#but he’s a first born tyrant

[acourtofladydeath]

Welcome to my submission for @azrisweek 2023 Day 3: Conceal/Reveal - “Enter:Uncle Autumn”

Most of my favorite Azris fics have some element of concealing and revealing their mating bond to the inner circle, so that’s the approach I took for this prompt.

I firmly believe Nyx is absolutely adored, and a complete menace. At an IC Sunday dinner Azriel and Eris have plans to finally announce their relationship. They have it all planned out. And then Nyx happens.

[beggars-opera]

On the road leading into the center of Concord, Massachusetts, there sits a house.

It is a plain, colonial-style house, of which there are many along this road. It has sea green and buff paint, a historical plaque, and one of the most multi-layered stories I have ever encountered to showcase that history is continuous, complicated, and most importantly, fragmentary, unless you know where to look.

So, where to start? The plaque.

There's some usual information here: Benjamin Barron built the house in 1716, and years later it was a "witness house" to the start of the American Revolution. And then, something unusual: a note about an enslaved man named John Jack whose epitaph is "world famous."

Where is this epitaph? Right around the corner in the town center.

It reads:

God wills us free; man wills us slaves. I will as God wills; God’s will be done. Here lies the body of JOHN JACK a native of Africa who died March 1773 aged about 60 years Tho’ born in a land of slavery, He was born free. Tho’ he lived in a land of liberty, He lived a slave. Till by his honest, tho’ stolen labors, He acquired the source of slavery, Which gave him his freedom; Tho’ not long before Death, the grand tyrant Gave him his final emancipation, And set him on a footing with kings. Tho’ a slave to vice, He practised those virtues Without which kings are but slaves.

We don't know precisely when the man first known only as Jack was purchased by Benjamin Barron. We do know that he, along with an enslaved woman named Violet, were listed in Barron's estate upon his death in 1754. Assuming his gravestone is accurate, at that time Jack would have been about 40 and had apparently learned the shoemaking trade from his enslaver. With his "honest, though stolen labors" he was then able to earn enough money to eventually purchase his freedom from the remaining Barron family and change his name to John, keeping Jack as a last name rather than using his enslaver's.

John Jack died, poor but free, in 1773, just two years before the Revolutionary War started. Presumably as part of setting up his own estate, he became a client of local lawyer Daniel Bliss, brother-in-law to the minister, William Emerson. Bliss and Emerson were in a massive family feud that spilled into the rest of the town, as Bliss was notoriously loyal to the crown, eventually letting British soldiers stay in his home and giving them information about Patriot activities.

Daniel Bliss also had abolitionist leanings. And after hearing John's story, he was angry.

Here was a man who had been kidnapped from his home country, dragged across the ocean, and treated as an animal for decades. Countless others were being brutalized in the same way, in the same town that claimed to love liberty and freedom. Reverend Emerson railed against the British government from the pulpit, and he himself was an enslaver.

It wouldn't do. John Jack deserved so much more. So, when he died, Bliss personally paid for a large gravestone and wrote its epitaph to blast the town's hypocrisy from the top of Burial Hill. When the British soldiers trudged through the cemetery on April 19th, 1775, they were so struck that they wrote the words down and published them in the British newspapers, and that hypocrisy passed around Europe as well. And the stone is still there today.

You know whose stone doesn't survive in the burial ground?

Benjamin Barron's.

Or any of his family that I know of. Which is absolutely astonishing, because this story is about to get even more complicated.

Benjamin Barron was a middle-class shoemaker in a suburb that wouldn't become famous until decades after his death. He lived a simple life only made possible by chattel slavery, and he will never show up in a U.S. history textbook.

But he had a wife, and a family. His widow, Betty Barron, from whom John purchased his freedom, whose name does not appear on her home's plaque or anywhere else in town, does appear either by name or in passing in every single one of those textbooks.

Terrible colonial spelling of all names in their marriage record aside, you may have heard her maiden name before:

Betty Parris was born into a slaveholding family in 1683, in a time when it was fairly common for not only Black, but also Indigenous people to be enslaved. It was also a time of war, religious extremism, and severe paranoia in a pre-scientific frontier. And so it was that at the age of nine, Betty pointed a finger at the Arawak woman enslaved in her Salem home, named Titibe, and accused her of witchcraft.

Yes, that Betty Parris.

Her accusations may have started the Salem Witch trials, but unlike her peers, she did not stay in the action for long. As a minor, she was not allowed to testify at court, and as the minister's daughter, she was too high-profile to be allowed near the courtroom circus. Betty's parents sent her to live with relatives during the proceedings, at which point her "bewitchment" was cured, though we're still unsure if she had psychosomatic problems solved by being away from stress, if she stopped because the public stopped listening, or if she stopped because she no longer had adults prompting her.

Following the witch hysteria, the Parrises moved several times as her infamous father struggled to hold down a job and deal with his family's reputation. Eventually they landed in Concord, where Betty met Benjamin and married him at the age of 26, presumably having had no more encounters with Satan in the preceding seventeen years. She lived an undocumented life and died, obscure and forgotten, in 1760, just five years before the Stamp Act crisis plunged America into a revolution, a living bridge between the old world and the new.

I often wonder how much Betty's story followed her throughout her life. People must have talked. Did they whisper in the town square, "Do you know what she did when she was a girl?" Did John Jack hear the stories of how she had previously treated the enslaved people in her life? Did that hasten his desperation to get out? And what of Daniel Bliss; did he know this history as well, seeing the double indignity of it all? Did he stop and think about how much in the world had changed in less than a century since his neighbor was born?

We'll never know.

All that's left is a gravestone, and a house with an insufficient plaque.

[wordsmithic]

Ancient Greek Women Mathematicians you didn't know about

Αίθρα - Aethra (10th - 9th century BC), daughter of the king of Troizina Pitthea and mother of Theseus, knew mathematics in another capacity unknown to many. So sacred to the beginnings of the most cerebral science, Aethra taught arithmetic to the children of Troizina, with that complex awe-inspiring method, since there was no zero… and the numbers were symbolically complex, as their symbols required many repetitions.

Πολυγνώτη - Polygnoti (7th - 6th century BC) The historian Lovon Argeios mentions Polygnotis as a companion and student of Thalis. A scholar of many geometric theorems, it is said in Vitruvius' testimony, that she contributed to the simplification of arithmetic symbols by introducing the principle of acrophony. She managed this by introducing alphabetic letters that corresponded to each in the initial letter of the name of the number. Thus, Δ, the initial of Δέκα (ΤΕΝ), represents the number 10. X, the initial of Χίλια (Thousand), represents the number 1000 etc. According to Vitruvius, Polygnoti formulated and first proved the proposition "Ε�� κύκλω η εν τω ημικυκλίω γωνία ορθή εστίν" - "In the circle the angle in the hemi-circle is right angle."

Θεμιστόκλεια - Themistoklia (6th century BC). Diogenes the Laertius scholar-writer mentions it as Αριστόκλεια - Aristoclia or Θεόκλεια - Theoclia. Pythagoras took most of his moral principles from the Delphic priestess Themistoclia, who at the same time introduced him to the principles of arithmetic and geometry. According to the philosopher Aristoxenos (4th century BC), Themistoclia taught mathematics to those of the visitors of Delphi who had the relevant appeal. Legend has it that Themistoclia decorated the altar of Apollo with geometric shapes. According to Aristoxenos, Pythagoras admired the knowledge and wisdom of Themistoclia, a fact that prompted him to accept women later in his School.

Μελίσσα - Melissa (6th century BC). Pupil of Pythagoras. She was involved in the construction of regular polygons. Lovon Argeios writes about an unknown work of hers: "Ο Κύκλος Φυσίν - η Μελίσσα - Των Εγγραφομένων Πολυγώνων Απάντων Εστί". (The title translates to "The circle is always the basis of the written polygons" or so.)

Τυμίχα - Tymicha (6th century BC). Thymiha, wife of Crotonian Millios, was (according to Diogenes Laertius) a Spartan, born in Croton. From a very early age, she became a member of the Pythagorean community. Iamblichus mentions a book about "friend numbers". After the destruction of the school by the Democrats of Croton, Tymicha took refuge in Syracuse. The tyrant of Syracuse, Dionysios, demanded that Tymicha reveal to him the secrets of the Pythagorean teaching for a great reward. She flatly refused and even cut her own tongue with her teeth and spat in Dionysius' face. This fact is reported by Hippobotus and Neanthis.

Βιτάλη - Vitali or Vistala (6th – 5th century BC). Vitali was the daughter of Damos and granddaughter of Pythagoras, and an expert in Pythagorean mathematics. Before Pythagoras died, he entrusted her with the "memoirs", that is, the philosophical texts of her father.

Πανδροσίων ή Πάνδροσος - Pandrosion or Pandrossos (4th century AD). Alexandrian geometer, probably a student of Pappos, who dedicates to her the third book of the "Synagogue". Pandrosion divides geometric problems into three categories:" Three genera are of the problems in Geometry and these, levels are called, and the other linear ones."

Πυθαΐς - Pythais (2nd century BC). Geometer, daughter of the mathematician Zenodoros.

Αξιόθεα - Axiothea (4th century BC). She is also a student, like Lasthenia, of Plato's academy. She came to Athens from the Peloponnesian city of Fliounda. She showed a special interest in mathematics and natural philosophy, and later taught these sciences in Corinth and Athens.

Περικτιόνη - Periktioni (5th century BC). Pythagorean philosopher, writer, and mathematician. Various sources identify her with Perictioni, Plato's mother and Critius' daughter. Plato owes his first acquaintance with mathematics and philosophy to Perictioni.

Διοτίμα - Diotima from Mantineia (6th-5th century BC). In Plato's "Symposium", Socrates refers to the Teacher of Diotima, a priestess in Mantineia, who was a Pythagorean and a connoisseur of Pythagorean numerology. According to Xenophon, Diotima had no difficulty in understanding the most complex geometric theorems.

Iamblichos, in his work "On Pythagorean Life", saved the names of Pythagorean women who were connoisseurs of Pythagorean philosophy and Pythagorean mathematics. We have already mentioned some of them. The rest:

Ρυνδακώ - Rynthako

Οκκελώ - Okkelo

Χειλωνίς - Chilonis

Κρατησίκλεια - Kratisiklia

Λασθένια - Lasthenia

Αβροτέλεια - Avrotelia

Εχεκράτεια - Ehekratia

Θεανώ - Theano

Τυρσηνίς - Tyrsinis

Πεισιρρόδη - Pisirrodi

Θεαδούσα - Theathousa

Βοιώ - Voio

Βαβέλυκα - Vavelyka

Κλεαίχμα - Cleaihma

Νισθαιαδούσα - Nistheathousa

Νικαρέτη - Nikareti from Corinth

There are so many women whose contribution to science remains hidden. We should strive to find out about more of them! For more information, check out the books of the Greek philologist, lecturer, and professor of ancient Greek history and language, Anna Tziropoulou-Eustathiou.

[diz-eaze]

albedo and his alternative to baby trap you :(

; soft yandere, parent trap 2.0 but is it really babytrap if you lowkey told him you wouldn't mind a child (yes it still is), low-key delusional albedo, not proofread, throwback to fontaine's quest and albedo teaser #og,

the concept of breathing life into what was once an illustration is ludicrous. blasphemous, even. if the original hydro archon was punished for turning her familiars into a new race of humans, then is it not fair for an alchemist to be smithed down for a similar sin?

but the silence of the heavens has been going on for numerous centuries; it's hard for albedo to feel even a smidgen of fear, nevermind finding a speck of regret.

being born with special capabilities is rare. training under a great sinner of khaenri'ah is even rarer - it leaves him with skills that far surpasses even the average vision bearer. it grants him the power to tamper and play with the very notion of life itself.

a memory plays at the back of his mind as he settles down his painting materials, for once away from the frigid winters of dragonspine in favor of the fresh breeze found in windrise.

"the traveler told me of what happened in fontaine," albedo begins, gently taking the test tube you pass onto him. "of what became of their prophecy."

"oh?" you muse, now idly playing with the microscope lenses. "pray tell."

albedo settles his canvas down on the stable easel stand, taking out his paints and brushes in preparation. the ever-present wind blows through his messy hair, and he welcomes it.

"it would seem that fontainians were originally oceanids, only transformed into humans by the previous hydro archon." his eyes are trained upon the drops of sweet flower extract falling into the narrow test tube. "the prophecy was punishment for their sin."

"huh," you breathe out, placing down the lenses to look at him. he fights the urge to look away from his materials. "i can't tell if the arrogant one in this situation is the hydro archon or the heavenly principles themselves."

he swatches out each paint on his person, and he lines up the needed brushes for this personal project of his. the first brush, a round brush, is used to prime the canvas.

albedo finishes extracting the sweet flower and takes out a damp cloth to wipe his table's surface with. "why so?"

"think about it," you saunter up to him, leaning in unbearably close to survey his work. in this proximity, he can smell traces of cecilia flowers and windwheel asters on you. his grip on the damp cloth tightens subtly.

"the heavens think of themselves to be the absolute rulers of this world," you puff your cheeks out childishly. "yet they are more akin to tyrants. celestial nails, sins, punishments, the cataclysm... a creation of life is much tamer compared to the heinous acts they've committed!"

albedo mixes and matches his paints - a tint of red, a dollop of brown, tiny amounts yellow, and white added in moderation - in order to emulate the shade closest to your skin tone. his second brush, a flat brush, is used to lay down the overall shape of what he envisions.

"you think so?" he questions, relocating the test tube on its designated rack. he makes no move to inch away from you - not that he wants to, never. "but 'humans' who are not born from breeding are considered to be an anomaly. they are considered an outlier, are they not?"

not that he cares, may it be sinful or otherwise. he merely tells this to get a feel of you, to take a dive into your mind.

"i care little of how a human is produced," you huff out, leaning even more to disrupt his orderly workflow. he wonders how you'd react if he told you he wouldn't care should you trash his camp, so long as you continue to be shoulder to shoulder with him like this. "if it's sentient, it has life. i think all life should be valued, regardless of the creation method. the creations themselves didn't ask to be brought to this world, either."

his deft fingers scrapes paints together to match his hair next. only little tufts of hair for now. the brush dips into the water to be rid of its previous color, reborn anew into a clean slate. he pats it down with a spare cloth and goes back to painting once again.

"you're not wrong," albedo comments, eyes trailing after the flutter of your lashes. the body heat that emanates from you causes his synthetic one to gradually warm up, too.

he hesitates, then. licking his lips as if to buy time before he voices out the question stuck in his throat. you must have noticed his pause, for you peer at him in silent questioning. you nudge him slightly, and his body sways from the motion.

there is little he fears in this world. not when he was raised in the aftermath of the cataclysm, horrors unknown to normal people are found there. but the thought of your opinion of him souring slightly has his heart palpating in dread.

albedo leans closer to the canvas, intent on detailing the cherubic face as much as possible. focused on creating the perfect specimen that earns your adoration.

a beat passes.

