#and it becomes this echo chamber and very exhausting

[kingofmyborrowedheart]

This fandom is very skilled at making mountains out of molehills.

[sv3t1ana]

Thinking about Husband!Sukuna who just lets you do whatever the fuck you want now.

There was a time when he protested. A time when he had pride, pride in being a man, in being a fearsome king, commanding respect wherever he went.

But you?

You were relentless. So utterly, absurdly relentless that at some point, he just stopped fighting it.

He had never been a man of many words, and marriage hadn’t changed that. It was only a week ago that he sat comfortably on his throne, heavy head resting in his palm as he drifted off to sleep, until he was interrupted by the sudden weight (or loss?) on his chest.

A lesser man would have panicked, but your husband? No. He merely took a long inhale, an even longer exhale, and cracked one eye open to find your tiny, mischievous hands cupping his pecs like a scientist.

“They don’t really move like mine,” you mused, experimentally bouncing the firm muscle in your grasp.

He didn’t know if the subject of this experiment was his breaking point or whatever nonsense idea had wormed its way into your head this time.

Your expression was serious, too serious, as you moved in front of him, gripping the hem of his robe as if a scholar prepped for a dissertation.

“May I remove this?”

His eyes, half-lidded with the dull exhaustion that only centuries of being a king could bring, slowly trailed to meet yours. His lips pressed into a flat line.

You took his silence as consent.

And soon enough, his shirt was discarded, leaving him bare from the waist up as you squinted in intense concentration, leaning in close to his chest.

It was pathetic, really. The size difference. Your husband was a mountain of a man, yes, his frame large enough to dwarf yours entirely. And yet, there you were, fingers struggling to span across his tits as you earnestly attempted to jiggle them, as if you could replicate your own softness on his ironclad frame.

At one point, you had both of his pecs squished together, testing them like some critical judge at a livestock competition.

“Wow, you’re a lot different than me.”

Oh, his lovely wife. His lovely wife, who was genuinely comparing her milk-producing breasts to those of a war-hardened king.

Oh, the patience he had for you.

And despite the sheer disrespect you continually brought upon the honor of Sukuna, the King, the Conqueror, the Lord of Curses…

He still let you.

And it never stopped.

Because right now, right this very moment, he was balls-deep inside you, your knees pinned to your chest as he fucked you senseless, guttural moans echoing in the grand chamber as he pounded into your dripping cunt.

The nights the lord would bed his wife was always the same, multiple orgasms, a sore throat, bruises painting your skin like a lover’s signature, and the brutal satisfaction of a man who knew he could ruin you.

There couldn’t have been a worse time, a worse thought, and for the first time in his life, Sukuna wished, prayed, for something to be different about his wife.

“W-wait, ‘Kuna- fuck- wait-!”

Because he never wanted you in pain, never wanted you to feel anything but pleasure despite the sixth climax of the night barreling toward him, he reluctantly halted.

Oh, may the lords above grant him the strength.

Because you, thoroughly fucked out, hair knotted, sweat glistening across your body, brought your trembling hands forward,

and groped his fucking tits.

Like he was some toy for you to hold onto.

“Okay, continue.”

He stilled. In shock? In horror? In spiritual agony?

Slowly, he tried to thwart at your hands, momentarily lifting one from under your knee, but-

“No, I said continue.”

That’s right. Your wish was his command.

So he continued. And every time his cock rammed deep into your walls, every time you moaned so sinfully, your little hands squeezed tighter.

It was almost comical, your soft, delicate fingers clutching at his immovable chest as if this was your god-given right.

With a grunt, he muttered, “Why must you do this?” His brows furrowed, thrusts becoming punishing.

Through your breathless whimpers, you somehow managed, “Ngh- I just- oh, god- like them.”

His cock twitched at your honesty.

His breasts flexing in tandem.

And when your shaking fingers dared to pinch his nipple…

Oh, that was when the real fun began.

“Fuck, don’t- fuck-” He spat through gritted teeth.

Neither of you could ignore the way his back arched the tiniest bit, the way his thrusts faltered for a split second as your fingers toyed with him.

You were too far gone to form coherent sentences, let alone fucking laugh, but your lips curled in amusement, jaw slack as the wet pat-pat-pat of his cock slamming into you filled the air.

“You think this shit is funny?”

His hold on you shifted. With inhuman ease, he lifted your legs, pressing them together straight up in the air, holding your feet in a single massive hand while his other gripped your thigh in a vice.

The new position devastating.

His thick cock dragged along every sensitive spot inside you, punching deep into your cunt, the head kissing your cervix with every pump.

It was enough to wreck you, your body shuddering as your next orgasm tore through you like divine wrath.

And Sukuna, normally composed and always in control, was panting.

As you both lay side by side afterward, spent and breathless, a singular, intrusive thought carved its way into your little head.

“...Can I be big spoon tonight?”

He didn’t respond, simply sighing and rolling onto his side. Letting you attempt to wrap your arms around his impossibly broad back.

Oh, his lovely, sweet wife.

Your hand reached down, fingers splaying, grabbing a handful of his ass.

A slow, agonizing inhale.

Then a measured, exasperated exhale.

“...No more tonight. Please.”

You couldn’t see his face, your own buried between his shoulder blades.

But maybe, juuust maybe, someone, somewhere, could say there was the barest twitch of a smile on his lips.

[kakushino]

The Queen

Ryomen Sukuna x F! Reader

He never orders you around - rather, he requests.

Tags: slight gore, suggestive, fem reader, true form Sukuna Word count: 1,7k

Masterlist

AN: Fanart used in banner made by the amazing @innaillus - be sure to check out their divine fanart Written as a Secret Santa's gift for @zoyakuna - Merry (early) Christmas! (and pls stop slandering Giyuu, it's causing me undue stress)

There was little to amuse you in your secluded throne room underground. 

Correction - there had been little to amuse you out of your throne room, so you had retreated back into your palace - and even then, was it a palace, when there were no servants, no great halls, no music, and no consort?

Just you - the Supreme Sovereign - and your throne made of roots and vines. 

Which made it odd to hear a sound echo in your chamber. You feared nothing, no one, and your heart remained steady, not a beat out of place, your eyes closed as you rested from lifetimes of exhaustion.

“Who goes there?” you called out, not moving from your reclined position. 

You were it to him, the holy grail of his searching - the Queen of Curses. Your name was feared enough that it had been scratched out from all written sources, the feats accredited to you terrifying… yet thrilling to Sukuna. He had needed to meet you, though he knew not why… A deep hunger for companionship, another who could stand at his level, who could reign with him from his Shrine, a craving so consuming he nearly went mad with his searching. 

And he did find you, though hardly in the condition he thought he would.

“This is what You have become? The cynosure of all mortals reduced to a wretch.” 

The voice was rough, forceful - distinctly male - though the tone held a hint of remorse and confusion. “All beauty is short-lived,” was all you said, a slight irritation churning your stomach for the first time in - decades, centuries, millenia? Who knows?

“Not for curses. We are eternal.” You felt the way cursed energy swirled around him - violent, and intense. It lashed out at your own, but like water parting around a blade, yours did too, accepting and redirecting the angry force, dispersing it, and eventually absorbing it. It was like taking a deep breath of fresh air after being suffocated under the weight of the world, a drop of water quenching a soul-deep thirst in the desert of life.

You opened your eyes and sat up properly as you studied him.

The man - curse - was tall, broad, and regal. A king would be a title befitting his posture. His hair was a light color you could hardly make out in the darkness of your abode. The dark marks adorning his face stood out starkly against his skin, as did the shape of the disfigured flesh on the right side of his face. Four gleaming eyes were focused on you, four arms relaxed at his sides.

This man was fascinating, and beautiful; he could easily sway the hearts of humans, bring them to their knees. Too bad you were not human.

“Join me, your Majesty.” Despite the wording, it was a plea. How odd. 

“Who are you to ask anything of me?” You blinked slowly. You felt the way cursed energy swirled around him - violent, intense, … defensive, lonely. It enticed you, spoke to you in a language you understood all too well. It wasn’t in your nature to deny an honest request.

“Ryomen Sukuna, your Majesty,” he introduced himself. There was a sense of pride in the way he spoke, as if his existence was created, carved out, into the world by his own hands.

Perhaps Ryomen Sukuna would be the cure to your continued boredom. 

You stood up from your throne, your figure hardly atrophied as your cursed energy kept you in peak form. The roots and vines retreated into the cave walls, leaving no trace of your royal seat, the chamber empty again for centuries to come.

“Very well.”

Living with Sukuna was hardly boring. Each day, you felt your apathy falling away as you spent time with the King of Curses, until you smiled freely in his presence. The day you realized he softened you to this degree came all too suddenly.

His cruelty to humans who sought to undermine him was but a flimsy curtain of who he truly was. Like a displeased cat, claws exposed, he scratched up those daring to approach him, but with you -

With you he was as playful and borderline affectionate as the tabby you used to feed back in your human days. It warmed your heart, and your cheeks, to feel his eyes on your figure. It made you feel unsteady on your feet. It made you question who was the ruler of the other, who held the power over the other; the power imbalance slowly became a balance - your energy dimmed by the way he could play you like a puppet.

All these feelings weaved together and knotted around your heart, snaring you in a complex web too tight to escape, exposing your throat to him like a delicacy to be gorged upon.

Only if you let him know, that is.

You somehow felt that a man like him wouldn’t settle, and more importantly, he was a man; just another one of the hordes who wanted a demure consort, you could bet. You were not a dainty flower he likely sought; you were a weed - growing strong despite the harshest of conditions, clawing out a place for your existence where there had been none before. The Curse of Curses.

So you buried those feelings like a female buried herself under layers of junihitoe - though you refused to wear that monstrosity despite the latest fashion in Japan, as all the fabric was too heavy for comfort. You made do with the yukata you stole from Sukuna’s wardrobe. It was definitely not because it smelled like him. 

You kept away from the humans and the ruling in his Shrine, spending time with Uraume, him, or alone in the gardens - until you could not. He’d left you in charge of his Kingdom when he had business to do. 

Human men were deplorable, thinking you were just a weak curse to be manipulated and slandered. You didn’t raise your voice at all, yet it shut everyone up in the hall - save for one local lord thinking himself too mighty to listen. No amount of flattery would have kept him alive after that. A wave of your hand made vines grow out of his guts - burrowing through his flesh as easily as tearing paper apart; sweet-smelling white flowers bloomed from the mess of red-coated plant matter in the middle of the chamber. 

You sat in Sukuna’s throne of bones, regal and untouchable.

That was how he found you - presiding over his subjects like the Goddess you were, and bloody Spring sprouted in front of him, rubies glinting upon the stone floors like a grotesque decoration. 

At first, he had wanted to study you - the Queen of Curses, the Supreme Sovereign, older than him, wiser, more powerful. Forgotten, yet not forgotten enough for him not to find any sources mentioning your title. He had been curious about you, and then he became curious about the feelings you evoked in him. Your presence in his home converted from an adornment into an emollient to him, smoothing the rough edges and softening the spikes of his defenses against you, yet you remained the centerpiece of his attention, even when you weren’t in his presence. He found himself thinking about you in all his waking moments.

“Everyone, out.”

He could not hide his devotion to you if he tried now - it had grown roots in his soul and fed off of his life-force, yet strengthened it twice as much. His heart was set ablaze every time he laid eyes upon your form, the blood in his veins searing hot, branding him from the inside - a slave to you forevermore.

And so he knelt at your feet, the bottom two of his arms supporting him as he leaned forward, his top pair carefully reaching for your foot and raising it to his face.

The King of Curses kissed your ankle, closing his eyes in silent worship to his Goddess, his World. 

“Your Majesty,” he greeted you in a whisper, his lips caressing your skin.

Your eyes grew soft as you studied him, your posture proud but your expression fond. “Sukuna.”

Wet, hot tongue darted out to taste your skin, making you jolt and tear your leg from his grasp with pursed lips. The tabby was particularly impertinent today.

“You have no respect for your Queen, do you?” 

“On the contrary, I hold all the respect for you.” His smirk was mischievous, he knew as well as you did neither of you were serious about this. Just a harmless teasing, if a bit skewed. 

You used your foot to lightly push against his chest to tip him over onto his back - which he let you do, for he could have as easily resisted. Even falling down, he looked graceful. It made you feel warm inside your ribcage as you pushed a joyous smile down.

Sukuna turned the fall into a backwards roll, ending up on his knees again.

“At least you know your place - on your knees before me…”

“I-” he licked his lips, “I would gladly be on my knees for you all day, Your Majesty.”

Oh? It was your turn to give him a smile full of mischief as he slowly moved back to you. You remained silent.

“Has a cat got your tongue?” 

Sukuna shuffled forward on his knees, his top pair of arms resting on the bones of his throne as he came even closer. Palms trailing to your thighs and covering them with his hands - an easy feat with his size. 

You could do naught but marvel at the contrast of your limbs and his - each powerful and deadly in their own right, each in a different way. There was no tremor of fear in your muscles, only anticipation, even while he lightly spread your legs to fit his torso between them as you lounged on his throne.

“Let me feast on your nectar.” His voice, smooth like silk, a plea rather than an order, the nuance of his tone telling all you needed to know. He appeared unreadable to others, but he was as exposed and vulnerable as a newborn babe to you at this moment.

Even so, your lips parted in surprise at his request for you didn’t expect him to say it out loud at last. “Forward, aren’t you?”

His carmine eyes - all four of them - focused on yours with an intensity you were only just getting used to with him. Sukuna said nothing as he waited for your response.

The devil didn’t bargain, after all.

“Very well… Show me how you would worship your Queen, my King.”

dividers by the divine @benkeibear

network: @enchantedforest-network

[wlwfanfictionss]

Relax, and let go

Alicent Hightower x Female! Reader

Summary: When the duties of the realm take their toll on her, her sworn sword takes care of their Queen.

or: the one where reader fucks Alicent in a bathtub :)

Word count: ~3K

Warnings: Soft smut (Alicent deserves some love), top!reader obv, yearning hehe MDNI!!!!!

a/n: Im back! sort of lol. Trying to get back into writing, and what better way to get back into it then with a little Alicent content right before season two?? Hope you all enjoy, and let me know if you all would like to see more Alicent content. Anywayssss....#teamgreen

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Her footsteps were heavy on the cold stone floor of the halls. The Council meeting had been a long one, the sun had already been set for a while now, the castle quiet since most staff and royals had retreated to their own chambers. The Queen made her way to her bedchambers at the very end of the hall, escorted by her sworn sword. You both walked in silence, you could see the weight of her duties dragging her down. Her shoulders were slumped, but still she walked with purpose. She hadn’t been sleeping, you knew that, because every night you stood outside her room to stand guard, you saw the light slip underneath her door and heard shuffling inside the room.

