises. Didn't really help much. Try meditating once I got home. Nope. Ate a cookie, sometimes eating my feelings helps. Nope.

So now I'm twitchy, depressed as fuck, and wanting to DO something but don't know what. So I post here and hope writing helps.

#CW: Mental Health #CW: Physical Abuse

[questioningespecialy]

The descriptions of abuse on the private flight came in a cross-complaint Jolie filed in the couple’s dispute over a French home and winery they co-owned that is separate from their ongoing divorce, which she sought soon after. (...) A judge gave Pitt 50-50 custody of the children after a closed-door trial in which the allegations were aired. But an appeals court subsequently disqualified the private judge for not disclosing possible conflicts of interest after a motion from Jolie, nullifying the decision. The New York Times first reported the court filing. The filing says that on Sept. 14, 2016, Jolie, Pitt and their six children were traveling from the winery, Chateau Miraval, to Los Angeles. “Pitt’s aggressive behavior started even before the family got to the airport, with Pitt having a confrontation with one of the children. After the flight took off, Jolie approached Pitt and asked him what was wrong,” the filing says. “Pitt accused her of being too deferential to the children and verbally attacked her.” Later, it says, “He pulled her into the bathroom and began yelling at her. Pitt grabbed Jolie by the head and shook her, and then grabbed her shoulders and shook her again before pushing her into the bathroom wall.” One of the children, who were between 8 and 15 years old at the time, verbally defended Jolie, the countersuit says, and Pitt lashed out. “Pitt lunged at his own child and Jolie grabbed him from behind to stop him. To get Jolie off his back, Pitt threw himself backwards into the airplane’s seats injuring Jolie’s back and elbow,” the filing says. “The children rushed in and all bravely tried to protect each other. Before it was over, Pitt choked one of the children and struck another in the face.” The document says he subsequently poured beer on Jolie and poured beer and red wine on the children. (...) They had been romantic partners for a decade when they married in 2014. Jolie filed for divorce in 2016, and a judge declared them single in 2019, but the divorce case has not been finalized with custody and financial issues still in dispute.

—Andrew Dalton (with Anthony McCartney contributions) | published 3:06 AM UTC, October 5, 2022

#news #cw: verbal abuse #cw: child abuse #cw: physical abuse #domestic violence #abuse allegations #abuse #allegations #Brad Pitt #Angelina Jolie #celebrities #Andrew Dalton #Jolie details Brad Pitt abuse allegations in court filing #apnews.com #just now learning of this shit #Waving the Red Flag #The Apology.

[wastheheart]

40 Random Questions

@merveiilles (james) asked: "does that hurt?" (thank you!)

Esme clenches her teeth as James thrusts an index finger into the fresh bite wound. She refuses to grimace, to wince, to show how much pain it truly causes. Unbeknownst to James, Esme is entirely practised in his methods of torture and intimidation. If anything, she's glad he found her and neither Alice or Rosalie.

It's hard to keep his face in focus; every time she blinks she sees Charles' face, hears his voice corrupting James' own.

And she's aware what will happen next if she remains stone faced. He'll raise the ante, inflict more pain until his ego is fed by a reaction. She hopes he'll get bored, that he'll give up with her and seek another toy, but whatever she does she can't let him get to any of her girls, Bella most importantly. She won't survive even his tamest of methods.

Eyes open, glassy and unfocussed, but she stares defiantly ahead of her nonetheless. He isn't rewarded a reply, she won't allow it.

#c; james #merveiilles #answered ask #v; twilight #torture men #cw: torture #tw: torture #physical abuse men #cw: physical abuse #tw: physical abuse #hope this is okay! #pls just let me know if you'd like something else!