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sevencolorsatlast · 6 months

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Archons Reacting To Their Creator Singing Pt. 2

Part 1 [Venti, Zhongli, Ei and Nahida] || Part 2 [Furina] (You're Here!)

Author's Note: 4.2 Update Spoilers! You've been warned! Song used: "Curses" by The Crane Wives. No beta, we die like my heart while playing this quest.

Update: I changed the verse weeee. Also corrected a couple of mistakes.

Content Warning(s): None.

Other Notes: Default SAGAU / GN!Reader / Drabble / 800+ Words / Ao3 Link

[ Furina ]

"There's still cobwebs in the corners

And the backyard's full of bones

Won't you stay with me, my darling

When this house don't feel like home?"

You came down from the heavens weeks ago, knowing Fontaine is in danger but kept your head low and disguised yourself as a Fontainian to seek solutions to their prophecy. No one suspected you aside from the Vision wielders and a few Guardes who eventually left you alone since you seem to be harmless. You also manage to avoid any unpleasant encounters with your followers while roaming around the city.

Visiting Focalors in the opera house when no one was around was... rather an eventful one; she hopes you do not intervene with her plans to save her beloved people. You tried to reason with her: you are her god — you can forgive her and her people but she says it is her duty as Hydro Archon as prophecies cannot be changed. To pursue "justice", so to speak, is via the death of her and her throne.

You no longer attempt to pursue the topic which Focalors tacitly appreciates. Instead, you promised to look after her "human" self... Furina.

She smiles ever so graciously, knowing that such a divine being like you would keep Furina safe and sound - even after she meets her fate. You ask if you can hug Focalors, she happily accepts as this will be your first and last meeting her. You give most of your strength to hug her and you pull away, saying your tearful goodbye.

Everything went down according to her plan; watching scenes unfolding right before your eyes. Furina's trial was heart wrenching to watch, you want to jump and defend her... but this was all part of her "divine" self's plan. You shouldn't interfere, you reminded yourself, you clench your fists as the last puzzle of the prophecy reveals itself in front of you and the rest of the audience.

After the flooding in Fontaine died down and you let weeks pass by to let the country recover, you sought out Neuvillette. He is surprised to see you, easily seeing through your disguise. He bows before you and airs his concerns about Furina who had moved away from Palais Mermonia. You gently grab his hand and hold it in-between yours, telling him to stand up. You reassure that you'll be discreetly visiting Furina and the Hydro Sovereign gives you the address on where she currently lives.

During sunset, you found Furina cooped up in her new home. You knock and it took her a while before peeking through the small gap of the door. To put it lightly, her place is in disarray even when the gap of her door is small — her things are littered on the floor and she... doesn't look too good. She is far from well-presented and she looks like a ghost.

You can tell her eyes are red from crying and lack of sleep is evident on her unusually pale face. Her once kept hair's a mess and her clothes aren't well-presented like they usually do. Her hat is also nowhere to be found, it must've been included in the pile of mess scattered about her floorboards.

She weakly asks who you are and tells you that she doesn't accept visitors. You look around, making sure no one is around to see your transformation. Once you know the coast is clear, you transform into your normal self; soft glow emanating from your skin.

Once you are done dusting off your robes, Furina suddenly pulls you into her home and slams the door behind her - stuttering "Your Grace" under her breath and muttering how she's embarrassed that she's in a mess.

You turn around to speak and, instead, you are met with a tight hug from Furina. She buries her head into your shoulder and clutching onto your robes.

She doesn't understand why you hadn't come down from the heavens sooner... and you tell her Focalors wanted to do her part while you witnessed everything. She remained silent for a while before letting out a few sobs. You finally let your arms wrap around her; like a parent hugging their long-lost child.

To calm her down, you sing a song you know from the depths of your heart; the one that is ingrained to the forefronts of your mind even as a child. You alternate between singing and humming while gently running your hand up and down on Furina's back.

Her sobs subside as the last lyric of the song leaves your lips. She wipes her tears away with her hands and regains her composure. She pulls her head away from your shoulder, her eyes yet to look at your direction.

"My apologies for seeing me in such a state, Your Grace." She says, her voice slightly above a whisper, "And ...That's a wonderful song you've sung. I... appreciate it..."

She sniffles; it reminded you when you were a kid. You smile at the fond memory.

"The song was sung to calm me down by my caretakers." You say, "I suppose it still holds its charm."

She lets out a weak chuckle and meets your eyes, "I... Thank you, Your Grace."

"For what?" You inquired despite knowing the answer. She pulls you into another hug, you could've sworn you had seen her genuinely smiling for the first time.

"For being here with me." She says, a small spark of joy coming from her voice, "For seeing the 'real' me."

As she hums your song, you hold each other close until the sun finally sets from the horizon.

#genshin impact #genshin impact sagau #genshin impact spoilers #genshin sagau #sagau #sagau x reader #furina #furina sagau #neuvillette #neuvillette sagau #focalors #focalors sagau #once again i've used the word 'eyes' like i did with the previous archons lezgoooo #seven's tag #500

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 6 months

Text

Eyes Black Like an Animal

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of blood, smut, choking, degradation, rough sex. Word count: ~1.6k

Summary: When Daemon returns covered in blood from his duties as Commander of the City Watch, his wife requests that he uses her to ease his anger. Based on this request.

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

The steam from the bath she has had the chambermaid prepare curls upwards from the water, dampening the bare skin of her neck as she leans over it to pour in the scented oils, the precise ones she knows Daemon likes.

This is their nightly routine. He will be back from his duties as commander of the City Watch soon and, ever the dutiful wife, she always has a bath awaiting him, so that he can wash away the grime of the city.

The heavy wood of the door to their chambers slams loudly against the stone wall, the noise echoing off of the vaulted ceilings, causing her to startle. Her head snaps up, eyes widening as she takes in the sight of her husband.

He stalks through their apartments, his expression a glower, ichor splattered across his face. His hands are bloodied and there is a darkened stain across the breastplate of his armour. His golden cloak seems to be the only thing that has escaped the gore that decorates him.

Rushing to him, she takes his face in her hands, only to be gently pushed away as quickly as she touches him.

“Leave me,” he says sullenly, unclasping Dark Sister from his sword belt and leaning it against the wall.

“You are hurt,” she protests as her arms drop slowly back to her sides, her brow furrowing in concern.

“It is not my blood,” he snaps, dropping his helmet down onto the settee with a clatter, before striding over to the bathtub and rinsing his hands and face.

She watches the blood float through the water like tendrils of silk, her mind racing with thoughts of the terrible fate someone has likely met at the hands of her husband this evening. When Daemon straightens again his face is clean, but his dark and angry demeanour remains.

“What happened?” She asks gently, eager to reach for him but knowing her touch is the very last thing he wants when he is in this mood.

“I executed justice,” he tells her, drying his face and hands, “but that is not the problem. My brother gave me an army of two thousand men to command, yet his cunt of a Hand feels it is his right to dictate the punishments I see fit to serve.”

There it is; Otto. Daemon’s rivalry with the Hand of the King had been a bitter one ever since Otto had convinced Viserys to remove Daemon from office when he was Master of Coin, and again when he was appointed as Master of Laws.

Daemon has flourished in his new position as commander of the City Watch since being awarded it, yet he is at constant odds with Otto regarding the harsh punishments he exacts on the criminals of King’s Landing.

“He had the audacity to compare me to Maegor the Cruel,” he continues, and she can see the anger within him rising once more as his gaze darkens and his nostrils flare.

She takes a tentative step forward, eager to calm him down, not wanting him to ruin their evening with his foul temper. “My love, you know his words are untrue. Pay him no mind and allow me to help you out of your armour.”

He shakes his head, turning away from her. “You are better off leaving me alone tonight. I have no kindness to offer you.”

Taking another step towards him, she speaks quietly. “What if it is not your kindness that I seek?”

His head lifts, half looking over his shoulder at her as his eyebrow raises in curiosity. “And what is it you do seek?”

She swallows thickly, her pulse racing with a mixture of fear and excitement. “I want your anger, your frustration, all of it. Take it out on me.”

Daemon turns fully, closing the gap between them slowly, a predatory glint in his eye as he looks down at her, leaning in so close that his nose brushes against hers. “Are you fully aware of what it is that you are asking for?” He whispers, his breath fanning hotly against her face.

Her core throbs in anticipation, thoughts of how roughly Daemon manhandles her in the throes of passion swirl in her mind, making her feel lightheaded with lust. “Yes,” is all she is able to utter.

“Very well then.” His hand reaches around the back of her head, grabbing a fistful of her hair and tugging gently so that she is forced to meet his eyes. “And what is it you say should you wish to stop?”

“K–kelītīs,” she stammers, arousal making it feel as though there is fire in her veins.

“Good girl.” He gives her hair another gentle tug, before grasping the back of her neck and pushing her towards the bed. “Lay down. On your back.”

She does exactly as she is told, her chest rising and falling rapidly with the accelerated breaths of her excitement.

Daemon grabs hold of her by the ankles dragging her until her backside just barely rests on the edge of the mattress. Still fully clad in his armour and golden cloak, he reaches for the dagger that remains sheathed upon his sword belt. Her breath hitches as he withdraws it, a shiver running through her body, whether it is from fright or anticipation she is unsure. The Valyrian steel shines in the dull light of the bedchamber and when he brings it down upon the neckline of her nightgown it moves through the material like fingers through spiderwebs.

The dagger rattles with a metallic clink against the flagstone floor as Daemon drops it, pulling open the now two-slashed halves of her cotton shift to reveal her nakedness. A low noise of approval rumbles in his throat, the sound shooting straight between her thighs as she feels wetness gather there.

Daemon’s pupils are blown wide with lust, in the low lighting they appear almost black as he stares hungrily down at her. He leans over her, the coldness of his armour against her bare skin making her gasp. Her nipples pebble at the chilly sensation and, as though fully in tune with her body’s response to him, two of Daemon’s calloused fingers tweak harshly at one of them. It is a pleasurable hurt, one that makes her mewl piteously and arch against him.

“Wanton little thing,” Daemon rasps, “I bet you’re wet already.”

His other hand finds its way between her legs, cupping roughly at her mound before his digits spread through the slickness of her folds. Her hips buck, chasing his touch until he swats between her legs, causing her to yelp, the sensation sending waves of warmth throughout her lower belly.