You open the big wooden doors that lead to her quarters, so she can step inside. You follow right behind her, lighting some candles to light up her room a bit. Before you announce your departure to the queen, now standing facing the balcony, you decide to speak for the first time in what felt like hours.

“Your Grace?”, you ask softly. She doesn't answer, seeming to be lost in her own thoughts, so you try again.

“Alicent?”

The use of her name instead of her title makes her wake from her thoughts. She turns around and looks at you. It takes your breath away every single time. You knew it wasn't right, she was your boss, the queen of the seven kingdoms, but you couldn’t help it. Every time you laid eyes on the Dowager queen, you couldn’t help but admire her beauty.

“Yes?” she responded curtly, though there was kindness in the way she spoke to you.

You decide to speak, all might it be out of line. “You should get some rest”

“Rest...” Alicent echoed, her voice tinged with frustration. "I wish I could, but duty does not pause for the queen's exhaustion." The weight of duty was immense, and the thought of rest seemed like a luxury she could not afford in times like these. Yet, the truth was that her body was beginning to buckle under the strain. Her husband, the king, was very ill, and his duties had become hers.

"But... I suppose you are right," she added, acknowledging the wisdom in her guard's words. "I cannot lead if I am weakened."

“Ill draw a bath for you, your grace” you propose. It was so late when the two of you came back from the council that her handmaidens had already retreated back to their homes.

“Alright,” Alicent answered quietly, a hint of relief creeping into her voice, “Thank you.”

Without another word, you remove the heavy layers of your armor to be able to help her out. Making your way to the bronze tub in the corner of the room, you start by heating up the water. Filling the water with oils, the sweet fumes of which filling the room with a relaxing smell.

"I... I will need some help removing my dress." Alicent spoke up. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but her words were tinged with an underlying fatigue.

“Of course, your grace”, you say, as you try not to think about the proximity in which you will be to the queen. The two of you have been close before, of course, you were her sworn sword, her protector. But never like this. Never just the two of you, confined in her bedchambers, nonetheless.

Alicent nodded her appreciation, thankful that she would not have to struggle alone with the intricate laces and ribbons of her dress. As she stood by the tub, the scent of rose oil wafted through the air, a soft fragrance to soothe her stress.

“I do not wish to burden you with my... personal matters." Despite trying to keep her composure as queen, at that moment Alicent felt a sense of vulnerability, as if the queen’s facade of regal authority had slipped away.

“You do not burden me, your grace”, you say softly. “I'm happy to help.”

“Can I?”, you ask her softly for permission to start untying the laces of her intricate green dress. It was absolutely breathtaking. A deep dark green, decorated with lace and stones. It must have cost a fortune. The contrast of her green dress and the brown of her eyes, that shimmered in the light of the candles around the room and made it look like flowing honey, made your head feel foggy.

Alicent nodded, “Yes, you may,” she replied politely. It was almost a whisper. She was slightly taken aback by your question. It seemed so simple, but to the queen it wasn’t. Her body was never hers, she had never been asked to be touched before, and your simple question of permission made her heart warm. The two of you always had this sort of tension. The air feeling thicker when you got close. You spend a lot of time together, since you were her personal guard, but somewhere along the way you created a special bond. The two of you didn't speak a lot, but Alicent knew you were loyal to her family, but mostly to her, and always stood by her, no matter what. You made the Queen feel things she hadn’t felt since Rhaenyra and her were young.

As you approached, Alicent presented her back to you, the laces of her emerald green gown flowing down her waist like intricate strands of thread. The Queen's breath hitched slightly as her guard gently removed the complex knots, the feeling of your strong hands touching her being strangely soothing to her.

And as you worked on undoing the laces, Alicent's breath grew softer as the tension from her dress lessened. The queen's back was bared for you to see, you gulped when you saw the smooth skin of her back being presented to you. The room being filled by the smell of rose petals and the steam from the bath, representing the growing tension between the two of you.

Your fingertips brush slightly against the queen's back as you remove the last of the laces. Taking a step back, you allow Alicent her space to undress further.

Alicent gracefully let her dress fall down, pooling on the stone floor like cascading waves. The queen's pale skin contrasted against the deep emerald-colored fabric, and as she stood in her smallclothes, the queen felt a strange sense of vulnerability. 

She could feel her guard's gaze upon her back, but there was something strangely comforting by the presence of someone who didn't seek to take advantage of her body or her power, but simply to serve and protect.

Letting out a quick cough, you turn around with your cheeks reddening, so she can rid herself of the last layer and get into the bath.

With her guard's eyes turned away, Alicent slipped out of her smallclothes and stepped into the awaiting bathtub. The warm water enveloped her body, and some of the day's exhaustion melted away in its embrace. As she settled into the bath, the queen sighed softly, relishing in the feeling of clean, warm water against her skin.

The moment you turn back around, your breath hitches. Although the cloudy water hides most of her body, you have never seen her like this, and your imagination runs wild about what hides beneath the rippling service of the water. You quickly shake your head to get rid of the inappropriate thoughts about the queen.

“Ehm, ill leave you to it then, your grace”, you say as you try to look away from her naked figure. Once you pick up you armor and leave for the door, a soft voice stops you in your tracks.

“Wait,” Alicent's voice interrupts you, “stay.” There is a flicker of longing in her eyes as she speaks out to you.

You feel like you are in a dream right now. “Excuse me, your grace?”, you ask to make sure you heard the Queen correctly.

Alicent repeats her words, her voice tinged with a subtle plea. "Stay. Please... stay with me."

The queen's gaze remains fixed on you, and the vulnerability in her eyes is a sharp contrast to the regal composure that she so often wears around the castle. 

You drop your stuff to the floor, your gaze never leaving hers. “Where do you want me?”

She points to an antique stool next to the bathtub. “Just keep me company for a while.”

The queen's voice is laced with sincerity and a touch of exhaustion, her gaze meeting yours with a hint of tenderness and longing.

Without another word, you walk over to the stool next to the bath and take a seat, arm resting on the side of the tub. Alicent leans back against the bathtub, relishing the warmth and comfort it provides.

“Thank you,” she whispers softly, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

As you sit in silence for a moment, you try not to let your eyes wander to her barely covered body. Alicent remains quiet, her gaze drifting to the surface of the water, which slightly shifts and ripples along with the movements of her body. The heat from the water and the rose-scented steam fills the air, creating a calming atmosphere. The queen's body is mostly hidden, and yet the gentle swell of her curves are visible through the water, adding an air of mystery and intrigue to her presence.

When you catch yourself looking at her body, you quickly look up, only to be met with her brown eyes already on yours. Alicent notices your gaze upon her, and a soft blush tints her cheeks. Neither of you look away, and for a moment, the tension in the air thickens.

“I'm sorry your grace, that was inappropriate”, you say as you go to stand up, but she grabs your sleeve as not to let you leave her side

"It's alright, please... stay." Alicent's voice is a tender whisper, and as she grasps the sleeve of your shirt, her touch is gentle but insistent. Her eyes hold a faint hint of vulnerability. Without breaking their eye contact, Alicent gently tugs on your sleeve, a silent plea for you to stay. Her touch makes your breath hitch, and you sit back down, not leaving her gaze

Alicent's eyes continue to hold yours with a mix of vulnerability and comfort. The heat of the water, the scent of the oils, and the quiet intimacy shared between the two of you create a sense of closeness that goes beyond mere companionship.

Alicent's hand remains gently resting on the edge of the tub, within your reach. So you decide to make the first move. “Tell me if you want me to stop, your grace”, you say, before letting your fingertips softly touch her hand, slowly dragging them up the length of her arm.

Alicent's heart skips a beat as she feels your touch, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Her breath catches in her throat, and her eyes follow the movement of your hand with a mix of anticipation and eagerness. After a moment of excruciating silence, she finally whispers, "Keep going," in a low, enticing voice. The queen felt like her skin is set ablaze, and she leans into your touch ever so slightly.

When you suddenly stand up, Alicent wants to protest, but before she can speak up, you move the stool behind her and sit back down. Your hands make contact with her shoulders, massaging away the tension of the day. A soft sigh of contentment escapes Alicent's lips as she feels the firm yet gentle pressure of your hands on her shoulders and neck. The queen's body relaxes under your touch, the tension, and stress of the day melting away as you work out the knots and kinks in her muscles. Your touch is soothing, and the queen closes her eyes, savouring in the sensations.

As you keep massaging her body you move your head closer to her ear. "Would you like me to keep going your grace?" you speak in a hushed tone.

At your quiet whisper, a shiver runs down Alicent's spine, and her response comes in a low and breathless voice. "Yes," she whispers, her eyes half-lidded with pleasure. "Keep going...please.."

As your fingertips work their magic, the queen leans further back into your embrace, her body surrendering to the sensations you create. Sliding one of your hands over her shoulder, you move it towards the water. The queen's body responds to your ministrations, her chest rising and falling slightly as she lets out a soft gasp. The mixture of pleasure and excitement is undeniable as your fingers graze against her soft skin.

Alicent's breath hitches as your hands make contact with her breast, the sudden intimacy and sensation sending a jolt of desire through her body, towards her core. Her back arches slightly at your touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.

"Just relax, Alicent." you speak up. "I've got you."

Your other hand mirrors the one on already on her breast and you begin to massage her chest, teasing her by sliding your hands across her nipples. When her breathing becomes more ragged, your movement become bolder. Playing with her nipples makes the Queen moan and mewl softly. You decide these sounds might be the holliest of things you have ever experienced. Kissing her neck, you can feel her pulse quicken. Never had Alicent felt such pleassure as she did now. Never had she been taken care of like this, being pleassured without being demanded something in return.

Alicent sits up more, exposing her chest to you. The top of her back that wasnt against the tub, now pressed against your front. One of your hands abandons her nipple and traverses lower under the water. When you reach her intimacy, the Queen holds in her breath. Cupping her pussy, you can feel how wet she is, even while she is submerged in the tub.

As Alicent turns her head back and to the side, you stare into her big doe eyes. Her mouth hangs open slightly as your palm slowely starts rubbing her clit. The Queen's soft sighs turn into moans and curses as the friction increases.

The hand that was still playing with her nipples, moved to her face, pulling her closer so you lips were mere inches apart. You press your lips to hers in a seering kiss, and at the same time you push a single diget inside of her. Alicent moans into the kiss, but returns it feverishly, her hand tugging at your shirt, pulling you closer. You have to try not to fall into the tub with her.

The moment you start pumping you finger inside of her, she loses it. God, if you knew the Queen of Westeros would be this loud in bed, you would have made the first move ages ago.

"Please, please, please, please..." she says over and over again, the words spilling from her lips like a prayer.

"Shhh, ive got you." you reply, adding a second finger into her, slowly picking up the pace with which you fucked her. Some of the water violently splashing over the tub by now.

You could practically hear the seams of your shirt ripping, with the force Alicent was clawing at you. Your tounge explored her mouth as your fingers kept working their magic underneath the water.

"I- Im gonna..."

"Cum for me, your Alicent" you interupt her.

And like clockwork, Alicent came undone all over your fingers. Her back arching out of the water, a loud moan of your name filling the empty space. And as you let her ride out her orgasm on your fingers, you litered her skin with kisses. Showing her your love and loyalty. Not to her family, but to her and only her.

She shuddered when you pulled your fingers out of her. Pulling them out of the water and straight into your mouth, cleaning your hand of her juices, moaning at the sweet taste. The Queen just stared at you with wide eyes.

"Thank you...for that." Alicent spoke first after she had regained her breath. A rosy tint spreading across her cheeks.

"It was my pleasure, your grace." you anwer with a slight smirk. "The water is getting cold, let me help you out."

Alicent stood up in the tub, slightly emberassed to show her body to you, even after the activities the two of you just did. She never found herself quite attractive, her body in particular. It was made to bare children, nothing more. Thats the thought she had grown up with. But now, standing naked in that tub, with you staring at her like she was the most beautifull woman that had ever set foot on the earth, she felt like she wasnt just a tool for men to use and abuse. She felt seen and loved.

You lifted her out of the tub like she weighed nothing and pulled a large towel around her naked frame. Rubbing you hands over her arms to help her dry off. You let her dry herself off fully as you go over to blow out most of the candles, letting just a few lit for when she sleeps.

Standing back infront of her, Alicent had now dressed herself in her nightgown. You push a strand of hair behind her ear and cup her face, before kissing her one last time. For all you knew, this moment would be a once in a lifetime. Where the two of you would not speak of this ever, or you would wake up tomorrow to guards dragging you infront of a dragon to be its breakfast for what you just did to the Queen of Westeros. The kiss was short, but her lips felt heavenly on your own.

Alicent leans into the kiss. She felt like a teenager again. Deep down she knew this was wrong, but right now she had never felt this good.

"You should get some sleep" you say. "its late and you have a long day tomorrow."

"You are right" she says before kissing your cheek and climbing into bed.

"You can't stay, can you?" she asks. She knows the answer, but still sounds hopefull.

"I can't, but i will be right outside your door." you answer as you put your armor back on to stand guard at the Queens door all night.

As you go to leave, she stops you one last time.

"y/n?"

You turn around and see her all cozy in her bed. "Yes?"

"Thank you" she says in the most sincere way possible.

"Anytime." you answer, before leaving her room and closing the door behind you. You didnt know what would happen between the two of you now, but you meant it. You would be there for her, always, no matter what. You had told her many times but after tonight, Alicent might truly believed that.

[cheerfullycatholic]

Anyone else so tired of arguing about abortion? Like, I'm still just as on fire about it being banned completely and replaced with competent doctors who care about both of their patients and offering real life saving help, but the arguments are the worst

From my point of view, there's four kinds of arguments

1. The person values human life but doesn't believe that life begins at conception. You show them how it does, and they go on their way rethinking their position (very rare)

2. The person says some awfully dehumanizing, false thing about preborn babies, you ask them to explain it, and they get angry until someone gets blocked. Example;

"fetuses are parasites"

"how?"

"are you dumb? Look it up"

"you seem to know, I want your explanation"

"fuck you"

These people may or may not value human life outside of the womb, but they're so caught up in being defensive that they're not willing to listen to anything except the echo chamber they've been stuck in (Most common argument I get into and see)

3. The person is understandably concerned about abortion exceptions for high risk pregnancies. I don't mind these arguments, but these people tend to not listen when I tell them there are already life affirming solutions for both patients (second most common argument I get into)

4. The person blatantly doesn't value any human life but their own and will straight up say, proudly, "I know the fetus is a living human being, I will kill them anyway". This is the one I'm most concerned about because the only thing to argue is the value of human beings and that can't be argued. You can't force someone to not be selfish and value someone else's life, that's something they have to choose on their own, and we, people they hate, cannot help them (this one is becoming more common and it's concerning)

It's exhausting. Have any of you been in different kinds of arguments?