"then," he looks down at his workspace, unable to find the strength to look you straight in the eyes. "what do you think of creating life artificially, from the likeness of your image?"

you blink once and tilt your head, though he does not see it. you crowd closer to him, now nearly chest to chest. if you inch even closer, he fears you'll fear the loud thumps resounding deep within his chest.

"a life... with my likeness?" you parrot back, still not comprehending him fully. then, your eyes widen, as if struck with realization. "oh! you mean your magical drawings, right? i still remember that vishap you created! i am dismayed at the poor thing's lower half, however."

his masterpiece is almost finished. sunset is near, and the wind is starting to pick up. it feels as if barbatos himself is advising albedo to stop with his actions. but not even the divine nail from celestia would tear him apart from this painting.

his mind was lingering more on the alchemical method. though, if this is the method that you prefer, then it will be what he goes through with.

"perhaps," still, he nods, "so, what do you think of it?"

you smile, a gleaming, precious one that surpasses crystalflies. "since it's a hypothetical, i suppose the idea would be cute."

the verbal 'hypothetical' is blocked out from his illusioned mind, for he locks onto your explicit agreement, even going as far as to call his idea cute.

he smiles, clearly pleased with your answer.

"i am glad to see you so enthusiastic about this," he parts away from you and begins to tidy up his workspace with renewed vigor, moving with a sense of purpose.

you confusedly look at his back, "about what?"

but you're met with no reply.

albedo finishes his painting with the last brushstroke being an eyelash of the infant. he steps back to observe for any errors made, but he finds none. excitement courses through his body, eager to bring life to this illustration. his mind is already running amok with all the domesticity he will soon witness you do.

his gloves hands reach into the canvas, surpassing the physical barrier as he reaches for the finished painting. it's similar to reaching into a void, but he knows how to navigate this power of his. when he tugs his hands back into reality, he is not empty handed.

in his hands is a crying infant, not just any infant, but his baby with you. within a few seconds after giving it life, the infant opens its mouth and wails.

he kisses the top of its head, endeared at the sight of pale blond strands.

"shhh, your father is here now."

he understands the original hydro archon now. even he would endanger the lives of others for the creation of life.

[breesperez139]

DC x DP Prompt #7

The Dragon has Three Heads

After their High King was crowned, he was taken in by the Ancients. He was a child with continuously growing power forced to bear the weight of the Infinite Realms and in need of guidance, who better to advise him than the almighty Ancients themselves?

At first, none could decide on who would take their young king in. Not because he was unwanted, but because he was. The Ancients nearly sent the Realms to war with their myriad of reasons and excuses as to why they should be the only ones to take the ghost child in as their own.

In the end, the Ancients came to the agreement of split custody. They would all adopt their little king, but the consequences were dire and unprecedented. With so many powerful beings claiming an even more powerful being as their own child, their little one’s power increased to an all time high nearly breaking the mortal body he resided in.

Every being dead and alive could feel the birth of a new primordial being born. Primordials, beings even more powerful than Ancients, were an extinct species. Any who existed would eventually fade into their domains and lose their sentience for all of existence.

But the Ancients did not want this. They did not want this end for their child. They would not allow it.

Instead, they planned. They traveled different worlds and planets, spreading tales of the Great King Phantom. The epithets they gave him were grand and they would not leave until their work was finished. Their child would be revered, feared, and most importantly, he would be remembered and sentient and alive.

Belief is a powerful tool. Powerful enough to keep Gods immortal, and Primordials from fading. So long as the mortals believed the Primordials were still walking among them, their child would never die. He might not understand why he had to visit his worshippers every few years, but it is for his own good.

Then came two more. Not quite Primordials, but they were certainly on their way. The girl was made in their child’s own image, a mirror. The boy was their child but different. From the moment he appeared, he was no longer outside of time, but outside of space itself.

And with them, came the human female. She was a fierce warrior. Headstrong and bold and so very protective of their little ones. She too became theirs. She too became their child. Yet she was too mortal, too fragile. They could not let this stand.

So they spread tales and created myths. Anything to ascend their mortal daughter into godhood and keep their immortal children alive. So came the legend of the Dragon. The legend of their children.

The Dragon has three heads

Jasmine, their little dragon. Three heads, one for each of her siblings. One head for each mouth she had to feed. One head for each mouth she had to teach. One head for each mouth she had to protect. Three heads for the three children she had to raise as a mere child herself.

And like a dragon, she persevered. Like a dragon, she fought with passion and power and pride. With the strength and determination of a dragon because in truth, she is a dragon. Born by fire, kissed by fire, loved by fire. None could deny the dragon blood running through her veins.

One to be a murderer who will unleash death

Daniel, their little destroyer. He who creates destruction and chaos with every step he takes. He who embodies rage and despair, love and fury, grief and sorrow. His emotions high and potent when it comes to those he loves, as well as those he hates. Having lost everyone he held so dearly, it is not a wonder as to why he is so ruthless and possessive over the family he has now.

One to be a monarch whose crown will weigh heavy

Danyal, their little savior. The assassin prince destined to defeat the tyrant and rule them for all of eternity. The boy king destined to lead and protect them for all of eternity. The holy emperor destined to ensure peace and prosperity spread throughout the Infinite Realms for all of eternity. The perfect and omnipotent God meant to be praised and worshipped for all of eternity.

And One to be mad whose ideas will change history

Danielle, their little wanderer. She who broke free from the unknowing chains that shackled her. She who bent and molded reality, forcefully rewriting the ancient laws. She who bowed to no man, no ideal, no predestined fate as she roamed and reshaped worlds. The little princess would create what she wanted, transform what she wanted, change what she wanted and none could stop her. Not when she was evolution itself.

[onyxstyx]

ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ | emperor geta

pairing: emperor geta x fem!reader

summary: the fates spin the thread of destiny, and mortals have no choice but to follow its path. you have other plans.

➺‘the fates, who give men at their birth both evil and good to have, and they pursue the transgressions of men and gods… until they punish the sinner with a sore penalty’ - theogony, hesiod ➺‘whatever happens to you has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time’ - marcus aurelius

A/N: i watched gladiator ii, devoured all the geta fics i could find (ty writers for feeding me <3) and i’m still ravenous. the man is gnawing at me from my insides so i had no choice but to get typing. haven’t written for like a yr so bear with me. if this flops it never happened xx

warnings: mention of miscarriage (not reader's), period-typical misogyny, morally ambiguous reader bc she’s fighting for her life out here. she’s just a girl fr :( YOU try being a girlie in ancient rome :/ enjoy !!

w/c: 5.9k

latin translations: fatum - fate, carissima - dear, domina - my lady

As the moon ascends in wake of the sun’s descent, the gilded walls of the imperial palace glint softly in the moonlight. Glorious tapestries line these walls, each one telling the tale of hallowed heroes, of terrible tyrants and of revered rulers. The history of the Roman Empire.

Their patterns, depicting stories of both rise and ruin, are woven by none other than the three Fates. One Fate spins the thread, and an heir is born. Another Fate weaves it, and a battle is won. The last Fate cuts, and an emperor meets his end.

As three pairs of hands work nimbly in the heavens, another tapestry begets itself in the mortal realm, where our story takes place.

From a tender age, you had been taught to believe in fate.

Fatum.

You had first learnt the word as a little one.

You’d been a curious creature, like most children are. Sheltered from the terrors of the world, your appetite for life was insatiable. You’d wake up with a hunger for new knowledge about the world around you, and go to bed still hungry for more, no matter what had transpired during the day. Thus, you found it impossible to go to sleep of your own accord - you relied on your mother’s bedtime stories to satisfy your appetite, and lull you into slumber.

Perched by your bedside with a gentle hand stroking your hair, she regaled you with the tale of Rome’s beginnings. A tale of abandonment, wolf-mothers and fratricide. Enough thrill to tire you out, she hoped. To her chagrin, she looked down to find widened eyes, without a trace of sleep in them, staring up at her expectantly. Instead, your eyes shone bright with the excitement of unanswered questions.

She sighed fondly before prompting you to talk. “Yes, carissima?”

And so the floodgates opened. You fired her with questions with all the sternness of a Roman general, and she listened intently with all the patience of a loving mother.

Why did the king try to kill the babies? Why didn’t the wolf eat the babies?

And finally, taking great care to be gentle, you placed a tiny hand on her rounded belly and asked the most burning question. Why did Romulus kill his brother? Your innocent mind struggled to comprehend it. You hadn’t even met your little sibling yet, and you already couldn’t fathom the idea of bringing harm to him. Or her, you thought, but your father had insisted that all refer to the babe as the male heir he so desperately desired it to be.

“Fatum,” was the simple answer she supplied. “Without the king’s cruelty, without the wolf’s mercy, without Remus’ death, our great city would never have been built.”

Eyes shining with knowledge yet untold, her gaze held yours. “Whatever happens to you, has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time,” she quoted, a tone of finality in her voice.

As well-loved children do, you’d lapped up your mother’s answer as readily as the twin babes lapped the wolf’s milk.

You had first witnessed fatum some years later, at the age of twelve.

On the brink of adolescence, much about you had changed compared to the little girl having bedtime stories told to her. Much except one. Age hadn’t quelled your curiosity - if anything, it had grown.

You’d exhausted all the resources available to a girl of your standing. You’d read enough philosophical texts to debate with Aristotle himself, asked questions faster than your tutors could find answers and yet, you knew there was much more that the world had to offer. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

With age had also come a newfound deviance. Observant as you were, you’d learned that there was much to be gained with certain types of information - if you knew how to use it to your advantage.

As such, you’d taken to eavesdropping on your father’s meetings with his fellow senators from behind a pillar. For weeks on end, they had spoken of a play becoming popular amongst patricians and plebeians alike. Oedipus.

At the centre of their discussion was a ploy to ban the play from being performed. Abhorrent, they had called it. A threat to their authority, if the people are led to believe that even kings are subject to a thing as fickle as fate. At that statement, your eyes twinkled with mischief and a devious smile found its way to your face - you were determined to see this for yourself.

So, on the fateful night you caught your older cousin in the arms of a man bearing no resemblance to her betrothed, you knew you’d struck gold.

Desperate to protect her reputation and far too embarrassed to berate you for sleuthing around when you should have been asleep, she’d hastily agreed to the terms of your silence. She would sneak you into the city’s amphitheatre to watch the next production of Oedipus, if you swore to secrecy.

And so your plan commenced. Hidden under the large folds of her toga, you observed the story unfolding before you. The mighty king of Thebes brought to his knees by the tragic fate he’d tried to escape, to no avail.

A real spectacle, the performance elicited emotions from you that were both old and new. In a short two hours you’d been perplexed, horrified, scandalised. You’d learned quickly why you had to be sneaked in - fate wasn’t the only mature theme you were educated on that night.

But you only came to understand fatum when it took the person dearest to you, two summers ago.

Pregnant again, the fifth time that you could remember, your mother had taken ill. Perilously ill. After years of unsuccessful attempts to produce an heir - one daughter, two miscarriages and two stillbirths - she had breathed her last. In her womb? The son your father demanded of her. The son he had longed for. Prayed to the gods for. What else could bring forth such a tragic end, if not the hands of the Fates?

Now a grown woman, the beliefs your mother had impressed upon you would soon be tested. Left with no living sons to continue his legacy and no living wife to bring forth such living sons, your father’s lofty political aspirations could only be fulfilled through his daughter. You.

Your father wasted no time in advancing his plans.

After a long day spent praying at the temple of Pluto, you had been ready to wind down and relax. A good distance away from the centre of the city and situated atop a number of hills, a trip there takes up the whole day. You had set out at dawn, and as the sun set over the Tiber river to bring forth dusk, your shadow darkened the entrance of your family villa.

Exhausted both emotionally and physically, your body went through the motions of preparing yourself for supper, but your mind remained absent - occupied with thoughts of what could have been and what will never be.

After your bath you called for your maid and allowed her to dress you, head still in the clouds. It was only when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the bronze mirror atop your vanity that you noticed something was amiss.

Your eyes squinted as you inspected the image reflected on the polished surface.

“Why have you dressed me in these garments? I wish to wear my usual attire.”

You wore a tunic, the draped garment secured by an ornate brooch resembling an owl, with eyes made of precious gems. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary, was the saffron yellow hue of the tunic — since your mother’s passing you had been in mourning and thus only wore dark colours. A fact well-known by your maid, who dressed you day and night.

The hands fastening the brooch faltered as she gathered a response.

“My apologies, Domina.” She stepped back, head bowed in deference. “I assumed you would revert to your previous wardrobe, seeing as yesterday marked the end of…” She trailed off meekly, allowing you to fill in the blanks.

The previous day had marked a year since your mother’s passing, and thus the end of the customary mourning period. As such, it would be socially acceptable for you to appear happy and content again, reflected in the abandonment of deep plums and drab greys for sunny yellows and bold blues. You supposed it was not odd for her to assume you desire to don brighter colours.

But upon closer inspection, your suspicion rose again. Detailed with beautiful patterns and made of the smoothest damask money could buy, the tunic was much too elaborate for a simple family dinner in the villa. The last time you wore it was to a relative’s wedding, where your father made a point of telling anyone who would listen just how much it had cost to import the material from China.

You poised yourself to question her further, but the words died on the tip of your tongue when you saw the pleading look she gave you.

“Please, Domina.”

She offered you no further explanation, but the fear in her eyes was explanation enough. She was not doing this of her own accord, but under instruction. And if you knew your father well, under strict instruction.

Whatever plans he had for you, you knew you would have little to no choice in the matter.

Wordlessly, you acquiesced and allowed her to continue. You did not protest when she brushed, braided and pinned your hair into an elaborate updo. You were compliant when she lined your eyes with kohl and blotted your lips with mulberry juice.

Primped and primed like a prized show horse, you dismissed your maid, sat by the window and awaited your fate.

Not long passed before the sound of a male timbre filled the room.

“It appears your outfit is missing something.”

You turned to the direction of the voice to see your father standing in the doorway. Instinctively, you stood to your feet - less as a show of respect and more because you were used to being on guard in his presence.

In his hands he held a translucent, gauzy material, sheer in nature and vibrant in colour, that was all too familiar to you.

Your mother’s favourite veil.

Usually fixed firmly atop her head during special occasions - festivals, birthdays, weddings and the like - you could recognise it from a mile away. Growing up, you had associated this veil with womanhood itself. You would traipse around the corridors of the villa with it wrapped around your head haphazardly, the excess fabric trailing behind you as you ran as fast as your little legs could carry you.