“Don’t be greedy,” he hisses, pulling away to unfasten his trousers and push down his breeches, freeing his erection. He runs his hand up and down the length of it, eyeing her with an animalistic hunger, the slightest of smirks tugging at his lips as she instinctively parts her legs wider for him.

As he guides himself to her entrance she barely has a moment to adjust before he is pressing forcefully inside, pushing apart her inner walls and stretching her brutally, causing her to cry out.

“Fucking take it!” He spits out, wrapping a hand around her throat, while the other grasps her hip, tugging her violently against him to meet each of his hard thrusts.

She is struck by the imbalance of power; she is bare beneath him, utterly vulnerable, while Daemon remains not just fully clothed, but clad in armour, free to do as he pleases to her. She clenches at the idea, causing him to grunt.

“Such a slut,” he pants, the smack of his thighs against hers becoming more insistent as he quickens his pace, his fingers applying more pressure to the sides of her throat.

She feels lightheaded, the only thing that seems as though it is stopping her from floating away entirely are the harsh, sharp thrusts that meet the end of her, causing her to wail, tears forming in her eyes, before trickling down her cheeks.

As Daemon’s hips begins to falter in their movements, the hand grasping her hip snakes between their bodies, his fingers expertly circling her pearl, causing heat to lick at her lower spine. He presses down more firmly, making faster, tighter movements against her bud and she jolts, sudden warmth crashing over her in waves as she cries out, tightening around him.

With a groan, he stills, leaning over her, pulsating as he spills deep inside of her. For a few moments he does not move, simply hovering over her, careful not to crush her with the weight of his armour.

She feels boneless, weightless, wanting nothing more than to close her eyes and drift into a peaceful, satisfied sleep. But that is not what Daemon has in mind.

As his breathing slows, he lifts himself to look at her, tenderly gripping her chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting her face towards him so that he can take in the sight of her tear stained cheeks, glassy eyes, and parted lips. The softness is a dissonant juxtaposition from the brutality he displayed just moments ago.

For the first time that evening, his lips find hers and he kisses her, slowly and sensually. She sighs happily into it, enjoying his closeness.

“Thank you”, he murmurs when he eventually pulls away. “Allow me to remove my armour and I will have another bath drawn. This evening we shall bathe together.”

As inviting as sleep seems at this moment, she knows that the offer from her husband is far more appealing.

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m1d-45 · 7 months

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dancing soldiers

summary: meka are infallible. meka do not stray from their path.. except when they do.

word count: ~2k

-> warnings: spoilers for fontaine (name and mechanics of open world boss)

-> gn reader (you/yours) and aether as traveller

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd

< masterlist >

fontaine was known for a wide variety of things, from their ornate fountains to the elaborate clothing it seemed nobody was without. any visitors from other nations were greeted by sweeping architecture and the sound of bubbling fonta, and swimming was a must. but even through the shine of the great lake, their fantastical clockwork meka was definitely the star of the show. every traveller was quickly starstruck by the machines roaming the streets, fitted uniforms not masking the clunking of gears within their chests. even underwater, scanning for raiders and filtering the water, keeping the water clear and cool. faceless, cold, employed both privately and for government work, the perfect tool for their job. they had one job, and they did it well.

meka were designed to protect. to guard. to defend their charge, whether that presented as patrolling a barge of merchants or leading the blind through the winding streets of the city. powered by indemnitium and equipped with efficient charging ports, every meka is intended to outlast their creators. few actually do, whether weakened by arkhe or attacked by those opposing their duty, but it remains a fact that they stick to their orders until the last spark fades from their circuits.

they are perfect workers. they do not disobey, they do not stray from their task. their actions are calculated in a split second, every movement taken to further their given goal.

lead.

support.

shield.

“dance!”

maillardet threw aside the screwdriver in his hand in frustration, kicking at the frost gathering in the arena. behind him, unmoving, were his magnum opus… though they refused to move.

“dance, dance. what’s the point of you?”

they did not dance. they did not move. they stood, hand in hand, one beside the other. coppelius and coppelia, the only signs of life being the frosty wind that would occasionally sweep by. they were in standby, with deflated skirts and unmoving hydraulics. normally, them being still would make maintenance easier, but their plates did not move as they should. he couldn’t even remove coppelius’ hat.

it was convenient, just not for him.

“looks to paimon like might just be the fault of poor design.” you watched from between the hairline gap in coppelia’s skirt, seeing paimon cross her arms. your traveller was stumped as well, merely shrugging.

“theyre infused with opposite arkhe,” aether said simply. “maybe they finally reacted with each other?”

“that’s impossible! the arkhe is held within them, far from where the other could react with it, and only one of them are externally charged at any one time.”

“so… why not reset them? paimon remembers one of the melusines saying that most meka around the city just need to be reset from time to time.”

“in those cases, the meka are given conflicting orders, typically by children. all these two need to do is dance, and-“ his voice choked, aether and paimon moving out of your field of vision to presumable comfort him. you try to shift and see, but coppelia’s skirt twitches inward, keeping you where you are.

you’re sheltered between the two meka, coppelius’ cape-thing making up for the gaps in coppelia’s skirt. you were lucky you hadn’t been seen yet, truthfully… but you didn’t want to stress out maillardet.

“what am i supposed to do?” he asked, words shaky. “i promised the chief justice i’d keep them functional for the divine one, and now- you know what they’re like, and they’re both broken-“

“h-hey, it’s okay! paimon’s certain you’ll get them working again! besides, they still seem to be functional, right?” she flies up, and you flinch at the knock of her hand on metal. it echoes around you, much louder than it should be in your hiding space. “oof, still as cold as ever…

“you should just restart it.”

“are you sure? what if something goes wrong? i can’t even perform maintenance, what if i can’t turn them back on after? you know how they acted last time—if lady furina wasn’t there, then..”

“..it’s better than nothing. besides-“ metal skidded over ice, and you see the flicker of aether’s boot as he kicks the discarded screwdriver back near maillardet’s bag of tools. “-you could always just not put them in stand-by. if they’re broken like this, just leave them dancing. i doubt they’ll notice, and it’ll buy you time until they want to visit again.”

”yeah! you only have a handful of hours until they arrive in fontaine, and it’s not like anything worse can happen!”

“i..” he sighed, and a long moment passed. “i guess trying is worse than doing nothing..”

“that’s the spirit!”

your hands twitch into fists, only partly from the cold. the ‘god’ they spoke of so highly, the one that got you into this mess… who were they, anyway? even you didn’t blame maillardet for needing maintenance between fights, but from his fear it sounded like they’d kill him for a malfunction.

you put those thoughts aside, pressing close to coppelia’s core as the meka were powered down. both of them slumped forward, a shift in their plating allowing a cold wind in. you shivered, and briefly considered praying before deciding against it—what god would answer?

gears clicked and switches flipped, both meka making various hisses. the elemental power seeping from both of them slowly ceased, and your heart picked up. how would this end? after a reset, would they remember to hide you? or would you get crushed beneath their skates as they danced?

“…you two should leave the arena.”

“why?”

“is something wrong?”

“no, but if they begin to dance again, i don’t want you to get hurt.”

“what about you? let me do it, i’m more experienced with combat.”

“it’s alright. in the early stages of their development, they didn’t even have a standby mode, so i’m used to repairing them while they’re dancing. don’t worry, i can get the memory you need unharmed.”

memory?

their memory? when aether had first approached, you’d assumed the ‘sabotage’ maillardet was talking about was the fact that neither of the meka would move. it made sense to want the memory to show which direction the saboteur left in, but that memory would show you, the most hated person in all of teyvat, and the melusine that had helped you hide from the gardes. veleda… you couldn’t let her take the fall for whatever crime you’d committed. she didn’t deserve that.

you take a breath, preparing to make a run over it, when you hear a small click. all at once, coppelia’s skirt snaps back to it’s normal formation, and you catch a glimpse of the traveller’s shocked expression before you’re pulled up and away. coppelius pulls you into his arms, coppelia smoothy following, spinning circles around the two of you like a top. when the two you skid to a stop near the edge of the arena, you quickly get your bearings, only mildly motion sick from the ordeal. maillardet is sitting in the middle of the arena, knocked off his feet beside his tools, and aether and paimon stand on the pathway leading back to the fountain. nobody says anything for a good few moments, the silence tense.

“…at least we know where they went?” paimon asks nervously, and aether draws his sword. coppelia sweeps in front of you and coppelius as he begins to walk towards you, and maillardet quickly gets up. he briefly slips on the icy floor, but quickly intercepts him, his words barely audible.

“traveller, the meka-”

“was tampered with.” his voice is cold, and you shiver at the weight of his glare. “don’t worry, i got it.”

“listen to me, please. coppelius and coppelia follow all the standard guidelines for meka-”

“this isn’t about you!” he shouts, “this is about something much more important then your meka!” his sword points at you, a shining blade despite the name. “this is about a crime too large for your opera house to handle.”

coppelius holds you tighter. the sound of his anger- of his hate makes your heart burn as it sinks, leaving an empty pit. you knew fontaine wasn’t the best at justice, but…

“traveller, have you ever read the machining requirements for battle meka?”

“why is this relevant? why am i talking to you?” he pushes off his hand and begins to walk, leaving paimon behind. after a moment, she gasps loudly, rushing forward to pull on his braid.

“wait! freminet lent paimon his copy of those guidelines once! she knows what maillardet means!”

“so what?”

your twin meka begin to slowly skate away from aether as he nears, ignoring paimon. maillardet is looking through his bag, searching for something, but all you can see are the traveller’s eyes. your traveller’s eyes, all your months of gameplay boiling into his rage.

maybe if the circumstances were different you’d forgive him for being so angry, but as it stands you’re barely convinced you’ll live through the hour.

“one of the clauses was about a special line of code that all the battle-capable mekas had to have- stop walking and listen!”

“how does that connect to this? don’t you care for our god? why are you stopping me?”

“because it’s about our god! don’t you remember? navia told you when we stayed with the spina de rosula!”

he does stop, then, staring paimon down instead. “fine. what is it?”

she lets go of his braid, waving a hand between the icewind suite and maillardet as she talks. “mekas have a special override wired into them in the case that the abyss got ahold of them which shuts down their combat functions when faced with the creator! it’s weaker when triggered through their vessels—which is why their attacks are limited instead of stopped—but is mandatory for every meka that’s combat ready, including coppelia and coppelius!”

aether turns to you, conflicted. you still carried in coppelius’ arms, you hidden under the plating of coppelia’s skirt, you who made the meka disobey their creator. you, the creator of those that made them.