[hyperactively-me]

Gurlll. What if another big royal comes up to ghost and says basically ‘how much for ur queen’ … basically wanting to buy her off of ghost ? And he says she’s not for sale but he says “everything has a price”. Maybe he’s been stalking her and tells ghost that he knows her schedule and what she likes.

After that graves chapter I need more DRAMA and more borderline feral and protective ghost

oomph the dramaaa (also don’t mind me making up random ass characters and random ass places for this hahahaahaha)

warnings: time-period typical misogyny, stalking, man being a creep, physical violence

A new trade deal was being signed today, and a big one at that. You had been informed that an entourage of court members from a neighboring kingdom would be staying in Kastron during the duration of the final deal talks and signage. 

The arrival of King Valerian of Malcenite and his high-ranking entourage had been a spectacle you had greeted with the utmost politeness and grace. Simon had stressed the importance of the trade deal for Kastron, and you had been on your best behavior throughout their stay, despite a nagging sense that something was amiss. The trade deal was signed multiple days ago, much to everyone’s relief. Yet, for some odd reason, they’ve shown no signs of packing up to leave, even after already being in Kastron for over a week. 

“It’s been a week, and the trade deal has already been signed, what more do they want from us?” you whisper to Simon with a furrowed brow. “Their presence is starting to become…overbearing.”

He nods in agreement. Simon’s eyes reflect the same unease that gripped you. “I know, love. It’s rather odd…They’ve never given me reason to doubt them.”

“We should find out what Valerian wants, Si. I mean, it’s really bothering me—” 

Simon placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, interrupting your words. “You should get some rest. Let me deal with Valerian, dove.”

Your heart ached with concern, but you knew Simon was right. The weight of your responsibilities of the week had taken its toll, and you were exhausted. 

“Please,” he urges you.

With a reluctant nod, you allow him to take charge of the situation.

“Fine…but let me know if you need me for moral support. You know how I can get during arguments,” you say playfully, giving him a peck on the cheek. 

“I know all too well, love.” 

As you retreat to your chambers, the unease that had settled over the palace refused to dissipate. As you slipped into bed, thoughts of King Valerian’s ominous intentions gnawed at your mind, but you trusted in Simon's abilities to handle the matter.

As Simon shut the doors to your chambers, he signaled for two guards to stand watch at the door. With that, he moved swiftly to find King Valerian.

. . .

Ghost had found Valerian out in the gardens. The moonless sky felt oppressive, the air thick with tension. 

King Ghost faced King Valerian with an air of authority that matched his regal presence. Valerian's calculating eyes bore into Simon's, their unspoken conflict echoing within the stone walls. He wore a cloak of arrogance, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling confidence. 

“King Valerian,” Ghost began, his voice steady but tinged with a hint of authority, "we appreciate your visit and the successful trade agreement we've reached. However, I must ask about the purpose of your extended stay in Kastron.”

Valerian's lips curled into a sly smile, his fingers grazing over a bush of flowers. Your favorite flowers. “Your concern is touching, King Ghost. I assure you, my presence is simply a desire to further strengthen the bonds between our kingdoms.”

Simon's gaze remained unwavering, his suspicion growing by the second. “Forgive me, but your continued stay has raised questions among my advisors and my wife. We find it unusual.”

Valerian leaned forward, picking a flower from the bush, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. “Very well, King Ghost, I shall be forthright with you. The trade deal, as successful as it was, was not the only reason for my visit. There is something else I desire from Kastron.”

Simon's brow furrowed, his patience wearing thin. “And what might that be?”

Valerian's eyes glittered with a dangerous intent. “Your queen. I have watched her closely during my time here, and I have become enamored with her grace and beauty. Not to mention her fiery personality. It’s not quite fit for a woman, but I can always fix that. I believe she deserves better, far beyond what you can offer.”

Simon feels like his heart has stopped beating. “Excuse me?” he replied with icy resolve, no longer worried about offending Valerian. 

Valerian chuckles darkly, bringing the flower up to his nose. “The queen. How much for her?”  

Simon's fingers curled into fists at his side, his voice firm and resolute. “My wife is not a thing. She is not for sale. How fucking dare you.”

Simon's chest heaved with the effort of restraining his fury, and his clenched fists trembled with the pent-up anger he held within. He approaches Valerian angrily, sizing him up with a deathly glare.

Valerian's smile faded, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. “Everything has a price, even loyalty.”

“I know her schedule, her preferences,” Valerian continues, emphasizing the flower in his hand. Your favorite. “I've followed her every move. All you need to do is name your price.”

In a flash, Simon unleashed his anger in a single, powerful blow. With a swift and precise motion, he delivered a sucker punch straight to Valerian's face. The blow sent the arrogant man stumbling backward, crashing into the nearby garden wall.

“Get the fuck out of my home. Deal is off. Never fuckin’ show your face here again, disgusting bastard.” 

Valerian, nursing his bruised face, was forcibly escorted back into the palace by Ghost. 

“You know I can do much, much, worse than a single punch. Don’t fuckin’ cross me. Don’t fuckin’ come near my wife and I ever again.”

Ghost showed no mercy, manhandling Valerian in front of the palace guards, who looked on with a mix of shock and confusion. 

Simon shoves Valerian forward harshly into the hands of a couple of guards.

“Take this bastard out of my sight. I want him gone. Now. He’s unwelcome in Kastron.”

. . . 

Inside the palace, Valerian's actions had been made known. Rumors always spread like wildfires throughout the palace staff, and none were willing to lift a finger to help him pack. Simon had made it clear that Valerian was not to set foot in the palace again, and the guards at the gate had orders to keep him out at all costs.

“I do not want the queen to find out about this blatant disrespect from palace rumors. Go about your work.” 

. . .

Simon’s fury began to subside, replaced by a deep concern for you. He knew he needed to speak with you about the incident before the palace gossip reached your ears. 

Simon quickly made his way to your shared private chambers, where you were engrossed in some needlepoint. Knocking softly on the door, he entered to find you hunched over in your sitting chair, your brow furrowed in concentration. You had recently taken an interest in learning needlepoint, taking time to practice simple designs in your spare time. You look up for a moment, but go back to focusing on your work. You do a double take when you notice the worry in his expression. 

“What’s wrong?” you inquire, your voice gentle but tinged with concern. 

Simon sighed deeply and closed the door behind him, anger still coursing through him. “I…I have some…unsettling news, darling.” 

You immediately perk up, setting your needlepoint aside, focusing your attention on Simon.

“Go on,” you say, worry building up in your chest. 

As he recounted his encounter with Valerian, your expression shifted from curiosity to a mix of pure anger and disbelief. You stood up with a start, face pinched with hostility. You grab Simon’s dominant hand, the one he had punched Valerian with, and inspected his knuckles. Bruised. You drop his hand and look at him. 

“How dare he,” your voice trembles with indignation, your eyes blazing with determination. 

Your fingers clenched into fists, mirroring the wrath that had overtaken you. “I will not tolerate this impertinence,” you declare, your voice resolute. “To think that he would even entertain the notion of buying me like, like some piece of property. He will fucking rue the day he ever uttered those words.”

And with that, you swiftly make your way towards the double doors, throwing the doors open with a resounding slam. 

Simon watched in silence as you threw the doors open. Who was he to stop his angry wife? No, he would see this out. He knew that you were not one to be trifled with, especially when it came to matters of respect and dignity.

The palace corridors echoed your footsteps as you strode with purpose, and Simon hurried to catch up to you. He also was not about to let you be alone with Valerian. 

“Darling—”

You didn’t pause or slow down as Simon called after you. Your determination to confront Valerian had taken hold of you, and you were not about to let this insult go unanswered. Simon quickly follows behind you, slightly nervous to see how this would pan out. 

You turn to a palace guard standing alongside a wall. “Where is he?”

“Th– the parlor room, your majesty, he’s about to leave—” 

In a flash, you change directions, marching towards the parlor room where Valerian was currently being kept under guard. As you approached the doors to the parlor room, you could hear the hushed whispers and see the curious glances of the palace attendants. Two guards stood in front of the doors.

“Step aside, please,” you command, hands coming to rest on your hips. 

The guards look at you for a moment, then at Simon standing behind you menacingly. 

“Your majesty, he is dangerous—”

“I wasn’t asking.”

They look at you, then step aside, pushing the door open for you. You practically stomp inside the room, anger rolling off you in waves. Valerian, who had been sitting alone in a corner, looked up with a mixture of surprise and unease as you entered the room. The air grew tense with anticipation as you faced him, your eyes flashing with anger.

“You!” you declared, your voice carrying the weight of authority. “How dare you insult us?”

Simon raises his eyebrows at your forwardness, but chooses to stay silent, crossing his arms over his chest. Valerian eyes Simon wearily before facing you. Despite being confronted by your fury, he couldn't resist the urge to maintain his arrogance. He rose from his seat slowly, deliberately. You don’t back away. 

“Insult you?” he retorted. “Oh, my dear queen, it was merely a business proposition. I thought perhaps you might appreciate the opportunity to upgrade from this provincial life.”

Simon immediately takes a few steps forward, anger seeping back into his bones. He couldn’t bear to see him speak to you in such a way. But, ever steadfast, you persevere. Your fists clenched at his ignorance, and your anger surged anew. Simon watched with growing amusement, knowing that Valerian's arrogance was pushing you to your limit.

“How deluded you must be,” Valerian continued, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “To think Ghost could satisfy your desires with his meager offerings.”

The room seemed to vibrate with tension as you struggled to contain your rage. Your eyes locked onto Valerian’s, and in a flash, you lashed out. Your fist connected with his jaw with a satisfying thud. Nowhere near close to Simon’s force, but it was yours. 

“Yeah, thought a weak woman such as myself wouldn’t retaliate?” 

Valerian's smirk vanished as he held his aching jaw, shock overtaking his features. The room fell into stunned silence, the guards wide-eyed at the unexpected turn of events. Simon suppressed a smirk, he couldn't help but feel a surge of pride for you, who had defended not only her own honor but also his own. Fuckin’ hell.

You march up to Valerian and grab his ear, yanking him down to your level. “My husband has been nothing but kind to me. Your suggestions of him being incompetent and a monster is far from the truth. He is one of the most loyal and honorable people I know. You’ll never be a third of the man Simon is. And I'm not a piece of meat for you to enjoy, you sick freak.” You let go of his ear. “Stay away from me. Stay away from my husband.” 

And with that, you turn out of the room. Simon stands there, gives Valerian a once over, then turns out of the room in silence. 

Simon turns to a couple of guards. “It’s time for him to leave. Remove him from Kastron.” 

With a bow, the guards turn to forcibly escort Valerian out of Kastron, forever. 

As Simon turned, he caught a glimpse of your gown turn the corner back to your chambers. He follows behind you once more, practically running to catch up to you. 

“Darling, slow down–” he calls out, and you stop in your tracks, turning to face him. “He’s gone now—” 

You stand there, your chest heaving as you fight back the tears that threaten to spill from your eyes. The adrenaline from your confrontation still courses through your veins. It was a distressing experience, but you know you did what was necessary to protect your honor and your marriage.

Simon reaches you, his concern deepening as he takes in your flushed face and labored breathing. He gently places his hands on your shoulders, his eyes filled with worry. “Dove, are you all right? That was a brave thing you did back there…”

Your lower lip quivers for a brief moment, and you summon every ounce of your strength to hold back the tears threatening to spill. Crying in front of Simon is something you've never done before, and you're uncertain about how he would respond.

Simon notices the struggle within you, his eyes fill with empathy. He gently reaches out, his fingers softly brushing away a stray tear that escapes down your cheek. His touch is warm and reassuring, and he leans in to plant a tender kiss on your forehead.

“I– I’m fine, just frustrated, is all…I couldn’t stand by and let him insult us.” 

Simon’s expression softens as you move to hug him, pressing your wet cheeks into his chest. His strong arms wrap around you, offering comfort. “You're the strongest person I know,” he murmurs into your ear. “I'm so proud to have you as my wife.”

You hold onto Simon tightly, taking comfort in his strength. “I love you,” you whisper, feeling a sense of security in his arms.

. . .

Simon held you close that night, his arms wrapped protectively around you as you both lay in the comfort of your bed. The events of the day had taken an emotional toll on you, and you found solace in his warm embrace.

Pressed against his chest, your head rested on his shoulder, and his fingers traced soothing patterns on your back. In the silence, broken only by the gentle rustle of bedsheets and soft breathing, you felt the weight of the world slowly lifting off your shoulders. The words you'd spoken to Valerian, the confrontation, and the emotional release afterward—all of it seemed like a distant memory now.

Simon’s heartbeat, steady and reassuring, echoed in your ear, lulling you into a peaceful sleep. Wrapped in his arms, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you had a partner who would always stand by your side.

- - - - -

(masterlist)

[mrs-johnson]

“Two Cries for the Dead, Two Cries for the Living”

Friedrich Harding x Female Reader

Warnings: mentions a death, griefing of lost souls, childbirth, emotional, mentions of Nosferatu, mentions of Anna, Clara and Louise.

Summary: Friedrich Harding is about to experience hope again after years of darkness.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting soft, flickering shadows against the aged stone walls of the manor. The storm outside had calmed to a steady drizzle, the kind that whispered at the windows rather than battered them. Inside, the air was thick with anticipation.

Friedrich Harding sat stiffly in the grand chair near the parlor’s window, knuckles pale against the polished armrest. His eyes were bloodshot—not from drink, nor from sleeplessness, though both had visited him often in the past. Tonight, however, it was the weight of hope that kept him on edge.

It had been five long years since Nosferatu took everything.

Anna, his wife. Clara and Louise, their young daughters. Their laughter had once echoed in the halls of this very house. And after the darkness came—both outside and within—Friedrich had become a man not entirely alive, nor entirely dead.

But she brought him back.

You.

You, who had entered his life years after the tragedy, your presence as gentle as sunlight peeking through cobwebbed windows. You, who had dared to love a haunted man. You, who now lay upstairs in your shared chamber, fighting to bring new life into a world still shivering with ghosts.

“Friedrich,” Albin Eberhart von Franz —with a pipe and a worried brow—spoke beside him. “It has been hours. Should we call for the midwife again?”

“She’s with her,” Friedrich said softly. “I trust her hands. I trust her.”

But even as he said it, he leaned forward, straining for any sound from the floor above. The manor was too quiet, like the deep pause between a breath and a scream.

And then—

A cry.

Clear, bright, and new.

Friedrich shot to his feet so fast the chair screeched back across the wood. His heart slammed against his ribs, something between fear and awe surging through his chest.

“A boy,” he whispered, half to himself, half to the heavens. “It’s a boy…”

He turned to the door, hand gripping the brass handle—but then—

Another cry.

Softer, smaller, just behind the first.