What a foreign sight it was to see it in the hands of your father. And what a foreign sight it was to see him in your chambers.

Following your mother’s passing, the two of you had not conversed beyond what was formally required of you, your already fragile relationship fracturing completely. Yet here he was, extending a peace offering. An olive branch.

Pleased as you were to receive it, you were not foolish enough to believe this to be a genuinely affectionate gesture. A politician through and through, your father was no stranger to symbolic gestures, and he had made no attempts to mend your relationship prior to this moment. This sudden generosity, paired with your extravagant dressing, could only mean one thing.

He wanted something from you.

Now, you had two options. Comply with his request, or comply with his request begrudgingly. You chose the latter, of course. Even if obedience was your only option, you weren’t going to make this easy for him.

You casted him a quick look of derision. “If you wish to barter for my forgiveness with a piece of cloth, I am afraid your efforts have been wasted.”

Unphased, he stepped further into the room.  “Now, now, peace, dear daughter. Let us be civil.” The faux humility in his tone was almost comical.

“Perhaps you feel…wronged by me for holding your mother to a certain standard. But, you must understand that I was simply fulfilling my duties, by encouraging her to fulfil her own. I have particular responsibilities to this family. As do you, now.”

You levelled him with an icy glare, wise enough not to express your discontent verbally, but too headstrong not to express it somehow.

“And even if I have, in some unfathomable way, wronged you; to err is human, to forgive, divine.” 

After knowing him for as long as you did, you knew this was the closest thing to an apology you would get. You also knew your father was a talented orator - it’s how he gained a large enough political following to join the Senate, after all. And so you prepared yourself to be subjected to one of his moving speeches.

“It is common knowledge that women are the weaker sex,” What a great way to start, you snarked to yourself. “Yet, I have always seen a unique strength in you. Not physical strength, of course, but a mental fortitude. Since you were a young girl you have been willful, stubborn,” he took a step closer to you with each word, purple-lined toga brushing the floor as he advanced. 

As he said the last word, he gave you a knowing look. “Nosy.”

You failed to hide your shock. “Oh yes, I saw you slinking around behind the pillars.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It matters not, now. In fact, whatever dregs of information you picked up from eavesdropping on my discussions may soon prove useful.”

His face was a picture of smugness, with an eyebrow cocked and the corners of his mouth upturned as if he knew something you didn’t. With just a few sentences he had complimented you (even if it was backhanded), revealed that he knew your secret, and teased you with a nugget of information. The perfect combination to make you anticipate his next words.

Silence filled the room as he kept you in suspense, mind whirring as you mulled over his cryptic words. 

One hand held your mother’s veil in front of him, while the other caressed its folds delicately. His eyes had a faraway look in them that suggested his mind had travelled to another time.

“Your mother was a strong woman. Not strong enough in the end, regrettably, but strong nonthele-”

“Don’t.” You interjected. “You will not sully her memory with your caustic words.”

His lips spread into a diplomatic smile, but the twitch of his eye betrayed the irritation he felt. Belligerent as he was, he ignored your outburst and continued. 

“Unlike her, you have the makings of a lady of great influence. Much like me, you have the mind for politics. That potential lies latent within you.”

With a gentleness you wished was also reflected in his words, he draped the veil over your head. “I advise you not to waste it, dear daughter, and suffer the fate of lesser women.”

You scoffed at his words, readjusting the veil so it rested perfectly atop your head and shoulders. “And how do you suggest I fulfil this…potential? The Senate is not exactly welcoming of women.”

Well-pleased that your interest had been piqued, he finally reveals his true intentions.

“Accompany me to the imperial banquet tonight. We will celebrate the successful conquest of Britannia.”

“I do not care for banquets, nor do I spare a thought for conquests.”

“You may not care for military conquests, but this banquet itself is a conquest of the political sort. In my experience, much more is won with words, than with swords. And tonight’s event presents an opportunity for much gain.”

Again with the cryptic words.

“Allow me to present you to the Emperors. Your face is comely enough to garner their attention, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, some men find opinionated girls like you to be charming.” 

Is he insinuating what you think he is?, you thought incredulously. Surely not.

“The Senate may not be the place for women, but the Senate is not the only facilitator of politics. Why not practice your politics from Palatine Hill?”

There was no mistaking it. He intended to make an Empress of you. Equally as curious as you were sceptical, you decided to test his logic.

“Beauty is fleeting. Charm wanes with time. How would I maintain their favour?”

“That, dear daughter, is up to you. I am certain you will find a way, formidable as you are.”

While it pained you to admit it, he was right. You and your father were more alike than different, what with your scheming and blackmailing. Besides, you were formidable. You were cunning. You were capable.

There may be greater things in store for you yet.

And those greater things began with this banquet.

Upon arrival, you were met with the most magnificent sight you had ever seen. Sat proudly upon Palatine Hill, the palace looked like the image your mind conjured when picturing Olympus. After ascending the intimidating number of steps that led to the entrance, you truly felt like you’d ascended to the land of the gods. Wherever you looked there was amazing artwork that instilled equal parts awe and fear in you. 

Look up, and there were grand arches to behold. Look to the side, and the spectacular frescoes offered a feast for the eyes. Look down, and there were beautifully designed floor mosaics you almost felt bad for stepping on.

As you passed through into the atrium, it was much the same. Ostentatiously decorated, it boasted gilded walls and glorious tapestries, each feature a testament to the Emperors’ opulence, and Rome’s riches.

But it was impossible to focus fully on the artwork with the room heaving as it was. Eyes darting from one person to another with every passing second,  you were captivated by the spectacle the hoard of partygoers presented. Something seemed to be happening in every square foot of the room, each guest having their fill of whatever their vice of choice was for the night. Wine was in abundance, giving way to loose lips, and scantily-clad whores prowled about in the shadows, giving way to loose purse strings.

You had been to your fair share of lavish affairs, but this was a whole new world of revelry.

Between the loud percussion of the musicians’ instruments, the aroma of the heavily seasoned foods and the leering gazes of overexcited men, you began to feel overstimulated. You stuck close to your father as he led you into the heart of the throng, finding comfort in the familiar when surrounded by the foreign. Better the devil you know.

Oblivious to your discomfort, he reprimands you under his breath. “Stop clinging to me like a child, lest our venture fail before it has even begun.”

You’d been so taken by your surroundings that you hadn’t registered where your father was leading you to. Now you stood in front of the two men at the centre of this affair, who were seated majestically upon a golden threaded couch. You prayed you didn’t look like the bewildered little girl you certainly felt like. 

With a grand, sweeping gesture of his hand, your father bowed. 

“Imperators, what an honour it is to partake in these…wondrous celebrations with your Majesties.”

“Senator,” one of them said, voice smooth like honey but with an edge that demanded caution. His face bore a smile, but his tone was calm and measured. “What a pleasure it is to see you.” The twitch of his eyebrow suggested otherwise. “In a more agreeable mood, might I add.” The man beside him sniggers.

More agreeable? Whatever could that mean? For the second time in one night you found yourself deciphering cryptic words. Father must have angered the Emperors, somehow. 

“And you’ve brought…” He trailed off, looking at your father expectantly.

“Yes, Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla,” with a single clap and an officious clearing of his throat he stepped to the side, no longer obscuring their vision of you. “May I present my daughter…”

You managed to regain your composure, exhibiting a grace only a lady of the upper echelons of society could possess when you sunk into a deep curtsy. Lifting your gaze, you were met with the hair-raising sensation of being observed. Not just observed – scrutinised.  

A pair of eyes, deep brown like rich soil, trailed over your form. The man that addressed your father with contempt - Geta. His brows furrowed as he took the sight of you in. Lined with kohl much like yours, his eyes were smouldering in their examination.

Another pair, red-rimmed and cloudy with the haze of inebriation, were the perfect contrast. The man that sniggered - Caracalla. With irises of a cold blue hue, they would have been intimidating if they belonged to a face other than his, what with his rosy rounded cheeks and seemingly perpetual impish grin. 

Despite their differences, the relation between the men was clear as day. Flaming locks of hair and the gold laurels that circled their heads confirmed their identities. These were the infamous twin tyrants.

But it wasn’t just the weight of their eyes that you felt. Lounging around the couch in various positions and in varying states of undress, was an entourage of courtesans. You did your best to avert your gaze, as theirs bore into you. 

And what a pleasant sight you were. Adorned with ornate jewellery and clad in the finest of silks, you were easily one of the best dressed at the banquet. Before a word had been uttered, your appearance relayed a message – you were a lady of fine stature, more than accustomed to luxury and thus, would be well-suited to palace life.

Well-suited to be Empress.

Not taking any chances, your father decided not to leave anything up for interpretation.

He began listing your virtues as if reading from a handbook - 100 Things to Look For in a Roman Wife. He spoke of your piety, your beauty, your fertility. With every trait of yours that was mentioned, you grew increasingly more irate and keeping the docile smile on your face became increasingly more difficult. 

“...and lest I forget, she is most gifted with the lyre-”

“How quaint.” Caracalla interrupted, a peal of childish laughter bubbling from his lips. “He presents his daughter’s hand as if he is lobbying for a law to be passed!”

Geta scoffed, “Or a conquest to be forfeited.”

At this, Caracalla doubled over in laughter, the overfilled cup of wine in his hand threatening to spill over the rim with every jostle of his frame. Clearly there’s a joke you’re missing here.

There’s a wicked glint in Geta’s eyes that tells you this joke has guile. 

“Three sennights have lapsed since you last stood before us, spewing nonsense about abandoning our pursuit of Britannica.” The vitriol that coated his voice strung a discordant note in the mellifluous tune of his brother’s continuous laughter. “Yet here you stand in your Emperors’ palace,” he gestured at the ongoing frivolities. “Drinking and making merry with spoils from the very war you so vehemently opposed.” 

Ah. It finally clicked. From what you had picked up from your father and his associates’ discussions, you knew that this conquest had long since been under contention among the Senators. The campaign was taking longer than anticipated, and required more reinforcements than expected. The Roman force was fatigued. At home, the starving plebeians of Rome were one famine away from revolting, and without the full support of the army, politicians relied on empty promises to appease their constituents and maintain order. Yet, the Emperors were adamant on expanding Rome’s borders.

For whatever reason, at the last Senate meeting three weeks ago your father had been the unfortunate soul to suggest that the troops should draw back. And now he stood before them at the celebration of the successful conquest, presenting you as a bargaining chip to secure his pardon. Opposing the Emperors was costly, and he decided you were going to pay that price on his behalf.

Geta leaned his head on his hands as he asked, “Tell me, Senator, what makes you think you will triumph this time?”

You watched your father’s reaction with bitter disbelief. For the first time in your life, your silver-tongued father, the man that had landed you this fate, floundered for words.

Fine. If this was the hand dealt to you, so be it. But you were going to do this your way.

“Your Majesties,” At the sound of your sweet voice, Geta’s gaze affixed itself to your face. Instantly, he was beguiled. “If I may…” 

With the slow incline of his head, you were permitted to speak. 

“I know little of war,” you feigned ignorance. “But I do know that defying the odds to bring glory to Rome is no small feat.” Preening at your praise, Geta leaned forward in his seat, a silent encouragement for you to continue. “Rome and her citizens are fortunate to be led by you, Imperators, and I am grateful to be in the presence of such wise rulers.”

His mouth spread into a self-satisfied smirk. “I bask in your praises, my lady. It pleases me to see that someone in your family has a semblance of loyalty to the powers above them” A pointed look was shot at your father. “You see, all those that oppose their Emperors,” His venomous gaze roved over the group of Senators shifting uneasily as they watched this ordeal. “Will soon learn that there is only one way for a man to wield power.” He held up his index finger for emphasis and paused for suspense. “War.”

With all the self-assurance of a man that has never truly been challenged, he stalked towards you.

“What other power can bring a man to his knees and cause him to surrender?”

“I can think of nothing greater than war!” Caracalla piped up from behind him.

“Yes, brother.” Geta held his cup of wine up in agreement. “By no other means can a man wield such power. I am sure my lady agrees?” He offered his right hand, each finger as bejewelled as the next.

The ultimatum he presented you with was clear. Kiss the ring, let all be forgiven and allow this encounter to end pleasantly. Refuse the ring, and…well, don’t refuse the ring.

But compliance was predictable, and would only get you so far. Your beauty and charm had ignited a spark of interest in him, but that wasn’t enough. You needed that spark to burst into a flame.

With swan-like grace you knelt before him and took his hand, smiling inwardly when his eyes followed your descent with rapture. You didn’t miss his quick intake of breath when you halted your movements to look up and meet his eye, lips an inch away from the stunning signet ring.

“Upon second thought,” You tilted your head as if considering his words. “There exists another power great enough to make a man kneel in surrender.” At your bold words, the hand you held tightened around your fingers until he had a firm grip of your hand. “A power so great, even Emperors are not immune.”

Gasps of shock came from the onlookers sober enough to process what they had heard.

“Impertinence!” Caracalla’s cry of protest tore you from the captivity of his brother’s gaze. 

“Forgive my daughter, she oversteps her bounds.” Your father spat the words out and fixed you with a look of warning, a late and unappreciated attempt to de-escalate the night’s proceedings.

With a wave of Geta’s hand, his words were dismissed. For the sake of keeping your resolve, you pretended not to see the Praetorians return their drawn swords to their scabbards.

You returned to the intense stare of brown eyes narrowed in… intrigue? Suspicion? You weren’t sure, but you had his attention. 

“And what power would that be?”

Your gentle smile had him entranced. “The strike of a drum, the strum of a lyre’s strings. Music, my Imperator, holds much power.”

See, while your father was busy waxing lyrical about you, you had been studying Geta closely. As he listened to others speak, his fingers unconsciously tapped the thigh of the courtesan perched on the arm of the couch. But they were not tapping any old rhythm – they tapped to the beat of the percussion in the background.

The ring your lips had puckered up to kiss was not embossed with an imprint of Mars, the god of war, but Apollo, god of music. Geta the Emperor championed conflict and violence, but Geta the man held music dear.

Rich eyes twinkled as his laugh rang in your ears. “Ah, yes. Your father mentioned your skill with the lyre. He failed to mention your humour.” He didn’t believe you.

“I assure you, Imperator, my lyre-playing is unparalleled.” You indulged him with a coy smile.

“You believe you would best our most talented musician? That your playing would put your Emperors’ finest to shame?” He challenged your claim.

“Given the chance, I would outplay each of the Nine Muses,” you asserted boldly. You rose to his challenge.

His eyes gleamed with ardour as he regarded your statement with a raised brow. “I await the day I hear you play with baited breath, my lady.”

“It would be my pleasure, my liege.”

Not risking any more excitement, you curtsied and took your father’s arm as he guided you towards the outskirts of the atrium, and away from watching eyes. He wasted no time expressing his displeasure.