“…maillardet?”

“it’s true, cease your fire.” he lifts a plain notebook from his bag, not that aether turns to see it. “i have my maintenance notes here. that override was the first thing i added, even before i gave them their weaponry. let’s bring our findings to the iudex and let our lord relax. please.”

aether’s sword dissolves into dust, a mix of shock and confusion still lingering on his face as he’s pulled away by paimon’s hand on his shoulder. maillardet packs his things and follows, taking some time to pick his way through the frosted floor. once the arena is cleared, coppelius skates to the center, setting you down carefully. then, he takes coppelia’s hand in his, leading her away. they begin their dance around you, gears clicking with elaborate pirouettes, leaving you in the middle of it all to wonder what just happened.

#genshin #genshin impact #genshin sagau #sagau #self aware genshin #sagau fontaine #sagau aether #aether #paimon #sagau paimon #icewind suite #genshin self aware au #gender neutral reader #this was meant to be out an hour ago #but i’m on the road and the connection is inconsistent #ACTUALLY it was meant to be out two days ago when it was finished but i procrastinated editing #which is why i normally don’t edit

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queenshelby · 7 months

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Chemical Reactions (P. 20)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy as J Robert Oppenheimer x Student Reader

Warning: Age-Gap, Infidelity, Smut, Torture

Words: 1,889

Note: The fic is spoiler free and my own fantasy and imagination. It is not historically and scientifically accurate.

As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, the separation between Robert and you became agonizingly long. The weight of the situation bore down heavy on both your hearts, as you tirelessly navigated through the treacherous waters of uncertainty and danger.

Albeit the fact that you had been moved to more pleasant prison just two days after you had been arrested by Pash, you were still confined to a secure facility which, luckily for you, had medical care.

In this facility, the months dragged on, a never-ending cycle of uncertainty and despair.

While you were away from him, Robert felt as if he were living in a purgatory, caught between his duty and his love for you. The revelation that Kitty Oppenheimer, his own wife, had betrayed him like this was a bitter blow. It shattered any semblance of trust he had left, leaving him feeling betrayed and empty.

It was her who leaked secret information to an agent of the soviet union and the investigation into Kitty's actions revealed a web of secrets and lies that she had woven meticulously.

She had leaked information and tried to divert the blame onto you in order to get rid of you and this, itself, was a dangerous game that she was playing.

It was a twisted and cruel act, one that Robert never thought he would witness from someone he had once loved. The fallout from Kitty's betrayal only complicated matters further. The authorities were now wary of potential moles within the project, questioning everyone's loyalty and motives and despite her partial admission, the investigation into your past continued.

With Kitty’s actions, it seemed that no one was above suspicion, including Robert himself. Every step he took was scrutinised, his every move monitored while he led the project. Desperate to protect you and ensure your safety, Robert used his influence where he could. He pulled strings, called in favours, and pleaded with higher-ups to expedite the investigation so that you could reunite. But bureaucracy moves at its own pace, and justice seemed painfully slow.

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. Robert could only imagine what you were going through, locked away in a military facility, while the world passed you by.

His heart ached at the thought of you being subjected to the harsh realities of prison life, especially with a child on the way. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, each passing day marked by a dull ache of longing and a gnawing fear of the unknown.

Robert grappled with his own guilt, feeling responsible for the situation that had befallen you. He questioned every decision he had made, wondering if there was something he could have done differently to protect you.

As the months went by, Robert found solace in his work. He threw himself into research and experimentation, channelling his frustrations and fears into the pursuit of scientific breakthroughs. He pushed the boundaries of his own knowledge, hoping that some great discovery would alleviate the pain of his separation from you.

***

Unable to see each other or communicate directly as visitors were strictly prohibited at the facility, the only solace came in the form of letters.

General Groves became the messenger, reading your heartfelt words and delivering them to each of you personally.

Every letter was a lifeline, a fragile thread connecting your hearts in the midst of an unpredictable and unforgiving world. Through ink-stained pages, you shared your hopes, fears, and struggles, desperate to hold onto the love that had been abruptly torn from your grasp.

The letters were filled with a mix of joy and sorrow, as you recounted each day's events, except those related directly to the development of the gadget.

You described the unbearable loneliness and longing for each other's embrace, the difficulty of trying to remain strong amidst the harsh conditions. But amidst the darkness, there were glimpses of hope as you spoke of the unwavering belief that one day, you would be reunited.

Robert, ever the optimist, wrote poetry to cheer you up and you poured your heart onto the pages, documenting the challenges you faced, both physically and emotionally while being confined.

The uncertainty of your fate weighed heavily on you, but you refused to succumb to despair. Instead, you clung to the memories of your time together, allowing them to fuel your determination to overcome the adversities you faced.

General Groves, touched by the depth of your love and resilience, took it upon himself to ensure the safe passage of each letter. He knew the importance of this lifeline, recognising that their words held the power to inspire and sustain you. With each delivery, General Groves witnessed the unwavering devotion that bound you together.

Your love, tested by distance, confinement, and uncertainty, remained steadfast, growing stronger with each passing day. These letters became a testament to the power of love in the face of adversity, a bond that refused to be broken. And so, the months crawled by, punctuated by the arrival of each letter. They became the rays of hope that pierced through the darkness, reminding you that love could endure even in the bleakest of times. Every word, every sentiment, forged a connection that transcended the physical divide, drawing you closer together even in your separation.

***

Then, one day, General Groves attended Los Alamos without a letter in his hand, informing Robert that he had something much more exciting to give to him.

Handing him a photograph, he said “Congratulations Robert! You have a healthy baby boy.”

With trembling hands, Robert took the photograph from General Groves. As his eyes settled on the image, his heart skipped a beat. There, captured in a moment frozen in time, was a tiny bundle of joy cradled in your arms. The weight of the world seemed to lift from his shoulders as he gazed at his son for the very first time. Tears welled up in Robert's eyes, a mixture of relief, longing, and overwhelming joy. It had been a year of unimaginable anguish and uncertainty, but seeing the radiant smile on your face as you held their child close, he knew that everything he had fought for had been worth it.

“He is perfect,” Robert declared tearfully, unable to take his eyes off the photo. In that instant, all the heartache faded into insignificance compared to the overpowering sense of pride and love surging through him. This new life embodied the essence of your undying commitment to each other, standing tall against the forces that sought to rip them apart.

Looking anxiously, Robert said, "This baby will change things and all our sacrifices won't go to waste."

"No, they won't Robert," the General said before he nodded resolutely, acknowledging the weight of responsibility resting on Robert's shoulders as well as his own.

"Please, can I see him. He is my son," Robert asked, his voice cracking, but General Groves told him that this was not an option due to security reasons.

Heartbroken yet understanding, Robert swallowed back tears and thanked the General for the photograph.

"I understand, General," he managed to say, his voice hoarse with grief and happiness mixed.

"When you see her next, can you give her my letter and tell her that she is doing amazing and that I am proud of her?" His voice breaking slightly, he added, "Tell her how brave she is. How beautiful she looks holding our little miracle. Tell her I miss her dearly. And let her know...let her know..."

His voice trailed off as Robert realized he couldn't quite put into words exactly what he wanted to express about his feelings toward you, about their relationship, about their shared experiences - especially after learning about your bravery in giving birth under such difficult circumstances.

"I suggest you write it down, Robert. I will be here until noon," said General Groves, sensing Robert's struggle to articulate his feelings. "Take your time," he told him with a pat on the shoulder.

Grateful for the supportive presence, Robert nodded and quickly retrieved paper and pen from his office. Sitting down, he began scribbling feverishly, trying to find the right words to convey his thoughts and emotions towards you.

In a few moments, he finished composing the most honest and vulnerable message he had ever written and it was this very honest and raw letter of his that brought tears to your face.

*** The Letter ***

My Dearest [Your Name],

Words cannot express the overwhelming emotions coursing through my veins as I hold this photograph of our beautiful baby boy. Seeing his innocent face has cast a brilliant light upon the darkest corners of my weary soul. In this single image, I find solace, hope, and an abundance of joy that courses through my every fiber.

I stand here, with tears streaming down my face, in awe of the miracle you have brought into this world. Our son, our precious creation, is a testament to the strength and resilience of our love. He is a beacon of hope, a symbol of our undying commitment to one another and to a brighter future.

I cannot help but think of the sacrifices you have made, the hardships you have endured, and the relentless determination that has guided you through this tumultuous journey.

Our love has endured the trials, the uncertainty, and the immense pressure placed upon us. And now, in this moment, the weight of the world seems insignificant compared to the boundless love radiating from this tiny bundle of life.

As I gaze upon this photograph, I am filled with an indescribable pride for what we have created together. Our love, our bond, has transcended distance, sacrifices, and the devastating impact of this war.

Please tell our son, when the time comes, that his father loves him more than words can convey. Tell him about the countless lives that will reap the benefits of our sacrifices. Whisper to him our story, a tale of resilience, bravery, and the unwavering love that binds us all together.

And to you, my love, I want to express something that words alone could never encapsulate. Your indomitable spirit, your unwavering courage, and your unyielding love have sustained me through the darkest of days. In you, I have found my anchor, my refuge, and my reason.

Please know that you are an extraordinary woman, my love. Your bravery, your strength, and your unwavering spirit during the pregnancy and birth have left me in awe. The thought of you going through such a monumental moment without anyone by your side breaks my heart, but it also fills me with immense pride. You are my rock, my source of inspiration, and the embodiment of everything that is beautiful in this world. Our son is fortunate to have you as his mother, and your love and guidance will shape him into an incredible human being.

When the time comes for us to be reunited, know that I will hold you tightly, for I have missed your touch more than words can express. Until then, my heart stays with you, my love.