Friedrich froze.

“Two?” he breathed. “Twins?”

Dr. Wilhelm Sievers behind him gave a surprised chuckle. “Well I’ll be…”

Friedrich didn’t wait. He took the stairs two at a time, old joints forgotten, blood roaring in his ears like a distant storm returning. The bedroom door was ajar, warm light glowing from within.

And there you were.

Pale, beautiful, radiant in your exhaustion. Propped up against the pillows, eyes fluttering as you gazed down at the two squirming bundles in your arms.

The midwife turned toward him with a tearful smile. “Two strong boys, Herr Harding.”

He stumbled forward, breathless.

You looked up at him, eyes glistening.

“I didn’t know,” you said weakly. “I didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

Friedrich dropped to his knees beside the bed, trembling hands reaching to brush the soft tufts of dark hair atop the tiny heads. One boy blinked at him with wide, storm-colored eyes. The other let out a grumble that made the midwife chuckle.

“I… I have sons,” he said, voice breaking for the first time in years. “I have sons.”

You reached out, touching his cheek. “They’ll never know darkness, Friedrich. Not like you did. We’ll fill this house with light again.”

He leaned into your touch, then kissed your knuckles.

“I’ll never leave them. Or you. Never.”

The boys fussed between you, one gurgling, the other blinking slowly at the dim candlelight. And Friedrich Harding, a man who had once knelt in ashes and buried his heart beside a coffin, now wept beside a bed—because somehow, impossibly, life had returned to him.

Two cries.

Two sons.

And finally…

A new family.

[wisteriaiswriting]

hello! i'd love a matchmaking for a male crk character, preferably epic or above! :D

i am non binary, but love my afab features a lot. physically, i'm of average height at around 5'5/plus sized, and i am pale as *shit* with very pink overtones. i have scars on nearly every body part, but don't have a problem with them. if my eyes weren't always half closed under my glasses, i'd definitely have that blue eyed stare. my style is a very lazy goblincore, which usually just ends up as wearing one of my two favorite cargo pants and either an ironic shirt, or a poorly cut off the shoulder.

moving into the mental/emotional area, i am an intp and brutal realist. (that cup is half empty *and* half full, damnit) i have been cursed with a plethora of mental health issues, but find myself most effected by autism and anxiety. i am quick to overstimulation and panic attacks, which both leave me even more exhausted than i already am with my meds. my lore runs deep, and i have a history of sociopathic behaviors under prolonged and very extreme stress. but at least i don't shy away from admitting my faults! i am very self aware, and take a lot of pride in that.

socially, i camouflage seemlessly. i match energies very well and can start up a mood just the same. if i'm with another chameleon-type, our conversations usually just end up as an echo chamber until i throw in a new vocal stim. (the amount of vocal stimming i do without realizing is unfathomable) with friends i am willing to engage in deep conversation, but prefer just laughing with someone. or gossiping nehehe >:) i clash with those who have trouble containing themselves, be it anger or anything else.

i have no absolutely no love life, and have never been in a realtionship. that could be due to a lot of reasons i have considered, including having set standards. though i don't know much in this realm, i am not desperate. i what i am sure of, is that my love language is gift giving.

hopefully this isn't too gruelingly long, and thank you very much!!

-🐐 anon

I match you with...

Affogato Cookie!

Quick to notice any upcoming panic attacks or when you’re becoming overstimulated, does his best to calm you down and remove you or the issue from the situation.

He’s kind of a chameleon type of conversationalist but it’s in the sense of camoflaging himself with the others. With you he’ll listen to anything you say, loves laughing, especially gossiping about everything.

He tends to contain himself pretty well, but he also hides a lot from you and others.

Affogato’s love life isn’t the best, but he knows more things than you do. So he’ll gladly guide you throughout the relationship.

He loves receiving gifts, especially from you! So anything you give him is placed on a shelf in his room.

Affogato Cookie 5

Silverbell Cookie 4

Butter Roll Cookie 1

Peach Blossom Cookie 1

[lychgate]

Echo brain comic?? My beloved?

this one's pretty new and id like to in the least get some segments drawn up if i can

i went balls deep in depth about my personal ideas of Echo's structure and how it works, it has much more writing rn then art lemme get some snippets:

tech and echo begin digging around in his wiring as echo's health has lately began to decline rapidly. Blood transfusions are becoming daily, exhaustion occurs much quicker, and newest to the issues are these seemingly random seizures. They've attempted many outside options at remedying the problem but it was becoming urgently clear that the only way to get answers would be to open up his system and understand exactly how his body operates from the inside out. Echo is mostly on edge because he fears finding the answer that is he's just doomed to die soon, and that his body was in no way sustainable outside of that fridge. He fears the idea of dying so much that he has manic considerations of being put back in some sort of stasis chamber. Death, which he never feared prior to the citadel, but now he's come to be you know uhhh quite traumatized from it. But he also hates the idea of that fridge!! caught between two terrible options, wowie here ill add some more breakdown of that in a read more if anyone is interested in paragraphs of bullshit:

as for a brief descriptor on the shit on his head and body, from this paragraph:

Tech: these rivets across your skull are not simple ports one can just plug into. They're a very unique structure, containing an extremely delicate, but long system of thin metallic fibers wiring throughout your brain. These 'rivets' then act as anchors to those metal fibers, which then respond to very specific electric signals that we can access at the nodes on the surface here. If the signals sent are not exact. Well. Echo: yeah I get it I get it.

and some write up on how Tech begins to diagnose the problem:

Eventually Tech will find his way into deeper functions of the brain, finding shortcuts that were already developed by the Techno Union scientists for the sake of their own equipment likely. Categorized sections for monitoring all sorts of chemicals and levels within Echo's body, most of which were left on an automatic function to regulate.

Tech begins to understand that the key issue is that this program, and these automatic functions, were fitted for exactly the stasis chamber Echo had been put in, and if they want to begin fixing Echos phsyical body, he would have to start going in and coding line for line, functions that pertain to the body on a sustainability outside that fridge. Some functions were completely turned off, being that Echo was getting fed certain synthesized chemicals thru the machine, his brain had to be telling itself NOT to produce said things naturally.

But it's all very finicky work that requires continuous maintenance and updates, not much unlike a patch update to any other computer program, except this is Echo's life. It's an impossible amount of code to do in any short time frame, and so Tech will begin splicing lines of code from similar organic droids with systems of similar complexity.

They handle these sessions once per week, giving time for Echo's body to catch up and adjust. At first he begins feeling some nausea, his heart rate starts rising, but he insists something feels good about it and urges Tech to keep going. Echo begins to feel warmth back in his body, his mood increases, after about a month hair begins to grow again, muscle mass fills in what once was skeletal limbs, nail beds regain a lively shine. Besides a few errors in updates like over producing a chemical or small bouts of insomnia, everything seems On Course.

and then:

So now we get into the meat of the drama, which is a lot of Echo mania and identity issues:

By this point Tech has outfitted much easier screw on parts so they can go in and out of this program faster (the set up previously was hours of work) so pulling that up he theorizes that he will have to do more then just reverse programs that the Techno Union set up. Tech now believes he'll have to create NEW systems, as the old program appears to be getting corrupted from all of Tech's editing. The seizures are, at this point to their best guess, coming from this. That parts of his brain are literally crashing, and soon he's going to start having more serious issues like bro is gonna just have a massive stroke at some point. Tech points that out all regular voice and Echo is just 'great im back in the mental swamp' Now that Echo's learned that he has corrupted files eating away at his brain, and that the chance of having a massive stroke is like inevitable, he's back to feeling like anxious shit. It doesn't help that this will take Tech a lot of time to figure out. Truthfully he's putting as much effort as he can into it, but this is when Echo begins to get Really mentally unwell. He's both worrying and also trying NOT to worry out of fear that it's going to complicate the program even more. Echo begins to have identity issues, coming to rely more on the mechanics then the organics that make him. He doesn't feel like a human with robot parts anymore, he feels like a robot with human parts.

and it keeps going like there's parts where echo is begging Tech to up programs on dopamine generation and Tech has to turn him down cause that would just be creating an addiction problem, situations where Echo starts trying to mess with his own brain, situations where he tries to kill Tech, its a lot of rambling but im not a writer, like i can't write for shit and I'd like to try and draw it instead

[beware-of-pity]

Sins of the Father(s) V

Masterlist

Previous chapter - Next

Bruce Wayne (Battinson) x Reader

Crossposted on Ao3

Summary:

where is your faith? In the light and its blinding brightness?In a forest of terror and fathomless darkness? In a sea of doubt and unending questions? How can you still believe? in the midst of deafening silence and its hollowness? The dead know only one thing, it is better to be alive. And the alive know but one thing, to wish for the kiss of death.

Chapter V: Is Pius pious 'cause God loves pious? (Socrates asked whose bias do y'all seek? All for Plato, screech)

ִֶ. . ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐

You often wondered why the world had to be so complicated. When you would ask your father about all the complexities of the world he would say that such complex thoughts were not fitting for a girl so young. You felt safe in your conviction that as your parents, your mother and father would have all the answers you were seeking in them with your questions. You were much disappointed when you found that not to be the truth.

‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ your father would say, ‘But satisfaction brought it back’ you would counter back, earning a pat on the head pushed by your father’s exhaustion with your need for erudition. He did often ask himself where you got it from - not that he complained, he delighted in having a daughter so ready for the world, it did lift a weight of responsibility in not having to teach you matters that you were more than eager to take in your hands. Which is why, he did not wish to halt you in your path.

Your hunger, your strife for more, he had mistook it as a disciplinary one. He was wrong, you much later realized. You were no scholar, you didn’t study to learn, to become better than others or to achieve more. No, you did it out of curiosity, to understand the conditions of life. You much prefer to dive into a topic that got your attention than for it to be demanded so by your teachers. All of a sudden whatever topic they gave you to research became boring, you were sure that you would have enjoyed it much more had you had a choice in whether or not you had to open a book about it and read it. But you understood, that as the eldest, there were expectations, silent expectations, that you were required for you to fulfil. No one spoke of them, but your parents wanted you to do great things in life. You were sure they would still love you were you to not achieve what they wished of you, but you weren’t sure they would be happy about it regardless. They too had been products of such upbringing, and despite the fact that they allowed failure to be an opportunity, no such discretion was given to them. Especially your father.

But alas, not everyone can do as they please. Not all of us have such an easy way of doing only what we wish, only when we wish it. It doesn’t matter what you want, only what is required of you.

Knowledge is power, the most powerful weapon one can possess; a power that can come in many forms, free and limited, necessitous and fruitful. A power many possess more than others. When limited, it can constrain others in finding other ways to acquire it. Your father wishes for you to be bound full of such power, as he had been. So he made you attend private, afternoon lessons with the vice provost of an all-boys academy on the outskirts of Gotham he had been made to attend in his youth. At the time it had been but a hovel of sorts, just rising from the ashes of its first birth, only becoming the prestigious structure it is today because of the success of its many alumni, like your father.

To say you were bored out of your mind would just undermine the empty chambers echoing where your brain supposedly is. The sky outside was clouded, spotted by grey clouds that shielded such an uneventful February day; the clear sky lay beyond them trying to peak through the fast-paced, passing murky mass of fluffy galore. All so very enticing as you sat at the alumni desk reserved and prepared just for you in the provost’s office, or one would think so for a girl of ten years old with a very limited attention span, especially when being taught such an inspid topic.

The Constitution and the government it’s based upon.

“The Constitution establishes a Federal democratic republic which is also the system of the Federal Government; it is democratic because the people govern themselves; and it is a republic because the Government's power is derived from its people.” The provost’s voice echoed like white noise in your ears as they tried their best to block out the bothersome sound “As such, a constitutional government uses a written constitution to set forth the values and principles of government and to establish and limit its powers” he said “and how do we do that, Miss?” He asked you. You spaced in between his words, your mind focusing on anything but what he had asked you.

Particularly appealing to you now was the raven standing high on guard, resting upon the wooden log set on the provost's desk. You thought he must made for an annoying companion with its crackling noises, especially when one sought silence and its comfort. It crackled at you as if to urge you to answer the question, following its master’s wishes and demands. You wondered if the raven was his pet or a memorabilia he held for being part of the academy he was a highly esteemed professor of. The raven was their sigil of honour, after all.

“Through the law” you appeased, finally.

“Precisely”, the old man brightened at your engagement to the lecture and your knowledge despite your lack of attention, which although aware of, he made no reprimanding remark about. “And the law is set to make sure that every man is equally judged before it,” he explained “ ‘Equal justice under law’ they say or rather ‘All shall be equal before the law’. You can underline that”

Your fountain pen scratched at the paper as you pressured the tip of it, letting more ink fall free in the bold line you were lining under the words you had written in your notebook.

“Is it true, though?” This time, it seemed it was you who was not appeased by the provost’s words “Is what true, Miss?” He perked slightly at your question, curious about the inquiry.

“That we’re all equal under the law”

He took a moment to reflect on your words before taking his glasses off, folding them and placing them in the pocket of his finely pressed jacket as he walked closer to you, sitting at the chair before your desk. He seemed, eerily distuberd by the question, almost blown away by it, as if he had not been asked that in a long time or was not expected to be asked. Whatever the case, it did make him hesitate and hesitation often comes from wanting to give the right answer. You deserve that, of all.

“In an ideal world, we would be. Some would say we already are, but they only say so because they’ve never been at the receiving hand of what it means to not be able to afford this equality” his words held a hint of caution as if he was speaking out of turn, about something he shouldn’t be saying “I’ve been asked to teach you everything, so I will teach you this too. The truth is that some people are more equal than others” he wet his lips, which had grown chapped and dry from all the talking he had been doing until now  “As a great writer once said ‘All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.’”

“George Orwell”

“Very, very good, Miss " he smiled. “I see you’ve gone ahead of the text.” You straightened in your seat at his observation.

“That’s not a bad thing, I’m happy, but did you do so out of your own will?” He asked “I would not wish for you to have done so only as a way to be able to be proficient enough for our next lessons. God knows, my boys do that all the time, such a sore it is to deal with. By then, I’ll have nothing left to teach them”  he chuckled bitterly, but fondly “How useless I’ll become then”

“I wanted to read it” you reassured “I saw it in the library and the cover looked intriguing”

Such a simple explanation, perhaps a childish one, too. Wanting to read such a complex piece of literature because the cover was colourful and the pigs on it made you think it was about an actual farm; you would not tell him that last detail, nor that when you had first finished the book, you had thought it was truly about evil pigs and refused to eat bacon for the rest of the week out of the hatred you had grown for the omnivorous, hoofed mammal.

Only when you explained to your father, who had grown more than amused at the sight of you refusing the stripes meat at the breakfast table, why did your third eye open to the true message of the book.