“Have you lost your senses, girl? Has some strange plague come over your mind?!” He released an exasperated sigh. “You should have held that tongue of yours.”

 “Oh, and left you there, stammering like a bumbling fool? Father,” you uttered the paternal term without an ounce of familial affection. “You entrusted this ploy into my hands, so leave it there.”

Anger flashed across his face like a clap of thunder. Before he could berate you for your indolence, however, a piercing shriek stole the moment.

You pushed through the crowd to see the commotion, weaving past bodies stilled with shock at whatever it is they were witnessing. When you got to the centre, you were met with a most harrowing display of fraternal discord.

Geta lay sprawled out on the marble floor, the corded muscle of his limbs tensing as he strained to hold back the man towering over him, wielding a dagger above his head. Caracalla. 

At first glance one may have supposed this fray was borne of anger, but with the spittle flying out of gritted teeth that gnashed and snarled like those of some inhuman beast, the incoherent stream of words and the crazed look in his eyes, it was clear that he did not have full agency of his person.

The rumours were true. He was having one of his infamous episodes.

Your eyes darted from Praetorian to Praetorian, waiting for one of them, any of them to take action. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, hesitation rooting them to their spots. To raise a hand against Caracalla would be treason, punishable by death. To ignore the distress of Geta would be treason, also punishable by death. They were at an impasse.

The chatter of mingling guests and the ambience of the musicians’ instruments had long since stopped, leaving the grunts of the brothers to take their place. All watched on in stunned silence, revelers turned horrified spectators.

Their scrambling continued. Geta managed to hook a leg around Caracalla’s ankle, toppling him over to join him on the cold marble. Wine cups clanged as they were knocked to the ground, collateral. The cacophony of sound nearly masked the sound of Geta’s desperate plea.

“Break the spell! Break the spell!”

Moved by an impetus you couldn’t explain, you barreled further through the crowd until you reached the musicians’ corner. You grabbed the lyre from the hands of the bard (who was too focused on the ongoing tumult to protest), and started strumming the tune of a nursery rhyme favoured by Roman children both rich and poor. 

Dulcet tones and sweet symphonies echoed through the chamber as you sang of Rome’s rolling hills, of fair maidens awaiting the return of brave soldiers, of the Tiber River’s ebb and flow.

Those around you listened intently, enraptured. They stepped aside, clearing a path for you towards the quarreling brothers. You walked forward as you sang, and as you reached the last verse you stood a few feet away from where they squirmed, limbs akimbo. 

From your position you saw the exact moment the muscles in Caracalla’s face relaxed, and his body went limp. He released a weak whimper better-suited to an injured animal than the tyrannical emperor he was rumoured to be.

Eyes fixed on you over his brother’s shoulder, he dropped the dagger as if compelled. Tears began to run down his face as he wailed, balling himself up into a foetal position. When they noticed his change in disposition, his entourage took the chance to spirit him away from the room. 

The final note of your song rang out. A beat passed as everyone came to, as if they too were held captive in a trance. Then, a slow, steady clap from one became a roaring applause, your fellow guests lauding your performance as if it had been planned. 

Chest heaving from exertion, Geta used a three-legged (formerly four-legged) stool to pull himself from the floor and adjusted his toga. At the raise of his hand, the clapping stopped. Flopping back to sit on the couch, he gestured for you to come forward. His expression was inscrutable. 

Before you could scrape together an apology, or some sort of explanation, you were utterly disarmed by the grin that spread across his face. 

“My lady,” He huffed between words, still catching his breath. “I stand corrected. It appears your flair with the lyre is equally as bewitching as your looks.”  

Your cheeks heated up at his confession of attraction towards you. “It pleases me that you think of me so, my Emperor.”

“Mmm.” He hummed, dark eyes taking their time to appraise you. “The power to bring a man to his knees can be very dangerous, you know. I believe it would be in the best interest of Rome and her citizens if such power was… managed by the capable hands of their Emperor.”

The chill of deja vu ran down your spine when he extended his hand in your direction. A second invitation to kiss the ring. Most people only get one.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

As your lips made contact with the cold metal of Apollo’s face and you sealed your fate, you closed your eyes and said a silent prayer. When you opened them again, you found eyes the colour of rich soil searching yours. 

He turned the hand that gripped his and pressed a surprisingly sweet kiss to the back of it. His kisses travelled up your arm, growing more and more fervent, the plush of his lips leaving warmth on every spot they pressed against. He used his hold on you to pull you towards him until you were close enough to smell the heady scent of patchouli mixed with the subtle musk of perspiration, and count the freckles on his speckled cheeks, peeking through the layer of makeup. 

His palm ran up and down your arm repeatedly, inching further up each time.

“You will make a home for yourself here, in these palace walls.” Brown eyes gazed into yours, full of a veneration you couldn’t fathom. “And you shall be my little Muse.” 

As if the troubles of your life thus far had not been a sufficient allotment of suffering, the Fates had now tasked you with weathering the twin tempers of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla. And surviving.

Gods help you.

A/N: thank you ever so much for reading ! i'm working on part two so let me know if you want me to post it when it's done <3

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated x

© onyxstyx tumblr 2025

[hello-eden]

Dcxdp #22

Danny's human half dying as collateral during a fight. That human half goes into reincarnation and is reborn as Damian Wayne. He isn't born with all of his memories but he definitely feels that something is wrong. they would get their Memories Back at about 8 and have a horrible time dealing with being an assassin. Danny would try to stick to the personality they already had before but there's definitely slip-ups of them being like yeah this is wrong and Talia thinks they take after their father because of it. 

The first thing Danny does when they're not being monitored by their mom or the bat family is to look for Phantom. Phantom to have run away to the ghost Zone and has built a reputation as a merciless ruler. He's a good ruler and he's not a tyrant but  he doesn't have the reputation of kindness. Damien as the moral compass of the duo is really funny to me.

 There's a situation later that involves ghosts which is where Danny/Damian and Phantom meet again. I want there to be a very big misunderstanding that heroes think Phantom is obsessed with Damien but in reality they are literally other halves of a soul. Phantom keeps doing and saying things that no one else would get away with around Damien. Phantom would be saying things like making fun of his height or giving him nicknames but as far as anyone else sees Damian doesn't even flinch.

Danny/Damian and Phantom have lived Separate Lives for a while so they don't automatically fuse into one person. I think they would fuse for a few hours just to feel themselves be one Soul again but they have Separate Lives so they can't stay that way. The bat family is very concerned with Damien continuing to talk to the obsessive ghost that keeps possessing his body.

[seravphs]

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — GOJO x FEM READER

Gojo Satoru likes his girls clingy. 

wc — 1k

tags — confident reader 

He lets you loop your arms around his neck and whine for kisses, gifts, everything he has. With an unlimited budget and the deep pockets of a man in love, he spoils you rotten. 

Here’s the problem with being the strongest: you will always be the strongest. From the day he was born, there was no competition. Gojo didn’t even have to begin to outstrip his peers. He was simply born better than them. 

But eventually, even that level of talent grew exponentially until he went from being simply unbeatable to untouchable. His growth was incomparable, leaving him a lonely god on his own plane of existence. 

That’s why he needs you: sweet and soft and demanding. Everyone else had it all wrong. 

The Gojo clan spoiled their young head rotten. Knowing that he would bear the burden of the world from the moment he was born and those blue eyes opened, his mother demanded her child grow up in peace. Nothing was asked of him, no demands, no pleas for help. 

The outside world relied on Gojo as their saviour, but within the Gojo compound, he was just a spoiled little boy whose mother adored him. 

The way he acts within the walls of the Gojo stronghold is a carefully kept secret. He’s as soft as a newborn kitten, hair carefully washed by his childhood nurses and left out to sun in a patch of light. He’s sleepy and warm and mellow, hardly the strongest anymore. Without knowing any of this, you somehow bring that back out in him years later. 

An auxiliary manager in training, you first met him when you were tagging along with Ijichi on one of Gojo’s missions. Ijichi was flustered, even more so than usual, at the thought of having to care for a mentee when he could hardly take care of himself.

It only made matters worse that your first mission would be with Gojo. His heart sank into the pit of his stomach, despairing at how he would inevitably fail to shield you from his barbed comments and wicked teasing. 

In the end, he needn’t have worried. The two of you turn the tables on him. 

Poor Ijichi. 

It started off as a way to bully him more, because Gojo could be such a little tyrant. 

“Come on, Ijichi. Let her tag along, what’s the harm!” 

“You heard him,” you had announced self-importantly, and thrown yourself promptly into the passenger seat. 

That was usually Gojo’s seat, but he was willing to give it up for some amusement. 

You hadn’t been given permission to go on this mission, but you had insisted. First you wheedled, then you whined, finally you outright demanded. You wanted see the powerful Satoru Gojo in action. 

He leans forward, arms draped over the back of your seat. He pokes your cheek playfully as he says, “Oh, are you a fan?” 

“As if!” You scoff. “I don’t care about you, I care about your cursed technique.” 

Gojo takes your bluntness in stride. Maybe it’s the way your eyes sparkle when you talk about his technique (he caught you demanding details on Hollow Purple from Ijichi once) or maybe it’s the way your cheeks puff out when you pout. He knows you’re lying. Part of your assignment to Ijichi is because you begged Masamichi to be placed where you could watch Gojo work. 

It’s easy work for him. The curse is vaporized in seconds. He makes it look so weak you wonder why they even bothered with it at all until you remember that this curse had been failed to be exorcised by a first grade sorcerer who had come back licking his wounds. It’s not that it’s weak, it’s that he’s too strong. 

“Anyone up for lunch? My treat,” Gojo says, still immaculate as ever. 

Ijichi, who had been standing so close he got covered in some strange muck, not even from the curse but from Hollow Purple cutting through the mud, looks at him suspiciously. Gojo is never this nice. 

You have no such reservations. Ijichi yelps and protests when Gojo brings you to a luxurious restaurant in the heart of Tokyo without a reservation, relying on the strength of his name alone. He doesn’t even eat much, content to watch you order whatever you like on his dime. It amuses him, the way you’re so confident about it, as if you know he won’t refuse you. 

He won’t. 

By the time you order dessert - for you and Gojo, telling him he’ll like whatever you choose for him - he can’t bear the burning question that’s been lurking in the back of his mind anymore. 

“Smoke break!” He demands cheerfully. 

“You don’t even smoke!” Ijichi says, terrified, as if Gojo is some high school bully dragging him out under another pretense to shake him down for cash. He might, just for fun. 

You smile and wave them off. You wouldn’t let Gojo do that seriously, but Ijichi is just so fun to tease. You’ll come rescue him later if it looks like he’s really miserable. 

“Alright, spill the beans,” Gojo says, leaning against the doorframe and blockading Ijichi from going back inside. “What’s her deal?” 

Ijichi just stares at him slack jawed, open mouthed, terrified, clearly still waiting for some kind of attack. 

“Oh, come on! I’m not that mean to you, am I?” Even Gojo can’t resist a twitchy smile at what he’s saying. “Who is she? Where’s she from?” 

Ijichi blinks. “She’s just some girl. Masamichi hired her.” 

“She’s a right little princess,” Gojo murmured. “What, is she the daughter of a clan head or something? Maybe even the Three Clans?” 

Ijichi sighs. “You would think so with that attitude, but she just comes from a normal non-sorcerer family.” 

“Her?” Gojo asks disbelievingly. “A girl like that? Impossible.” 

“It’s true,” Ijichi says. “I don’t even know where Masamichi picked her up.” 

Gojo returns to his seat with a overly sweet parfait waiting for him. You’re right, he does like it. Or maybe he likes it because you’re finally giving him your full attention, waiting with rapt delight to see if he’ll give it full stars. 

He thinks he might take you out to dinner more, if it gets you to look at him like that. You might not be a clan princess yet, but he can’t wait to make you one.

[heich0e]

"we're having a costume party at school next week!"

sukuna's only acknowledgement of his nephew's words is that half hum/half grunt sound he makes so often—the one that always seems mostly involuntary and entirely disinterested. to the uninitiated, it might come across as dismissive, but thankfully, having spent his entire life around his uncle, yuuji's fluent enough in his unspoken language to interpret the meaning behind the man's sounds without needing him to elaborate.

"yup!" he continues. "will jichan help me pick my costume?" 

sukuna looks over at his nephew, finally tearing his eyes away from the screen of his phone. 

"me?" he asks with a quirk of his brow. 

yuuji is on the other side of the low table at the centre of the living room, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet in excitement with his two little hands pressed against the table top where his colouring pages and markers sit abandoned.

"yeah! i gotta pick a good one." yuuji nods enthusiastically. 

sukuna breathes a short breath out through his nose, but yuuji understands that, too—the sound of his beloved uncle conceding, if not outright agreement to his demands. 

"well i'm not paying for any costume, so your dad better be ready to cough up some cash," sukuna says, slumping back against the sofa behind him and stretching his sock-clad feet out under the kotatsu. "what are your ideas so far?" 

"dunno!" yuuji comes bounding around to his side of the table, clambering into his uncle's lap and settling in there. 

"why don't you just dress up like a tiger cub again?" sukuna asks, shifting to accommodate the squirming brat now trying to make himself comfortable atop him. 

yuuji purses his lips like he's thinking about it. "papa said so too."

yuuji's dressed up like a tiger cub almost every year since he was born (sukuna has many, many photos on his phone to prove it.) it's tried and true. both itadori brothers are decidedly weak to the little boy dressed with fluffy ears and a little tail. it must be genetic. 

"but kugisaki said she's dressing up like a cat, so nobody else is allowed to," yuuji adds after a moment of contemplation. 

sukuna's met yuuji's school friend kugisaki nobara once or twice when picking his nephew up from school, or dropping him off at play dates on the weekend. the kid's a tyrant. 

"off limits then," sukuna says—a bit resentfully, since he won't have another series of photos to add to his phone camera's gallery this year. "so what else?" 

"hmmmm," yuuji holds his little chin in his hand as though deep in thought. "what about a ghost?"

"boring," sukuna replies immediately. 

"a dog?"

"that's too close to a cat," the man shoots that down just as quickly as the first one. “your bossy little friend won’t like that.”

yuuji nods sagely in agreement and then tries again.  “how ‘bout a police officer?" 

"cops are losers, brat," sukuna says, suddenly stern. he points at him to add emphasis. "they're not your friends and we don't trust 'em."

yuuji's lips form a little 'o'.

"papa says—"

"your dad's a square, don't listen to him," sukuns lifts the hand that had been pointing at his nephew’s chest and flicks him lightly on the forehead. he yelps in complaint.

"if the police is bad then who do i call if i'm in trouble?" yuuji asks through a pout, rubbing the spot between his brows his uncle had just hit.