Yours, forever and always,

Robert

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lemonhemlock · 7 months

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I think one of the most frustrating things about both the ASOIAF/HOTD fandom is the inability for people to discuss these characters or books without projecting their own personal/modern sensibilities. I've noticed this a lot with TB so targ nation in general, but they fundamentally hate the world building and lore of a feudal medieval monarchy. They hate tradition, they hate religion, they hate the concepts of honor and duty which is why they can't or won't understand Criston's character if their lives depended on it, they hate anything that can be deemed in anyway conservative, religious, traditional lol, they hate the inheritance laws preferring males, they hate that women have to stay chaste before marriage, they hate arranged marriages, they hate the fact that people care so much about bastards and that bastards cannot inherit, etc. I could go on. Yes, from a modern perspective a lot of these things are now deemed obsolete and uncool, but there were very good reasons for these things AT THE TIME. These people just hate the entire lore that this world is based on and instead of good faith engagement with the lore, they just call anyone who uses the world/lore to logically analyze the text a sexist, misogynist, tradcath, conservative, or whatever. It boggles my mind. Why interact with media, and not just interact with it, but have entire social media accounts dedicated to their hyper fixation and borderline parasocial relationship with these characters/books if they fundamentally hate the world and hate seeing their faves lose as a result of the rules in place. I'm begging these people to go read one of the thousands of fantasy books that isn't set in a rigid feudal monarchy.

This is such a spot-on, insightful comment into how a lot of people interact within this fandom. 👏👏👏 This typology of the late stage social justice internet warrior that fundamentally refuses to engage with the historicity of the story's spatio-temporal setting, i.e. a feudal medieval monarchy of European inspiration, that predates centralization and thus absolutism. Even though Westeros is so very obviously decentralized, many fans do not realize this for some reason and pretend it's an absolute monarchy a la Louis XIV.

Many people, like GRRM, who is a prolific science-fiction writer (!), are attracted to this setting regardless, because of the pageantry (look how obsessed he is with creating house sigils and mottos), the romantic flair + the fact that it's literally the setting of fairy-tales, which inspires in the reader a world of magical possibilities. Of course, the world of ASOIAF is an attempt to shore up the 'realism' of this imagological construct, but medieval fantasy is a genre in and of itself, like there are certain flavours of societal layering and organization that are inescapable, like the rigid social structures, the political rule as the purview of the elites, the importance of religion in everyday life etc.

This is not to say that those aspects are in any way aspirational for a modern person or that we should yearn to go back to those times, only that they are merely characteristics that developed hand-in-hand with the technological advancements and the economic progress of the period. If you have a civilisation whose economy is centered on land ownership as the main source of wealth acquisition, its society is going to look a certain way. Certainly, in Westeros there are some craftsmen and merchants, but there seem to only be a handful of towns throughout the entire continent and, off the top of my head, the mention of guilds and the middle classes are few and far between in the books, so there is no concrete way of determining how consolidated the bourgeoisie is. At the same time, this is absolutely just a story and not a 1:1 recreation of those times, so these gaps are completely understandable, as there only is so much worldbuilding one man can do.

Anyway, I often see analysis or commentary being circulated, which are obviously a projection of modern sensibilities, like how there should be no king at all or the Iron Throne is evil or how Westeros should revert to being separate kingdoms because somehow the concept of unifying regions with a common cultural and religious background is automatically bad, always and with no exception. To me these are rather perplexing, but they are so wide-spread that it's not even worth it to try and open up that particular can of worms. Some of these takes don't even make sense if you expand them to their natural implications. Someone has to be the king in a medieval society; it doesn't work like some people envision this - no one chooses to rule and that's that, problem solved? How is society going to be organized then? It's doubtful that the conclusion of the last book will be anarcho-socialism. The Iron Throne consistently cuts kings who are unworthy to sit on it - it's not a symbol that the author intended to be construed as malevolent. Sure, death of the author and all that, but it's not described as mystically quasi-sentient for nothing either. Fragmenting Westeros back into individual kingdoms while maintaining the feudal structure retains the inherent unfairness and inequality of said hierarchy; it's amazing to me how it could be considered progress etc.

To wrap this up, yes, I agree, some people would be much better served if they simply found other fantasy media based on a different time frame. Because it doesn't make sense to become so entrenched in this specific one if you hate the medieval period so much. Again, this is not to say that the Middle Ages cannot be criticised because that's just the way it was back then, they absolutely can, but a lot of criticism shared around is just done in bad faith and with no real desire to understand the historical phenomena at play.

For example, a few days ago, someone commented on one my bastardposts that "just because it was illegal doesn't make it fair", with the implied solution to that conundrum that Rhaenyra should simply be allowed by society to do whatever she pleased. No reflection on why that law/rule was in place to begin with, no consideration of how it would impact the wider community, no proposal as to how one could advance to a society in which all children are considered equal, regardless of their parents' marital status etc. The thought doesn't go beyond "feminism in its modern definition can magically crystallize in any historical period because it is completely divorced from the material conditions of a society".

#ask #anon #anti hotd fandom #bastardposting

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crocodilenjoyer · 11 days

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character opinion meme! garp

garp is FASCINATING and how mad i am at him depends on how sad i am about marineford/his grandkids' issues on any given day. he is far from being a perfect anything, but i think it's interesting how the way he tries combines with his morals and experiences. he's the figurehead--and one of the last figures, period--of the old generation. his image escaped him. he knows a new era is coming. his version of justice is messy as hell. his duty as a marine and the things he believes in get tangled up in the love he has for his family (and it is love, i refuse to believe garp didn't love them, and it mostly just made things worse for everyone) and regardless of what he does, it is not enough, and he freezes, and people die. there is a gap between him and everyone else and there is little understanding on either side, and that lack of understanding has festered and eaten away at the edges of his connections and his inability to "pick a side" effectively destroys basically all of his personal relationships. he thinks decent child-rearing involves chucking kindergartners into the jungle and hoping for the best because that happened to him and he turned out literally fine, what's the problem, have a rice cracker and maybe you'll calm down. i literally have no idea how to feel about him. i want to chew on him like gum and then promptly spit him out onto the street. i do think he is a deeply tragic character and i also think dadan should've beaten him to death right there in windmill village. a salad spinner is too good i want to fucking puree him in a food processor. i think it's extremely telling that he sticks to his duties even though he's pretty much retired, and i don't think it's just out of habit. he and luffy are much more alike than either of them think. i think if they ever met again, there would be nothing, in direct contrast to how high-energy (if fraught) their relationship was before. he has to live with himself. i think the fight happening now at fullalead is him doing just that.

anyway i think a time loop could either fix him or leave him irreparably scrambled further but either way it'd be interesting as hell to watch

character bingo ask meme!!!!!!

#garp #riko.txt #ask game #ace and luffy are his biggest failures and his greatest successes i think #and i think that in part his pseudo adoption of koby is him trying to rectify that #which part? well brother. i don't know

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seeingteacupsindragons · 2 years

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Something that’s been niggling at me for a while is Sherlock saying William is the first person, the only person, to understand him. William feels the same way, but there’s something that makes this a bit weirder from Sherlock.

Mycroft.

Of course, William also has brothers, but Mycroft and his relationship with Sherlock is a bit of a different creature. It’s not surprising William wouldn’t feel the like the brothers he adores but who kind of worship him and never understand the way his brain works would feel misunderstood by them.

But Mycroft is just as smart as Sherlock. In fact, he’s smarter. And he has been around for Sherlock’s literal entire life (except the three years abroad, but Sherlock was saying this before that was a factor). He sees Sherlock in ways Sherlock probably can’t even quite comprehend. They grew up in a similar environment (the seven-year age gap makes that a bit tricky—when age gaps are that big between siblings, how they were raised is inevitably a bit different). Mycroft grew up speaking Cockney same as Sherlock, he grew up with their parents and he grew up with the same brilliance and devotion to his family that Sherlock also exhibits in his own ways. Mycroft likes to tease his little brother just as William teases Sherlock, and he likes to compete with Sherlock (oh, sore winners).

For me, though, “Mycroft is so much smarter than Sherlock,” doesn’t really cover, “He doesn’t understand me.” Yes, it does make Mycroft not exactly his equal, but I don’t think William is Sherlock’s other half just because William lesser than Mycroft in that way.

I think it’s because William is the same sort of person as Sherlock, and Mycroft is not. Because William is the same sort of person as Sherlock, his existence validated that the choices Sherlock made to be that sort of person, because William also chose to be that sort of person.

Sherlock remained adamant that he should be allowed to be himself and that everyone should be allowed to be themselves. Mycroft did not view that as important in service of duty, and willingly changed who he was and discarded parts of his own background for his goals. He allowed himself to be pressed into service atoning for something that he never even did.

While William may have made some of the same choices Mycroft did, I don’t think William views those things as good. William covers up birth name from every record he can find, but he keeps his, and Louis’s, birth certificates on him—because that birth certificate is an acknowledgment of who he was and where he came from, which has value to him even if he cannot allow himself to indulge in it. William will openly admit where he was born and raised for his first years of his life to people he can trust with that information because that information, the East End of London, and the nuns who helped raise him matter to him. Just like Sherlock stubbornly kept his Cockney accent through Oxbridge schooling, William stubbornly kept his birth certificate through assuming a false name and decades of deception.

As ever, William couldn’t be as open, but it was a different choice conceived out of valuing the same thing. Sherlock devoted himself to science and reason, to impartial justice regardless of who a person is. William made different choices with different methods to also support science and reason and impartial justice regardless of who a person is. They both see the same flaws in the same justice system and both abhor abuses of power with the same viscerality. There are two detectives and two criminals. They have both devoted themselves to fixing that justice system with their knowledge and with their lives.

Mycroft…didn’t.

He has completely different priorities from Sherlock. Mycroft grew up in a similar environment as Sherlock, with a similar staggering intelligence, a similar affection for their clearly-loving family, and he didn’t make anything resembling the choices Sherlock. They came from the same place and yet they were so different as people that ended up on completely different paths to different places. William came from a different place than Sherlock and made different choices on a different path because he and Sherlock were always aiming for the same place.

And I think that’s what Sherlock was missing from Mycroft. Mycroft might see and know him, but he could never validate Sherlock’s choices and humanity and self the way William, who values the same things Sherlock does, can.

Sherlock understood William in an instant by stripping away all the pretension around William, and seeing him as a mathematician. Someone who loves logic and reason, someone who loves balancing scales and making sure everything on every side is equal. And William looked at Sherlock and saw someone devoted to knowledge and learning, to observation and reason, while refusing to compromise himself for it.

They both looked at each other, saw the core of each other, and recognized their cores are the same. They were not just someone they could read like a book, but someone who would go to the same place. Someone who didn’t need to reason and logic out all of the details of their soul like Mycroft could to know and recognize who they were. The souls were the same and didn’t need to come from an outside place of observation to know each other. William understands Sherlock in a way Mycroft does not because William sees the world in the exact same way.