How warm and red your cheeks had beamed as your father gave a hearty and well-meaning laugh at your misjudgment of the text. Only during your third read of the book did you truly comprehend how deep the real meaning of the premise ran - …..You still refused to eat your bacon after that either way, perhaps out of stubbornness or embarrassment, you did not give it too much of a thought to not feel the latter more than you already did.

“And let’s see, why do you think, as Mr Orwell says, that some animals are more equal than others?”

“Some people have privileges others do not possess,” you said, though slightly unsure of your words and thoughts, “and those privileges cannot allow everyone to be equal if only a small percentage can boast about being protected by them”

“That’s one, but it was a good and simple example” he praised you for it, even as you missed the bigger picture of the topic. He could not fault you for it; you were young and you would understand just how deep the issue ran in time. “And those privileges, how do you think they protected those that have them?”

“Well,” you paused, pensive, wanting to give the right answer, as a good student would.

You were privileged, but could you comprehend how deep your privileges ran? You being here, getting lectured in the afternoons by the vice provost of such a prestigious and private academy, was in itself a privilege - one a lot of people will never be granted. Everything you do in your life and will do in the future will always hold an underlining of privilege. You will never escape the nature of the life you were born into, and you fear that no matter how conscious you became of them, there will always be much more you will always remain ignorant of.

Because that’s how privileges are: the more engraved they are in your life, the more normal and common they become the more passive you are of them. The idea of something just being an everyday occurrence for you and being a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for others would surely blow the mind of anyone who has never stopped to ask themselves just how truly favoured they were by luck.

How many would die to sit in your place? Have your life? How many dream of living the dream, even if just for a day? For a moment? To live the life they will never have because you don’t just get to build a life of privilege if you don’t hold any in the first place? The American dream is dead, the idea of it dies the moment someone becomes conscious of just how unreachable such life is with the life they’re made to head. Created during a period of so-called flourishment, people today cannot use the same playbook their parents used to live life today.

‘You work hard, you study well. You make a name for yourself, and you’ll be rewarded for it’, that’s what people were told. Do those things, and everything will just fall into place. People today work twice as much as their parents did and have nothing to show for it because their money gets flushed down the drain to be able to afford to live. People live to work; they do not work to be able to afford to live anymore.

But privileges are not just about your status or wealth, social privileges are the bane of Gotham City.

Even those who get to rise to the top will always be followed by their humble beginning. It’s a plague, a stank that those with their refined noses can smell at first breath. You often wondered why Mr Francatelli, a man who owned his own construction company and had made a name for himself in the industry, rising through the ranks of riches, and now being part of what was considered the elite of Gotham, was often looked down upon by his inner circle, those he called his ‘friends’. Not that he knew about it, and even if he did he was happy enough to pretend he didn’t know about the side glances and nasty, pitiful, eyes cast his way, which you and others were not prone to the same ignorance and indifference as he was.

You always felt bad for Mr Francatelli. He came from a good family, and it’s not like he chose to be born into a family that emigrated from Sicily during the midst of mass immigration in the 1950s from the poorer southern part of Italy. He made the best of his circumstances and made a living of it. Should he then be seen as a lesser being because of it?

You also knew very well how race defined another layer of privileges. Those who form a small group of a minority, whether because of their race or ethnicity, were discriminated against by the majority of white society. Privileges, oppression, stereotypes, and the superiority of being the majority against a small minority were often at the receiving hand of that discrimination. Not to mention that most of the discriminators feel that their sense of being threatened is a good enough excuse for being awful to others.

Violence begets violence. It is utterly ridiculous of the oppressors to act surprised when their victims act out and oppose their oppression.

“Justice can be selective,” said the vice provost when you didn’t continue “Privileges can cover for those that do not wish to be put under the hands of justice, and when justice fails to protect and act upon the victims’ best interests…no one can guarantee  that the victims will not take it in their own hands to deliver the justice they best see fit on their oppressors,” he said “That’s when violence becomes justice”

You saw him take a deep breath as if the reality of his own words was truly weighing down on him.

“Perhaps, my dear, Mr Orwell was not so wrong. We are animals, just like everything else on the planet. We feel superior to the urges and nature of animals, bragging about how we’re the most civilised civilisation on the planet, but the truth may just be that we have simply forgotten the laws of the jungle to bend over to those who will tell us who we are and what we must do. Animals can recognise a threat without being told, their instinct doing all the work for them, so why then should we be told by others, those that consider themselves ample-minded, those with a voice strong enough, or loud enough, to be heard, what they think is the truth and should therefore be the truth for us all. Animals do not listen to others, only themselves, they fight to the death for their survival, they use violence for it, and it works for them. So why, then, should it not be for us as well?” He asked in trepidation, blood hot and bumping in his veins, which protruded against his skin as if about to explode “A man, can turn into a pig, and a pig can turn into a man. What distinction will there be between us and them then? Perhaps we’re all just the same….”

You stared at his, stunned by his sudden burst of words, before he continued once more-

“Peaceful protests. Do you know why it’s the form of protest most used by the masses? It is because, were they violent by nature, god knows the many ways they would be labelled. The truth is, that peaceful protests never get those who are willing to make a change anywhere. But those who protest in other ways are seen as troublemakers, breakers of peace, unlawful, violent individuals who break the code of what a good, upheld citizen should be like. Silent and willing to submit to everything the government says.” He scoffed and scowled, “When….all forms of communication fail, between those that care for the citizen and those in charge of said care,  there comes a point, and, I must say, so we do not get confused, that I will always repudiate the notion of violence in its many forms, that violence is necessary….to survive. One can say that the methods in which they go on about it may be wrong, but we also need to ask ourselves, what other means are there if not violence? What other forms of protest can be strong enough to oppose a form of government? Some would say it’s terrorism, revolution, war; all forms reputable by the law. But what other way is there to bright light to an issue long forgotten?”  He inquired as if exasperated by the question itself, “For how much longer can governments of all the world wish to remain ignorant of the suffering of their citizens?”

“If they have no qualms with ruining our lives, why, then, should we have any for returning the favour?”

You had woken with a startle as the phone on your nightstand broke the quiet of your bedroom with its constant ringing, pulling you out of memories you could never forget. Your head, still drumming from the hungover you were nursing from the night spent drinking at that dinner you had been invited to, throbbed agonisingly. Your hand reached, unsteadily, for the phone handle.

"Hello?" your answer to the call was a slugged murmur, surely barely audible from the other hand of the line.

“Would you like to know the single only advantage to being the one person in charge of his own company?”

Bruce.

Your eyes opened for the first time since you had woken. You looked at the clock on your nightstand, which read 11:30. You groaned as you set up, your bones aching from how long you were asleep.

“Go on” You weren’t sure if you wanted to talk to him, especially when your temple pulsed terribly, but you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt despite how your last conversation had gone. Exactly what Bruce had hoped for when he picked his phone with the intention to call you.

“I find that I can do as I please” you heard him as you reached for the carafe of water to fill yourself a cup, pushing aside the metal ashtray filled with cigarette buds long smocked “Choose whenever to meet with my advisors, and when or not to send them away to not hear from them, which leaves me free for lunch”

“Well,” you gulped the last drop of your cup “I’ve just woken up”

“It’s 11:30”

“And I got in at 04:00” you confirmed what suspicions he might have had from your previous statement. The slight stutter coming from his end of the phone almost made you startle and ready for his response, so sure you would argue again. Instead, he simply said, “Do you think you can get dressed for me?”

Despite how on edge you were about the entire situation, you appealed to his request and got dressed, although in a rather scruffy and disarray way than usual. The pouring rain last night chilled the air, so you dressed according to the weather and comfortably: a jumper and maxi skirt, nothing eccentric.

You did stumble your way into your clothes, after all. Your driver had made an attempt to chat with you through the ride to Wayne Tower, but your unresponsiveness and lack of care for conversation, caused by your pained head, stiff back, and guts telling you of the possibility of throwing up your dinner from last night being in the cards for you, didn’t make you to be a good conversation partner.

As you sat at the table in the dining room at Wayne Tower, you and Bruce found each other in a rather awkward situation. Who should speak first? Break the ice? You thought that Bruce should apologise about….a lot of things, and Bruce…..well, Bruce, perhaps, thought he had nothing to apologise for. The silence, only broken by the crackling of the fireplace near the table, gave enough time for you to get a better look at each other than you did in almost two weeks.

His eyes were puffy once more, the dark circles that rounded his lower lashes deepened and sunk into his skin and….was that a hint of smudged black eyeshadow you spied in the inner corner of his eye?

In Bruce’s eyes, what he saw was that you were clearly still inebriated, nowhere near being sober from the night before. Your pupils were more dilatated than normal, and your eyes did not often stay in the same place for long, wondering and observing their surroundings like a newborn baby would.

He watched you try to hide a stifled yawn here and there, still not clearly as rested for someone who had spent the entire night out partying Halloween away, and sleeping the morning through. But then again….neither was he. His previous morning disagreement with Alfred in the Batcave, his later unwilling meeting with the accountants of Wayne Enterprises, and having to deal with the steady decline of the company he was supposed to take care of all made for a bad start to a day that had not even begun - especially when he had plans at the ready as soon as the night would fell, having to meet with Gardon about inspecting Mitchell’s garage to see if the ‘ D R I V E ’  in the killer’s note was truly indicative of a car being the next step to whatever clue he had left behind for them to follow with.

“We started at Mirabelle’s for dinner, and then went to the 400 for drinks, and then ended at... " you said as you tried to recount the last stop of your wild night. “Somewhere, I don’t remember, a pub of some sort.” You sipped your glass of water to swallow down all the saliva in your mouth from how dehydrated you were.

“Who’s we?” He asked. Lunch had been brought in by Alfred, who set it before you with great care and a hint of concern, seeing the state you were in. He left as silently as he had come without saying a word. Bruce, across from you, ate his lunch in relative silence.

“Colin, Philiph, Johnn-“The nonchalance in your tone irked him, especially when you mentioned some old classmates from boarding school and HIM.

“Johnny Lewis” he finished for you. You eyed him unsure of the edge his words held and where it came from as he named out Johnny. You took another sip of your water, downing it almost as if it were a shot, now because of the sudden dryness of your troath.

“Yeah”

He let the silencing hang for a moment as he went back to eating his lunch, the cluttering of his cutlery filling in for what you were sure to be reprimanding words. Surely disappointed in the company you surrounded yourself with, no doubt.

“You need to be more careful” he said and you smiled as you reached for your bag to pull your cigarette case and a bottle of pills, his eyes resting on the latter, skimming over the label on the small glass.

Librium

“Quite right, grime and grapes don’t mix”

“I mean, about where you’re seen,” the sharpness of his tone accompanied his hand flying to meet head-on with yours on the case. “And with whom” his utensils cluttered as they fell onto the plate before him. The sound rang in the air as you two stared at each other, a fire in both of you that had been burning and raging for some time.

“Why?” You, ever defiant, asked in the same tone as the one he had just used with you, making it clear you would not back down without a fight.

“You know why,” he said, “you think you can go guzzling around all the alcohol in the world, especially now more than ever?”

You stared at him, confused by his last word, though no less stone-faced than before. Uncertainty clouded your mind, clashing with the haze still lounging in it in a combination of alcohol in your system and the dizziness of sleep, as it often did when you were unfamiliar with the subject of the conversation you were put in. You hated being unprepared for a debate, even if this was no debate. Unreadiness was a weakness you could not afford in your field of work. Getting laughed at or used to the advantage to propagate an opposing point was often the result of it. Your hand itched with the want to take the bottle of pills and swallow them whole.

His eyes moved across the features of your face until they landed on your eyes. Your eyes, no matter how hard you could conceal things with your face, your eyes always spoke the truth. They’ve never lied, not to him.

“You don’t know, do you?” The edge of his tone was gone, now replaced by a softer, more comforting one, as if he was about to tell you about some terrible tragedy, handling you like a wounded deer. And maybe a tragedy it was, simply not for you

“Mitchell is dead”

“When?” You asked simply after a moment of contemplation, as if not fazed at all by the revelation, or maybe you were. It was something Bruce had always envied of you, being able to control yourself in front of others, whereas he was often overrun by his emotions, even when he would wish for it not to be the case.

“Last night,” he said, and your eyes immediately moved towards the copy of Gotham Gazette beside him on the table. Your way. It was the same copy of the magazine that his gaze had shifted to distractedly during his meeting with the accountants. He tried to shield it from your view, but your eyes were already set upon him predatorily.

“You shouldn’t—" “Let me see,” you both said over the other, and silence ensued. His eyes begged you to listen to him; he didn’t want you to see such a gruesome scene, one he thought was so reminiscent of one you had the displeasure of witnessing in your father. But you always wanted to have your way, he could see it, and you would not give the matter up until you would see for yourself. For a moment his eyes drifted once more to the bottle of pills still on the table, ensuring in him the idea that you really shouldn’t be seeing anything that was reported of Mitchell’s death.

You reach out, gently placing a hand over the fist he had involuntary clenched, knuckled white and raw — it was then that his resolve began to crumble as it often did when it came to anything related to you in any way.

“Bruce”, your voice was soft and mellow as a marshmallow, and he thought he could almost taste the honey his name dripped with as you spoke it “Let me see”  you say softly, your voice filled with compassion and reassurance.  I can take it, he could almost see your eyes tell him. 

He looks away again, his jaw clenching as he fights with himself. Finally, he lets out a defeated sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as he reaches for the gazette, handing it to your eager hands.

Beneath the big, bold letters that frase the name of the journal, the headline read “MAYOR MITCHELL DEAD”  followed by “ACTING MAYOR TOMLIN TO RUN IN HIS PLACE"

You reach for the newspaper and open it. As you do so, Bruce’s eyes study you, intently, silently, wanting to see your reaction to the murder’s report, to see if you knew nothing, if you could tell him about something you might know about it, mention it, even if just in a passing manner. That’s why he had asked you for lunch - to interrogate you, which the moment you had shared made him forget about. Interrogating you was the least of his concerns right now.

You interacted with Mitchell well enough in the past to be familiar with him, even before you had entered the world of politics. You both had, truth be told. Bruce remembers how flauntily Mitchell would show and promote himself during those galas you both attended before his parents had died. At the time, Mitchell was a young man, fresh out of college, ready to take on the world in all the wrong ways. 

You both often sat on couches in lonesome corners he would lead you to after he’d see you cover your ears, the chattering becoming too loud for you to handle, for your sensitive ears and eardrums to bear. You followed after him like a baby duck, in your pink, frilly, dresses your mother would dress you into, still disoriented and unaware of the chaotic surroundings he had become accustomed to over the years. Of those nights, he remembers most the way his mother would smile his way at how gentlemanly he was with you, with approval and motherly pride in her eyes.