"me, obviously," the older man answers without missing a beat.

"oh," yuuji says, his expression evening out again as he acceptis this answer simply. “’kay!"

“so what else is there?” sukuna rubs his chin thoughtfully as he reflects on yuujii’s options. kids’ costumes are—decidedly—not really his area of expertise. in fact, the images that come to mind when he thinks of costumes should really not even be mentioned in the same sentence as children.

“i gotta be something cool,” yuuji insists, watching his uncle think. 

“yeah, yeah,” sukuna grunts. “what about somethin’ scary?” 

yuuji shrinks into himself a little. “i don’t like scary stuff.”

 “don’t be a wimp,” sukuna teases him, but he holds the kid a little tighter and doesn’t bring it up again. there’s a black marker on the living room floor by his thigh, with the word WASHABLE printed in thick block letters along the side. sukuna picks it up, tapping it against the ground as he contemplates his options while his nephew does the same. 

tap, tap, tap.

“what about a pumpkin?” 

“lame. what about a demon?”

“demons are scary, jicha—“

“yeah, yeah.” 

sukuna tosses his head back to rest against the sofa cushions, an arm slung across his eyes. 

when he opens them again, inspecting his own forearm, he suddenly has an idea.

(when jin comes home from work, he finds his little brother and his son shirtless in the living room—one inked in tattoos, and one sporting a crude approximation of the same tattoos scrawled in washable marker. jin freezes in confusion at the sight. 

“papa, i’m jichan!” yuuji beams proudly up at his father, arms outstretched in display. jin’s eyes turn next to his brother, who’s looking particularly smug.

“kid said he wanted a cool costume,” he shrugs. 

yuuji goes as a tiger cub again that year.)

[rs-hawk]

NOBLEMAN MINOTAUR! NOBLEMAN MINOTAUR!!

Part Two

Minos was a tyrant king and DESERVED to be murdered. His wife's bastard son did just that, and freed his mother's people. She did not want to be a ruler, instead wanting to stay with her new husband on Olympus, but neither did Minotaur. He was a frightened thing, afraid of what his hands and done, and could do again. He could not trust himself to be a ruler. Instead, Pasiphae searched for someone who never cared for Minos, but would be a fair and kind ruler.

Despite her previous cursed madness, she still loved her son and wanted him to be happy. He was not the first monster born of a God's cruel joke, and he would not be the last. She would not place anyone on the throne who would not ensure her son was cared for. So many rejected even the power she offered them as she refused to budge on that. Her son would be taken care of. He would be seen as a person. She hadn't had the power to ensure it now, but she did now.

It took much longer than she expected, but she found a man to take over her husband's throne. The son of a knight who had decided to become a merchant. He was older now, with grown children of his own, but he still had many good years left to rule. He could guide you, his daughter, or maybe a future son in law to rule. When he saw Minotaur, he didn't flinch. He smiled, asking how he was, being even kind with his small talk. He offered the monster a position on his court. His mother's blood still ran in his veins, so it was the least your father could do.

After your family moved in, you were amazed by everything in the palace. Especially the monster of a man who lived in one of the smaller dwellings on the palace grounds. You would watch in awe as he roamed the grounds. How could someone so huge be so gentle? He took even great care not to step on the flowers.

You didn't know that he watched you too, wanting to approach you, but afraid of his own strength. So instead, he would creep into the main palace at night, taking peeks of you in your thin nightgowns as you wandered out to the balcony to overlook the garden, or snuck a snack from the kitchen, going back to his own to fist his throbbing cock to the sight of your nipples poking through the thin fabric in the cool night air.

[sukunas-wife]

Sealed 3

Part: 1 2 4

“Lady Y/n please settle down. You’ll make yourself sick if you-” Mori paused hearing the lullaby playing throughout the sound of the Hospital. You turned to Wasuke he didn’t look to please, he sat arms crossed over his chest staring blankly at the floor, his eyes flickering up to meet yours.

“Well, he’s alive.”

You waited eagerly until a nurse came to guide you all in, over time you wormed your way into the Itadori’s life making a point to become good friends with Kaori and Jin in the brief time before her due date. You know one thing you’d never trust her, Kenjaku to be exact, which is why it surprised you when she asked Jin if they could assign you as a God Mother if anything happened. Jin suggested maybe after Wasuke, you didn’t have a problem saying you were a neighbor if they ever needed you, you were next door.

Walking in the room you rushed over to Kaori seeing your son, except in this life he lacked the little marking on his forehead that matched his dad perfectly, but he was crying painfully loud. “Oh Kaori he’s precious, a little crying prince.” You tried to laugh it off before you squeezed her in a hug and she smiled “My little Yuji.” She tried to rock him Your heart skipped when he let out a loud cry hands shaking face reddening, you smiled at her with a loss of air “Yuji?”

She nodded at your question explaining it was a decision made for them. It didn’t feel right to name him anything else, you smiled and looked at his little round face, “hold him, you’ll be in his life as long as your around. Maybe he’ll calm down.”

She tried to offer Yuji, you hesitated looking at Wasuke and Jin, they were talking. You looked at Kaori, she smiled weakly and you nodded, as soon as you placed his head on your chest he feel into place the way he had once. Your teary eyes mixed with how quiet and calm he became when his little fist took hold of your shirt called attention. “Look at that.” Wasuke say elbowing Jin.

You smiled at Yuji’s little scrunched up face before turning to smile at Kaori, she smiled at you while trying to move around in the hospital bed, “He’ll be lucky to have you in his life, it seems like he likes you already.”

You spent the day with Kaori in the hospital when Jin and Wasuke left to bring her some take out and get a few things ready. You were sat by her bed holding Yuji who took hold of your finger, he was holding for life, you moved him around seeing that star mark of your binding vow. You looked over at Kaori, she was smiling but looked tired, “Take care of him y/n, if anything happens make sure he knows what it’s like to have a loving mother.” With a soft laugh you nodded, “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’re going to both be fine. You’ll get up, take him home and have a happy little family.” Your smile would’ve been reassuring if it actually reached your eyes, but your eyes held the trace of faint tears. Tears of the memory when Yuji was Born screaming, when Sukuna was so proud to see his boy being held up to show he was the first heir. The tight grip he held on Sukuna’s finger, the way Yuji was quick to nuzzle into your chest and not let go. How Sukuna didn’t leave your side for weeks wanting to take the first few weeks to admire his wife and first born son. Back when Sukuna had a sense of Humanity still. Now you could feel it, the evil that was slowly seeping into the world as the seals that held Sukuna captive weakened. Kaori had fallen asleep when you kissed Yuji’s forehead, running your thumb over his cheek when he yawned.

“Sleep little prince, I’ll be here always.” Nuzzling your forehead against his he cooed before he briefly opened his eyes, his little brown eyes were golden in the light of the afternoon soon. You held onto him while he slept until Jin and Wasuke returned. Mori stood to the side, watching it all. Wondering how different you were before you picked him up out of the scum he slept in every night. How could the tyrant he learned to be Sukuna have been your husband? Was he not the cruel King of Curses everyone had logged and preached him to be? Were you as cruel of a monster before the sun set on the Golden Age?

🤍❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🤍❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🤍

“My condolences” was all you said as you bowed to Wasuke before entering the shrine room to pay your respects. It hadn’t been long after Kaori and Jin came home, they found her dead, details hadn’t been shared but seeing the split on her skull at the mortuary you had known well enough what it was. Jin followed soon after leaving Wasuke with his grandson. Kaori had made it know that she trusted you completely with Yuji, which lead to you signing the legal documents for becoming a Godmother. That was one decision Wasuke agreed with entirely.

———————

There you sat on the floor of Wasuke’s living room, cooing and playing with Yuji not to long before his first birthday. Pressing on the bottom of his feet while he kicked back, “Look at you little baby” you wiggled his legs and he giggled, “Getting all ready to walk! You’re growing up so fast!” Yuji cooed before sitting up with a baby grunt and staring up at you, you let him crawl into your lap and sit there before you squeezed, “Aw my little Yuji.” Kissing his head and squeezing him in one more hug you let him sit in your lap, clapping along to whatever was on the tv. “Mm your grandpa’s taking a while longer than expected, wanna eat and get ready for bed?” Yuji cooed mindlessly watching the tv until you pulled him up with you, he squirmed turning to look at you, his little chubby hands on your cheeks trying to squish your face, “baaba.” “Mhmm, Baaba, Bottle.” He kept cooing until you gave him a warm bottle.

“Well, has a cold so it you and I.” Yuji was still drinking out of his bottle laying his head on your shoulder. The other hand squished between both your chests, his eyes looking up at you. “You still look so much like your daddy… speaking of him, his presence is stronger I wonder if something really is changing…”

Yuji had fallen asleep against your shoulder, soft breaths as he barely held onto the bottle. Slipping it out of his hand you made your way to your room, Morí was finishing setting up a bassinet cushion on your bed.

“Everything’s ready Lady Y/n” you smiled “Thank you Morinozuka.” He bowed before leaving and you laid Yuji down, tucking him in with a blanket. Running your fingers over his little fists to uncurl his fingers, leaning down you kissed his forehead and he whined, “Good night little prince.”

🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤🤍🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤

Soon you were walking a young Yuji to school and back. Watching how he ran and jumped on playground before you got to the school. He purposely woke up early to be able to play, “mommy!” Your eyes snapping to Yuji when he cried sitting on the stairs to a slide. Rushing over to him you knelt to see him cradling his knee. “What’s wrong did you get hurt?” He sniffled little cheeks getting red as he puffed them out.

“my knee.” You pouted with him when he moved his hand, “Don’t worry baby, I’ll fix it right up.” Pulling Yuji’s back pack off your shoulder you opened a little tin, it had bandaids you’d infused with cursed energy. Pulling out a bigger bandaid with a smiling chibi tigger your laid it over his knee, and he sniffled flinching, “Don’t worry, when you take it off you’ll be okay again.” Taking his face in your hands you kissed his forehead and he tried to hug you “thank chu.” He placed a wet kiss on your cheek that you wiped off when he wasn’t looking because you didn’t wanna hurt his little feelings.

“Alright! Let’s get you to school, I gotta buy some groceries for later.” You took his hands and he swung them back and forth, “Can we have noodles?”

He looked up at you starry eyed with a little bit of drool, you nodded, “Noddles with rice and fried egg?” He nodded excitedly “yeah!”

“Alright Yuji’s specialty to Start off the week it is.” You swung your hand with his and smiled looking ahead, stopping outside the schools gate where a teacher was waiting, “Bye mommy!” He hugged your side before rushing in, you waved at him when he turned back, “you didn’t say bye!” He screamed running back, “Bye Yuji,” he nodded running back before stopping again, “You didn’t tell me have a good day!” The teacher giggled when you smiled at her “Have a good day Yuji!” He nodded before you called him to come back, he was walking back and started running when he saw you kneel with open arms, when he ran into your hug you shook him side to side and he giggled. He leaned back from your hug “I love you Yuji, be good ,play nice and have a good day okay?” He gave a single nod, “Okay!” “Bye mommy love you!” He took off running, waving back at you with a closed eye smile.

“He’s very cute, everyone loves him and he’s very easy to make friends with.” The teacher smiled at you, “Yeah? That’s good, at least I know I don’t have to worry about him. Thank you.” You bowed your head to the teacher who brushed you off, “Please the pleasure is ours, Yuji is a little ray of sun on rainy days honestly.”

🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤🤍🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤❤️🖤🖤

“Wasuke.” Was all you could say when he told you what he knew, “Yuji’s mother Kaori was a curse. It wasn’t hard to tell but I knew my son couldn’t handle it. I’m old in age and you might think I’m crazy, a loony old man. I failed to save my own son, I let him get taken by a curse, I could have saved him. But I was a coward, I saw that woman with her skull split open, she was dead and she should’ve stayed dead. But that thing living inside her…” you placed a hand on his.

“I understand what you mean Wasuke, I couldn’t save someone precious to me long ago to a curse. I could see them as long as I’ve been alive. That’s a world so cruel I wouldn’t wish for anyone to have to live through it…” your blank stare on his hand as he turned his hand over, “Who did you lose y/n?” His stare was fixed on you.

“I should tell you, it’s the only parting gift I have to give. Yuji was my son in what would be his previous life, his Father was a powerful man. One day a group sorcerer’s turned on him, sealing him away. His presence is strong in this world still, he’s alive. Yuji was our only son, and they took him from us dealing him in time to be reborn in a time distant from our. It was a mistake on their part. I was locked in a box called the Prison Realm, a place where Time stands still and you’ll lose your sanity before you die. A man following an ancient tale found that Box where our capturer’s died. I haven’t the slightest idea how he did it but he set me free in exchange I bless his wife with a healthy pregnancy, I did and for years I built a following. Before that, on the day of the attack Yuji and I made a binding Vow that I would find him again, it’s why he has that star shaped mark on his forearm. When I tell him this same story and he understands completely the Vow will be completed, and they’ll disappear.”

Wasuke looked at you, thinking over your words while staring at your arm where you had rolled up your sleeve, it was the same mark as Yuji. He started laughing head thrown back into his pillow “They could say I’m crazy. But they would label you insane, but at least we’d both have middle ground on the truth here.” He squeezed your hand weakly and you squeezed back, “Take care of Yuji, your son, my only grandson.” You nodded, “I will, I’ll do anything to make sure i never lose him or see him get hurt again. For what felt like endless nights I relived the same memory of him crying, screaming and reaching out, and I’ll be damned if I ever let that happen again.”

Wasuke nodded before patting your hand, “He’ll be getting home soon, you should be there for him, especially today.” You felt his words deeply, the ache in your chest, he was predicting his own death. You nodded before bowing at his bed side, “Thank you for everything Wasuke Itadori, I pray you find peace in the afterlife.”

He snorted waving you off, “find peace in this life or you’ll never have it. Now go.”

———————

You were at home, it was quiet, the sound of boiling brother, the window cracked open letting the sound of crickets and bird coo’s fill the kitchen. Yuji had moved in with you when Wasuke was moved into the Hospital. Morí was at the table filling out a book from your old shrine. You had started shrine work here while Yuji was at school making sure to keep it private.

The sound of scribbling and your slicing of vegetables stopped when you looked out the window. It was setting, the sun, everything was quiet when you felt a sense of dread and a wave of cold wash over you. Scribbling stopped when the phone line began to ring, you knew what it was. “Hello, am I speaking with l/n y/n?”

“Yes, this is her.” A shaky breath, “Wasuke Itadori has passed away, I offer my condolences. Yuji Itadori is here and filling out the necessary paper work. We’ll give you a call when all the necessary preparations have been made.”