And having someone who is the same sort of person as you is a level of validation to yourself, an understanding that no level of Mycroft’s observation could ever compensate for.

#Yuukoku no Moriarty #Moriarty the Patriot #I actually spent a while editing this one tonight #which I haven't done this properly in a while #so I think the wordsmithing is better this time #Proud of myself on that one #afraid I missed something anyway #Anyway had to keep stopping myself from adding 'I love William' ten times to this essay again

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ukrfeminism · 2 years

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2 minute read

Childcare duties pushed many women into infringing lockdown laws during the Covid pandemic, according to a new study.

Research by social policy charity the Nuffield Foundation found women were almost twice as likely to flout government regulations barring people from meeting indoors to curtail the spread of coronavirus.

The report, conducted at the University of York, found more women infringed lockdown rules to be able to access childcare – with researchers warning women were “bearing the brunt” of juggling childcare and work.

Professor Joe Tomlinson, the study’s lead author, said: “The results of our study suggest there wasn’t enough consideration given to caring obligations and how the new laws would have a disproportionate impact on women and other groups facing inequalities.

“Our findings surprised us because previous studies into compliance have shown that men are much more likely to break the law than women.

“However, our results are not about women being willfully non-compliant. Many participants told us how they broke the law by enlisting grandparents to help with childcare or meeting with other mothers for support. They were forming ‘bubbles’ out of necessity before it was officially allowed.”

He explained their research found that “as a nation, the British people are very willing to follow the rules of the legal system, but it’s dangerous for governments to abuse that or take it for granted.”

“The power of law in generating compliance is something policymakers should bear in mind for future public health responses as our study highlights a deep psychological difference,” Professor Tomlinson said.

The study discovered those polled had profoundly divergent grasps of the difference between concrete lockdown laws and government recommendations – with this gap in perspective profoundly determining how prepared they were to follow rules.

Researchers, who polled almost 1,700 individuals from around the UK, found more than eight in ten wrongly assumed the “two-metre” social distancing rule was a legal obligation but in reality, it was just a recommendation.

Rob Street, the Nuffield Foundation’s director of justice, said: “During the Covid-19 crisis there was lots of discussion about why people did or did not comply with lockdown rules.

“This study illustrates how people’s willingness to comply with lockdown rules was markedly influenced by whether these rules were based in law or guidance and how they were communicated to the public.”

Researchers noted the chief reasons people obeyed lockdown rules “were fear of peer disapproval; the conviction that breaking lockdown rules was morally wrong; and a general commitment to being law-abiding”.

It comes after studies have shown women bore the brunt of childcare responsibilities, household chores and homeschooling during lockdown, irrespective of whether they were working or not – with the closure of schools and childcare providers having compounded existing inequalities in how such duties are dished out among some couples.

While the Organisation for Economic Co-Operation and Development (OECD) has found the UK has one of the most expensive childcare systems in the world.

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danisnotmyname · 1 month

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The Ice Storm (1997)

@eyes-on-display Frenchie reminded me that I should rewatch The Ice Storm for the hundredth time and gosh, how I love love LOVE this film. It's so great and so rich that I still believe whatever things I have to say wouldn't do the film justice.

But I owe it a try. Here we go.

All the actors in this film aren't allowed any space of freedom from the camera, because the masterful Ang Lee has taken away the distance, capturing each nuanced detail with breathless intimacy. So much so that at times viewers might feel uncomfortable watching what's said silently on screen. The silence of this movie, the pauses and gaps, functions as not only a tool to paint a bleak suburban atmosphere, the silence also forces the audience to stay within the realm of the film, to pay close attention to what the performances—or the lack of them—has to convey. And it becomes pretty arduous, sometimes even frustrating to grasp the meaning of the scenes.

Yet, the "meaninglessness", I think, is what The Ice Storm intends to portray. Instead of romanticized obscurity, this film harshly depicts the insignificance of mundane life. I feel that it's the reason every character in this film is discontent and restless, children and adults alike.

We see parallels between kids and adults, and two nuclear families, the Hoods and the Carvers. There's also the contrast between "reality" and comic-book stories narrated by Paul, the older brother in the Woods family who comes home for the holidays. Paul's understanding of The Fantastic Four strings the scenes together and keeps the story at an even pace, though he's like an outsider in the movie. It creates an amazing conflict when the theme of family is only uttered aloud by him, questioning or answering. Paul is unaware that he plays such an important role in the build-and-release of tension, yet, he's part of the body of work, seamless and inescapable, just like one’s relationship with their own family.

Another theme I'm obsessed with is the "restraint" in this film that makes the repressed vibe absolutely flourish. Self-restraints exist as the final straw the characters hold on for dear life, because they're desperately trying to find joy. On one hand they don't want to stand out, because fitting the norms—fulfilling their duties—gives them meaning. On the other hand they want attention and love to break themselves out of their loneliness: they want proof that their inability to accept their status quo is well-justified. They chase what's better and can only choose to believe they've just lost it somewhere. The delicious friction between desire and disappointment is in every unsuccessful sexual advance, or rather, every failed attempt to seek approval from others. So restraint also serves as the failsafe to not misbehave, to avoid gambling away the almost-but-not-quite-affection all the characters hunger after. God knows what would happen if rules got broken, right?

Just a layman spitballing here. By now it's clear I'm not a film major, but I still want to say that this movie is fucking awesome, and it means a lot to me because I don't know how to connect emotionally with myself and other people. The Ice Storm is my spiritual-MLA-handbook and each time I watch it, it feels like a different edition because it's just. So. Layered.

#the ice storm #movie review?#scribblings more like

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enchantingepics · 2 months

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Story Prompt 5

In the midst of the dim sky, burdened by the weight of its own gloom, she found herself on a high tower, casting a formidable shadow upon the world below. A pit in her heart matched the heaviness in the air, a constant reminder of her desire to make a difference in the lives of others.

Yearning to be a force for good, she looked down upon the crowd, wishing to bring warmth and kindness to everyone. Yet, the towering distance between her and the world left her feeling isolated, unable to truly connect with those she longed to help. The safety of her elevated perch shielded her from the darkness below, but it also kept her away from the warmth she sought.

Despite the separation, she vowed to try. To be the best daughter, a friend to the world, and a beacon of goodness. She embraced her duty, determined to counteract the unkindness rampant in the world, even if it meant facing rejection and pain. She believed that her suffering was a form of penance for past mistakes, a way to redeem herself.

As days and nights passed, the weight of the world pressed down on her. Injustice tainted every corner, and the cruelty of the world pierced through her, like poison seeping into her bones. Although she had friends by her side, she struggled to bridge the gap that kept her from truly connecting with them.

Witnessing the brutality inflicted upon others and the corruption within institutions, she faced a personal crisis when her father was unjustly convicted. The trial proved to be a mockery of justice, pushing her to make an extreme decision – to demand her father's execution. The choice was met with anger and grief, especially from her little sister, but she stood firm, convinced she had done the right thing to end her father's suffering.

In the face of a world rotten to its core, she realized that decisive, extreme action was the only path to salvation. She accepted the cold, inhuman role she needed to play to save a world devoid of humanity. Despite the harsh decisions she had to make, she clung to the warmth within her, a caring spirit that set her apart from the cold entities controlling the fate of the world.

In her eyes, she was the best hope for a world teetering on the edge of irredeemability. For a world so desperate, she believed she was more than anyone could hope for, ready to confront the darkness with a determined heart and unwavering resolve.

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squealing-santa · 1 year

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A Chilly Evening in Amphibia

Gift For: @koala-fluff A/N: hello koala!! i’ve never written for these three before so i hope i did them justice! merry christmas and happy holidays <3 — spooky!anon Word Count: 802

Anne, Marcy, and Sasha were sitting on the Plantars’ couch, Sasha reading a novel, Marcy journaling, and Anne reading her friends’ books over their shoulders. They were on housewatching duty while the frogs were out on a family excursion.

Rain drummed against the roof. Sasha sighed contentedly. It was nice to get some leisure time in Amphibia, sharing a peaceful moment with her friends. Well, almost peaceful.

“Sashaaa,” Anne whined from beside her. “I’m cold.” A brief gust of wind rushed through the room, making her shiver and scoot closer to Sasha.

Sasha nudged her friend’s arm off her book. “Close the windows,” she suggested.

“Noo, that’ll make the room stuffy.”

“Put on a jacket then.”

Anne turned to Marcy. “Nope,” the dark-haired girl said without looking up from her writing.

“I haven’t said anything yet!”

“You were gonna ask to borrow my hoodie. And the answer is no.” Marcy peered over her journal at Anne, who was now making puppy-eyes at her. “Just close the windows.”

Anne pouted. “Please? Can I borrow it? For five minutes?” Marcy gave her a thoughtful look.

“Hmm. Still nope.” Anne made an exasperated noise as Marcy resumed her journaling.

Anne turned to Sasha again. The blonde shrugged, giving her a small smile. “I’d help you, but this is getting interesting”—

She gestured to her book. — “and I am not putting it down because you’re too stubborn to close the windows.”

Marcy huffed with amusement. Anne groaned. “Mar-Mar, please? You don’t have to take it off, just let me put my fingers in your pockets.” Anne reached over and slid her hands into the large kangaroo pocket in the front of Marcy’s hoodie.

Marcy let out a startled yelp and jerked away from her, dropping her journal and pen into her own lap. “Anne, don’t do that!”

Anne pulled her hands away from Marcy with an apologetic grin. “Sorry, I forgot how ticklish you are.”

“I am not! You startled me, that’s all.” Marcy averted her gaze, face slightly flushed.

Anne gave her ribs a poke, earning herself another started yelp from the girl. Marcy covered her ribs with her journal, barely masking the smile that jumped to her face with a glare. Anne, the scruffy menace, had a wide grin on her face that boded very unwell for Marcy’s ribs. “Anne, don’t,” Marcy warned, without any real threat behind her words.

“Can I borrow your hoodie then?” Anne asked innocently. Marcy glared stubbornly back. She shook her head.

“You know, we could always share the hoodie.”

Marcy was about to ask what that was supposed to mean when Anne slid her hands under the thick gray fabric of her hoodie and started prodding her sides.