The longer he stared at you, the longer the original purpose of the lunch slipped from his mind. The silence, the crackling of the fire, you sitting beside him, in clothes that he could see you wear on a stay-in Sunday morning where you two did nothing but hang around the living quarters of the Tower, lazying the day away, the sound of you flipping the pages of the gazette, the lightness of the air, were all somehow comforting. He almost thought that he could see a future like this for him….

As Bruce’s mind cleared of all its mess, yours filled with conflicting and clashing thoughts. You stared at the sea of letters, wheels turning, as you sat the gazette back down on the mahogany table. The closed-up photo of Mitchell, slumped against the chair of his study, with his head duct taped, and with the clear message, the killer intended to send written upon it, leaving you with conflicting emotions.

It wasn’t the duct tape, or the blood dripping from his head, but rather….the way he was found.

You could see it,the image in front of you clearer than a memory you had lived and once more a reality. Standing at the foot of the entrance of your father’s study, wide-eyed, at the still form of your father in his armchair, blood dripping from the gunshot wound on his head, lips parted and eyes absent of life, as your mother’s wails of pain and heartbreak rang in the background as the police officers tried to calm her, while your younger siblings were ushered away from the scene…

You didn’t want to admit it, but you didn’t particularly feel anything as you read about the gruesome murder. Mitchell, you had spent most of your life abhorring him, could such feelings evaporate because of something….you thought more than deserving….happened to him?

He had it coming, you almost wanted to think before you chastised yourself for such a thought. You knew the kind of reaction you would get were you to utter them out loud. But Mitchell was not an innocent man as far as you were concerned. His policies and the negligence of the city put in his hands the pain he caused to the poorer and less fortunate part of Gotham. Why should you feel bad for a man who could not care less about corruption in the city as he did nothing about it? When he did nothing for the people that he was sworn to protect and help? Despite so, a man had died last night, and regardless of how you felt about him, you were made to denounce the crime had had fallen victim to.

Who you felt bad for were his wife and son, their pain one you understood well. You made a silent reminder to make sure to visit them later in the day, expressing your condolences, not because you wanted to be seen as the bigger person by the media, who could transcend political differences and come close to one institutional enemy, but because you were a decent human being, capable of empathy and compassion towards those facing injustices. Despite how you met the news of Mitchell’s death with chill distaste, his wife and son were innocent of the sin he drowned in. It is, more than often, the innocents who have to pay the price for the sins of the guilty.

Or so you’d like to think about his wife. Mitchell had a way about him, you had seen it and felt it. He had a rule of thumb over women, his wife no expectation, you were sure. Even you at times had been at the receiving end of it, just as other women of the opposing coalition. Sexist comments, more than inappropriate teasings and innuendos he never let himself hold back in private. After all, he was the mayor, who would dare oppose him? Men like him, prey upon the weak to feel strong because they know they’re not. You couldn’t help but wonder….

You looked at Bruce, who returned the stare, his brow furrowing at the rather serious and pensive look you gave him as you bit your lip. You had a feeling that his negligence for the city wasn’t the sole reason he was killed. If there was something deeper, something more obscene, something arcane about it, you knew he would not be an isolated case.

After all, men like him came in packs.

AN: I know this fanfic does not get a lot of attention, regardless, I wanted to let you all know, the little ones that always come back to read this fic, that I made a playlist on the reader of this fic.I also changed the layout a bit, to see if it looks better. Enjoy https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6XFUcwZTKXLhdxJ7241WdC?si=92a06a48b30341fe

[polo-drone-055]

The Glorious Dream of Gold

The locker room of the Golden Army football club was unusually quiet. The faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the distant echo of shouts from the training field did little to fill the silence. Christian sat alone on a bench, his head hung low, elbows resting on his knees. His golden jersey, once a source of pride, felt like a weight pressing down on him.

For weeks now, he had been drowning in a sea of doubt and despair. He no longer felt like the confident, driven player who had joined the team. Instead, he was a shadow of himself, haunted by questions he couldn’t answer: What was his role? Did he even belong here anymore?

But the heaviest burden of all was Trey.

Trey had become a close friend since both had been forcibly removed from the polo-drones. They’d shared their experiences, pains, fears, confusion, and countless late-night conversations about their dreams. But something had changed in Trey. He had become distant, his laughter hollow, his eyes reflecting a turmoil Christian couldn’t reach. Christian had tried to help, but his words had fallen short, his actions inadequate. And then, one day, Trey was gone.

The team Captain Brody offered to put Trey into stasis—a controversial method used to bring peace to minds overwhelmed by inner chaos. Christian was not consulted or even informed the procedure was under consideration. Christian blamed himself for the decision. If only he had tried harder, been better, maybe Trey wouldn’t have needed to escape into the stillness of stasis.

Unable to bear the weight of his thoughts any longer, Christian found himself wandering through the dim corridors of the facility that housed Trey’s stasis chamber. The air was cold, sterile, and heavy with the hum of machinery. When he reached the chamber, his breath caught. Trey lay encased in a translucent pod, his features serene, as if in the midst of a dream.

Christian sank to the floor beside the pod, his back pressed against the cold metal. He stayed there for hours, the silence broken only by the faint whirring of the machines. He whispered apologies, confessions, and questions to the still figure behind him, tears tracing silent paths down his face.

“I should have done more,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “I should have been there for you. I’m sorry, Trey. I’m so sorry.”

Eventually, exhaustion claimed him. He drifted into a fitful sleep, his head resting against the edge of the pod. He began to dream. In his dream, Trey appeared before him, his form radiant and comforting. Trey extended a hand, and Christian took it without hesitation. Together, they walked out onto the pitch, the grass shimmering under a golden light. The familiar roar of the crowd seemed distant, like a memory brought back to life.

As they stood in the center of the field, the gold from Trey’s jersey began to flow like liquid, swirling around them both. It enveloped Christian, warm and luminous, seeping into his very being. The weight he had carried for so long seemed to lift, replaced by a renewed sense of purpose and connection.

In that moment, the true essence of the Golden Army was revealed to Christian. Wearing the golden jersey was more than just a symbol; it was the heart of the team, bringing energy, fun, and team spirit. To be a member of the Golden Army meant celebrating jock aesthetics, team bonding, and the thrill of competition. It meant embracing workouts, sports, and camaraderie with his brothers. Gold Bros thrived by pushing themselves and each other, living the values of unity and victory—all of which showed the world the strength and luster of gold in its truest form.

Christian was at peace. He understood that he was no longer to isolate himself but to embrace his bros on the team and with them push for victory on the pitch for the glory of gold. Christian’s confidence had returned.

While basking in his restored vigor the liquid gold washed over Christian again, its warmth spreading across his body. His golden jersey began to shift, morphing into a black rubber polo that gleamed under an unseen light. A golden designation, “055,” appeared on the chest, stark and precise. Christian’s eyes widened as panic set in. He tried to move, to resist, but the gold held him steady. The feel of the polo—smooth, tight, and firm against his skin—began to soothe him, he began to lose himself again, as he had feared for months, and yet the polo’s presence was oddly reassuring.

The gold spoke, its voice resonating in his mind, calm yet commanding.

“The polo will help you. It has a purpose. It calms your mind. It serves gold. It makes you a drone for gold. It bring gold unity. It makes you more focused, more intense, more synchronized. The team will win. Through unity, obedience, and focus Gold will shine for the world to see.”

Christian’s breathing slowed, the initial panic giving way to a familiar sense of calm. The words echoed within him, filling the cracks left by his prior polo experience where the polo seemed to be manipulating the gold. He felt his mind aligning, his thoughts sharpening, as if the gold was not just an object to wear and to celebrate but a presence guiding, molding him and the world, into something greater.

The pitch glowed brighter, and as Christian stood there, clad in the black polo with his golden designation, he realized he was no longer alone. Other figures began to appear, each wearing the same black polo, each marked with their own golden designations. They moved as one, their steps synchronized, their purpose clear. These were not the same polo-drones he has previously been a part of. The polo-drones had become something more—a force united under the luster of gold.

As Christian slowly embraced this new reality, he felt a deep sense of belonging. The gold had given him not just purpose, but clarity. The Golden Army would rise, stronger than ever, their unity a beacon for all to see leading men to recognize the presence that is gold.

055’s face was one of total bliss as he let himself fall back into the liquid gold. As he did so, the gold spread across his face, forming a gas mask with gleaming golden eye sockets. He gasped, the mask molding itself seamlessly to him, and as he breathed in the gold mist through his nose and mouth, it spread throughout his body. No longer was the gold external; it was now within him.

Each breath deepened the connection. 055 experienced the truth: gold was not a thing. It was not even a presence. It is an entity. The more 055 felt the entity, the more he wanted to be with it. More than just serving the gold, he yearned to be embraced and enfolded in it. He craved a deeper union, to be one with the gold.

The transformation began to radiate from within him. Golden light shimmered under his skin, tracing patterns like veins of molten metal. His black polo faded away, replaced by a full body suit that glistened with intricate gold veins, pulsating softly as if alive.

055 stood, now a living embodiment of the gold. He felt nothing except a need to obey gold, to please it, and to deepen his union with it. The gold entity’s essence filled him, its purpose and drive becoming his own. 055 was becoming a different type/level of drone. Each act of obedience, each moment of unity, brought about further transformation. His suit began to glow brighter, the black slowly giving way to pure gold. The veins pulsed with life, spreading and intertwining until the suit became entirely golden.

As the unity between 055 and the gold reached its peak, the suit began to liquefy. The golden liquid seeped into his skin, merging with his very essence. 055 experienced an overwhelming sense of belonging and fulfillment. The gold liquid of 055 merged with the gold pool, and the two became one.

Christian/055 was no longer merely a part of the Golden Army, a polo-drone, or even a higher level drone. He was gold. He was its embodiment, its vessel, its will made manifest. United totally, gold would shine brighter than ever before, a beacon of unity, power, and glory for all men to seek.

As the dream began to end, Trey reappeared, his form shimmering with a golden aura. He looked at Christian with a serene smile and spoke, his voice echoing with warmth and wisdom.

“Christian, the future is bright. You will carry this light forward, not just for yourself, but for all who follow. Gold needs you, your Brothers need you and you need them. Through you, the team and all level of drones, gold will inspire and unite many.”

With those words, Trey faded into the golden mist, leaving Christian standing alone on the pitch.

Slowly, Christian began to stir, his consciousness returning to the room. His eyes fluttered open, and he sat up, the stasis pod still beside him. His golden jersey now shining brighter than it ever had before, radiating a light that seemed to fill the room.

For the first time in weeks, Christian felt a profound sense of clarity and purpose. He understood his place, his mission in life, and his role within the Golden Army. He was ready to return to the team and to the polo-drones, to continue his journey toward complete unity with gold while inspiring, and embodying the strength and unity of gold for all.

Christian stood reaching out to touch the stasis pod while whispering, “Thank you Trey! Luv you bro!” Christian leaned over and kissed the pod. He turned to head to the locker room to rejoin the team, stopping dead in his tracks by the sight before him. __________________________________________________________ Special thanks to @polo-drone-110, @polo-drone-070 and @polo-drone-001 for helping Christian/055 through his depression and confusion. Gold Bros are the best!!!!

Join the Golden Army today! Reach out to @goldenherc9 , or @polo-drone-001

[enchi-elm]

the thing is, like, I end up thinking "I just want to get lost in another romance story" and "historical fiction was so immersive and transporting"

and then I actually think about getting as involved with a culture and time period the way I got involved with the American Revolution and everything inside me just closes up.

I had this idea in my head about kind of an aviation story with an older female pilot and a young Indigenous pilot (inspired as I was by that 99s cover with Mary Riddle) and setting that in Canada in the 1910s-1930s somehow...

which is the right era I want to explore for aviation but places me smack over WWI or into the horrific interwar confusion and Great Depression and I am really really burned out on writing about war.

So that's a Later project.

Which leaves me with no real New Thing other than my religious thriller, which saps all kinds of energy.

Which leaves me at a bit of a loss at what to write.

I mean, I can write, write whatever but that's not the same as having something to come back to day after day and really nurture.

Bleh...

doing cultural research for my new novel (a religious thriller), a story that I on a weekly basis question whether I want to continue, and I swear I can only read up on the relevant material for, like, an hour at a time before I get a headache and have to stop

I could honestly be writing anything else. I should probably be writing anything else.

I could be writing a lovely history fiction story instead if I put my mind to it and came up with something.

It's just that this new novel is so far in its development already I'm loathe to abandon it. And I don't really want to abandon it, I just wish it were about anything else

[delicateartisantrash]

It just occured to me to notice it: but my ears are hypersensitive to metallic sounds. Such as, as soon as opening a metal tap the sound of the water's friction with metal produces a very strong "Ting!" sound, which echoes around for up to ten seconds in my ears and mind. I have always heard weird, constant pings, beeps, and metallic echoes throughout the nights (born insomniac here) in my life, never quite understanding where they come from. Thought you'd find this interesting, considering Butterfly's sensory quirks and your own hypersensitive ears. It's also fun to think what it'd be like for me to live with Cybertronians, probably like living in a nonstop echo chamber.

i feel your paaaaaain

Sometimes i really like it; but honestly, that's only when I'm outside away from technology. Being inside a house is exhausting, they're so noisy and rarely built with sound in mind.

I really need to up my game in describing Butterfly's soundscape experience; i find myself forgetting to, if only because it's something i take for granted and have learned to tune out as normal and not focus on... And Butterfly kinda does the same thing. I tried writing a chapter once totally accurate to sound experience and then looked at it and went "this is too overwhelming and distracting" and redid it all 😂 (the irony isn't lost on me) but i wanna find that balance between the extremes

Earplugs have become my ears' best friends. I try not to use them too often so i don't become even MORE sensitive to sound, but lordie do they let me actually relax!

I love pondering how Cybertronians would text to different daily life things. It's one of the reasons i like Soundwave so much; i dunno how i ended up here, but i find a lot of relatability to him that's very comforting. I love the idea that his sound sensitivity is a strength as much as it is a weakness, and that it's also this crucial innate part of him and how he communicates.

The fact Butterfly can hear a maybe range of his tonal notes is huge. She has information many others straight up don't get without aide of some kind.

Breakdown, for example; he has hearing on par with the average human or even a little less. This is my explanation for how that mfer gets snuck up on and shit so easily despite insane amounts of both experience and training. I also think it makes sense since he favors melee combat, so i figure he's had a lot of serious blunt force trauma that has damaged delicate internal parts over the long long years of the war.