Thanking the nurse you hung up, trembling slightly as you tried to keep slicing vegetables. “Wasuke..” it didn’t take long for your noodles and rice to finish.

“Where’s Yuji? He should be home by no-” your entire body shook as you gasped, your heart thrumming in your chest, “ Ryomen…”

@needsleep3000 @lunafrisk303999 @ang3lz-lov3 @christinerose380 @dl-yum @yumieis @bellinghambby22 @samatokisunfinishedcigarette @amitiel-truth @kundere20000000 @r0ckst4rjk @maybe-a-bi-witch @kouyoumarryme @wannabewolf @lunaizhere @futureittomainn @raiiny-night @3ve88 @sakuxxi @mercymccann

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part two)

warnings ; none!

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; thank u all for the love on part one!!!! eep!!!! it’s so sweet and fuzzy and… my heart 🥀 this part really delves into the dynamic of our beloved girlboss!reader and cocky ass idol!jk who just really annoys the shit out of her #freeher (the poor woman needs an escape after this one) all ur comments and asks are so cute and feel free to leave any thots in my inbox, let’s chat!

playlist here

series masterlist here

There’s no escaping him.

Not that you ever expected to, not when Calvin Klein’s biggest campaign of the year has his name attached to it. From the moment the deal was signed, your schedule became intertwined with his. Brand meetings, strategy calls, shoot planning sessions… he’s plaguing your every thought.

You’d known, of course. You’d signed off on it yourself. You oversee every aspect of this campaign, and that means oversight of him, how he’s presented, how he moves through the brand’s world, how the final product will be shaped.

But, knowing something in theory and experiencing it in reality are two very different things.

If he’s not on your Zoom calls, he’s on your email threads. If he’s not in your email threads, he’s being discussed in meetings. And now, he’s here, in the flesh, right in front of you, not making your job any easier.

The first photoshoot is set against the backdrop of a high-rise studio in downtown Seoul, a sleek industrial space with floor-to-ceiling windows,

You arrive early with Daniel and the rest of the brand’s creative team, immediately slipping into work mode. Lighting setups are checked, wardrobe racks are lined up, the creative director goes over the shot list with the photographers.

Everything moves with calculated efficiency, and you navigate the space effortlessly, clipboard in hand, scanning every detail.

You are, by all accounts, a menace with a calendar. A tyrant with a timeline. If something isn’t color-coded, cross-checked, and confirmed twice over, it doesn’t exist. You’ve planned weddings you weren’t invited to. You once scheduled a breakdown and it started early, which pissed you off. So this shoot? This shoot will run like a Swiss train: on time and terrifyingly precise. Every outfit and even a coffee break has been slotted into an airtight agenda that could withstand a nuclear winter. If spontaneity knocks, it will be turned away at the door and escorted off the premises.

Yet of course, all that goes to absolute shit when Jeon Jungkook steps onto the set twenty minutes late like he owns it.

In a way, and you hate to admit it, he does.

Dressed in black denim, a crisp Calvin Klein shirt hugging his frame, and an open jean button-up that hangs off his shoulders, he looks every bit the part of an icon. His dark hair is perfectly tousled, his tattoos stark against his skin, silver jewelry catching the studio lights with every movement.

Now, you don’t necessarily care for men. Or well, scratch that, ctrl, alt, delete. You do. Unfortunately. Against all better judgment and with mounting personal regret, you do. It’s offensive, really, how good Jungkook looks in the outfit you personally styled (and fine… you’ll admit it. The fashion team did work on all final touches.)

You genuinely feel ill. Nauseous. Your own taste is betraying you in real time. You picked this look for the goddamn aesthetic, not to have your brain short-circuit and your stomach drop like you’re 13 and doomed.

He’s spent over a decade being watched, dissected, and adored. He walks like someone who’s long made peace with the fact that all eyes will follow, that entire rooms shift on their axis the moment he steps in. He has the kind of confidence born from years of people telling him he’s extraordinary and him deciding, yeah, I’m the shit. The kind that makes you want to slap it off his face, to put it so nicely.

His gaze finds yours immediately and you do your best to barely acknowledge him.

A simple nod. A professional, detached greeting. Then, you turn back to your notes, flipping a page as if you care about the pencil scratching in your journal pad.

Jungkook doesn’t like that. That’s saying a lot, because Jungkook likes a lot of things. Expensive clothes, pretty girls, the sound of his own name trending at number one; he’s not exactly hard to please. But being ignored? That’s a different beast. Especially by you. During his photoshoot? The one where he looks like sin incarnate in head-to-toe Calvin Klein and you’re barely giving him a glance, busy scribbling like you’re allergic to his existence? Please. It’s offensive. Insulting, even.

Jungkook thrives on attention the way plants need sunlight, except he doesn’t wilt without it; he gets petty. Because really, who do you think you are? Some executive with a headset and God complex? Okay, yes, that’s exactly what you are but still.

You hear it before you see it, the amused exhale, the small click of his tongue against his teeth. “Come on. Not even a ‘good morning’?”

You don’t look up. “I assume you know what time of day it is.”

“Still so cold,” he muses, arms lazily crossing over his chest. “I was hoping we’d warmed up to each other by now.”

Daniel, standing beside you, doesn’t even glance up from his phone at his taunts. You roll your eyes, “It’s been two days, Jeon. Relax.”

Jungkook ignores that, tilting his head slightly. “Maybe I should make it my mission to see how long you can keep up this whole ice queen act.”

You finally look at him then. “It’s not an act,” you say simply.

His lips part slightly, maybe expecting you to play along, to give him something to work with. But you’re already turning back to the shoot, eyes scanning the set.

Jungkook shifts beside you, and you catch the slight twitch of his jaw, the way his tongue rolls against the inside of his cheek.

He’s irritated. Good. Maybe now he’ll shut up and do what he came here to do: stand in front of the camera, look pretty, and let the professionals handle the rest. You don’t need his commentary or whatever flirty nonsense he’s cooking up. You need him silent and in frame. You want five minutes of peace. Five. Is that so much to ask from the most attention-starved man in South Korea?

The photoshoot begins, and you remain exactly as you were before, analytical, focused on the execution rather than the man at the center of it.

Jungkook, however, is not handling it well.

He does his job because he did sign a contract, after all. He’s flawless in front of the camera, shifting effortlessly between intensity and ease. But in between takes, his eyes keep flicking toward you, searching for something — approval, irritation, anything.

There are small, almost petulant glances he throws your way. He exaggerates his movements, as if daring you to react. His mouth tightens slightly every time you remain unaffected.

You’re standing a few feet away with Daniel, eyes trained on the monitors, deep in conversation with the photographer about lighting and angle ratios like Jungkook doesn’t even exist. He’s used to being the center of gravity, the one pulling attention without trying. But you? You’re immune. Or, pretending to be, which makes him want it more.

Daniel eventually notices too. He exhales beside you, muttering under his breath. “I think you’re actually pissing him off.”

You barely blink. “He’ll live.”

Jungkook stretches lazily. “I can hear you, you know.”

Daniel shrugs. “Wasn’t exactly whispering.”

A stylist steps forward to adjust Jungkook’s shirt, but his eyes remain on you. A slow smirk creeps up on his face, “Bet she’s more fun outside of work.”

You don’t react. Not even a flicker of amusement, or a twitch of annoyance. You just turn a page in your notes.

You’ve worked with celebrities before, countless of them. Models with impossible cheekbones, actors who appear in photoshoots as stoic as they do on screens, musicians who spend half the time singing more than speaking. You know how this works.How they work.

They are charming when they need to be. Calculated, even when they pretend not to be.

You’ve seen the way they shift in and out of personas, the way they make the world fall at their feet without ever having to try. And above all, you know not to get attached. Not to care too much, not to mistake proximity for something personal.

At the end of the day, this is your job. A carefully structured exchange where both parties win.

Jeon Jungkook is no different, no matter how many times he tests you.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Luxury brand trips are a logistical nightmare. You’ll shout it from the rooftops.

The world sees the polished, effortless veneer: the private jets, the accommodations, the effortless blending of celebrities and influencers. What they don’t see is the meticulous orchestration that happens behind the scenes.

It’s not just you and Jungkook. It’s his team: managers, stylists, security. It’s your team: brand executives, PR strategists, creative directors. It’s an entire machine moving in sync, ensuring that when the cameras flash when you touch down in Los Angeles, everything looks flawless.

The airport in itself is even controlled chaos.

Jungkook’s security detail moves like clockwork, clearing pathways, keeping him shielded from prying eyes and eager phones. Your team works around it, checking baggage, confirming schedules.

Jungkook, as per usual, is unbothered.

You catch glimpses of him as you navigate through the VIP terminal, dressed in loose gray sweats and an oversized hoodie, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his inked forearm. Dark hair ruffled just enough to look effortless, AirPods in, hands tucked in his pockets.

You don’t acknowledge it. Not when fans outside the terminal scream like they’ve seen the second coming of Christ. Not when his security team moves like a highly trained boyband of their own, parting the chaos with eerie, synchronized precision. Please. You don’t get starstruck. You don’t get flustered. You’ve survived Milan Fashion Week on three hours of sleep and a juice cleanse.

It’s a commercial flight, but first-class, of course. Private travel was considered, but Calvin Klein, ever so strategic, prefers the occasional glimpse of their brand ambassador in the wild. A silent PR move.

Your boarding pass has you in 1A, which would have been fine…

Except Jungkook’s is 1B (and you’ll never forgive your assistant for this, you make a mental note of it.)

You stare at the seat next to you for a half-second longer than necessary before placing your carry-on in the overhead compartment, sinking into your seat, and immediately pulling out your iPad. Noise cancellation on. Work mode engaged.

Jungkook arrives minutes later, dropping into the seat beside you with zero urgency.

“You work too much.”

You’ve heard that before. You’ve also gotten that your laptop should pay rent for how often it’s attached to your side. It’s nothing new. Friends say it with concern, colleagues say it with admiration. It really doesn’t phase you anymore.

One hand taps against the digital screen in front of you, scrolling through a campaign brief. Your AirPods are in., and you’ve confirmed that when you tapped against your ears. There is no reason for this conversation to be happening.

But Jungkook, as you’re coming to learn, is persistent.

He leans slightly toward you, not enough to invade your space, just enough to be impossible to ignore.

“Come on,” he drawls, “At least pretend to be excited. We’re going to LA.”

You finally glance at him, expression unreadable. “I’m working.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile. “I can see that.”

You blink once. “Then why are you talking to me?”

He exhales a quiet laugh, leaning back against his seat. “Because it’s fun watching you pretend you don’t like me.”

You don’t even flinch. “I don’t pretend.”

He tilts his head, assessing. Like he’s some kind of airport therapist and you’re a particularly fascinating case study in emotional repression and overachievement. Then, he does one slow, infuriating nod. As if, in the two seconds he’s been sitting next to you on this plane, he’s cracked the code. Solved the mystery. You don’t even have your seatbelt buckled and he’s already looking at you like ah, yes. This one’s never known peace.

“Right. Just like you don’t take breaks.”

You return your focus to the screen in front of you, ignoring him.

He stretches out slightly, legs shifting closer, tapping a lazy rhythm against his armrest. “So what’s the plan?” he asks. “We land, and then what? Straight to fittings? Or do we get one of those ridiculously overpriced hotel dinners first?”

You sigh through your nose. “We land, go to the hotel, and get some rest. Tomorrow, all business.”

Jungkook hums. “Of course it is.”

You turn a page on your iPad. “What else would it be?”

Silence. You think you’ve got him to finally pipe down. Then, with zero warning, he reaches over and pulls out one of your AirPods.

You blink at him, genuinely caught off guard.

Jungkook grins, twirling the small white earbud between his fingers. “Maybe a little fun.”

You stare at him for a long second. Without a word, you take the AirPod back, place it in your ear, and turn the volume up.

Jungkook watches you with a look of amusement head tilting slightly like you’re the most entertaining in-flight movie he’s ever been assigned a seat next to. He might as well have said challenge accepted with the way he chuckles at you.

It starts small with some light taps against the armrest, exaggerated sighs, subtle shifts in his seat as if he’s just trying to get comfortable.

You wedge your elbow against the armrest like it’s a shield. The glow of your screen bathes you in a holy light, a divine protection against the man seated beside you. You highlight key notes in yellow, underline them in red, even bold them for good measure, like the sheer force of productivity might drown out the weight of Jungkook’s gaze burning holes into the side of your face. You pretend not to see him. You pretend so hard, you could win an Oscar for Best Actress in a Scene for a new movie starring you, Ignore the Menace. And you’re doing so, so good, until the clown opens his mouth once more and peace dies before the wheels have barely left the asphalt.

“So what’s your playlist?” he questions innocently, turning his head toward you.

You keep your gaze fixed on the iPad. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely to your AirPods. “What are you listening to? Classical? Productivity podcasts? White noise? Oh wait..” he smirks, “Let me guess. Something cold and terrifying, like a stock market recap.”

You exhale slowly through your nose. “It’s none of your business.”

Jungkook hums, tapping his fingers on the armrest. “It’s gotta be classical, right? You give off the vibes of someone who looked up what music is the best for work.”

You don’t even care anymore. “And you give off toxic male rap.”

He gasps dramatically, pressing a hand over his chest. “Wow. That was uncalled for.”

Finally, you tilt your head to him, raising a brow. “Was it?”

Jungkook bites back a grin. “You wound me.”

You let out a long, slow breath, dragging your fingers across the screen of your iPad with as much patience as you can muster. “I’m trying to work.”

“I can see that,” he replies smoothly. “And I’m trying to help.”

“By doing what, exactly?”

Jungkook leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to be intentionally annoying. “By making sure you don’t die of boredom.”

Your jaw clenches. “I’m not bored.”

“Oh no, of course not.” He gestures to your screen. “I mean, who wouldn’t be riveted by… spreadsheets?”

You slam your iPad down onto the tray table with a sharp thud.

The passengers in first class don’t react because they are far too wealthy to acknowledge petty mortal noises but Jungkook? He grins widely, entirely too satisfied.

You turn in your seat, glaring at him. “Do you have an off button?”

Jungkook pretends to think about it. “Mmm. No.”

You inhale deeply, pressing your fingers to your temples. “This is a 14 hour flight.”

“Oh, I know.”

Your lips press into a thin line. “You can’t possibly be this annoying for the entire time.”

Jungkook leans back, stretching his arms over his head, biceps flexing slightly as his shirt shifts against his skin. “Wanna bet?”

You deadpan. “I will throw you out of this plane.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You can’t. We’re already too high up.”

“I’ll find a way.”

Jungkook’s laughter deepens, amused. “I like you.”

You sigh, grabbing your iPad again. “Tragic.”

“Oh, come on,” he teases, nudging your knee slightly with his. “Admit it. You’d be bored without me.”