Marcy screeched and burst into giggles, shoving at her friend’s forearms. It proved ineffective as Anne’s evil, evil fingers crawled their way up her torso, poking into the gaps between each rib. She crumpled into Anne’s arms, pushing weakly at her elbows as she laughed.

The shirt she was wearing under her hoodie was thin and offered absolutely no protection against the onslaught of wiggling fingers. Between her giggles, Marcy managed to squeal, “Anne, Anne, Anne what are you dohohoing?!”

“Warming up!” Anne was laughing too now, mostly at Marcy’s wild squirming and thrashing. “My hands are warmer already, thank you.”

“You ahahare awful!” Marcy choked out before dissolving into another bout of giggles.

“Thank you again,” Anne replied with a cheeky grin, half-clawing, half-kneading at Marcy’s ribs. She reached down to give her sides the occasional pinch as well, making her friend’s laughter double in volume, Marcy screeching every time her fingers moved to tickle her sides.

Anne chuckled at her friend’s predicament. Until she felt cold fingers digging into her own ribs. She let out a laugh, her fingers stilling for a moment. It was enough for Marcy to get a good grip on her ribs and start tickling furiously.

“Maharcy! I’m sorry!!” Anne squealed through her laughter. She kneaded at Marcy’s hips, trying to startle her into letting go.

Marcy was still managing to claw at Anne’s ribs through her own laughter. “You’ll be sohorry when I’m through with you!”

They wrestled for a few more minutes, each trying to tickle the other into crying uncle.

“Alright you two, as fun as this is to watch, you’re being very loud and distracting and I would like to get back to my novel,” Sasha said over their laughter. “Cut it out, or I’ll personally tickle you to pieces.”

Anne reluctantly withdrew her fingers from under Marcy’s hoodie. Marcy pulled her own hands back as well, still trying to quell her residual giggles.

“Truce?” Anne asked.

“Truce.” Marcy pulled her hoodie over her head and threw it over the both of them, pulling Anne closer to share its warmth.

#squealing santa 2k22 #ss2k22 #tickle fic #amphibia #marcanne #switch!marcy #switch!anne #amphibia tickles #author: spooky!anon #submission

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haggishlyhagging · 10 months

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Some time after mid-century, things changed in ways that historians who have believed in the myth of a classless America are just beginning to examine. (These slow reshufflings of social practice can't be marked off, like battles or elections, by precise dates.) Perhaps the upheaval of the Civil War made people more anxious to assign a fixed order to people and things. Certainly the economic gap between rich and poor widened as the century went on, with more and more of the country's wealth coming into the hands of fewer and fewer men. And contrary to the cherished belief in the self-made man, the hereditary "haves" spun patterns of living far glossier than those of the "have nots." Manners, not just money, marked off one class from another.

And subtly the definition of woman's sphere changed. It had been a place where woman performed all those domestic duties from washing clothes to teaching numbers—for the greater good of her husband, her family, and hence (so the story went) of the whole society and of God himself. It became instead a place in which the true lady did nothing. At least by 1857 when Mrs. C. S. Hilborn, a former millworker, took up her pen to denounce the useless "modern aristocracy," the difference between the woman and the lady was clear. On the one hand was the "poor mother, who takes in washing, and scrubs and toils and sweats, until she looks like the skeleton of a perpetual motion." On the other was the lady “who arrays herself for a street promenade as though for a shop window exhibition, with consequential airs and robes spanning the sidewalks, and an expression of arrogant conceit which says to every passer by ‘did you ever see anything half so magnificently beautiful as I am?’”The outward differences between the lady and the woman had always been there, but they grew more apparent as time went on. The narrow upper class grew richer, more ostentatious, more conspicuous, while the lower classes, augmented by hordes of immigrants, spread around them. At the turn of the century, even as Veblen coined the term conspicuous consumption to describe the chief activity of the rich, Lester Ward, the leading sociologist of his day, estimated the poor at 80 percent of the population.

At the time, the chief difference between the upper and the lower classes was thought to lie not in the pocketbook but in the heart and mind. As Ward put it, the idea that "there exists a fundamental difference based on inherent qualities and belonging to the nature of things ... clings to the mind of man, and modern social classes are conceived to be marked off from one another by nature." At its simplest the fundamental difference between the classes was this: the rich were physically, intellectually, and morally superior; the poor physically, intellectually, and morally inferior, and indeed often depraved. As William Graham Sumner, another of sociology's founding fathers put it: "Only a small fraction of the human race have as yet, by thousands of years of struggle, been partially emancipated from poverty, ignorance, and brutishness." That small portion, "naturally," was the ruling class. What made Mrs. Hilborn (a member of the lower 80 percent) so angry was that the ladies of the ruling class were not only useless but were praised as morally superior beings on that account. As Veblen described the beliefs of the ruling class: "Abstention from labour is not only a honorific or meritorious act, but it presently comes to be a requisite of decency.... Prescription ends by making labour not only disreputable in the eyes of the community, but morally impossible to the noble freeborn man [and his lady], and incompatible with a worthy life."

When men dragged this doctrine, along with their other mythical baggage, into the courtroom, they compounded inequity. The true lady—idle, respectable, proper, and useless—could do no wrong. The woman, however, might be capable of almost anything; she could not be punished too severely. So "justice" for women in the criminal court shook down—as had so many other aspects of American life—to the basis of social class.

For black women there was no justice at all. There are few cases of black women in this book because as often as not they were punished—even hanged or burned—without legal proceeding. Sometimes their executions—legal or illegal—were mentioned in a line or two in a newspaper. A "female slave" was hanged, they reported, or "a colored female." Rarely was her name given, and almost never her story. And never was there any talk of protecting a delicate female, of saving a pretty neck. Nothing was said of refinement and sensibility and true womanhood. On the same day that Ann Evards Wright Bilansky was hanged in Minnesota—March 23, 1860–two black women, speedily arrested and convicted for the murder of one Dr. Croxton, were hanged in Essex County, Virginia. There was no talk of commuting their sentences, no talk even of preparing their immortal souls for death. Their names—the only names the white world allowed them—were Ann and Eliza.

-Ann Jones, Women Who Kill

#ann jones #female killers #amerika #american history #women’s history #class issues #racism

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reginarubie · 1 year

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If anything, Ned should be compared to Otto like these two dudes pushed their daughter to royalty for their own gain. At least Otto knows how to play the game, Ned just placed Sansa in the pit of vipers without any protection and lol haters still hate her for causing Ned to die? What 😆

Cia’ anon,

If you truly think the load of bullsh*t you have written you might have not paid attention neither to the series neither to the books. But, in good faith you truly are misconstruing I will explain my point of view.

Ned Stark did not want to go South, dude was traumatised by the South, and had refused Bobby B offer the moment it was uttered (pertaining both his naming to lord Hand and the marriage between Joffrey and Sansa). It’s Catelyn who convinces him of the need of him to go South to discover the truth after Lysa’s allegations became known about the death of Jon Arryn and thus accept Robert’s proposal.

Also, they betrothed, to be married when Sansa was old enough, a girl of 11 to a boy of 13/14. Also they betrothed a prince (not a king) to the daughter of the Warden of the North, who was one of the few eligible candidates for Joffrey’s hand.

Which is very much different than Viserys/Alicent both in the book and in the show (by book canon Alicent was 18 and Viserys almost 30, still big age gap but acceptable for the context… whilst in the show they gave us a forty something man and a girl of 16-18) in both cases Alicent/Viserys have a bigger age gap than Sansa/Joffrey and also a big gap in the experiences they led. Also Alicent was not near enough the best eligible match for Viserys, tho others would have been every worse on other aspects.

Viserys was a man grown, married already once and with a child and several failed pregnancies or children dead on his shoulders, whilst Alicent was a maiden of barely 18. Sansa and Joffrey were both very young, a teen and a very young teen (last of the pre-teen years) and inexperienced in the same way.

So no there is no bloody similarity between the match Otto brokered between Alicent and Viserys and the one Ned accepted between Sansa and Joffrey.

Also, the moment Ned realised the truth, and I mean the very same moment, he works to get his daughters (both of them) out of KL which meant breaking the betrothal between Sansa and Joffrey and he tells her as much, promising her a match worth of her. And he failed, dude failed so fucking hard, because he told Cersei expecting she rolled over and died, and let her children be haunted and robbed of what she feels is their birthright. He alerted his enemies of his future moves and they anticipated him and incapacitated him.

Also, Sansa had no part in Ned’s imprisonment or death. Or, what little part she had (little and almost completely non influential in the matter of things) was caused by Ned himself, as I have explained in the blaming game part II .

Ned went in a nest of vipers himself, he did play his cards wrong but dude had a goal in mind his whole life after the Rebellion. He did not play the game with the throne in mind, he played the game with the safety of his family in mind. He tells Catelyn to return North and prepare for war, to defend his people and his family.

And yeah, Ned played his cards wrong, but dude got one goal and he reached it. To this day no one but Howland Reed knows the truth about Jon’s parentage, hence the boy is safe. He swallowed his pride and honour to try and save Sansa.

Of the six children Ned Stark raised in his home, four are currently alive and kicking, laying low and sharpening their weapons to return for justice (Sansa in the Vale sharpening her wit and natural political suavity; Arya in Braavos learning to be a Faceless Assassin and learning the difference between vengeance and justice; Bran beyond the Wall honing his skills as green seerer and warg and never forgetting his duty; Rickon on a cannibal island with unicorns gathering better knowledge of people different from him and how to work together; Jon learned how to manipulate the situation he finds himself in to do his duty and gathering support against the enemies around them) and let’s count also Jon since we know he’s to be resurrected, so to six, he has five children ready to come back for justice and defend the North and do their duty.

In the game of thrones, you always claim half a victory. Robert got the throne but lost the woman he gained it for, Ned got most of his family alive but they are traumatised, Catelyn got to return and have vengeance for her family but it’s all an illusion and she lost herself completely…) there is no clear winning in the game of thrones. Bran got his skills but lost his legs, Sansa learned how to survive but she lost almost everything, same as Arya. Bran and Sansa got the throne, but Bran possibly in the books will get it after he sacrifices his powers and thus the ability to move permanently; Sansa became queen in the North but lost her dream (for now), Daenerys got the throne for a moment and she lost herself and everything; Cersei got the throne but lost all she cared for.