So it's gonna be fun when he realizes we can hear stuff he *can't* :D

[whoredersupreme]

Sorano is my OG OC (originally just Sora), and Naruto was my first real engagement with fandom. I made her when I was 13, and fleshed out a lot of her background and personality by filling out 'Akatsuki Application Forms' on Quizilla, and later publishing what I will generously call fanfic.   She’s definitely my comfort OC, and so I’ve gone back to her to tweak and develop many, many times over the years. I would like to say she’s become a bit more complex and sophisticated (at least compared to the OG), but you KNOW she’s kept the Naruto signature tragic backstory, troubled mental state, and main character syndrome.  Anyway, not expecting engagement here, this is the most self indulgence. 

Full name: Hōraku, Sorano 

Name meaning: Hōraku: Her clan, literally meaning ‘sound release’, interpreted as ‘echo chamber’; Sorano: Meaning ‘of the sky’, often nicknamed Sora meaning ‘sky’. 

Pronouns: She/Her 

Affiliations: Akatsuki, ex-Sunagakure, ex-Takigakure 

Rank: A-rank missing nin, former Special Jōnin of Sunagakure 

Age: 19 (everyone in Naruto is so young??) 

Birthday: July 21 

Blood type: AB 

Theme song: Control by Halsey (Thank you to @immoralimmortals for introducing me to this as the perfect song)

Playlist: TBC 

Kekkai Genkai: The dōjutsu Omowabashigan, meaning ‘bridge of thought’

Dōjutsu appearance: When not in active use the eye appears normal, but in use the pupil becomes glazed over and milky, and the iris has the appearance of live multi-coloured static on a screen. Extended use causes bruising and strained blood vessels around the eyes and temples 

Dōjutsu overview: The Omowabashigan grants its user the ability to attune to the thoughts of others, akin to tuning into a specific radio frequency amidst a sea of noise, with an array of applications ranging from locating a target, to listening to their thoughts, and even thought implantation. This is an ability requiring finesse and subtlety to apply great mental force. When not in active use, there is still a background static, or mental noise, caused by the minds of people close by, even if defined thoughts and feelings are not able to be distinguished. 

Shinon Chōritsu / Mental Frequency Attunement: The user focuses their Omowabashigan to sift through the chaotic static of surrounding thoughts, isolating their target’s mental frequency. Depending on the busyness of the surroundings, and the user’s understanding of the target, this can vary greatly in difficulty.  Shikyō / Mind Echo: Once attuned, the user can slip into the target’s mind, passively picking up their ‘loudest’ or most prominent thoughts. These thoughts often reveal the target’s current emotions, plans, or immediate concerns, although more subtle or skilled targets are likely to have a better mental guard.  Shibō / Weaving Thoughts: With expertise, the user can implant subtle thoughts or suggestions into the target’s mind. These implanted thoughts must align with the target’s beliefs or mental patterns to avoid suspicion. Misaligned or overt foreign thoughts risk alerting the target to the intrusion.  Weaknesses: While using Omowabashigan, most users lose awareness of their physical surroundings due to the intense focus required, a safe environment or allies to guard them is essential. Only highly skilled users can maintain partial awareness which would allow them to break the attunement if there a change in their immediate environment. Skilled opponents or those with strong mental defenses may sense the intrusion and counteract it, putting the user at further risk if unguarded.  Additionally, prolonged use can not only physically exhaust the user, but also overwhelm their own mind, especially when exposed to strong emotions or conflicting thoughts.  

Genjutsu: Due to the nature of her kekkai genkai, Sorano has some skill in genjutsu. While she is by no means a master of using genjutsu, she is highly skilled at detection and release. Her use of genjutsu is usually very specific and localised, used to support her natural taijutsu skill and leveraging her experience with Omowabashigan. Sorano will often cast subtle localised illusions (like false movements, flitting shadows, or auditory distractions), making it harder for her opponent to focus on combat or form coherent strategies. 

Taijutsu: By far her strongest of the three, Dōjutsu notwithstanding. She had dedicated great effort to becoming both physically strong, and faster than average. Her fighting style is quick and graceful, implementing clever footwork and acrobatics to dance circles around opponents, placing hard, deliberate, kicks and jabs to weak points. Although she is strong, she is also small, so her speed is necessary for both avoiding direct hits, and to tire out her opponents.  

Ninjutsu: While her chakra control is excellent, her reserves aren’t anything to shout about, and she has dedicated less time to training her ninjutsu. Rather than having unique jutsu which can stand alone, she has instead developed a few she can use to complement her taijutsu.  

Denki no Yashi / Electric Palm: Sorano channels lightning chakra into her palms to create a shocking touch. This technique is effective for close combat and immobilizing opponents briefly.  Kaminari Ashi / Lightning Foot: Sorano uses her lightning chakra to momentarily enhance her speed, often combined with a genjutsu for a visual effect like a flicker or afterimage to confuse her opponent. 

Weaknesses: While she has a broad skill base, there are plenty of cracks in the armour. She is heavily reliant on her speed and skill in Taijutsu, so when up against an opponent who is faster than her, there is very little she can do beyond escape. Opponents strong shielding abilities, or even physical armour, also present problems. As Omowabashigan requires distance and ideally protection to use safely, if she does not have enough forward planning it is rendered either useless, or extremely risky. Up against long and mid-range opponents, assuming she has not had the drop on them with Omowabashigan, she also has the challenge of getting close enough to be effective. 

Non-combat skills: Sorano is a skilled field cook, usually able to make a tasty and nourishing dish from wild forage, or even the dregs of supplies at the back of a cupboard. She is also an avid artist, sometimes making detailed field drawings of plants, animals, or buildings and towns for later reference. More often she doodles in the margins of every set of mission notes, using them as an abstract outlet of her mindscape when she has no other outlet.  

Personality: Sorano is full of paradox: guarded, jaded precision juxtaposed with untempered passion and ambition; calculated planning paired with moments of impulsive recklessness. She is unrelentingly strong-willed, sharp-tempered, full of contemptuous glances. Anger and defiance come quickly, as does a sharp, biting tongue that she rarely tempers for the sake of others. Her strength lies in her independence and unrelenting perseverance; no matter how many times she feels rejected or betrayed, she stubbornly forges ahead. 

Years of self-reliance have conditioned her to see tenderness and emotional intimacy as weaknesses: liabilities that could be exploited. Her pride and experience have hardened her against admitting fear, sadness, or loneliness, even to herself. This inability to express her softer side has created deep cracks in her psyche, leaving her prone to paranoia, overreaction, and mistrust. She believes relying on anyone or showing too much warmth will only make her less capable of handling the challenges she faces. 

Despite her emotional guardedness, Sorano is deeply curious about the world. Her controlled life has left her craving new experiences, from the thrill of battle to the simple pleasure of unfamiliar tastes and sensations. Believing that she is likely to one day lose herself to madness, she wants to make the most of physical experiences before she is held captive by her own mind, and due to her complex relationship with emotional intimacy and control. She is fiercely protective of herself, her values, and anyone she comes to care for, even though she doesn’t know how to express that admiration and care in ways that feel authentic.  

What Sorano needs most, although she us unable to do the introspection required to see it, is to embrace connections, kindness, gentleness, and loyalty. That showing softness doesn’t make her any less fierce, and that it’s possible to be both a force of nature and someone deserving of comfort. 

Ideals: Above everything else, Sorano values freedom, independence, and respect. She is not against following orders, provided they are given with an understanding that it is her skill which will bring them to fruition. When in situations where she is unable to be in control of her life (e.g. living in Suna), she strives to have total mastery over her mind and body, and is not above desperate action to feel that control over others as well.  

Likes:  Storms when the sky cracks and the lightening is blinding, the thunder deafening, and you are quickly soaked to the skin. The height of summer when the intensity of the dry heat makes you sweat even when still, and the relief of a slight breeze on damp skin. Feeling power and an ache in her limbs after a workout, or better yet a fight. Art, or perhaps better represented as artistic expression. Adrenaline rushes and letting go of herself entirely, and the contrast with focused meditation to quickly bring her back to equilibrium. Sharp and intense flavours, sounds, smells, and sensations. 

Dislikes: Judgement, or rather being looked down upon and undervalued. She also dislikes crowds, where much mental noise and too many minds to sift through make her anxious and irritable. She can’t stand the perception of emotional fragility, even worse when she believes she has revealed her own, as she believes it to be proof that she is weak and equates it with loss of control (at least pre-story driven growth). Feeling or seeing others trapped in a helpless situation frustrates her immensely. 

Fears:  Both physical and metaphorical restrictions make her feel suffocated, and she fears being trapped. She secretly worries that her kekkai genkai might one day override her own agency, reducing her to a tool, a liability, or even to madness. Finally, she fears a true betrayal: allowing herself to be soft and exposing her innermost thoughts and emotions, only to be hurt or abandoned either in spite of or because of her vulnerability. 

Art Philosophy: Sorano believes art can be anything that makes you feel intensely, whether it's joy, rage, sorrow, or awe. True beauty lies in the power to evoke raw, unfiltered emotions, no matter. If it doesn’t make your heart race, your breath catch, or your soul ache, it isn’t art. 

She views her kills as performances, designed not just to eliminate a target but to leave an emotional echo - fear, admiration, or even despair; as well as the thrill of the kill, and her mastery, for herself. 

Her Omowabashigan allows her to tap into the deepest emotions of her targets. On occasion she will not only use it to manipulate, but also to create situations where people confront their truest feelings – even when she has trouble doing so herself. 

(Duh I had to give her a unique art philosophy to go with the boys. Huge growth from her “I agree with you both and have no opinion of my own” origins) 

Mental health:  Sorano is something of a web of unresolved trauma, deeply rooted fears, and the unique intrusions caused by wielding the Omowabashigan, causing a somewhat fragile mental state. She struggles with paranoia, both over her relationships and about the impact of her kekkai genkai, which is paired with the actual impact of her kekkai genkai, where the background ‘noise’ and fragments of mental landscapes seep into her awareness, leaving her emotionally drained and mentally overstimulated 

Favourite foods: Onsen tamago (hot spring egg), sukuyaki (hot pot in a sweet sauce), and oshiruko (sweet red bean soup) 

Least favourite foods: Sushi, soba noodles 

Favourite drinks: Taro milk tea, umeshu (plum/apricot liqueur)

Skin: Lightly tanned, especially over the bridge of her nose and shoulders, and often slightly rosy.  

Hair: Her hair is a deep dark red, almost maroon or oxblood. It is long and thick, down to just past her waist, and pretty much straight, only getting a very slight wave in damp weather. She has a full fringe, and feathering around her face. 

Eyes: When not using Omowabashigan, they are a dusty rose colour. She has long brown lashes, with a slightly downturned outer corner, a heavy lid, and a defined high crease. She often has a dark undereye from short recovery periods between Omowabashigan uses. 

Other: Sorano is visibly strong; she has a toned stomach, defined shoulders and biceps, and thick thighs. She isn’t bulky, but her musculature is definitely visible.  

Colour scheme: Blues of most shades, but particularly a sky blue, cornflower blue and navy. Primarily she wears black or very dark grey, but colour that sneaks in is, usually, a shade of blue. She is a silver girl all the way. 

Background: The Hōraku clan live on the edge of Takigakure, which is where Sorano was born. The clan’s unique kekkai genkai, the Omowabashigan, made them unparalleled spies and assassins, and were relied upon heavily by the Takigakure elders for missions requiring precision and secrecy.  

Sorano’s father, Hōsen, was among the clan’s most respected, but not seen as the clan leader, and was proud and ambitious enough to resent it, along with what he saw as the clan’s subjugation by Taigakure. He believed they deserved more power, and more autonomy, and began trying to rally the clan to overthrow the village’s leadership. With the clan leader’s more level head, there was internal strife and different opinions on action, or non-action, causing small internal factions, with Hōsen’s being only weakly supported. How much of his rebellion was caused by his flawed logic, and how much was due to growing madness caused by overuse of Omowabashigan, is hard to say. 

Kahori, Sorano’s mother, saw the warning signs as conflict and aggression began to rise. Fearing not only for the Hōraku clan’s safety and legacy, but also for but also for Sorano, who was showing signs of inheriting the Omowabashigan, Kahori took Sorano and her two younger siblings and fled for Sunagakure where she was born. Sorano, being only six, didn’t fully grasp what had led to this, but trusted her mother, and was happy to be with her siblings. 

While Sunagakure didn’t exactly embrace their new residents, they did embrace Sorano as new valuable asset, even if she was something of an object of fear. Of the escapees, Sorano was the only one to carry Omowabashigan, and she was trained as a tool, and an effective weapon. Though they praised her skill, the villagers’ distrust of outsiders and fear of her abilities created a chasm over the years. Sorano felt like a stranger amongst her peers, and even felt that her family had grown distant and fearful (though any distance was certainly only in her mind) as she spent more time training and on assignment. She began to believe that her mother had brought her only to secure their place in the village, as Kahori and her younger siblings had integrated in a way Sorano could only dream of. 

When she was eleven, she returned home from a mission to find her home empty, her mother and siblings gone without a trace. Sorano searched desperately but could find nothing. Unbeknownst to her, her father had tracked them down and taken them back to their former village, hoping to rebuild the clan after his failed uprising. To Sorano, their disappearance was abandonment, and solidified her growing belief that she was alone in the world. 

Still not completely deterred from relationships, she did go on to seek friendship and belonging, forging friendships, even relationships, with her teammates and peers, but her paranoia and subsequent liberal use of her abilities became a curse. Struggling to trust as she did, she often spied on their thoughts, leading to painful revelations, or her being caught and left once more. By the time she was fifteen, Sorano gave up entirely on the idea of companionship. She withdrew from the world, feeling more and more like a tool being clumsily wielded, without respect or agency. 

Over time, this growing sense of alienation bred something darker within her. She began to feel that the only time she had true control over her life was when she held someone else’s fate in her hands, with her missions giving ample opportunity to solidify the idea. At first, her personal killings were sporadic and justified in her mind—cruel people who deserved punishment, or those who judged her too harshly, though the bounds of an acceptable target became less rigid over time. Always in secret, always precise and careful, she allowed herself these acts of rebellion. 

A few years later, not long before her nineteenth birthday, she reached a breaking point. On an assassination mission in the Land of Rivers with a team she didn’t trust, their perceived rudeness and disregard for her skills became unbearable. In a moment of rage and clarity, she abandoned the mission, killing her teammates before vanishing into the wilderness. For months, she lived alone, surviving off the land and her skills, revelling in a newfound sense of freedom. 

And then the Akatsuki find and recruit her and the rest lives in my head as a fun little fantasy I pretend I’ll write but never will :) 

Family Status: 

Hōsen | Father | 43 | Living, unknown to Sorano 

Kahori | Mother | 41 | Living, unknown to Sorano 

Kazuto | Brother | 16 | Living, unknown to Sorano 

Souta | Sister | 15 | Living, unknown to Sorano 

To escape from the background noise of Omowabashigan, Sorano will sometimes secret herself away, somewhere quiet, and dark, and ideally away from anyone else, where she meditates to tune out the sometimes-overwhelming input. For a similar outcome but with a different method she finds loud and sudden noises, bright and intense visuals, and strong physical sensations, even pain, to be a good distraction. 