Your fingers tighten around the device. “I was fine before you sat down.”

“Were you?” His voice is teasing but with just the faintest edge. “Because you look a little different now.”

You glance at him. “Different how?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Less ice queen. More… alive.”

For a split second, you pause. Not because what he said was particularly clever — Jungkook’s never been burdened by the weight of originality — but because being called an ice queen is somehow both insulting and weirdly flattering. He smiles, clearly pleased with himself, and you wish you could throw him out the emergency exit without violating FAA regulations.

Nonetheless, you turn the volume up on your AirPods and go back to your screen.

Jungkook sighs dramatically. “So heartless.”

Still nothing from you. There will be no reactions until the wheels of this plane touch down on United States soil.

“Honestly, it’s kind of hot.”

You don’t know what possesses you, but suddenly, you rip out one AirPod and shove it into his ear.

It takes him all of three seconds to realize what’s playing.

“You’re listening to The Weeknd?”

His voice is so scandalized that you finally let the tiniest little smile onto your face, barely.

Jungkook blinks at you, processing. His face is laced with pure betrayal, considering you’ve just shattered every preconceived notion he had about you.

You barely suppress a smirk. “What? You really thought I only listened to stock market updates?”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “I mean… yeah.”

You throw your head back against the seat, “That’s rich coming from you. You probably only listen to K-pop.”

Jungkook’s jaw drops in mock offense. “Excuse me?”

You lean back slightly, giving him a slow, assessing once-over before narrowing your eyes. “Let me guess… Stray Kids?”

Jungkook lets out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Oh, come on. That’s too obvious.”

You pretend to think harder. “Fine. TWICE? ATEEZ?”

He exhales sharply, squinting his eyes at you, “Jesus. Just say BTS and get it over with.”

You raise a brow. “I feel like that would be cheating.”

Jungkook grins, adjusting his posture slightly so he’s angled toward you. “Okay, since we’re making assumptions… what else do you think I listen to?”

You tap a finger against your chin, pretending to study him. “I don’t know… something angsty. Definitely some 90s hip-hop to feel cool. Maybe, on a rare occasion, some lo-fi beats when you’re trying to be different”

Jungkook stares at you, slow-blinking. “Are you stalking me?”

You snort, shifting your iPad to your lap. “I just have basic critical thinking skills.”

He exhales a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re dangerously good at this.”

You hum, turning slightly to face him more fully. “Alright, then. What do you think I listen to? Besides The Weeknd, of course?”

Jungkook bites his lip, eyes glinting like he’s been waiting for this challenge. “Oh, that’s easy.”

You fold your arms. “Try me.”

He leans in slightly, voice low. “You pretend to like jazz.”

You gape at him. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah.” He nods, far too pleased with himself. “You tell people you listen to jazz to sound cultured, but secretly, you have a playlist titled ‘girlboss rage’ that’s just early 2000s pop punk.”

You burst out laughing before you can stop yourself. “I do not—”

“Be honest,” he interrupts, smirking. “When was the last time you listened to Avril Lavigne?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Kinda like a fish gasping for air, fresh out of water. You narrow your eyes, pressing your lips together. “…Mind your business.”

Jungkook laughs loudly, shaking his head in victory.

Just like that, your work is completely forgotten. The conversation shifts, and you talk about concerts, about the way you never had the money to go to them growing up, and how he barely remembers a time when he wasn’t the one on stage.

You tease him about his tattoos. He teases you about being chronically online. Somewhere along the way, you tell him that you hate in-flight meals. Somewhere along the way, you also manage to forget why you were working in the first place.

It’s when, and only when, a flight attendant interrupts, clearing her throat politely, that you both snap out of it.

“Excuse me,” she says, smiling professionally. “Would you both like to order lunch?”

You blink. Lunch?

You glance at your iPad. The screen is dark, long since untouched. A fresh wave of nausea rises in your chest, not from hunger but from the horrifying realization that you, in all your hyper-disciplined glory, have just spent over an hour talking to Jungkook. Talking. Laughing, even. Worst of all, enjoying it. You swore you’d use this flight to catch up on work, to review the final media strategy deck and highlight the client notes that were due yesterday. Instead, your iPad went to sleep sometime around his third remark, and you let it. You stare down at it like it personally betrayed you. Honestly, it probably did.

He looks over at you, voice filled with fake innocence. “I thought you were busy working?”

You inhale deeply, dragging a hand down your face. You are going to kill him. Is this even in your pay grade?

After the flight attendant leaves, you immediately straighten in your seat, ignoring the look Jungkook is still throwing your way. Without a word, you pick up your iPad again, drowning yourself back in work.

Jungkook hums, completely unbothered. “That was fun.”

You don’t even peer up. “For you.”

He chuckles, then sighs, sinking deeper into his seat. “I think I’m gonna nap.”

You hum noncommittally. “Good idea.”

A few minutes later, you dare to peek, just to make sure he’s really out.

The heavens above have answered your prayers — he is. Blessed, blessed silence.

For the next few hours, the world is right again. You manage to finish multiple reports, respond to three emails, and revise a campaign strategy without interruption. It is peaceful. It is productive. Everything your heart has ached for.

And really you shouldn’t have gotten so cocky, because disaster strikes. Just as you’re finally settling into a focused rhythm, Jungkook stirs. You hear it first; the quiet inhale, the slow stretch, the rustle of fabric as he shifts beside you. You brace yourself for impact.

“Did you miss me?”

Your eye twitches. Goddamnit.

“No,” You say flatly, not looking up.

Jungkook lets out a hoarse, sleep-heavy chuckle. His voice is groggy, unfairly attractive (and you hate to see it.) “Damn. What time is it?”

You exhale through your nose. “Time for you to continue not talking.”

Jungkook beams, “Wow. You missed me, huh?”

You turn back to your screen. “Not even for a second.”

He stretches again, rolling his shoulders, sighing loudly. Does the man have any concept of personal space and inside voice? Probably not, but you keep typing anyway.

Then, to your point, he starts talking again.

“You always this fun on flights?” he says, tapping absentmindedly against the leather of his chair. “Or am I just special?”

You still don’t look up. “If by special, you mean insufferable, then yes.”

Jungkook laughs, then shifts slightly closer just enough to be impossible to ignore. “So where are you from?” he asks casually.

You blink at him.“What?”

He shrugs, like it’s a completely normal question. Like he hasn’t spent the entire flight annoying you. “I’m curious.”

You resist the urge to sigh. “Why?”

“Why not?” He smirks. “Maybe I just want to know what kind of environment produces someone so…emotionally unavailable.”

You glare at him. “I’m not emotionally unavailable.”

He tilts his head, considering. “Mmm. Jury’s still out on that one.”

You press your lips into a tight line. You do not have time for this. Maybe if you give him the answer (and you should know better), he’ll quit it. So, without thinking, you say, “Busan.”

Jungkook stills, brows lifting slightly. His mouth parts just a little, like he wasn’t expecting that answer. The thing about Busan is it’s the kind of place where you feel like you know everyone, and worse, everyone thinks they know you. You were the girl who worked two jobs in high school, the one with a mother who never quite forgave the world for how hard her life turned out.

His entire expression softens. “Me too.”

There’s something about the way he says it. His usual cockiness fades for a second. There’s no teasing lilt, no smug amusement. Just quiet, a little familiar. Jungkook says it like it means something. Like it’s a revelation. Like this shared detail is suddenly supposed to bridge the vast gap between you.

So, before he can say anything else, you shake your head, turn back to your work, and bury the moment beneath the weight of reality. Jeon Jungkook might be from Busan, but he’s also unbelievably full of himself. You are not going to fall for it.

You let out a hum “That’s nice.”

Jungkook stares. “That’s it?”

You keep scrolling through your notes. “What else do you want? A hometown reunion?”

Jungkook exhales a short laugh, “I don’t know. I just thought you’d find it cool.”

You peek at him through your lashes, “Why?”

He leans back, studying you for a moment before shrugging. “People usually do.”

There it is again. The ego. The casual arrogance. The absolute, unshakable certainty that the world is interested in him.

You sigh, tapping your stylus against your iPad. “I hate to break it to you, Jungkook, but not everything about you is a special trait. ”

Jungkook gapes at you. “I— what?”

“You heard me.”

For the first time since you met him, he looks genuinely, completely thrown, like his brain just hit a blue screen error and forgot how to reboot. It’s almost touching, really. He can’t decide whether to be offended, impressed, or propose on the spot.

Jungkook leans in slightly, narrowing his eyes. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna go back to ignoring me?”

You shrug. “That was always the plan.”

His tongue rolls against the inside of his cheek, a telltale sign of frustration. He sputters for another beat before going, “Well, I think you secretly like me.”

You exhale sharply, slamming your iPad down for the second time on this flight. The man is unbelievable.

And just like that, the momentary amnesia clears. You remember exactly why you can’t stand him.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Los Angeles is warm when you land, almost too warm for how tired you are.

The descent into LAX had been smooth, but the exhaustion settled in almost immediately after stepping off the plane. The weight of fourteen hours in the air, the unfortunate stiffness of first-class seats, the unrelenting ache of schedules waiting to be met, it all clings to you.

And judging by the low murmurs and sluggish movements of the team around you, you aren’t alone. By the time you make it through private customs and into waiting black SUVs, Daniel sighs dramatically beside you. “Food. We need food.”

There are collective murmurs of agreement.

Jungkook, lazily lounging beside his manager, half-asleep but still annoyingly composed, lifts a brow. “We eating somewhere fancy?”

“No,” you say immediately, before anyone can even think of pulling out a Michelin-star reservation. “We’re in America. Let’s eat something that actually reminds some of you of home .”

Daniel hums, intrigued. “What do you have in mind?”

You barely have to think about it. “Korean barbecue.”

You take them to your favorite spot, a tucked-away, no-frills restaurant in Koreatown, where the air is thick with the scent of sizzling meat, sesame oil, and open flames. It’s loud inside, the hum of conversations overlapping, the occasional clang of tongs against grill plates.

“You come here often?” Jungkook muses as you lead the group toward a long booth in the back.

“When I’m in LA,” you say simply, flagging down a server with an easy nod. “It’s the closest thing to home you’ll find in this city.”

Daniel slides into the booth first, followed by Jungkook’s team and yours.

“Wait.”

Jungkook’s voice cuts in immediately, halting Daniel mid-slide.

Daniel eyes him, suspicious. “What?”

Jungkook gestures vaguely toward the booth, expression all innocent. “I just think.. since she picked the place, she should have a good seat.”

You blink, watching this madness unfold.

Daniel scoffs. “And you think that seat just happens to be next to you?”

Jungkook shrugs, unbothered. “Who’s to say?”

Daniel narrows his eyes, clearly weighing his options. Jungkook raises a brow, challenging. You exhale, too tired to deal with the absurdity of two grown men engaged in a silent battle over seating arrangements (which apparently you have no say in. Like who made that rule?)

“Just sit,” you mutter, sliding into the booth before either of them can argue.

For a second, you think you’ve won.

Then Jungkook moves quickly as he slots himself beside you, the movement so smooth it barely leaves room for protest.

You don’t have time to react before Daniel groans loudly, sliding in on the other side with a deep scowl. “I hate both of you.”

Jungkook just grins. “Love you too.”

The booth is long but cramped, packed with bodies and shared plates, bottles of soju sweating condensation against the wooden table. You, however, are acutely aware of one thing. Jungkook is too close. Not enough to be obvious, but just enough for the heat of his body to radiate against yours, for the barest brush of his knee against yours beneath the table.

You keep your expression neutral, ignoring the way his thigh shifts slightly closer every time he adjusts his position, or the way he leans back against the booth, arms stretching along the backrest, fingertips just grazing your shoulder.

When the first plates of pork belly hit the grill, sizzling on impact, you pretend you also don’t notice the way Jungkook smirks when you finally pick up your chopsticks. You really don’t get what his interest in you is. It’s not like you’re doing anything seductive. You’re literally just eating dinner, holding your chopsticks like a normal, well-adjusted adult. At this point, you’re convinced you could sneeze and he’d find a way to make it flirtatious.

The conversation flows effortlessly around the table and you sip your water, nodding along, almost relaxed, until your phone buzzes quietly in your lap.

Your mother’s name flashes on the screen, bright and insistent. You don’t hesitate. Thumb to the red button. Declined. You tell yourself you’ll call back later, maybe after dessert, maybe tomorrow. Maybe when the timing feels easier.

No worth dwelling on it now, you’re busy anyway.

While you try to re-enter the conversation, your elbow bumps Jungkook’s under the table, barely skin on skin, but you recoil like you’ve been burned. Not subtly either. You yank your arm back with the kind of reflex reserved for hot stoves and childhood memories of being told boys have cooties.

You swear he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Daniel is the first to catch on. He watches you and Jungkook, brows furrowing slightly before he lets out a low snort. “This is painful to watch.”

You glance at him, expression flat. “What is?”

Daniel smirks, picking up a slice of grilled pork with his chopsticks. “You. Pretending you’re not about five seconds away from flipping the table over just because Jungkook exists.”

You exhale sharply, reaching for your water. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Jungkook hums, propping an elbow on the table, gaze flickering between you and Daniel. “I don’t know. I swear she’s about to crack.”

You nearly choke on your drink while Daniel barks out a laugh, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, sure. And I think you’re capable of shutting up for more than two minutes.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue, “Wow. I just got here, and already I’m being disrespected.”

His manager shakes his head, amused. “You’ll survive.”

Jungkook grins, then nudges your shoulder. “You still haven’t denied it, though.”

You set your glass down, exhaling slowly. “Denied what?”

“That I’ll crack through your icy exterior.”

The booth goes silent. Jungkook’s team is watching now, entertained. Here’s the thing: you’re not necessarily the frigid ice queen he’s mentioned 40 times in the past few days you’ve known him. No, you have feelings too, you swear. You’ve cried at movies, once teared up at a perfume ad, and you even pet a stray cat last week. But what you don’t do— what you refuse to do —is bend to men and their silly little habits.

Absolutely not.

You are not going to be undone by an elbow. You will not dignify that smug flicker in his eye. He needs to be humbled. And if the universe won’t do it, then congratulations, it’s your new personal mission.

You pick up your chopsticks calmly, unfazed. “Jungkook, I deal with Fortune 500 companies, hostile celebrities, and CEOs who have tried, and failed, to intimidate me. You.. don’t even make the list.”

Low snickers erupt around the table.

Jungkook smirks, leaning in slightly. “Damn. I think that was the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Daniel groans, reaching for the soju bottle. “I cannot do this sober.”

Jungkook’s manager shakes his head, muttering, “Neither can we.”