Yes, Ned could’ve played his cards better, he should have, much of his downfall was caused by his own stupid mistakes, but stop the slander.

If anyone is like Otto, that is Olenna Tyrell, who manipulated to get her granddaughter to marry a king she knows is gay so won’t make her happy to further her family’s position and later she chose another king whom she killed to get her granddaughter betrothed to a child who is more easily manipulated. Let’s say the truth:

Olenna and the Tyrells try to use Margaery apparent resemblance to Lyanna Stark to have Cersei exposed and Margaery married. Robert, a man who could be her father, also known to have a great number of bastards all so Margaery would become queen.

Bobby B died and Olenna and the Tyrells married Margaery to Renly who, again was pretty much older than her and gay, all because this way Margaery would be queen.

Renly died and the Tyrells betrothed her to Joffrey a king known for his cruelty and rumoured to be a bastard, all so that Margaery would be queen.

They killed Joffrey off (Joffrey who was around her age, so a possible good match for her, had he not been a cruel boy) because he would’ve been cruel and unstable and not easily influenced, and betrothed her to Tommen whom she basically starts to groom, who is a child and who has little to none experience whilst Margaery is older and more experienced. All because so Margaery could be queen to a king who would be easily influenced by her.

So, if anyone should be compared to Otto we have LF and especially Olenna and the Tyrells, certainly not Ned Stark whom as soon as he realised the truth decided to break off the betrothal and get his daughter back home, and who, again had betrothed his daughter to a boy around her age (perfectly acceptable for time and context) and who was a good match for the context and time and who was not far more experience than her by what he knew. And, as soon as the boy cruelty started to be seen, his bastardy was known and the truth of the war that would happened set into his mind Ned moved to get his daughter back home where she would’ve been safe, he just played his cards wrong.

And that is the truth we get by analysing both books and series. So, yes, if you truly believe what you’ve written I think you need a re-read and a re-watch.

Also, (dis)honourable mention to Corlys Velaryon who was a 37man marrying a 16yo princess for her position and because she fell in love with him, and supported Rhaenyra who was suspected of having played a part in his son’s death and her bastard children by another man all for his ambition by betrothing his true born granddaughters to them to get House Velaryon on the Iron throne permanently. As suggested by anon, here.

But, thank you for the ask (it was good to set straight a couple of points) and please stop it with the Ned Stark slander. It doesn’t make you look good to say things so easily disproved!

I hope you have a very nice day! ~G.

#stop it with the Ned Stark slander #brutally honest opinions #the hag’s brutally honest opinion #Ned Stark #ask the hag #anon asks #brutally honest opinion asoiaf edition

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whentheynameyoujoy · 1 year

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So I ran across your posts about purity discourse in the ASOIAF fandom and I could not agree more with. Sorry to rant, but it's really frustrating to come across a meta/theorycrafting post where the writer assumes Martin wrote this series with the sensibilities of a 20-something millennial who has spent years brainrotted off of tumblr sjw discourse and not a 50-something year old man who's formative years were in the free love 60s/70s lmao. The amount of times I see people say, 'No, he's consistently writing about incest and large age gaps as a critique of Society and Patriarchy and Grooming' and I just have to laugh. Martin is an old school liberal who writes about things for the hell of it and imo is a bit of a freak lol and uses his writing to explore taboo topics that are titilating. This is the same man who described Dr*go and D*ny's (who was 13 at the time) wedding night as a seduction. People thinking it's some dark psychological exploration of an abusive relationship but it's basically just a typical 80s fantasy trope of beautiful nubile princess sold to hunky barbarian and then they go on to fall in love after having round after round of hot sex lol. I'm not defending him for this take, I think it's deeply weird he couldn't even bear to depict her as at least 16/17, but I've long made peace with the fact he's a bit of freak lmao. This man had his original outline have the plot point of J*n and Ar*a falling in love, two people raised as siblings, with J*n having known Ar*a since she was literally in utero, but fandom thinks he's some ethics professor trying to teach lessons with his series. His protagonist being the result of a adulterous consensual affair between a 14 year old and a married man with two children who run off together being depicted as some star crossed Romeo and Juliet romance is weird as hell, but it's Martin lol. Instead of accepting this, we have people in fandom feeling the need to rationalize and frame every plot point into some woke moral lesson they are SO SURE he is giving his audience because they refuse to accept Martin is just a bit of Freak and writes about a lot of shit he wrote about to be Edgy lol. The amount of times I see metas about how J*n and Yg*itte was an abusive relationship/was sexual coercion and that's how Martin wants readers to see it SENDS me on another level. Martin wanted to write about J*n having his first sexual relationship and feeling conflicted about it because of his duty to the NW. The point of that relationship was Martin saying 'They fucked and it was hot and know J*n knows what he's missing out on in terms of pussy v. duty and his vows. The End.' LOL. TLDR - This fandom needing to headcanon moralize every fucking plot point instead of analyzing the text for what it is because they are embarrassed to like a series that is considered 'problematic' me crazy. It's just deeply intellectually dishonest.

All of this. If anyone wants to see just how in touch Martin is with the contemporary version of the social justice crowd, they're welcome to re-visit the 2020 Hugo Awards debacle. I mean, the man clearly didn't come up with the idea to do Beauty & Beast starring an 11 and 27 year old because he was years ahead of the grooming discourse, ffs. The ASOIAF basement is dank and stinky; you can either accept this as fact and analyze the stench, or gtfo. Sadly it seems like we're stuck with this "Martin so uwu" fandom since it's unlikely the series will ever get finished and the wool pulled off the audience's eyes.

#asoiaf #anti asoiaf fandom #ask

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lost-girl-2021 · 1 year

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VIT

If you guys like my writing style, please check out the first chapter of my upcoming book, VIT. It's a sci-fi story I've been working on and off for the past few years and I'm hoping to have it published at the end of summer. My cousin published her first book at 21, so my goal is to do mine at 20. Anyways, I'll post the summary in italics and then the first chapter below. Thanks for reading!

Vit has a purpose, a mission. She’s devoted her life to The Collective, an intergalactic agency working to bring criminals to justice. She’s given up her old life, no longer able to remember anything from her past or even her original name. She had made peace with the gap in her mind, but when a mission goes south, she’s confronted with the reality that the agency she gave everything to might not be what she thought it was. With Fin, a fellow bounty hunter, chasing after her, she has to figure out who she is and who she wants to be before it’s too late.

Chapter One

Vit knows she should be asleep. She's been up for over twenty hours straight and her eyes are so dry that they sting with each blink. Yet, she can't manage to stop working. She knows what the alternative is; a dark haze, stretching on for what feels like forever. A cold that sticks with you for weeks after. She’d rather deal with the shakiness of not eating and the blurry vision that came with it.

Her robotic handler had given her the case the night before, when they entered the Lower Ring again. The three solar systems, High, Middle, and Low took between one and two weeks to travel between. Vit wished it took longer. It had been a long month in the Middle Ring, chasing down a band of pirates. The days of traveling were the only times Vit had any sort of break. Her feet ached and her back was all bruised from the week before, when she got knocked into a metal table during a fight. It made it hard to sleep at night, unable to focus on anything but how much everything hurt.

She had only gotten a few hours of sleep when the living machine woke her, a grin on her face as she let her know they were an hour away from their next planet. It never looked right when Ciro smiled. Vit knew it was supposed to be disarming, but all it ever did was put her further on edge. Androids were creepy like that, always finding some way to remind you they weren’t human. Stronger, smarter, with less emotion. If they weren’t so easy to hack, they’d be the ones in charge of bounty-hunting, instead of just the authority in every operation. And Ciro was definitely Vit’s keeper, the one who would take her back if she messed up, who reported every failure and flaw to the higher-ups. The non-living woman made it clear she had no trouble taking her back to the Collective base on the planet Cil, where she’d be grounded for an unknowable amount of time.

So, what was a little bit of lost sleep? When it meant she could be warm in a bed instead of frozen in a cryogenic chamber? It’s all worth it. At least, that’s what she told herself on nights like this.

The girl looked at the clock, groaning under her breath. Ciro would fully recharge within a few hours; it would be easier to just stay up, and keep working on the case. Once she brought the bounty to the planet Cil, she could catch up on her sleep. Maybe she’d even get a chance to rest before her next case. When they had a prisoner on board the ship, Vit was supposed watch them while Ciro recharged or worked on navigation. She wasn’t sure if it was a programming error or if she somehow was acting of her own volition, but the being of Artificial Intelligence seemed to order her into guard duty when she was on the verge of falling asleep.

Rubbing her forehead, Vit returned her gaze to the file before her; the map of Toi was complex and without any real patterns. Tents and rickety old homes were all crammed next to each other in makeshift towns, the gaps between them barren except for the dirt roads that blended together with the rest of the wasteland. She had covered an entire town on foot earlier that day, hoping her target was stupid enough to return to one of her old haunts during her time on the planet. Unfortunately, it seemed like the crook had a heads-up about her arrival. She hadn't gotten anything all day besides blisters and sunburn. There was a chance she had gone to Cri instead, but she seemed to have more connections on Toi. Her ship, the Ghost, had been seen a few days prior, flagging one of the Collective’s systems. The whole crew was wanted for various crimes and the ship itself was stolen, but Regan Witz was the biggest threat and needed to be taken first.

Sometimes, it was easy. She could stroll down the street and spot her mark within minutes. Drag them back to the ship and start heading towards the nearest Collective Outpost before lunch. Other times, it went like this. Days with no leads, pressure on all sides from the higher-ups and her handler.

Glancing at the messy and possibly out-of-date digital map, Vit forced herself to focus. Scrolling, she read over the notes she’d scribbled next to each of the locations she’d checked. Everyone had insisted she was in various spots around the galaxy. Some said she was in the High Ring, of all places, engaged to some Lord who was cousin to the Monarch. Or that she’d joined the Wildlings on the edge of the galaxy, living in chaotic bliss. Something was there; Vit was close, she could feel it. She wasn’t going to disappoint the Collective and she sure as stars wasn’t about to give up.

Changing tabs, she searched her security feed for the dozenth time to see if any of her bugs had picked up anything. She could put Ciro back on monitor duty as soon as she recharged, but until then it was all Vit. And the monitoring software she had picked up on planet Lio was far from high-tech. It wasn’t anywhere near as fast as the system she was used to, but there weren't many options. Her last bounty had put up quite a fight, destroying the Nav and her surveillance hard drive before Vit could stop him. She was lucky to get anything semi-compatible with the rest of her ship, given how old it was. And the mechanics on Cil said they’d have to special order new pieces, so she was stuck with tech that was probably came out during the Old Wars, twenty years prior.