Sorano starts each day with stretches and often intense exercise, and she does so without fail. The routine is as much about physical preparation as it is about mental focus and discipline, as well as having the additional benefit of aching muscles that she can use to ground herself through the day. 

She always carries with her a small collection of spices and salt, as she abhors bland food and would usually prefer not to eat than have something tasteless. 

Sorano has a habit of finding high places to watch storms roll in, a practice that dates back to her childhood where she would sit by the waterfalls at the tops of cliffs to feel the static in the air. She feels a deep connection to the raw power of nature during these moments, finding them both grounding and exhilarating. 

On a hot day she will be in the sun for every second she can. She will take her morning routine outside, and extend it until she is baking in the sun. She will take her mission research to lay on a rooftop, or on the grass, or wherever she can sunbathe best, basking in the glow and savouring the sweat pricking her skin. 

[scribeofskyrim]

Sundas, 17th of Frostfall, 4E 201

I'm exhausted, but it's been a very, VERY long day and my head is killing me and I need to write down what happened so I don't forget when we talk with Firebeard and Styrr tomorrow.

This morning was like any other. Erandur and Lydia were both up bright and early as always, and Valdimar got up to make us all breakfast like he usually does. I'm a late sleeper, but the smell of food gets me up quickly!

We went to Solitude and sold off our goods. On a whim, I ducked into Angeline's Aromatics and bought some alchemy ingredients I didn't know much about. Erandur warned me not to make myself sick as we walked to the Palace. We both kept our eyes out as we walked past the Bard's College. Erandur hasn't told the others about getting expelled yet.

Elisif was arguing with one of her thanes when we went up to speak with Falk. He motioned us to the side, and told us that the spirit of Potema had escaped, like I thought. He couldn't say more in the court, but told us to go to Styrr, the priest of Arkay, who would explain everything.

We found Styrr at the Hall of the Dead, and he told us that some of Potema's faithful had broken through from her catacombs into the Temple of the Divines! I heard Erandur whisper, "No," and the scrape of his gauntlets on his armor as he clutched at his chest.

Styrr nodded at him, and said, "It's worse than we thought, Brother."

I didn't get a chance to study as much as I wanted to last night, so I asked Styrr to tell me about Potema.

Divines, I can hear Dru laughing now. She used to tease me when I would read anything that wasn't "something fun".

Anyway, Styrr told me that Potema was once the Queen of Solitude, and had her sights set on becoming Empress. She never got it, despite being a powerful necromancer with vampires to lead her armies of the undead. Because I interrupted her summoning, I was somehow linked to her, spiritually. I had to be the one to bring her remains to the Temple of Arkay so he could sanctify them, and keep her from coming back from the dead.

I've about had enough of this "Destiny" horseshit. Am I some sort of Divine joke?! It's like no matter what I do, I'm responsible for something bad happening! If I don't fix it, there's some ancient evil coming to take over the world, or start a war or something!

I cursed for a bit, then apologized. Styrr just laughed and said it was all right. "It must be hard being the Dragonborn."

Before I could ask him how he knew, he handed me a key to the catacombs and said that before me, Potema was the last Dragonborn. Maybe that was what made the connection between us?

I had no idea that she was a Dragonborn! I was about to say something, but Styrr grabbed his amulet of Arkay with his left hand and put the fingertips of his right to my forehead.

A light filled my vision, like when I learn a Shout. He said I could Turn the undead, now. He said I'd need it, down in the catacombs.

He was right.

We went straight for the Temple of the Divines, and were greeted by a priestess when we walked in. Erandur spoke with her and another priestess about why we were here while we looked over the shrines. Erandur rejoined us and we all got a blessing from Mara before we came down here.

The priestesses told him where the break-in was, and he led us to the back of the basement. I had to unlock the gate on the way, but we soon found a large hole, the size of a door, bashed in from the space beyond. We went in, and while it's full of cobwebs and a little run down, it looks just like the rest of the basement.

We didn't get far when we came upon a set of iron bars blocking our path, next to what I thought was a carving of Mara at first, but…

Erandur almost growled behind me as he cursed in Dunmeri.

It had once been a carving of Mara as the Mother Wolf, but it had been crudely altered into a likeness of Potema, the Wolf Queen. Valdimar grumbled something about sacrilege, when a voice suddenly echoed in the small chamber, and a blue-white light, like what we saw in Wolfskull Cave, rushed out of the carving to swirl around us. Septim started to whine and ducked behind my cloak.

It was Potema. She was glad to see me return to her, and she thanked me. She said that when I died, she would raise me to join her at her side.

Then the iron bars to our left pulled away, and we could go through.

Before we kept going, I dug in my pack and handed Lydia a scroll of Dread Zombie. Before she could say anything, I said that if I died down there, her last order was to raise me from the dead before Potema could, and kill me.

Erandur was about to protest, but I shushed him. I told them all that I don't care how powerful she is, she can't raise a pile of ash. There's no way in Oblivion I'll ever be her or anyone else's slave, dead or alive.

We went through the door, and soon came upon some draugr, along with a Vampire.

She wasn't hard to kill - I set her on fire almost immediately - but she did manage to get me with the disease. Erandur saw me go down, and when he helped me back up he was weirdly panicked. He demanded that I drink a Cure potion immediately. Even after I had, he insisted that we go back upstairs to the Temple of the Divines and get me a blessing before we kept going, but I was fine. The potion worked. It hadn't even been a minute.

I told him to calm down and just look at me. He's a priest, he can tell, and he had to agree that I really was fine.

Lydia asked what got up his armor, and he said that even though his Lady taught him patience and mercy, these blood-sucking bastards didn't deserve any of it.

We all traded looks as Erandur glowered at the dead vampire on the floor. Valdimar asked, "You hate vampires, don't you?"

"I have my reasons."

We took the hint. We can ask about that later.

As we went, it continued to not look like any catacombs I've ever been in. It looks like a normal basement. Sure, there's some cave-like portions where the stonework's fallen away and exposed the earth behind it, but for the most part it looked very basement-y.

There were only a few more vampires, but plenty of draugr. Turning them was really useful! I figured out that if I turned the weakest-looking one, Septim would usually take care of them while we handled the stronger ones.

I did get hit with Sanguinaris Vampiris again, and Erandur once more almost had a fit over it. Again, I took a potion, and I felt just fine. Still, he grabbed me by the shoulders and gave me a long, hard look before he was reassured that I was going to be all right. He made me promise to go to the Temple of the Divines as soon as possible when we got out of the ruins.

After a while we found an alchemy station, and a big door. The room looked like the smaller version of the Hall of Stories, but with only one mural on each side. Defaced versions of carvings of Mara, like the one we had seen above. Erandur looked pained to see them, and I think he was distracting himself by scolding me about trying out all the ingredients I had on me.

Oh, well. I had potions to make!

We went through the big door, and then it started to look like a proper Nord crypt. Niches in the wall with skeletons and all that. There were even a few of those spinning doors that had to be stopped with levers so we could go through them.

There was a large room after a set of those spinning doors, with a Death Lord "sleeping" on a throne. I threw a Fireball at it, and then we heard a Vampire start going on about how if we were looking for Potema's sanctum, he would use our dead bodies to build their armies or whatever.

He died in seconds when Erandur threw himself at him, fire pouring from his hands.

Lydia, Valdimar and I shared A Look.

He really hates vampires.

I found a key on the dead vampire, and used it to unlock the door to Potema's Sanctum.

The next room was… Disgusting.

It was small and round, and the sunken floor was absolutely covered in dead draugr. There was also a dead vampire laying there, on the literal pile of bodies. I heard Valdimar make a little sound of disgust, and whisper "By the Nine," under his breath.

On the opposite side of that pit of horrors was a doorway covered in an iron gate, and on the right hand side of the wall were a bunch of candles and another one of those desecrated carvings of Mara made to look like Potema. I tried not to step on anyone as I walked in, but it was literally impossible to not step on a dead body.

I was partway through the room when that bluish light came back, spiraling around in a vortex, and Potema spoke once more. She taunted me, calling me a "little thing", and invited me to "serve her in death."

Septim started barking, and I saw the vampire that was practically at my feet, along with two other draugr who were behind me, start to rise from the dead. I was surrounded, so I followed Erandur's example and cast Flame Cloak, then set upon the vampire with my poisoned axe.

I drove her into the wall, trading hits from my axe with Flames from my other hand, and she went down quicker than I thought she would. I looked behind me, and saw the others standing over the dead draugr.

The gated door opened, and I turned to Lydia as the flames died out around me. I asked if she had the scroll at the ready, and she said she did.

I nodded, then took some time to loot all the bodies in the room. We came away with a fair amount of gold, actually, but I also found an Ebony sword! I offered it to Valdimar, and he gladly accepted. I had handed a glass mace off to Erandur earlier. Now, I just had to find something nice for Lydia.

She didn't have to wait too long.

Not far from that terrible little hole, we found a door, and beyond it, an oval room with a stepped floor. The two levels were ringed with standing coffins, and in the center was Potema's spirit, floating above us in a mass of swirling blue-white light. She challenged us to stand against her "inner council" and some of the coffin lids burst open to release the draugr inside.

These were stronger than most of what we'd faced before. Death lords, Scourges and Wights, mostly, able to cast Frost spells, Shout, and even summon Frost Atronachs! As we fought them, Potema radiated bolts of lightning that roved around the room, shocking whoever they hit.

Erandur threw all the fire he could at them, while Lydia boldly ran in and smashed their faces in with her warhammer. Valdimar filled them with Ice Spikes, and when he was out of magicka, went in to test out his new sword. Septim, good boy that he is, stuck to the outer edge and went after the handful of regular draugr that emerged. I was glad for that, because all of them seemed to have bows, and it was nice to not have to worry about arrows.

Most of the undead were too strong for me to turn, so I concentrated on trying to keep everyone else alive, and cast Healing spells on everyone until my magicka ran out. I was almost entirely out of magicka potions, so I pulled out a Guardian Circle scroll and promptly dropped it down into the middle of the fray. I chased after the scroll, getting between two of the nastier draugr, and cast it as soon as I had my hands on it.

The draugr scattered, and I called the others to join me in the circle. We were able to concentrate on picking them off one by one, and once they were all gone, Potema's spirit howled in rage and fled through the closed door on the far side of the room.

We took a moment to heal and regroup while I sifted through the armor and weapons.

I gave Erandur an Ebony sword, and said that now they matched! They both laughed. Lydia hummed in approval when I handed her an Ebony warhammer that I almost missed hiding behind a coffin lid. She gave it a few swings and proclaimed it, "Not bad."

We went into the next room, and saw a ghostly figure sitting on a throne at the top of a short flight of steps. It was Potema, and she attacked. We swarmed her, and it seemed like she came back several times, but we eventually managed to kill her for good.

Her skull, still wearing a circlet, was on her throne. I stuffed it in my pack, and checked out the chest that was just behind the throne. I just had to sit on her throne and take a drink before we left through the door in the back of the room.

We win, bitch.

But we were exhausted, and there were still two draugr lurking in the room past that! We fought them, and soon found our way up a passage that finally let us outside.

Onto a CLIFF!

There's just a little platform out there, and we could hardly fit! At least there was a chest there with some useful potions and gold in it, but by the Nine, we almost ended up in a pile at the bottom of the mountain!

I considered trying to pick our way down in the dark, but we were tired, it was freezing, and I had no idea which direction Solitude was in. I could see and hear water, and there was a boat, and I saw some sort of tower to the left. I think it's a lighthouse? I don't even know what time it is, but it's late, so I had us come back inside, and go back through the big chamber we fought in. There's a big brazier right outside the door, and it's plenty warm enough here to cook food and keep us comfortable while we sleep.

Speaking of, my watch is almost over. Time to kick at Lydia. We'll get back to Solitude tomorrow.

---

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[sunwukxng]

One way or another, I have to come up with groceries money today, but I don't know where to turn to for help because I feel like I've exhausted all my options and I don't want to be a burden or leech to anyone, but that doesn't negate the need for groceries.

I have some money coming to me by cheque from a rare and ever elusive editing gig, but I don't know when or which address it's going to (this one or the old one). And the deadline to provide my photo ID or at least evidence I'm working towards it is soon if I'm going to get it by the time the housing agency needs me to verify my identity if I'm to be able to live at the place, which is obviously a colossal source of anxiety for me right now.

Then there's my phone which got disconnected yesterday, Kalen's appointments and medication costs we have to come up with, and obviously looming over all of that is these short bursts of a couple of weeks of food security only to end right back where we started because our situation hasn't changed yet and we can't do much to change it.

I keep trying to offer sensitivity reads or art commissions or something to earn money how I can until I can save up $520 for the EAD application again with a mountain of evidence so they don't deny my application and waste my time over the smallest of technicalities (if you've ever dealt with USCIS, you know EXACTLY what the fuck I'm talking about), but I just can't seem to market myself in the right way or my skills aren't up to snuff so it's just very frustrating and demoralizing.

It's hard to do anything when you don't have food or drinks, which makes my base level of lethargy even fucking worse and just feeds into my depressive bed-rotting tendencies, which I'm sick and fucking tired of but can't seem to willpower my way out of, and somehow I've become a fucking shut-in which I also hate, but it's kind of impossible to go outside and have a social life and do fun stuff and enjoy being outside home when you don't have an income to sustain such excursions, so bedrotting and staring depressively out the window at the beautiful vivid green of the tree leaves and brilliant blue sky outside just beyond the window, and yet feeling caged it is, because why not.

I'm just tired and I feel like all I ever do is complain and bawl my eyes out and bitch and moan and leech and I hate that for me so fucking much. I wanna have dignity again, I wanna be able to go out and do stuff again, I wanna be able to treat myself to some retail therapy and buy stuff I like or just want because I have disposable income again, I want to see and interact with other people so I don't feel so alone and isolated in my mental prison and self-imposed isolation again, but it just feels like none of that is in the cards for me, so here I am, yet again bitching and moaning and whining and crying and desperately hoping for help without bothering or inconveniencing anyone, but it feels like my entire existence is an inconvenience, and I really don't like that I've been made to feel that way, either by how I was raised and the tribulations of such toxic parenting, or because capitalism, or both.

This is just a vent post, I don't expect anything to happen or expect anything of anyone or think anything will change. I just need to get these depressing fucking thoughts out of the negative echo chamber that is my head and just put it out into the universe so that the cosmos suffers with me too, misery loves company, what the fuck ever.

Anyways don't mind me, everything will work out okay in the end, I just hate that it never seems to last long and hate both myself and everything! Not you, though, I love you, and I hope you're having a stellar day.

Back to bedrotting and window-watching.