You ignore them. You ignore all of them. But what you can’t ignore is the small twitch of Jungkook’s lips, the flicker of amusement, intrigue, like he’s watching you under a microscope and finding the results fascinating. No, because why is your heart picking up speed? Why is your skin warm? He’s not even doing anything. That’s the problem. He’s just there, annoying and bothersome and stupidly attractive, and somehow your entire nervous system is reacting like he declared war on your self-control.

And well, you also certainly can’t ignore the way his knee presses just a little firmer against yours beneath the table.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

taglist ; @lovingkoalaface @maybetheproblemisme @mimi1097 @mar-lo-pap @mysjammy @yooniepot @tinytan-gerine @ashslight @sky-23s-world @myzzysstuff @elinaki92 @7fever @munchkin-kitty7-blog @koofleur @jjkluver7 @coletaehyung @jkxlvrr @amarawayne @kooslilhoe @bangchanwantsmesobad @kpopslur @senaqsstuff @sugakookies77 @tteokbokibyjk @emmie2308 @neurospicynugget @prxdajeon @majesticjung-97 @jksusawife @rkivesarchive @hyunjinswifetingzz @bjoriis @nan4rf @parkinglot-nights

[gulnarsultan]

Can i request something about the Future something like teacher teaching their students about us Reader. Example like we were force to marry the King (like Maegor and Aegon i) and we got pregnant at a young age and they didn't stop getting the reader pregnant and it only stop until we died of child birth (just like the history of like Anne Boleyn or other women, etc.) or just someone talking about her, her impact on the history, about her children, about how she gave birth so young and how she didn't deserve all of that or whatever

(btw I'm so sorry if this is confusing, English is really not my first language)

Hello dear. English is not my native language either. You have written your curiosity in an explanatory way. I hope you like it.

⛔(Warning : Pregnancy, birth and death.)⛔

》Scenario《

Septa was standing in the middle of her room. She was waiting for the students to take their seats. After everyone sat down, Septa took the book in her hand and opened it quickly.

"Today we will learn about Queen Y/N."

Some of the female students held their breath.

"The wife of the cruel Maegor? The only person who managed to stop that tyrant?"

"Yes dear. Today we will read about the fourth wife of the cruel Maegor and his true Queen."

All of the students gave Septa their full attention.

"Shortly after Maegor the Cruel usurped the throne, he went to Oldtown. He stayed there for six months. This is when fate intervened. Lady Y/N was there. Some say it was love at first sight, some say it was obsession, some say it was the possessive nature of the dragon. But we will never know which is true. Maegor returned to the Red Keep with       Lady Y/N, whom he had married in Oldtown. Some say that Lady Y/N was forced into this marriage. Lady Y/N was pregnant at the time. Maegor was very possessive and protective of his new wife. There were rules that the lady had to follow. Rules set by kings. The King and Queen's first child and future King, Prince Baelon, was born in 43 AC King's City. The prince's birth was celebrated with great festivities. The Queen was truly the lifeline of Westeros. She fought for the people and the nobility. She soon earned the titles of Queen of the Kingdom and Mother of the Realm. Everyone thought that the King would get his precious Queen pregnant again without wasting any time.  Maegor, however, chose to wait, against all odds. He gave the Queen time to heal between the births of her first few children. But soon the dragon's greed overtook Maegor. His pride and ego had been bruised by years of living with his barren nag. Each time his Queen became pregnant, Maegor felt like eating a meal he had always enjoyed. This is the order in which Maegor and Lady Y/'s children were born."

Prince Baelon 43 AC Prince Aegon 45 AC Princess Visenya 47 AC Prince Aerion and Princess Daenerys 49 AC Prince Rhaegel 51 AC Prince Aelora and Prince Daeron 53 AC Prince Maelor 54 AC Prince Gaemon 55 AC

"After Prince Gaemon's birth, the Queen said she could not bear any more births. She pleaded and begged the King. She had had enough and could not bear another. The Maesters told her how dangerous another pregnancy would be for the Queen. But King Maegor believed that these were just excuses. The Queen had become pregnant once more. The first three months were normal. But the second trimester was difficult. The Queen was thin and looked pale and tired. Maegor began to worry, but it was too late to have an abortion. After two more months, the Queen's labor began. A month early. All the midwives and Maesters were mobilized. The hours passed, but the baby was not being born. The Grand Maester left the delivery room and went hesitantly to the King who was waiting in the hallway. He told her that she had to choose between the baby or the Queen. Maegor angrily grabbed the Maester by the collar and lifted him into the air. He shouted that they must save his Queen. But chaos soon broke out in the delivery room. The Maester ran back into the room.  Maegor could not wait any longer, so he entered the room. His Queen lay motionless on the bed, her eyes open and her face stained with tears. The bed was completely covered in blood. Maegor had seen much blood in his life, and it was stained with blood. But this sight startled and horrified Maegor. He approached the bed slowly. He held his Queen to his chest carefully. He shooed everyone out of the room. He did not leave the room for hours. The next days were a blur for the King and the children. After King Maegor burned his Queen's body, he lay there motionless for hours. The Queen's ashes were buried. The realm was in a period of mourning for months. Prince Baelon had taken on the role of a parent figure for his younger siblings. And now he was distant from his father. Until the day the Queen died, Prince Baelon and King Maegor had a true father and son relationship. King Maegor loved all of his children. But he had a deeper fondness for his firstborn.  After this, it became Prince Baelon's duty to stop the King's anger. Many years later, King Maegor was confined to bed due to old age. On the day he drew his last breath, he was surrounded by his children and grandchildren. On that day, Prince Baelon was reconciled with his dying father. For the first time in years, he addressed King Maegor as father. King Maegor closed his eyes for eternity that day with a genuine smile on his face. A mourning ceremony was held for King Maegor. Prince Baelon ascended the throne and became King. House Targaryen continued under the title of King Baelon, the true King, born of Maegor the Cruel's worthy Queen."

[sunderwight]

Fantasy series where the first book is about a band of brave heroes rescuing an infant prince from his usurping evil uncle, a child born with the gift of magic and destined to become the king of light & glory & etc, and then working tirelessly to overthrow the tyrant usurper and save the kingdom. Which they eventually do, installing the infant prince onto the throne and then appointing the leader of their heroic band as his regent until he comes of age.

Second book is about how actually the prophesied king has become a genocidal despot, but it turns out that his line of the royal family installed a bastard imposter onto the throne a couple generations back and so the real kid who fits the prophecy is now but a humble farmboy who grew up in exile. A new band of heroes comes together in order to oust the false king and put the farmboy onto the throne instead.

The third book is about how the farmboy went mad with power and became a greedy, avaricious king who only led the kingdom further into turmoil and darkness. Turns out that several hundred years ago, the original prophesied bloodline of old ran into a bit of kinslaying, and the king who should have ascended to throne as the first Chosen One was cut down by his enemies instead. His soul has since reincarnated into a righteous young knight who, upon suffering one too many sights of tyranny under the former-farmboy king, is charged by the gods to defeat him. Eventually the old king is undone, and the knight marries his only daughter and ascends the throne to lead the kingdom once and for all to the glory of the gods.

The fourth book is about how the knight-king became paranoid due to the visions he received from the gods, and--

[sscarletvenus]

yes suguru's plans to exterminate a vast majority of humanity is undeniably evil, but to say that he is murderous from the very start, cruel for the sake of being so, or lacks compassion or any emotional nuance is a gross disservice to his character's writing.

suguru is a case study of a romantic idealist and self-sacrificial saviour whose absurdly rigid, quixotic ideals are shattered brutally by reality intervening. the intense hatred he has for humanity is born out of, is an inverse of, the intense love he once possessesed for it. this is also why even though satoru is portrayed as brash and selfish and arrogant in the hidden inventory arc, it is suguru that turns "villainous."

suguru places his faith in the goodness of humanity, believes the duty of shamans is to protect the weak, their existence solely hinged upon saving the lives of non-sorcerers, and for that he is disappointed so tremendously, betrayed to an extent that makes it impossible for him to recover his ideals and past self.

ultimately there are also more than one reasons why satoru doesn't become "evil" : 1) "protecting humanity" was never his cause to begin with. he hardly cared about preserving human life, as is evident in his intentions to kill the cultists who cheered on riko's death, and 2) he had someone shielding his inner self : suguru. for it is suguru that tells him the duty of shamans is to protect non-shamans and the weak, suguru who asks him to sympathise with riko, suguru who persuades him to not kill meaninglessly.

satoru is indeed attached to riko, as well. he is the one who decides not to hand riko over to tengen if she wishes to return home, and tries to enliven her last days as a lucid person. it would thus not surpass one’s expectations if satoru turned to villainy post riko's demise, since he never even liked non-shamans to begin with. and yet, he doesn't. suguru protects his heart, which is a part of why he is able to steadily process his grief and anguish over riko's death.

suguru doesn't have anyone to do that for him, he is strong in his own right but not the "strongest", nobody notices how deep of an abyss his soul has sunken in, and he succumbs to the lethal loneliness, falters in this marathon of sorcery.

suguru is brimming with love and compassion: it is what drives his heroism in youth and villainy as a cult leader. he is able to protect gojo's heart but not his own. he fluctuates between two polar extremes : utter distaste of humanity Vs. a duty to protect it despite its horrors. three things serve as final nails to the metaphorical coffin : yuki's words, haibara's death, miminana's abuse. he describes imbibing curses for curse manipulation is "like eating a rag used to clean vomit". how macabre, how grotesque, how enlightening - who is he doing all this for? the humans who killed riko? it was these humans haibara died serving, these same humans violently mistreated miminana.

toji and sonoda encapsulate evil very blatantly, and aren't enough to shake suguru's belief in humanity. but the turning point is the non-shaman cultists rejoicing : suguru is thus forced to confront the banality of evil.

and suguru responds by rejecting what he once loved, embraces the darkness plaguing him. believes the only way to eradicate curses is to uproot their source : humanity. humans, for as long as they will live, will give rise to curses born out of their negative emotions. there is no one to tell him any better, or protect his self-identity. he loses himself to his own sense of empathy, his own ideals.

he isn't indifferent at all, cannot pick and choose whom he loves and doesn't. his love and hatred is collective, in both he gives his all. even amidst his hatred, he doesn't lose his love.

who does he choose to target first, once amassing enough money, power, and reputation? sonoda, the man who ordered riko's assassination. someone who lies in wait to enact vengeance does it out of love. if he was nothing more than a corrupt tyrant, he wouldn't remember the circumstances of riko's demise or care enough about them. suguru's rise as a hero and his subsequent fall as a villain has always been about love. and it seems, to me, up until his death, he prioritizes satoru over himself. doesn't see satoru as a weapon at all, or he would have directly asked satoru to join his cause. instead he poses to satoru a question, presents him with a choice - which in turn makes satoru shaken enough to question his identity, his place in the system, becoming a teacher and dedicating his all to a fitting reformist centrism from an isolated and dare i say, individualistic person such as himself, who stands on the pinnacle of power. but he wouldn't have come to such a conclusion without suguru's experiences shaping his worldview (he himself apologizes to riko during his fight with toji because rather than feeling depressed over her death, he feels the pure pleasure of the world in that moment. killing toji endows him with a sense of duty towards megumi, and riko's death but obviously impacts him, but the change from full apathy, to neutral indifference except in the case of his students, was losing suguru.)

as evil as suguru becomes, he is not a hypocrite. that he kills his own parents is to show the seriousness and conviction he has in his ideals. his code of operation is consistent, even when it turns from pro-human to pro-shaman.

reminds you of what mahito tells yuuji: does yuuji ever consider how many curses he kills? so why should mahito account for how many humans he kills? suguru geto presents us with a possible answer : someone has to care about how many shamans are killed.

you can condemn him for his use of collective punishment, but suguru is a villain!

you can criticize his killing of innocents, but jjk conveys the carefully crafted narrative of a villain who once held staunch traditional and moral ideals.

suguru is evil for proposing collective punishment, but it is incredibly consistent with how emotional he is. he is empathetic because he cares about a girl like riko, doomed by the actions of the rest of the world, forgotten in her misery. he cares and it drives him to the deepest pits of despair, where life loses all color and meaning, despite only knowing her for so long and haibara as well, he enshrines haibara in his memory, when no one other than nanami does. hardly anyone remembers riko's existence, haibara's laughing face, but he does! and for that he spends each moment sinking in the quagmire of his grief and torment. his empathy is a sword of damocles hanging over his neck! to say that he is cruel and unfeeling is to contradict the very agony that drives his (wrongful?) actions. and he is indeed wrong for externalizing this indelible pain, wanting to inflict it upon innocents. but suguru is a villain! has been set up as such!

mahito raises this question to junpei,"is the opposite of love really indifference?" to satoru, it is. but to suguru, it is hatred which is the opposite of love.

[gold-talks-alot]

Qin Zheng's biggest red flag is that he doesn't have friends

Okay that sounds like a joke but really, after finishing Heavenly Tyrant, I noticed that all of the characters have deep genuine friendships, except for Qin Zheng.

Zetian has her girl squad, of course with the GOAT Qieluo who she connects to as both born of lower class and deeply powerful, but have surprisingly tender romances. Wan'er who helps teacher her about political theory while being kind and brings her a new perspective to the world. Taiping who helps with the plan to defy gravity and brings an edge as well as a new perspective to the group.

BUT, she also has the new iron widows, and her eunuch, Di Renjie who is her friend! Like yes, the iron widows are technically under her, but she CARES about them. She mourns them. She loves them. She has so many people who she cares about, and who care about her. It's amazing.

And Yizhi has friends as well. He loves Zetian yes, but they were friends first! He loves his sister and (some) of his siblings, he even has Helan as an ally. But he has friends, relationships, people who he works with. It's not as deep as Zetian's relationships but 1. we aren't in his pov and 2. He's a freaky guy who is playing 5d chess while everyone else is playing normal chess.

But Qin Zheng, where are his friends? Where are his allies? Yes he was trapped in a box for a while, but he was never truly alone. He could have made friends, genuine allies, but he didn't. Yes he's the mythical emperor, but he never even tried to humanize himself to people he's supposed to be allies with, like Sima Yi, or Yizhi, literally anyone.

He never connected with people, and its honestly sad. Is it because he's displaced in time and he's still mourning what he lost? Maybe, but he's so hostile to everyone. Is it because he gives into his own hype so much? Yeah he does, he sees himself as a god, as better than everyone, but even a god can get lonely, so why does he act like *that*?

Because he doesn't want a relationship, he wants worship.

He wants to be above everyone and friendship is an equal relationship. No one can be equal to the emperor. And romantic relationships are supposed to be equal, but he cannot have a relationship, any relationship, without dominating the other. He only sees relationships and one over the other, and he cannot have equality, (ironic for a communist).

And if he cannot handle equality in a casual relationship, of course he could never handle it in any other aspect of life.