Annoyed that the system hadn’t caught anything, she cracked her neck and pulled open one of her desk drawers. Popping out the fake bottom, she found the boost she needed. She tossed the small metal case onto her desktop, fingers fumbling with the small adhesive. Peeling off the clear covering, she pressed an Artificial Energy patch right above her heart, hiding the thin stimulant under her shirt. It was a mostly-translucent sticky rectangle, with AE stamped in all black.

The Collective (and therefore Ciro) disapproved of any enhancing tech or drugs on their people, so she tried to keep them hidden for the most part. It wasn’t like she was snorting crystals; she just needed a little help sometimes. And the best way for her to job her job fast and efficiently was for her to help herself. A rush of adrenaline hit her within a couple of seconds, making her hands twitch and eyes go wide. It had been a while since she’d had any sort of booster, let alone what were essentially shots of adrenaline to the heart. Her last mission left her without any privacy, so she'd suffered without any A.E. patches. It was part of the reason why she preferred to work alone. Everyone had to have their own backs; the Collective was a force of good and everyone was held to the highest standards. Failure, weakness— none of that would be tolerated. It was part of the reason why they were cycled out so frequently. Sometimes, a person just wasn’t necessary; maybe just unneeded for a specific uptic in crime, maybe just not useful in anything short of an all-out war.

Pushing back from the desk, she stared at the ceiling, slouching in the uncomfortable chair as she waited for it to kick in. Knicks and scratches formed a pattern along the metal roof, a reminder that someone had this ship before her. Probably another bounty hunter for the Collective. Someone who had been promoted, demoted, or put back in Cryo. Every mission was life or death for someone working for the Collective, but it was what she had signed up for. Everyone in the agency had sacrificed their lives and memories for a chance to bring justice to the galaxy— they were heroes to the universe.

The thought brought a small smile to Vit’s face, some of the tension draining from her shoulders. She had been conscious for nearly a year— one of the longest times for someone to be out of Cryo. She was good, and if the worst thing that happened to her was getting caught with some caffeine patches, she’d stay conscious for a long time. As long as she didn’t mess up, she’d stay Awake.

Going back to the map, she tried to look for something new. Ciro and her had spent the whole day and part of the night searching for the bounty, but it looked like he wasn't even on-planet. It had happened before; bad intel and a lack of communication had left her in similar situations more times than she cared to remember. It just meant that Vit wouldn't be resting any time soon.

Still, she couldn’t give up just yet. There was something about this planet that was messing with her head. She didn’t know where she had come from or anything about her life before, but part of her wondered if she had been to the shanty town before. The growing migraine suggested it. Or maybe it was just a side effect of the caffeine patch. Either way, she—

Suddenly, the security feed sounded, a small beep alerting her to something new. Whipping forward, she tapped on the screen, her mouth split into a grin. Her bounty— though a bit blurry —was caught barely ten minutes from her, on one of the bugs she’d planted. The audio was too shaky to make anything out besides “dangerous” and a few curses, but the message seemed clear. Her bounty was about to leave and she had to act quickly.

She grabbed her jacket off the floor, tucking her badge into her pocket and pulling her hood over her head as she hurried towards the bay doors. Hitting her palm against the release, she charged down the ramp and jumped off before it even hit the ground, pulling her duff over her mouth and nose. She didn’t know what was from the patch and what was the thrill of the chase, but Vit really didn't care. The mission was all that mattered.

The city was unfamiliar as she raced through it, despite her earlier search. Everything was a bit off-kilter, nothing quite right as she sped through the streets. For as long as she could remember, she’d always had backup. Either Ciro or another device of Collective Intelligence— someone to tell her what to do, where to go. A pang of unease crept up her spine, nearly overwhelming with the artificial adrenaline pumping through her system. She was running out of time. She needed to focus, needed to be better.

The sun was starting to rise over her side of the planet, covering all the grime in a deceiving copper glow. It almost looked nice. Vit thought it was misleading. Like most things that looked good, it was just a front. Vit had arrested enough innocent-looking people in her time that any notion of trust in her own perception was eradicated. At the end of the day, all she could do was follow orders and hope for the best. Just like the Magnate always told them; Trust in the Collective. (The only was implied.)

Nearly crashing into one of the drunks wandering through the streets after a night of waste, Vit snapped to attention. She was starting to drift now and then, exhaustion mixing badly with the fast-beating of her heart. Shaking her head, she adjusted her hood before entering the tavern before her. It was covered in the filth that all Ports held, the metal walls barely recognizable under all the filth and the half-ripped posters covering Stars know what.

Vit pulled at the buff attached to the lower part of her undercoat, covering her mouth and nose. Her face was sweaty now and it was starting to itch. While there wasn’t any set uniform for Collective members, anonymity was best when out in public, especially since she was in a bar full of Monarch loyalists. The blue patches of the jackets gave it away, along with the weapons strapped to everyone. On the planet Cil, only Collective agents are allowed weapons. It makes it easier when they need to maintain order. The entrylevel agents usually stayed planetside since it was so easy to get the upper hand. Vit was uncomfortable around the bar of criminals, knowing she didn’t have enough manpower or gunpower to take them all on if it came to it. Despite the heavy beating of her heart and the voice in her head telling her to make a move, she stayed calm. Ignored the eyes on her.

Moving towards the back of the room, she spotted her target downing the last of her drink. The man next to her seemed to nod towards the grimy-looking bathroom, moving away from the woman. The area was far too public for Vit to move in on her, but she walked calmly towards the bathrooms, reaching for the heavy knife in her vest. She wasn’t a killer, that was . . . the Collective was a force for good, so she was a force for good. While death was necessary at times, it would not bode well if she killed a man on a Monarchy-favored planet. All executions were to be held on the home planet.

Regardless, it was remarkably easy to sneak behind the man and use the blunt end of her blade to knock out the unreasonably tall man. Even if she did have to stand on her toes to reach his head. Locking the bathroom door afterward, she returned to the main room just in time to see her target leaving out the back door. Vit quickly followed, finding herself in a filthy alley between two taverns. The woman was standing across from her, seemingly casual.

“You’ve been looking for me.” She observed, leaning against the grime-covered wall. “Thought I’d make it a bit easier.”

A trap.

Vit tensed slightly upon realization, scolding herself for being so stupid. Ciro would’ve noticed, would’ve already called in back-up by now, or had some genius plan ready for Vit to use. She was the one who made the plans, Vit was just the muscle.

Still, Vit was a good bounty hunter. She had incapacitated the friend and surely she could take some criminal freak twice her age. Still, she went without any of her usual speech (surrender now and no harm will come to you, blah, blah, blah . . . ) and she charged.

The target jumped up, dodging her first punch and throwing one of her own. Vit grabbed her fist and twisted, smirking as the woman cried out. She kneed her in the gut, but the woman didn’t fall. Instead, she brought her free hand down on Vit’s forearm hard, forcing her to let go as a painful tingling spread through her arm. Both charged, tackling each other to the ground in a battle of fists. Kicking the bounty hard in the gut, Vit took the chance to stand and reach for her cuffs. Just as the tool was freed from her belt, the woman landed a punch to the side of her face, the metal restraints flying out of her hands across the alley.

With a start, Vit realized that the mask fell from around her face, causing hesitation on her target’s end. The woman seemed stunned, something not uncommon; the few people who had seen Vit’s face were all shocked by how young she looked. This time, it worked to her advantage; Vit moved quickly, sweeping the woman’s legs and knocking her to the hard ground. She reached for the fallen cuffs a few feet away, suddenly dizzy from the rush of movement. Blinking harshly, she stretched her fingers to grab the cool metal, only to be yanked backward just as she grasped them.

The bounty’s companion, who she had apparently mistaken for unconscious, yanked her up from the ground, knocking her into the side of the tavern. Vit choked on her breath, the air knocked out of her with the force of the shove. She coughed painfully, hands grasping at her chest. Standing up, her bounty pushed her into the wall once more as her friend stepped back.

“Who are you?” The woman demanded, pinning her against the rough stone with her forearm against Vit’s throat.

Still breathless and dizzy, Vit thrashed harshly, glaring up at the older girl. “Re— Reagan Witz, you are wanted by the Collective for— “

“I don’t care about that.” She snapped, pressing harder against Vit’s throat. “Who are you?”

Vit blanched, confused. Surely, it was obvious by now that she belonged to the Collective. Vit didn’t know how to answer or why the bounty hadn’t tried to do anything more than restrain her yet. She couldn’t tell if she was stupid or trying to stall as she and her friend waited for backup. Although, at this point, Vit didn’t think she could control her dizzy double-vision long enough to throw a solid punch. Still, despite her precarious position, Vit ignored her and continued on.

“Surrender now and no harm will come to your companion.” She offered, eyeing the so-far silent man staring at her. He looked to be in shock— silent and wide-eyed as he watched the exchange. His, nearly white, blond hair was spiked up with a ridiculous amount of product, except for the smooshed half from where he must’ve hit the ground. He looked unreasonably spooked for someone so tall.

The dark eyes she locked with went blurry, everything spinning slightly as she refocused on her target. Vit tensed slightly, ready to break free of the woman and arrest her. Or pass out when she tried. Either way, she wasn’t about to just give up.

“— there’s gotta be some explanation.”

Blinking, Vit realized her bounty had been speaking, though her hearing seemed to be suddenly unreliable. The world was spinning, nothing steady. Her heart was beating so loud, she felt the vibrations in her throat. She wheezed as the woman let go of her throat, hands moving to her shoulders. Her mouth was moving, but Vit couldn’t tell what she was saying.

She reared her head back and slammed forward, headbutting her with a loud crack. The world tipped off its axis and suddenly the ground was rushing toward her. She twisted, pulling the woman down with her. From her belt, she pulled out a needle, plunging it into her neck. As the sedative disappeared into her skin, Vit lunged at the man, tackling him into the ground. They both hit hard, his head bouncing off the stone. She punched him, once, twice, three times, before she was sure he was out cold. Behind them, the target was limp on the cold ground.

Vit raised her hand to her ear, breathing heavily. “Ciro? I really hope you’re charged.”

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